You Can Buy Your Hair if it Won't Grow, You Can Fix Your Nose if He Says So, You Can Buy All the Make-Up That Man Can Butt

Don't you hate it when you can't get the Zoobilee Zoo theme song out of your head. I think its a sign of the relative ease of my life that this might make the Top 10 Problems that I deal with on a fairly regular basis. At the same time, it would make the list of the Top 10 Reasons that I am Super-Rad. Don't you also hate it when you get on a kick of saying super-rad alot. I haven't actually experienced that one before, but I feel it coming on.

We went to Target today, a not uncommon occurrence when one habitates with Katie, and noticed a ricockulously large selection of St. Patrick's Day cards. I cannot seriously imagine the circumstances under which I would even be tempted to send out St. Patty's Day greetings much less the type that would make me pay 3 bucks plus postage to do so. Even the cards that have animals on them tend to focus on the Irish Setter dog and while its elongated Bert-like face is adorable in both puppy and full grown dog forms, it does not pack the greeting card punch of a pug dog or persian kitty, even when adorned with googly-ear shamrocks.

I had the unfortunate circumstance after Target of stopping at Pier One, which I have mentioned before, has less reason to exist than any store of which my relatively unfeeble mind can conceive. As I described it today, Pier One exists based on one bizarre paradox: there are people who have excess decorative baskets and nothing to fill them which. As a result, they designed products whose sole purpose is to fill baskets (i.e. colorful balls made out of styrofoam, glass, plastic and the material which supports the entire Pier One infastructure, wicker). Then, however, people (read: Katie) come into the store, notice the "wonderful" basket-filling knick-knacks and go all reverse causal on the bit and select baskets for the sole purpose of having something within which to place the spray-painted wicker balls.

Hippo is at least excited at the prospect of batting these wicker balls around, despite the fact that they are far from tiny-persian scale. I suppose she can pretend she is Indiana Hippo and run away from them like boulders.

Peace,

MB-K