Amaretto Sour, Please

Just read on Facebook today that Tavern on the Green is closing after dinner service on New Year's Eve. It's been open in Central Park for 75 years, and now there will be a legal battle over whether the next restaurant is allowed to use the name.

No matter. I've only eaten at Tavern on the Green once in my life, and I was 21 years old. It was my senior year at Smith, and my friend Beth had invited me to New York for her 21st birthday party. Beth is an only child, and let's just say her father doted on her. In my memory, he had rented the entire restaurant, but I wonder if that's even possible, let alone affordable. But Beth had at least 25 friends there, and we ate and drank extremely well. Yelp is filled with disrespect for the legendary Tavern menu, but that's not how I remember it. The meal was scrumptious, and the never-ending cocktails didn't hurt my impression. We were all in the best of moods, and I was so grateful to Beth for inviting me.

I had met Beth the previous year, in England, where I attended the University of London for my junior year. We were fast friends immediately. We stayed friends for a long, long time. I miss her now, and don't know how we fell out of touch.

I have a photo from that occasion that I still love. Beth is sitting in a chair and the rest of us are standing behind her, our arms around each other. A lot of my London friends made it to the party. I don't know where any of them are today, which bums me out. I attended the party with Carolyn, one of my best friends from Smith, who had hit it off with Beth when she visited me from Paris. Carolyn is standing next to me in the photo. We are still in touch, though we don't talk as much as I'd like.

We used to joke that because Beth is the only one seated in the picture, it looks like she's in a wheelchair. Which isn't funny, exactly, so much as it is misleading. I am wearing an electric blue sweater dress, borrowed from Carolyn. I often borrowed her clothes, and she mine. It's a pretty tame ensemble, for the '80s. Not so my hair, fiery red and huge. In those days, it was just like that, without any interference from me. I have a slight, secretive smile, and am looking coolly chic--almost New York chic, but not quite. I was having a good year, and a secretive one. I was learning a lot of things, none of them academic. I was having a lot of fun.

And I think I imagined this was what life would look like, from now on. I'd always be in groups of friends, in big cities, eating and drinking well, laughing too loud. There would be countless pictures of me in famous restaurants, with twinkle lights all around me, and the bare branches of Central Park in the background.

But most of those people--I don't remember their names. And I've never been to the Tavern again. I've had a lot of fun, fun I wouldn't have dreamed of then. But it's been different. The week that photo was taken, I was interviewing for jobs in publishing in New York. I imagined myself a famous writer, one with lots of events, a more literary Carrie Bradshaw (in a time when Carrie Bradshaw didn't exist.)

The Tavern has been around longer than I have, and now it's done. People will think of it in a similarly nostalgic way, and "remember when" in their own lives.

And I'm not a famous writer...yet. But if you're reading this right now, thank you. Because of you, what I write gets read. That night in 1987, I had it all figured out, but I never imagined I'd write about my day and someone might read it on the other side of the world, or across town, and they might tell me but more likely I'd have to take it on faith.

Which is always how it is, being a writer, if you really think about it.

Precious Little Darlings (Seriously)

I don't usually wax sentimental about children. Many of you know that I am easily overwhelmed by the little beasts. Once, my dear friend Mary called me excitedly with an idea: How about she and I open a day care center?

"Oh, honey." I said. "You seem to be under the misapprehension that I like children. That's very sweet."

But joking aside, there are moments when I think I might understand that ridiculous concept, "the innocence of children," though my grasp is fleeting. Two of these moments have occurred in the past week.

The first one featured Jarrah and Joy on Christmas at Joy's house. J and J were playing in Joy's room, and something went askew, as it does very infrequently with these two. I heard some squabbling, and found Jarrah sulking and teary. After I cross-examined them both, I thought I sensed the subtext.

"Jarrah, are you feeling jealous because Joy's cousins are here, and you don't like to share her?"

Jarrah nodded, face furious, eyes wet. Jarrah has always had trouble sharing Joy. Since they're both only children, it's not often an issue between them.

Joy watched this exchange, and then said very calmly, as if years of experience and wisdom were guiding her:

"I think Jarrah thinks I love my cousins bigger than her. But the way I love them is different. My cousins are already six and 10 (note: they're actually 10 and 15) and that is different. Jarrah and I are the same age and we will always be that. Jarrah, you don't need to worry that I love them bigger than you; I love them different. And Jarrah, you're my best friend--I could never love a friend bigger than you."

