Old Lady Porn

Kallan asked for a Sharpie marker last night to give herself a tattoo.  I said no, because I am not that stupid.  So she took the washable markers and covered her entire hand and arm with colorful pictures and phrases. She proudly came in to show me her artistry.

“Augh!  Don’t touch anything!  Everything you touch will be covered in marker!  That’s going to smear everywhere!”

She was soooo pissed off when I made her march into the bathroom with hands held high and wash it all off. “This wouldn’t have been a problem if you’d let me use a Sharpie,” she grumbled.  Happily for Kallan, it didn’t all wash off, and the result is a greenish-grey outline memory of her originally brightly-colored artwork.

I can live with greenish-grey.  I just can’t live with walls and furniture smeared with ink.  Actually, if I could be assured that she wouldn’t color on her face, I would probably be alright with a small Sharpie tattoo.  But she would color on her face . . . I still remember the time I let her use the Halloween face make-up without supervision.

Kindergartener Kal gets a makeover.

Kallan had two friends over yesterday, and the three of them put on a dance recital in Kallan’s room.  They spent a lot of time selecting music and coordinating their outfits and practicing their dance moves.  Maj and I played the appreciative audience.

The choreography involved a lot of jumping on the bed (which is against the rules even if the bed isn’t right next to a second story window), leaping from the bed into the room (also against the rules), and lifts in which one girl gruntingly carried another girl like a baby and then dumped her like a sack of potatoes into center stage.  Sadly, their show closed after that one performance; future performances have been called on account of extreme choreography.

Aside from the dangerous nature of the dancing, the other notable thing was the amount of sparkle and glitter that was involved.  All three girls had sparkly hair, sparkly clothing, and sparkly faces.  As they danced, glitter spun from their twirling bodies.

Kallan had been make-up artist as well as choreographer, apparently.

If I had known the sparkle plan, I would have spoken up in favor of moderation, but I didn’t give the un-moderated version much thought.  I generally let Kallan go wild with the make-up and glitter when the spirit moves her.  It washes off eventually.  She has always had an eye for the outrageous and the garish, and as long as she is dressed and ready to go when it is time to walk out the door, I honestly don’t care what she looks like.  I guess I would hope that she wouldn’t color her entire face red again, but if she did, it’s not like it’s going to interrupt my plans for the day.

But not everyone feels that way.

One of the glittered friends showed up at our door this morning looking like she had just been pressure washed.  She kicked off her shoes as she came in, “I have never been that washed in my entire life.”  She looked at Kallan, whose head was still adorned with bits of purple and silver sparkle.  “My mom says,” she sighed, “that the next time I come home wearing that much glitter in my hair, she’s going to shave me bald.”

Oops.

And then, “Ooooooh!!  Your mom let you write on your arm?  That is so cool!  Where are the markers?”

Wait!

In other news, three things happened today that made me feel oldish.  First, a boy from up the street came riding down the block on his bicycle, his big brother having already raced past our house on his skateboard.  The boy stopped his bicycle to chat with the kids who live across the street, and his brother, skateboard in hand, came walking back up the hill toward our house.  I was standing there, feeling like myself, not giving much thought to my age . . . until I realized that it wasn’t the bicyclist’s brother on the skateboard, but his mother.  His very young, very nice, very beautiful skateboarding mother.

So that was an aging moment.

And then came a dinnertime announcement from Kallan that the girl up the street has a mother who looks more like a sister than a mother.

“Maybe it was a babysitter,” I suggested.

“A babysitter who she calls mom?” Kallan asked doubtfully.

I tried to laugh it off, “Well, I look just like your sister, too.”

“No you don’t, Mom,” said Kallan seriously, “No, you so don’t.”

Finally, you know how online stores at which you shop will send you email making suggestions for future purchases you might want to consider?  I buy a lot of books from amazon, and so I get numerous emails from the good folks at amazon suggesting other titles that might also be of interest.  Putting aside for a moment what I am about to reveal to you about my past amazon purchases . . .

I got an email from them today suggesting that I might want to consider ordering Best Women’s Erotica 2009 (Easy-Read Comfort Edition).

Easy-Read Comfort Edition???

That sounds like old-lady big-lettered porn with padding of some sort to prevent injury.

It is a good series, though.