Good Question

My husband, being the gifted handyman that he is, is often asked by friends and co-workers to repair some thing or another in their home.

(Meanwhile, my honey-do list sits home by the phone waiting for a booty call. You know the old saying, "The handyman's children need their house painted." Oh, wait, that's a cobbler's children don't have shoes...sorry, just a little snarkiness leaking from the unfixed roof there.)

Where was I? Oh yes...this past Saturday for instance he got the bat signal just as we were sitting down to lunch and he informed the commissioner he would be by to fix the woes of Gotham that evening. So around that time Vicky Vale here is feeling the need for caffeine and since Batman wanted me to tag-along and hang out with him I jumped in the Batmobile excited for the java, uh, the company...Hey, I may need my house painted, but I do have my priorities in order.

This person's home is on the market and they no longer live there, but they did have friends of theirs staying in the home over the weekend since they were in town for a wedding. And their firends had the cutest stinking kids. Seriously.

Their little boy was probably six months old and was all dressed up for the shindig. He was teething and drooling and quite the serious little man. I kept exchanging my dignity in hopes of a giggle, a smile, anything toothless and baby-like, but he remained indifferent to my blathering.

The little girl was fashionably adorable, of course. All of 3 years old, she spoke as precise as an ivy league English professor. She informed me she was going to be a ballerina and firmly requested my full attention as she spun in a circle showing me her ballerina skills.

Arms out, eyes closed she spun and spun in dizzying circles and her dress flared out around her like the perfect ballerina's dress should. I told her I thought that was the best thing about a dress. She heartily concurred.

She finished her ballet recital with a grand flop (that is french for "to throw oneself with passion") on to the couch and emphasized it by sticking her legs straight up in the air. I applauded and politely turned away giving her a moment to recover and cover. However, she remained positioned thusly. After a moment or two of awkward silence, her mother, (in that very motherly voice that asks a question in a tone that implies it is in no way an easy question but something you should pay strict attention to or else) inquired "Mikaela, do ballerinas show their panties?"

At this, my dainty little professor slash ballerina sat up, furrowed her brow in thought and replied...

"maybe"

And promptly began the second act of her recital.

Applause, applause. Roses are thrown. Bows are taken. Curtains close. Good night.

Google Me This

As a child I could not abide in even a moment of uncertainty. I passionately hated the unknown and incessantly plagued whoever was around with my interrogation tactics. I was an unceasing dribble of why or why not and a constant drip of what for. My curiosity was the Chinese water torture to my mom's peace and quiet.

So much so, she bought me a series of books poplar in the '70's written by Arkady Leokum. With titles like Tell Me Why, More Tell Me Why, More More More Tell Me Why and Still More Tell Me Why, (Uh, yeah, I didn't write them I just read them) these mini-encyclopedic style books were meant to appease my appetite for knowledge. That, and perhaps she hoped to lighten the ever burgeoning responsibility that had been placed solely upon her shoulders as a single parent. The shaping and guiding of such a young and hungry mind had to have been quite overwhelming. That and she got tired of making up the answers.

What? No really, she did. It's not an ill-reflection of her parenting skills, I promise, that's just what parents did back then. Hello, there was no such thing as Google.

Any way, these books, I could not get enough of them. I would read them for hours and hours. They were the internet, the Wikipedia, and yes, even the Google of my time.

Now, as an adult, the tidal flow of curiosity has not ceased in the least. Constant and persistent, it has remained a part of my life. Whether the queries are my own or my children's, is not the point. The fact remains...with all those books and now the internet, answering our innumerable Tell Me Why's...we have yet to plumb the depths of the inquisitive human brain.

For instance tell me why when my hair started falling out by the handful (due to rapid weight loss after my surgery) it ONLY fell out from my head? Sweet ones, the multitude of hair that persists in growing on my upper lip did not, not even for one hopeful second, thin in the slightest. Au contraire, mon fraire, it continues to grow just as lush, dense and dark as the jungle at night. Nor did the hair anywhere else on my face or body lose it's substance, abundance, denseness, profuseness nor any other adjective I don't particularly care for when discussing hair on anything other than the glorious follicles of vanity that should be covering my near-bald head.

More tell me why my 13 year old could possibly think it wise to voice aloud to my face that I have a huge back and an extremely flat butt. (Sweetie, lets work on those complimentary skills, shall we?)

Still more, tell me why on God's green earth she is still breathing after the voicing of such a statement. Oh, and while you are at it, answer why all of a sudden the idea that my butt might actually be extremely flat kind of really bothers me.

More more more tell me why how she could possibly still be alive - proof that miracles do really happen - when just a few days later she tells me that she likes a certain shirt on me. (that's better baby you are starting to get the idea) *wait for it* because and I quote "it makes you look like you actually have boobs." Oh hon, you know I couldn't breast feed for just that reason.

Here's one for the books Mr. Arkady Leokum, why oh why oh why (oh why) has the hair that has decided to return to my lovely little head, changed not only color (to a beautiful (not!) shade of GRAY thank YOU very MUCH) but changed TEXTURE as well? Suffice it to say, it makes for bad hair days months and I will just go ahead and inform you so you won't have to Google this one, L'Oreal? Oh they lie...it doesn't cover the gray. It just covers every single hair all around the gray ones and leaves those little heralds of aging to stand out like a lighthouse on the shore. (It covers gray like a band-aid covers an elephant's butt.)

Dear Mr. Leokum,

If you would please address the oh-so-very deep, heart felt and provocative questions listed above in your next book of the Tell Me Why series (probably titled - Tell Me Why and I Promise I'll Quit Whining) I would be most appreciative.

Your adoring, and not aged in the least bit fan,
Dana