I stood there, amazed at the understanding and maturity of this little speech, and my eyes filled with tears. My voice cracked a little when I said:

"Joy, you are...such a good friend. Isn't she a good friend, Jarrah?"

But Jarrah, bless her heart, is not old enough to align her feelings and her behavior (some of us never get there, right?) and continued to sulk with her arms crossed. Only the increase in tears spilling over her cheeks told me that she was not immune to the sentiment. In any case, it was only another minute before they were building a fort for kitties under Joy's bed, and the whole thing was forgotten.

But not by me.

Yesterday, we spent the day in La Jolla Shores with Jane, her sister, Danielle, and Danielle's two daughters, Rachel (12) and Aliza (7.) It was one of those sunny December afternoons with a navy blue ocean and beamy sunshine that make you wonder how anyone lives anywhere but here, so serene and lovely that I didn't even lose it when Jarrah charged into the waves fully dressed. How could she resist?

Before the tidepooling, we had lunch at an outdoor cafe, with a surf shop next door. Danielle's girls are delightful company, and incredibly sweet with Jarrah. They were all clamoring to shop for some reason, so Jane accompanied them while I went to move the car. When I returned, Jarrah was showing Jane an, um, distinctive necklace--a pendant with a huge, pink sparkling heart. Jarrah wanted to buy this necklace, ostensibly for me. When I demurred, everyone headed out, but Jarrah and Aliza were still near the jewelry, and Rachel was browsing nearby. Suddenly, Aliza said:

"I need to talk to Jarrah's mommy privately." We all sort of froze, and then I said:

"Okay. What's up?" Aliza looked at Jarrah, and said "Do you have some shopping to do...elsewhere?" Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Rachel looking half-amused, half-alarmed. I thought fast.

"Rachel, can you take Jarrah outside for a minute? Thanks." Aliza took my arm and led me back to the heart necklace.

"Can I ask you a big favor?" she said. She looked at me very seriously. She has gorgeous eyes, with lashes lush as a pony. "Step over here for a moment." I was trying hard not to laugh, not sure what to think.

"If I buy Jarrah this necklace, do you think you could give it to her at her birthday party, since I have to go back to Seattle?"

My face just melted. "Aliza, that is so sweet of you! Of course I could do that." She ran off, saying she needed to speak to her mom. Frankly, I figured that would be the end of it. Aliza clearly didn't have any money. I was outside chatting with Jane when I saw that Aliza had led her mother back into the shop and a transaction was taking place. Next thing I knew, Jarrah was wearing the pink heart.

"Jarrah." I whispered. "Give Aliza a big hug." I thanked her and Danielle. "I just couldn't say no to that kind of generous impulse," Danielle told me. And clearly, the apple doesn't fall far...well, you know the rest.

Again, I was a bit teary over this incident, though Jarrah was oblivious. I couldn't get my mind around a 7-year-0ld actually scheming to buy a gift for another child. It makes me hopeful for the future.

Day Dream Believer

Whew! Not sure how people have more than one kid. I mean, forget all the meal requests and ER visits and loads of laundry. How do people do multiple birthday celebrations? One a year knocks me on my ass for a couple of months.

True, I probably over-think the whole business. Try too hard to curry favor with the youth of today, which we all know is a fool's errand. And then the celebrant in question spends the drive home whining "Today wasn't any fun for me! Why was there no fun for MEEEEE?" no matter what one pulls out of the hat. But at least I can say I tried.

The morning began with Swedish pancakes and lingonberry sauce with powdered sugar. Dear, sweet Readers, are you thinking I made those? No, lovely ones--Cost Plus did. I mean, we had to cook them, of course. Two days ago. Then Jarrah asked the perennial question: "Is this a perfect day for a dress?" which, for once, I didn't argue about. I just took a too-small "Christmas" frock from the back of the closet and paired it with some velvet leggings. And sneakers. Hey, let's call it "sense of humor chic." Jarrah can work it.

Soon, we were on the road to meet Grace and Julianna, Jarrah reading aloud from the Book of Monsters she received from Auntie Jane yesterday. You might think that an odd gift for a newly-five year old, but then again, you might not be Jarrah. She is already well-versed in Golems and Grendels and would like you to be, too.

