Always room for 8 more.

Back on the octuplets mom. I saw this interview with Nadya Suleman, where she said she was basically damaged by being an only child. That it left her with a permanent void that could only be filled with lots of sweet little babies. (Personally, I think the only void she has is between her ears, but that's another story.) Apparently, she found being the only kid very dysfunctional.

And this is something I've heard from more than one other perfectly normal seeming person. They want 7 or 8 kids because they were an only child and it was lonely, and it's better to have a house full of kids and love, and always have somebody to play with. It's never they want 3 or 4. They always seem to want to push double-digits. You have to wonder if the little old woman who lived in a shoe was an only child.

Of course for every only who's out there looking at their friends with sibs with envy, there's a kid wearing hand-me-downs and sharing a room who is wishing all these people would just go away. There are kids from even small families who think being an only would be perfection. No having to share your Easy Bake or wait in line for the bathroom. And most kids with brothers and sisters know that you only play with your siblings as a last resort. So they grow up to have 1 and tell them the kids she is soooo lucky - she'll never have to share their parents with anyone. And then the parents look bewildered when their only little dumpling says they can't wait to grow up and have enough kids to do their own production of Cheaper By the Dozen.

If the pendulum swings back and forth like that, you have to wonder if Nadya Suleman's kids will be frequent fliers at Planned Parenthood by the time they hit 16.

One too many diamond commercials.

(Disclaimer: Okay, I just re-read this. If you're a happy person in a happy relationship, bless your heart. Don't take the following personally. I just had to get this out of my system.)

This is why I have to invent my own holidays. The hate that I feel for Valentine's Day (like flames, flames at the side of my face) is so intense that only the joy of Liberatus Day could quench my volcanous loathing. Damn you, Cupid. Damn you to hell.

Actually, it's not Cupid. Or romance. Or any of the schmoopy stuff. Love that. It's just Valentine's. A holiday that seems to be designed to try to make me feel bad about myself. Because, obviously, by all accounts, being part of an ecstatically in love couple that exchanges diamonds and flowers on Valentine's Day is the highest peak of happiness. Which was a concept I was discussing with my wonderful husband. . . oh, wait. I'm not married. I must have been discussing it with my adorable boyfriend . . . wait. No. Don't have one of those either. So I must have been discussing it with my imaginary boyfriend. And since imaginary boyfriends aren't able to buy flowers and diamonds (because, you know, imaginary), I am obviously not allowed to be happy.

Okay, okay. I'm trying to not take this whole thing personally. It's not all about me (but really it is). Just because other people are the focus of attention on one day a year (and their anniversaries, and their weddings, and New Years, and Christmas, and any other day they feel like comandeering for themselves) doesn't mean I should get all bent out of shape. Just because I'm single and made to feel like I should crawl under a rock somewhere and eat Chubby Hubby until the tears stop.

You know what? Eff yoooouuuuuu, Valentine's Day. Eff you and the heart shaped cloud you road in on. And your fat, naked, little buddy with the archery set. Enjoy your stupid little 14th. Cause come the 15th, it's over. The 15th is mine! Viva la Liberatus!

The long and short of it.

Well, I've made a decision. I'm going to recession proof my head. I enjoy my short hair, but I just can't front the every-six-weeks haircuts. Short hair is a commitment. Otherwise you start looking kinda fruzzy. Or at least I do.

I feel kinda bad for the hairdressers who depend on customers. But I'm probably in the minority in Dallas. Most women here would rather cut back on other luxuries, like food and oil changes, than their hair appointments. If you start seeing Dallas women with home perms and DIY highlights you know we are in the middle of an economic apocalypse.

But I've done the low cost hair before. When I worked at a company that shall remain nameless and without honor, I went 3 years without a real haircut. Thank the follicle gods that my hair grows at a snail's pace. And I've given myself bangs-trims that don't completely scream "Mommy, look what I did with the scissors!" Unfortunately, I have a very noble forehead (or fivehead), and I can't do without the bangs. The only thing I can't really cut out without major consequences is coloring my hair. Those ding-dong-damn grays keep coming back, even though I've threatened them with toxic vengeance. Stubborn little bastards. I'd be willing to go bald, and avoid the whole mess, if only I had a nicely shaped dome. I'm kinda lumpy in the skull (go figure), and I can't pull off the Sinead. Sigh.

So, this last weekend was the first time I've been able to pull everything back in a ponytail. A stumpy, meager ponytail, but out of my face, nonetheless. Hopefully, the economy will turn around and I can once again be short and sassy.

