Having the Two of My Life

THIS is it.

Right now.

This IS it.

Two. Two is the age that I would want to redo if I could. Two is the perfect age to be alive.

The most upsetting thing that can happen when you're two is to be told "no" when you want to watch Dora the Annoying Explorer.

When you're two, it's gloriously fun to yell, "YELLOW CAR!" each and every time you spot a little ray of sunshine on wheels.

A peanut butter and jelly sandwich is a perfectly acceptable, and preferred, lunch for someone who is two.

When you're two, a hug is just a hug, and you can give anyone an instant jolt of happiness by giving them one.

A productive evening for a two-year old is when you get to play with Play-Doh AND read six books.

If you're two, it's cute when you pronounce "big truck" with a "f" where the "tr" should be.

You can pee your pants when you're two, and no one thinks anything of it.

Singing your ABC's perfectly from beginning to end is just cause for a party when you're two.

Two is a spectacularly fun age to be alive.

But since I can't go back and be two again, I'm going to blow bubbles for someone who is, and I'm going to blow those bubbles as if it's my job. Which it is.

32 isn't all that bad either.

Yes, We Have Two Dogs

For whatever random reason, apparently there's at least one of you that thinks the poofball otherwise known as Jasmine doesn't get enough attention up in this joint. There are a few valid reasons why she gets less press than the pain in my hiney known as Meg:

1. She looks like a mop. I can photograph her up close, from far away, her right side, her left side, her backside. It won't matter. She'll still look like a mop.

2. She has never once farted in such a way as to cause me to nearly throw up from the stench. That kind of thing tends to get my attention.

3. She's the GOOD dog. You know how when people have a whole bunch of kids the good one gets forgotten all the time? Yeah, it's like that.

EXCEPT, she has decided to go all renegade on me and has turned into a ROYAL pain in the hiney. Apparently Meg told her about the time Mr. Husband put a turkey carcass in the trash. Ever since the story got out, Jasmine has been checking the garbage every.single.day to see what has been left in there. While no turkeys have recently died at the hands of my husband, there has been the occasional scrap of food. You know, because that's where you put the food that winds up on the floor when the Toddler is using it to practice free throws in the living room. Using the TV as the basket. And making more than a few shots. Why yes Bert, Ernie does have a little schmutz between his teeth.

Anyway, there has been enough food for Jasmine to decide to make trash rummaging her new hobby. I have spent the past month trying to retrain her that it isn't a good idea to go dumpster diving. Yesterday, I gave up. Peeps, the cheapest woman on Planet Earth spent $70 (you must read that using your Dr. Evil voice, btw) yesterday on a trash can that the stupid dog can't get into. I want to kill her. Or use her as a mop for the rest of her life.

Here she is channeling her inner mopness:

And proving that Mr. Canon rocks the action shot:

I'm Decking the Next Person to Giggle in My Presence

I have never in my life enjoyed going to get my hair did. I never know what I want, and chatting with some stranger who is holding scissors awfully close to my eyeballs just isn't my idea of fun. I managed to avoid the whole dreaded process for years by cutting my own hair, or by only going the absolute minimum number of times per year possible. Then, right before Mr. Husband and I got married, I went and got myself some highlights.

That was the end of the very occasional torture.

Mr. Husband lurves himself the blondy streaks. Since I never actually know what I want, I more or less of go with the status quo on the whole issue, figuring that at least I'm appeasing him. That pretty much means I can blame him for every second of torture I endured today.

I don't have a hair chick or hair guy. I just haven't found someone that strikes me as so wonderful as to want to return to them. So I wander. Today I wandered to an OK hair chick, but OK Hair Chick was a little overbooked and had to elicit help from Really Not OK Hair Chick. I had to deal with Really Not OK Hair Chick during the whole wash cycle. The longest wash cycle of my entire life.

Really Not OK Hair Chick instantly made me want to stab my eardrums with a sharp object. She didn't end sentences with a period like a normal person. Nope. Instead, she ended every.single.sentence with a giggle. Even sentences that weren't funny. Here's a sampling of our conversation. (Side note: I usually would tune out this kind of junk, but because I love YOU, I made my brain stay in the game. You're welcome.)

NROKHC: Is that your natural hair color, giggle giggle?
Me: Uh, which one? (Dudes. Highlights. There are like 50 colors in my hair.)
NROKHC: Oh, it's just such a pretty color, giggle giggle!
Me: Ummm, thanks?
NROKHC: Are you married, giggle giggle?
Me: Yes.
NROKHC: Me, too, giggle giggle! I was all anti-marriage and stuff, giggle giggle. But then I met my prince, giggle giggle.
Me: ?
NROKHC: I just told him he saved me from being that old cat lady with like, giggle giggle, 50 cats, giggle giggle.
Me: ?
NROKHC: I tell people all the time, just wait, giggle giggle, because your prince is out there somewhere, just like you thought when you were a little girl, giggle giggle.
Me: ? (Too busy wondering who the h#ll married Giggles to respond. She didn't notice.)
NROKHC: Do you have any kids, giggle giggle?
Me: Yeah, a two-year old.
NROKHC: Oh, that must be so fun, giggle giggle.
Me: Um, yeah.
NROKHC: (Suddenly clutching my skull in her hands) OH, giggle giggle! You are so stressed, giggle giggle!
Me: ? (Frankly, I was trying very hard to block out the boobs and armpits that were invading my space, so yeah, maybe a bit stressed. I don't really aspire to be blinded by some giggly chick's boob and I have no interest in checking to see if her deodorant is working. Over and over.)
NROKHC: I guess two is a really hard age, giggle giggle. Isn't it, giggle giggle?
Me: Actually, my kid is pretty good. (Seriously, we hit the jackpot with this one.)
NROKHC: Oh, giggle giggle. You are just SO stressed, giggle giggle. (STILL clutching my skull, tighter than Britney is clutching her sanity, by the way.
Me: Not really.
NROKHC: Wow, giggle giggle! Your hair color is just so pretty, giggle giggle!

And then my head exploded. Or she finished. Whatever.

The Toddler did, however, help me to reassemble my grey matter. The second we were reunited, she was kind enough to tell me that I was pretty over and over and over. I told you we hit the jackpot with that one.