At the mall, there were Littlest Pet Shops and Bubble Gum makeup from Auntie Grace and Auntie Jules (bliss!) and an unfortunately timed splinter, with accompanying tears. Mind you, the tears had nothing to do with pain, just an urgent need for a band-aid, which "cured" the splinter instantly. Soon, Jarrah was getting the royal treatment--two people primping her fingers and toes simultaneously--pink for the fingers, red for the toes, and fabulous flowers on both. She even waited patiently for them to dry. This was her first "real" mani-pedi, so don't tell her I instructed them to skip the soaking, scrubbing and massage. She was stoked.

Lunch at California Pizza Kitchen included some really ace mac and cheese--Julianna's favorite anywhere (I tasted it--she's onto something.) Jules told us she has 26 more days to order mac and cheese from the kids menu, and the moment of teetering on the brink of maturity is bittersweet.

After lunch, G and J had to rush off, but Jarrah and I hit Build-a-Bear, which just happens to be "Squeakuel Central" at the moment, and Jarrah lost no time choosing Alvin--complete with red sweatshirt--as her lovey du jour. I think she baffled the cashier by announcing that Alvin was now a girl named Sarah. There was a long, whiny line, but we were able to bear it (ha!)

Chipmunk in hand, we scurried to the car, since I alone knew we were missing our next event--two hours of "free" snow in the park outside the children's museum downtown. We had invited Robyn and the boys, and Synthia let me know she'd be there with her girls, too.

The next part wasn't so lovely, Readers. There was a 20-minute repetitive tour of downtown with the narration "I can't really talk about that right now; try to stop asking questions and help Mommy find parking" and calls from Robyn, who was understandably agog at the line for the snow, which snaked around the block. Triggered by a drive-by, I suggested the Ghirardelli ice cream parlor, which would have obtainable cold stuff, and the kind that kids rarely complain about. Another 10 minutes of circling and we found a spot, only to join a long line with some very disgruntled looking people moments later. I said to Robyn, "What is up with all the people? What are they, on vacation or something?" She agreed that the celebrating had gotten out of hand, and that there was simply no need for this kind of population insurgence.

Eventually, we made it inside, and were mollified by giant glass dishes of ice cream, fudge, cream and sprinkles. Jarrah's mint chip cone was bigger than her head, but the girl has a can-do spirit, and met the challenge in due time.

Sugared up, Robyn and her kids were stick-a-spoon-in-them done, but Jarrah was still clamoring for snow. I (internally) took a deep breath, and said I would check to see if it was still there. Well, the birthday gods smiled, because a spot opened up directly in front of the park with 90 minutes still on the meter! That seemed like a sign, so I tossed Jarrah my gloves (I couldn't find hers, despite my assiduous packing) and we joined the line.

Or tried to. It was still around the block. "Oh Jarrah, this is not going to happen. I'm sorry," I explained mournfully. I offered a few minutes in the play structure as a consolation prize. Well, I'll be a five-year-old's mommy if I hadn't just parked my bum on a curb and texted Synthia "Still here? Just arrived. Line is crazy" when she appeared! And gave us cut-sies! Near the front of the line! Brave souls had been in line the entire hour we'd been slurping ice cream, and it was a matter of minutes before Jarrah was swept into the corral with her friends (and how about THAT little birthday gift from Auntie Syn?)

The snow was not fresh, or soft, or ample, and an over-bright woman with a megaphone called "Thank you for playing! One more minute!" about every, um, minute, but there was time for one sublime toboggan down a manufactured hill, and 30 seconds of grinning snowball flinging, before we were escorted out like so much snow-covered riff-raff.

And then there was the whining, and crying, that I hadn't been able to do more. There were so many gaps and fissures of disappointment in my partly planned, partly serendipitous, day, that the chill breeze was wafting through. Still, I thought it was all pretty rad. And I must admit I smiled (facing forward, eyes on the road) when I heard:

"Mommy, I'm sorry I said the day wasn't fun. It was."

Edited to add: Jarrah just went to sleep, Alvin/Sarah under one arm, and a beautiful, soft bear from her Australian Nana and Granddad under the other. She'd had a second ice cream sundae by then, and opened lots of wonderful gifts. As I tucked her in, I said "Good night, five-year-old. Mommy and Daddy love you very much."

"Thank you, Mommy." she said. "Thank you, Daddy." And she closed her eyes with a huge smile on her face.

Hey, Shorty! It's Your Birthday!

Dear Jarrah,

I can't believe you are five today. It seems like a minute ago you were the baby with the big cheeks who said "Em!" all the time. Now you are tall and skinny and say a whole lot more.

