I don’t know why, but it seems I’ve run out of clothing stores.

It’s not that they are all closing down due to the economic times, although that could be an issue sooner than I think.

It’s just that almost all of the clothes out there are either too “young” or too “old.”

And I fall somewhere in between.

There is a time in everyone’s life when they need to look in the mirror and admit to themselves that a teenager will always look better in something than you do. I’m definitely at that point.

I have to say that I’m not a big fan of older women who dress like teenagers.  I think it makes them look ridiculous.  Perhaps they are feeling young at heart, but that doesn’t mean they need to wear low-rise jeans, midriff-baring tops, and hoodies.  I live in the land of women who do everything in their power to deny their ages, and at the mall I once saw what must have been a woman in her sixties wearing a very expensive, very trendy outfit that would have looked at home on a sixteen year old.  Sixty? I’m sorry, but no. It looked very, very, wrong.

But I’m in that awkward age range that certainly is long past young adult, and yet isn’t middle-aged, either.  Designers, it seems, go for either one or the other. And while there are things that I like, I certainly can’t afford them.  It’s that damn lack of money thing that keeps getting in my way.  Of course I have good basic foundation pieces, but sometimes I’m looking for something different, you know? 

So I find myself wandering aimlessly through clothing stores, seeing nothing that I feel fits my age or my attitude. 

Or maybe I’m just in denial myself.

While I was getting my hair cut at the salon today, I spoke with my stylist about cutting off inches to make the ends look nice and healthy.

I told her I had already warned my husband that I would be cutting my hair shorter than normal in order to get rid of some ends that were looking, shall we say, less than optimal.

“Oh men,” she laughed. “They do love their long hair, don’t they?”

We then got into a discussion about how men can get all squirrely on you when you drastically change your hair. And how some women think that you should cut your hair only the way you like it, regardless of what your man thinks.

I’m not one of those women.

Don’t get me wrong, I am all for those women. It is totally their right to cut their hair however they wish.  If they want to shave it all off, I’m all for it.

However, I do try to keep my husband and his preferences in mind when trying out a new style.  Take, for example, me.  I don’t really like facial hair on men. Or long hair for that matter. And it makes me happy that my husband keeps me and what I like in mind when he doesn’t grow a beard or long hair.

Relationships are about give and take, and for us, hair is one of the things we choose to indulge each other.  Taking out the trash? Not so much. 

But I resent people who think I am catering to or “giving in” to my husband by keeping my hair fairly long. I don’t do it out of a sense of oppression or thinking that he will no longer love me if I get a pixie cut.

But if long hair makes him happy and I’m fine with that, where exactly is the problem?

Last week I tried to gauge your mood about the inauguration of our new President and almost seventy percent of you were excited, while fifteen percent felt less than thrilled. Then there was the jaded seventeen percent who felt it was business as usual. I was quite excited, and I have hope tempered with what I think are realistic expectations.

This week, I want to know what you would think if the people from this show suddenly appeared at your job or home, wanting to give you a new wardrobe.

Not a conspiracy theory, honest! And nothing to do with Elvis as far as I can see, although there’s probably a cousin of that name out on a limb of the family tree, I’m guessing.

In a shocking example of karma missing its mark, Adolf Hitler Campbell, the adorable three-year-old who became internationally (in)famous when a grocery store refused to put his name on the birthday cake his parents ordered, has been seized by child welfare authorities, along with his sisters JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell and Honszlynn Hinler Jeannie Campbell.

Now, it’s undoubtably both true and A! GOOD! THING! that, as the father says:

“This is America. They say it’s free. You have a right to name your child what you want to name your child. “

It is, however, true that people will look upon the choices you’ve made and judge you for them. Unfortunately, because he didn’t change his OWN name but bestowed this super-special favorite name on his child, the child will be the one to suffer for it. The very Scottishly-named Heath Campbell claims he picked the name and bestowed it on his ginger son to honor his German heritage.

Note that police say there have been no reports of abuse, and nobody is actually saying why the children were taken into custody. Although perhaps as an act of humanitarian nomenclature intervention?

