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Officially the dumbest beauty product on the market

Lash Jewels by Revlon.

I'm a sucker for new beauty products, especially if they're of the drug store variety and purchasing them doesn't require cashing in Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat's college 529s.

But this is just laaaaaame.

If you don't mind that your eyelashes look like they're dotted with globs of Superglue, then give it a try! Otherwise, be smart like I wasn't and steer clear of this product.

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In unrelated news, Kitty Cat just shoved a Starbucks mint up her nose. She was whimpering because the volcanically strong wintergreen was starting to infuse her sinuses. I tried tweezers. I envisioned a trip to ER to extract said mint. I called Jay at work. Then I came up with the brilliant plan of asking her to blow her nose. Which did the trick.

I think next time she'll think twice before shoving pretty little white discs into her nostril. Or not.

So much to see in Suburbia!

I'm a rotten, spoiled brat because I get to be a stay-at-home mom, plus have a babysitter come two mornings a week. Usually I spend this time running errands, writing in Tully's or going to various appointments.

This morning, I had to fritter away my precious time off at the dentist.

I thought my cleaning would be a breeze since I've recently taken to flossing EVERY DAY! I can hardly believe I've managed it. But the cleaning was not as breezalicious as I would've hoped. I'd forgotten that, during my last cleaning, the power went out and the hygenist finished me up in a half-assed way while another of the hygenists held a flashlight pointed at my mouth. So, I don't think it was super thorough and despite my rabid flossing, there was a lot, today, to chip away at.

Afterwards, on my way to the grocery store, I saw an eighty-year-old woman (okay, she could've been 90) driving a Scion.

I think they can actually be converted so they're wheel-chair friendly and I thought, how much better than a van is that?

I also saw another vehicular curiosity: a sedan, at a stop light, started spuming thick, gray smoke from under its hood. I was sure I was about to witness a real live car fire (which I haven't seen since the last time I was in Detroit--and that one was unattended and, apparently, unconcerning to anyone passing by) and watch someone dive from his passenger-side door onto the curb.

Alas, the light turned green and the driver just motored ahead, like nothing was amiss.

While I was out, I also picked up a clown costume for Fruit Bat, because that is what he wants to be for All Hallowed Eve. He is now watching Dora while wearing his clown suit, complete with red, spongy nose. Kitty cat is purple, orange and red with envy.

I'm happy. Seriously. Really, really happy.

Last night, while I was pumping gas at Chevron, standing in a rectangle of purple/white light while all around the air was dark and crisp, I had one of those moments when I was conscious of myself as a living, functioning entity in the world.

It sounded like this inside my skull: Here I am living in Seattle, married to an attorney who used to be a marine biologist from California, with two kids, no career to speak of, a few short stories published, a few magazines and brochures designed, a pretty good house, nice friends. Here I am, replacing the gas cap and driving away...

Not as if I was the star of some reality show (though I guess I am the star of my own humble little spectacle), but just aware.

Weird. Usually I just galumph from one task to the next: removing splinters and pouring soy milk into sippy cups.

Once upon a time I constantly examined my life, experienced mini epiphanies, thought ad nauseum about who I was and what I wanted to be.

Maybe someday I'll again have time for all that. Or maybe, hopefully, I won't feel the need for such in-depth self-reflection. I remember it as being kind of painful, with lots of tears and wine and decades-long phone conversations with other twenty-something single friends who also, after hours, had nothing better to do than ponder their fates.

I'm busier now. So freaking busy every second of the day.

But I think I'm happier too.

Into what, exactly, does he want to immerse?

Here's "Jay" trying an immersion suit at Seattle's Maritime Discovery Center this weekend. Fun for the kids! Fun for the husband!

I like to laugh at (I mean with) my kids

I know. I know that everyone's kids offer the most hilarious verbal tidbits amid jet streams of poop jokes and questions and repetitive manifestos.

But...last night we were eating dinner, all four of us, like the good, nuclear family that we are. Jay and I were explaining how babies are born (once again! It is hard to wrap a miniature mind around) to Fruit Bat. Then he started talking about one day helping to make a baby himself, when he's really, really old.

Like, he said, when he's fourteen.

I, of course, guffawed loudly. Jay covered his mouth and tried not to laugh.

Jay believes that if we react too dramatically to such declarations that we'll only encourage the children to speak of such things more often and with more relish.

Not that he's opposed to discussing important facets of life, like how babies come into the world. He is, in fact, amazingly non-squeamish about things like that. But he doesn't think we should snicker.

Maybe he's right. Maybe it demeans them in some way to chuckle (yet another good synonym) at their questions and quirky, kid-observations about birth and sex and excrement. But I also think that these morsels are part of what makes parenting fun (and God knows I'm always looking for the fun in it).

That Kitty Cat calls my breasts Squishies and that she's infatuated with them and will be mortified by her infatuation someday, is funny to me.

And I really don't feel like squelching the hilarity just for my kids' self esteem.