I am usually full of words myself. But today, I just want to say that I am very proud to be your mama.

Happy Birthday, beautiful girl. I love you.

Mommy

Baby, It's Bad Out There (Say, What's In This Drink?)

Recently, I was accused of hating Christmas. That is just not true. First of all, I don't go around hating things. That sounds so intense and passionate, and everyone knows that I am bland and wishy-washy and have no strong opinions whatsoever.

And there are actually things I love about Christmas. Such as peppermint mochas at Starbucks (and that's saying a lot, since normally I hate Starbucks) and candy canes and hearing non-denominational winter songs in stores like "Let It Snow" and "Baby, It's Cold Outside" and "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas." (Yeah, I realize that last one isn't non-denominational, but it's really about the heartbreak of missing loved ones, so I'm sticking to my position.)

And I love looking at Christmas lights. The gaudier, the better. This was our second year visiting Christmas Card Lane in Rancho Penasquitos, and it was even better this time. Last year, it had rained, and the streets were pretty but deserted. This year, we went on Christmas Eve, and while everyone else seems to have done the same, we were super-smart and parked outside the melee. Then we walked through while all the cars went about 5 miles an hour. Walking is the way to go, because we spent nearly two hours admiring all the trouble people had gone to. Most of the houses have themes, like Dr. Seuss or Disney princesses or zombies. The houses are lit up like Vegas, but they also have characters and and trains and music. Some of the families had fires going in their driveways, movies playing on portable screens, or cookies on offer to passerby. Santa even tossed Jarrah a candy cane across moving traffic, and though it smashed in the street, she was very, very happy and briefly stopped saying she couldn't walk another step.

































And I love something else, something more personal, that has become a tradition for us--spending Christmas day with Mary, Paul and Joy. For five years now, we've been invited to afternoon dinner (lupper?) with them and their extended families, and it's always the loveliest of times. There are two little girls in fancy red dresses running around (at least until they decide it's time to spend the rest of the evening in their underpants--wonder how long that will last?) and lots of turkey and stuffing and cranberries and sweet potatoes and wine and pie and cookies and fudge. The latter comes from our kitchen, because it just doesn't seem like Christmas to me without fudge. Making fudge is not a typical behavior of Jews in captivity, but I have the most scrumptious recipe and everyone does love it so.

This year, I experienced another Christmas tradition, one that I will not be adding to my list of loves. When Mary asked if I'd like coffee, I lost my head and said:

Sam: Thanks! And can you put a splash of eggnog in there? Is that done?

Mary: Sure. Do you want regular egg nog or light eggnog?

Sam: I don't know. Which do I want?

There was a wrinkling of noses around the room, and the consensus that I wanted regular. A short time later, Mary handed me a Santa mug with a frothy whipped concoction that looked delectable indeed. I was impressed with my own daring. I took a sip. Um...WOW.

Sam: Oh...my. That's quite a...taste sensation. So this is a beverage that Christians enjoy? (general mirth) What's that...interesting aftertaste?

Someone informed me the aftertaste was "fake rum." Okay, maybe I would like it with real rum. I sniffed my libation, and to the fake taste was added an even more pronounced fake smell.

Sam: Well, I guess if I were Christian, I might like it, but not so much.

Paul: Apparently, Sam, you are egg-nogstic.

Okay, that was the best joke of the day. Paul got an air fist-bump (he was across the room) for that one. Someone give him a prize. Just not an eggnog latte. Even though he's Christian and might appreciate it more than me.

Each year, there's a lot of laughing and hugging and ripping of wrapping paper, and somewhere between my caffeine buzz and my sugar coma, I take a moment to appreciate the gifts of the past year, less tangible than good friends, a warm house, yummy smells and gift cards, but somehow a cotton-batting snow-white glitter-sprinkled fluffy base for all that stuff, and oh so much more.

What Lurks Beneath

Reading a book about the wonders of undersea life. (More comprehensive post to follow later today.)

Jarrah: But I've never been scuba diving!

Sam: I haven't, either. I've been snorkeling, but when you scuba dive, you wear a tank on your back that pumps air into your blood, and I'm too claustrophobic for that.

Jarrah: What's claustrophobic?

Sam: It's when you get anxious in small spaces, like caves and elevators.

Jarrah: But you love elevators!

Sam: No, I wouldn't say that.