“Part of it is the infantile nature of the parents’ behavior,” Berrill said. “You can name your dog something weird, but they think they’re making some kind of bold statement with the children, not appreciating that the children will have separate lives and will be looked at in a negative light until they’re able to change their name. It is abuse.”

Oh Posh! How do you do it? How do you navigate the airport in 5.5 inch Louboutins whilst wrangling two young boys?

But wait, wait! I’ve found your secret! Does anyone else notice the rather frightening similarities?

Although I’m pretty sure that the people holding your strings aren’t nearly as happy as these people are.

Many saints suffered horribly before they were canonized, and some moms seem determined to make their case to the Pope. All that’s left is the performance of a miracle. However, on some days it’s miraculous that our progeny is still alive at the end of the day, so they might have a point there. But I’m going somewhere with this, trust me.

I’ll let you in on a little secret. I watch Brothers & Sisters. I know, I know. It’s cheesy and soap-opera-y, which makes it worse because it truly isn’t trying to be either. It is supposed to be a drama, dammit. With dramatic, sweeping moments and dramatic, sweeping themes. Respect them! Do not lump them in with Desperate Housewives! Ignore the fact that it comes on right after! And even though I loathe the walking, talking, toothpick that is Calista Flockhart, there is something about the show that compels me to watch it every week.

One of the biggest story arcs of the series is that Nora, the matriarch of the family (played by Sally Field, and you can’t have more dramatic street cred than an Oscar, can you?) has long put her family first and with her kids grown up and her husband dead, is trying to find herself and her place in the world.

I don’t like it.

In fact, I don’t like it at all when women who have been stay-at-home mothers play the whole “I don’t know who I am any more” martyr card when their children no longer need them as much. The deep mournful sighs, the jagged crying into cupped hands, the irrational behavior. It’s a bit much, methinks.

You didn’t “lose” yourself. You were there the entire time, right?

Seriously, though, your life may not have turned out the way you thought it would, but you were no more or less yourself for putting your kids first. Being a mom is not supposed to be this huge burden which creates an existential crisis which you take years to recover from! Did you make choices you regret? Well guess what, we all do! Even people who don’t have kids look back at their lives and wonder what happened sometimes.

So, enough of the martyrdom, please. If you want to see what a real martyr is, check out St. Refka. And if you think taking care of your kids can top being thrown into boiling water and being squashed by large wheels, then state your case in the comments.

Now, I’m all for being healthy. I’m all for exercising (as long as it’s not raining, or too cold, or the weekend, or I have anything better to do). I’m all for eating right. But today I saw something.

And that? That thing that I saw? That just ain’t right.

I shook my head. I had another cup of coffee. I watched old Lily Tomlin specials.

I trawled the internet, looking for parallels, and I found them, of varying degrees of utility and authority: The Olive Oil Diet. The Coconut Oil Diet. The Linseed Oil Diet. The Palm Oil Diet.

But…the Baby Fat Diet?

I don’t care what they say: that shit’s just not right!

Budding barfly Allanah Earley of Durham, Connecticut, is being held on a $10,000 bond on charges of endangering a minor. The specific offence?

Breastfeeding while intoxicated!

From WFSB:

Police said Allanah Earley, 36, brought the baby to the Eagles Club on Stack Road Friday evening. They said while at the bar, Earley had seven drinks. They said she then wandered out into the cold with the baby, and eventually brought the child to a friend’s house, where she had more drinks. Police said Earley then breast-fed the 3-week-old infant while still intoxicated.

Police said friends at the bar called police because they were worried about Earley. When officers arrived, police said Earley was unable to stand upright and was near-combative with officers.

Well, first of all that kid should have been carded!

Also, as a woman not-unacquainted with the effects of 7+ drinks, and equally not-unacquainted with the task of caring for an infant (well, maybe not equally but I’ve cared for a solid six-pack of infants in my time and that doesn’t even count the frat boys) I think I can say with a certain degree of authority that while it may make the process somewhat more carefree for the moment, in the long run it’s a bad move, particularly for those who choose to breastfeed.

A baby waking you up every four hours is one thing. A baby waking you up every four hours when you’re hungover is another. And a hungover baby waking a hungover you up every four hours is the level of Hell of which Dante was too frightened to write.