I believe...

There are certain suburban myths that I must believe in order to make sense of my chaotic environment and the destructive forces at work therein. I respectfully submit...

I BELIEVE.

I believe that children gain all their excess energy by sucking it directly from their parents.

I believe that every time I lose weight, someone else gains it. And vice versa.

I believe that if I wear capris, no one can see my hairy legs.

I believe that if a child -- someone else's -- is too intelligent, beautiful, creative, and talented, she will certainly grow up to be a pole dancer.

I believe that this show was invented by someone on crack cocaine as an experiment to see how much a human parent can endure. (That's why it's on PBS at 5:30 when I'm making dinner.)

I believe that cantaloupe is an honorary vegetable.

I believe that time warps when I'm asleep.

What do you believe?

Long as God can grow it, my HAIR.

At what point does long hair cease to be a fashion accessory and become a stage prop? 'Cause my hair is getting out of control. It's Taylor-Swift long and curly, but not nearly as pretty. Seriously, there ought to be a law against girls that pretty. But I digress.

This is about what my hair looks like, except a little fuzzier, a little browner, and with the last five inches of her hair just chopped off. (Mine's all one length.)

I'm torn between "doing something" with it and just leaving it be. I have an agreement with my hair. (Don't laugh -- there's a lot of it!) I keep it clean and don't do anything to it, and it doesn't look weird. When I violate the "doing anything" clause, all heck breaks loose. The cowlick over my right eye starts doing its thing, and the curls all die out, probably from shock.

And then there's expectations -- the stylists have an expectation that I'll style it. Once they find out that I wash, condition, comb and walk away, they're more inclined to cut it straight across.

The thing is. The thing is, I've always wanted to chop it off and give it to Locks of Love, but it's like growing out bangs -- just when it's almost there, you lose your grip and whack at it. But this year? Maybe.

Anyone ever do the Locks of Love thing? Just curious...

I've been trolling the AutoCowrecks tab on the I Can Haz Cheezburger web site and came across this:

So, guess the last time I was alone in the house. Go ahead and guess. Ready? 2008. I know because that was when the kids last went to the public schools. I have no one else who will take the kids out of the house without me. Cowards. Still, I guess I'm just lucky I can leave them home with someone else.

Right here in River City.

It's bad when my son's life model is Sleeping Beauty, isn't it? And I do mean the part of the story when she's unconscious, just drifting on the downy wings of slumber, free from the troubles of the world.

Sorry, kid. Trouble is here, and her name is "Mom". And she's pissed. (Must. Not. Kill. Boy. Must. Not...)

Brr.

Oh. My. Dear. God. It's cold!!

I woke up this morning, and there was this white stuff clinging to the grass where we usually have dew.

The butter is actually solid in the butter dish.

I had to put on shoes.

And socks!

I almost -- and I emphasize almost -- considered blow-drying my hair!

Brr.

Just in case you forgot...

You cannot post on blogspot with Internet Explorer 9 -- you have to downgrade to IE 8. And now that I have my lovely, old laptop back, I'm back online!!

When suburban plants attack...

Ah, gardening weather. Time to get out and put some plants in the ground. You know, the ones I bought last summer and have been nursing in pots ever since. I went out, pulled back the weeds and sunk a few in the ground. That's when I ran into something I've never seen before. It's a short, fuzzy-looking, pale green weed with heart-shaped leaves. It's lovely. Until:

This stinging nettle plant, known as the “heartleaf nettle,” has a natural defense mechanism: When touched, tiny hairs deposit burning toxins into the skin.

There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home...