Jarrah: Well, I'm not afraid of anything.

Sam: Good for you!

Jarrah: Well, actually, I'm afraid of lobsters, and crabs, and the Corpse Bride, but that's all.

Sam: Fair enough.

Winding Down

Ah, the sun's going down on a beautiful San Diego afternoon in late December. It was very cold today...possibly 65 degrees. I had to wear a jacket in the shade--I mean, that was not negotiable. Freezing in just a t-shirt. Seriously. A bit of an inconvenience, that. I'm sipping coffee, but I won't dwell, since I think my entire next post is going to be about coffee. I'm feeling sort of peaceful because I had a refreshing nap earlier, albeit one that cost me $8.50. I took this nap during a matinee of Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakuel. Despite its many twists and turns, I just couldn't keep my eyes open.

Jarrah's on a two-week school vacation, and it's been hard to blog. Not so much because Jarrah won't let me--on the contrary, I can't tear the kid away from the new paper doll kit she got in the mail (Thank you, Teresa and Gina!) It's the best thing since rubber Disney princesses. It's more that it seems to be a blogging wasteland out there at the moment: people aren't updating very often, or checking very often, and they're certainly not commenting very often (at least not for me.) I know, I'm being a whinger, but it's made me realize that I'm much less motivated to post when I might not get a single comment for over 24 hours. Wah wah wah. Apparently, people have family, and visitors, and fudge-making, and tree-trimming, and all sorts of distractions from my blog. How truly bizarre.

We have been having some fun here and there. The photos are from a delicious outing with Mary, Paul and Joy on Sunday to Balboa Park to see Steam Powered Giraffe, a group of...mimes? folk musicians? comedians? performance artists? All of the above, I'd say. They were lovely people, very funny, great singers, creative and charming. The girls loved them, but I was enchanted and had to become their fan on Facebook without delay.

We also had a latke party for the last night of Chanukah, since I was totally absent for the first weekend, and wearing jingle bell antlers to add insult to injury. I think that was the most children I've ever had in my house at once, and I was discovering little lumps of partially-chewed food in every nook and cranny for a couple of days. Also, there seems to be a sort of math equation accurate for every convocation of children in one's home: they will locate whichever toy has the most and the tiniest pieces, and will distribute said pieces with greater efficiency than helicopter seed pods. Still, I think they all had fun--there was a great hue and cry (in a good way) during the dreidel game, and they all went home with chocolate gelt for their troubles. And their little faces were sweetly shining during the menorah-lighting. Ah, the innocence of youth.

The adults seemed to be having fun, too, and they certainly didn't go home hungry. There was brisket, latkes, apple fritters, salad, tzimmes (a traditional Jewish dish with baked carrots and dried fruit) jelly donuts (you're supposed to eat fried stuff) and cookies. Funny thing about the brisket. Turns out if the package says "corned beef brisket," this isn't just a serving suggestion. It means when you have painstakingly chopped, measured and mixed your 14-ingredient sauce, you will discover that meat has been brined before you browned it. Oops. Most people were too polite to say anything, and it still tasted alright. As for the grating, chopping and frying, I had two experienced chefs on my team (Hi, Calvin and Robyn!) so I could take a back seat there. And if I had to pretend I didn't know how to grate potatoes just to hear Robyn say it was lucky that I'm smart and pretty, so be it. I do what I need to do.

Since the weekend, I've been working overtime to make sure we're not too bored. There was the aforementioned movie and lunch date today with Robyn and her boys, and yesterday Grace and Julianna accompanied us on "the Asian experience" (we skipped the foot massage part) with a Vietnamese lunch and leisurely browsing at the Japanese dollar store. We also might have spent two hours trying out massage chairs, but no one seemed to mind.

Hope you're all enjoying a peaceful and joyous holiday season. Tune in soon, when I hope to have my blogging mojo back to my near-daily posting of the past few months. If you're eager to hear about coffee and wedding dresses, you're in for a treat.

Why I Can't Win

Trying to brush Jarrah's hair while she marches in place and pinwheels her arms around.

Sam: Be still! Ugh! Why can't you just stand there? Pretend you're a snowflake.

Jarrah: Snowflakes aren't still. They fall from the sky.

Sam: Okay, pretend you're a rock.

Jarrah: No, people can move rocks around.

Sam: Fine. Pretend you're a star in the sky.

Jarrah: Stars twinkle. And shine on people. Also they disco.

Sam: They disco?

