So, la, it’s been so long since I had brightly-colored hair that I forgot what daily life is like. This morning I woke up with a big smudge of red halfway down my arm and on my shoulder, but how could I have possibly slept in a fashion that would cause that smudge? How could I have twisted my head and neck like that and still be walking today? It’s a mystery. Sometimes I wake up with something that looks like, say, blue Play-Doh under my nails and I wonder where I’ve been.

Another side effect is that men now shout out of their car windows at me. But this is the PNW, so they don’t say “WOOOOT!,” they say, “My, that’s rather a nice shade of red. Good day!” The polititude is killing me, people. Motherfuckers can’t even catcall right.

Speaking of blue Play-Doh, the Grand Canyon cake turned out splendidly. I knew it would, because it is almost impossible to fuck up anything out my White Trash Cooking book. Sometimes you just have to get back to your family roots and dye a box cake funny colors. We’ll be peeing green for days!

Behold the breathtaking strata. Educational for the kids, too.

On Sunday, we had leftover cake AND leftover turkey bacon, which made me very excited. How often does an opportunity like that come along, anyway? Companion couldn’t believe what he was seeing, so he took some photos of me in unbridled ecstasy.

Turkey-cake roll-ups are pretty delicious, but I will confess to you that part of me was doing it to see Frannie say “EEEEEWWWW” forty-seven times. When I was in grade school I would do crazy things like drip pineapple rinds into ketchup and eat it for the pleasure of watching the girls freak out. I think they have medication that they give kids for that now.

Franny went off to school this morning and she won’t be coming home again–she’s off to her dad’s house. So for the next little while Strudel will be screaming at little blond-haired girls at the park who have a coat like Franny’s, and will be pointing at her picture and saying “DOO!” She always looks at me like I’m a little crazy at these times. “There’s Franny, Mom, let’s go get her!” Poor little thing just doesn’t understand.

I am working on the idea that Franny has another sister now. The first thing that wants to come out of my mouth when the subject comes up is “Tiny Vagina’s baby,” not “Your new sister.” It doesn’t quite seem real to me, and I worry that things will go badly over there for them. Part of me is rooting for Tiny Vagina to grow a clue and get away from Seattle Federline, but then I wouldn’t want Franny to have more instability. Another part of me wants Tiny Vagina to wait to watch CSI after Franny goes to bed, so I won’t have to have this conversation at the grocery store:

Franny: (singing) I’m going to suicide YOU! I’m going to suicide YOOOOU!
Me: Honey, you can’t suicide someone, because the definition of suicide is killing yourself.
Franny: You mean like when a girl sneaks into her parents’ room, and finds where the gun is hidden, and shoots herself, and all the blood goes all over the wall, including the brains?
Franny took a break at this point to blow on the pinwheel I was about to buy her.
Me: DO WHAT NOW?
Franny: I saw it on one of Tiny Vagina’s shows.

So we had a talk about about how suicide is bad, mmmkay?, and about how she can choose to walk away from bad television and amuse herself in her room. I don’t even know half of what goes on in her head. I was exposed to all sorts of things too young that gave me nightmares and a general sense of insecurity in all the adults around me, and I really wanted something different for Franny. But sometimes you have a babydaddy with jank-ass ideas, or even worse, NO IDEAS or plan so things just kind of “happen.” So you have to play the hand you’re dealt.

Today I am going to plant tomatoes and take deep breaths.