High Aspirations

http://www.treehugger.com/galleries/2009/01/tree-houses.php?page=1

I share this one because of the simple fact that if I won a modest heap of money in a lottery and could build whatever house I wanted I’d have a difficult time deciding between a tree house and a lighthouse. Both of them get back to serious childhood fantasies. I’d have made a good lighthouse keeper. Or an Ewok.

Just because one slice weighs half a pound doesn't mean it's bad for me, does it?

https://promos.thecheesecakefactory.com/?utm_source=DailyCandy&utm_medium=TextLinks&utm_term=TCF&utm_content=Text&utm_campaign=TCF_DailyCandy_TextLinks_Text

This is kind of fun. It's those evil dairy pushers at the Cheesecake Factory, and they have a test to match you with your perfect cheesecake flavor. Digging deep into your personality in 5 easy questions to bring you together with the slice of your dreams. Like Match.com for desserts.

But really, it's chessecake. How far wrong can you go? "I believe your perfect flavor is Rum Mango Swirl." "Oooo. You're right. I think I'd love Rum Mango Swirl. You're amazing." Um. Yeah. 'Cause it's cheesecake. Rat ass with ashtray swirl cheesecake would probably be pretty tasty.

Though they matched me with Key Lime. Have to admit - nailed it.

Breathe, kid. Just breathe.

This weekend, I gave my niece her first 2 lessons behind the wheel. She's been taking the classroom driving instruction, but they want her to know the basics before she does time in the car marked "STUDENT DRIVER - RUN AWAY!" The whole thing is making her incredibly nervous. I'm having trouble getting her to go faster. And by faster, I mean 15 miles an hour. She's decided that 10 is her zone, and she likes it right there. Which, I hope, bodes well for her being a cautious, conscientious driver. But I keep trying to convince her that some day she may want to go on a freeway, and it would be good to be prepared.

I'm trying really hard to be calm and cool while she drives. Gentle little instructions. "Brake. Gas. That's it." Not that she's doing anything all that whacky. It just takes awhile to get used to things like excelleration and stopping. And I remember my dad acting like he was going to have a panic attack every time I did anything wrong. Hissing. Grabbing the door handle. I was totally traumatized. And I don't want my niece to have that nonsense going on. Learning to drive is tough enough.

And since I've been driving since the late Renaissance period, I'd completely forgotten just how hard it is. I'm a pretty decent driver. And I've had the same car (my beloved Barney the Wonder Truck) for years. We're like a cowgirl with her favorite cutting pony. It's almost all body/no brain by now. I don't remember how I do it. It just gets done. But she's at the point where she has to think every little thing out. And thinking can get in your way when you're driving. Try thinking about what you're doing when you back up. It will mess you up. I know there's a trick to how you get into a parking space. Damned if I remember what it is. It's tough watching her sweat it out, and not being able to breakdown the process the way she needs.

Luckily, there will be a driving instructor who will hopefully will actually tell her all the good stuff. Right now, I'm just trying to get her used being behind the wheel. And convince her that she can drive without using a sedative.

Huh. The Grammies.

I usually boycott awards shows.  But I accidentally tuned in.  Then left.  Then got sucked in again.  And I can say, in a preliminary fashion:  Best. Grammies.  Ever.

They finally got it:  comedians, blah, blah, blah, montages, yakking intros.  Nobody cares.  Just get big stars who can perform live and put them on the stage and let them go.  Blahdow.  That's it.  It's what the people want.

A few impressions:

Bono:  I love you.  I still love you.  I will always love you.

Adele:  Admitting you love the JoBros?  How cute is that?

John Mayer:  Did anyone, like me, hold their breath when he won best male vocal, thinking he might have some integrity and get up there and say "Hell, I don't believe it either.  Even I didn't vote for me."  But no.

Allison Krauss:  My next life, I'm going to be her.  The hair.  The face.  The voice.  She's just perfect.

Robin Thicke:  Can anyone explain why he was in the tribute to NOLA?  Not that I'm complaining.  He sounded great.  But.  WTF?  Isn't he Canadian?

Katie Perry:  I think I could actually here the clock tick to 14:59.

Josh Groban:  I am developing this weird thing for Josh Groban.  I have no explanation for this.

Radio Head:  I can't claim to be a fan.  I'm not that cool.  But, seriously, could you guys do something that isn't quite so ballsy?  You're starting to make everybody else look a little like pussies.  On the Grammies of all forums, you do something tough, blatantly uncommercial, weird and not at all  dumbed down.  And you back it with a marching band.  I stand in awe.

The Jonas Brothers with Stevie Wonder:  No.  Just no.

Billie Joe Armstrong:  See Bono.  Ditto.

And overall, nobody phoned it in.  Everybody came to play, and play hard.  Maybe the Grammies isn't dead after all.