Jarrah: Yes.

Falling Star

It's all over. No more Tuna Christmas. Back to real life now. No more rehearsals, call times, uncomfortable costumes, finicky audiences, crazy adrenaline highs or late nights. Until the next show.

I'm a bit dazed. For one thing, I didn't get out of bed until 11:00. A special shout-out to my husband for getting the kid ready and off to school this morning with no help from his snoozy princess actress wife. There should be some sort of support group for theater spouses, with excellent snacks and possibly cocktails.

I'm going to make a list of things I will miss about this show, and things I will not miss. Lists make me feel better.

What I Will Miss:

1. Lip-synching "Strangers in the Night" in the dark with the whole cast as we wait for our curtain call.

2. Gossiping about family, kids, marriage, Tiger Woods and the theater lifestyle in the "girls' side" wings with the other--as Duke called us last night--"hags" (Hi Elouise, Connie and Shelley!) in our bad wigs and garish makeup.

3. That first music cue, where we all hold our breath to see if it's a "good" audience tonight.

4. The boys--Greg, Kenny and Aaron--sashaying around in their dresses and giant bosoms.

5. Hi-fiving Jolie (my "little sister") as she squeezes by me for the scene right before my entrance.

6. Charlene's pink glasses (alas, they broke) and saying "I can't afford to waste my artistic integrity on that pathetic little shrub." And her walk.

7. Hearing myself go "jingle-jingle-jingle" every time I nod because of my fuzzy bell antlers.

8. Inita's coffee cup apron, and the way it feels to dance in cowboy boots. And people saying "You look amazing with black hair!" afterwards.

9. The look on people's faces when Greg and I run through the audience after winning our "award." And waving to our "boyfriends." That scene is such a high.

10. Slithering along the flats when I hear Garland say "Hi, Inita" in his distinctive nasal whine. And what it feels like to breathe "We're fine, cute stuff. You know, Garland, I sure wish you came in cans...I'd pop your top every five minutes!" Heaven help us--this is the line Jarrah has been quoting verbatim.

11. When I tell Petey (the amazing John, who plays four characters) I'll go get some lettuce for his iguana, I am only miming getting some lettuce. But every time, without ever having discussed it, my "best friend Helen" (Greg in drag) is waiting behind the curtain with his hands out, offering me some imaginary lettuce. And every time, I reach for it without irony, and carry it carefully back out into view. To clarify: No one sees us do this. We are backstage. But it happens the exact same way every time, as if we as actors have wordlessly agreed to suspend our disbelief in the same way we're asking the audience to do. There's something truly, magically idealistic about this, like a pure belief in the Tooth Fairy or wishing on a penny in a fountain. It makes me happy to be an actor.

What I Won't Miss:

1. Stuffing my jeans. I so enjoyed throwing my ass away this morning. Bye bye, ass! Don't let the door hit you on the way out!

2. The damp, freezing, consumptive environment that is the Point Loma Assembly backstage. And the way the door to the girls' wing doesn't close and people are always flinging it open when I'm half-naked.

3. Yeah, that's probably it. When is the next show?

Tonsorial Temptation

It has come to pass. The moment much discussed with other, more seasoned moms, the moment I always secretly, smugly believed my child was far too sensible for.

No, it's textbook. Like a love of bubbles and balloons, a need to write on the walls, and the sudden, inexplicable peeing in the pants while 10 feet from the bathroom.

Jarrah hacked off some of her hair. Several pieces, about three inches long. Which should be really obvious on her straight, shiny curtain of near-blackness, but for some reason, isn't yet.

We were sleeping at the time. Had begged for a few more minutes. She said okay. But the Scooby Doo movie, apparently, was over. The cinnamon toast was dispatched. There was only one thing left to do.

Pick up those pink Hello Kitty snippers and SNIP! And now it is done, for posterity. Mark the date on the calendar. Two weeks from her fifth birthday, Jarrah heeded the siren call of the scissors.

I've cut up bills, tickets, money, socks and stuffed animals. I've really enjoyed that. But the thrill is gone. I need to get that buzz again. Maybe if I cut up something I've never cut before. My pajamas? No, the princesses have immunity. But hey! What's this hanging over my face? It looks so...cuttable. And hey! Don't people pay money to have their hair cut? And hasn't Mommy been saying it's been way too long? Heck, I'd be doing everyone a favor here!

Off to SuperCuts to obscure the damage.