Ginger Unplugged

It all started on Halloween when, for the second year in a row, I didn't have a costume and wanted one at the last minute. You know those emergency Halloween parties? Well, I went to one. As I stood there behind the spiderwebbed cupcakes and the green-colored cheese bread, my friend said she liked my vest. "Did you make it?" she asked (having made her Bellatrix costume herself--including the corset and everything). "Um, no," I answered. "I bought it a long time ago." At that moment I realized that the huge belt, the white shirt with the awesome cuffs and collar, the slightly big and funky jewelry, the boots and, of course, the vest that I still wear under suit jackets were all items from my own wardrobe. My own wardrobe. My personal style through the ages has been "Modern Pirate!?" Luckily, I still have both calves intact and a serious aversion to knickers (my first 6th grade boy/girl dance--don't ask) or I think people would expect me t...

Yesterday, my four year old came to me bleeding. She was hopping around with one foot in her hand crying huge drops that actually splashed as they fell. I expected a trail of blood to be stained into the carpet behind her. No. It took me a good thirty seconds to see the pinprick of blood once she was pointing it out. The point of all her dramatics? A Band-Aid. "Please, oh please, can I have a Band-Aid?" And not just any Band-Aid. "A pink Barbie one with purple flowers and yellow hearts. NO, not the purple one with blue flowers. GOSH!" Apparently, Band-Aids are a coveted fashion statement--something my four year old makes herself bleed to get (she picks her scabs). "Don't pick it, you'll bleed!" I tell her. "I wrote a book about this, as you might recall." She just keeps crying until I get her the right Band-Aid. I also occasionally find the baby with Barbie Band-Aids stuck to his belly button. If this four year old ever becomes a nurse wa...