1) Mike Logan. From the original Law & Order. And not that Mike Logan reboot from Criminal Intent, either. I really miss the first five years of the original show.

2) Frank Pembleton. From Homicide: Life on the Street. Smartest. Detective. Ever. I do not care about your Sherlock Holmes, in whom I do not believe. I believe Frank Pembleton could exist, and we’d be better off if he did.

3) Geoffrey Plantagenet. From The Lion in Winter. What a twisted failure of a plotter. And yet somehow John Castle makes him seem sympathetic and appealing. At least to me.

4) James T. Kirk. The Shatner version, regardless of age. Shut up.

5) Leia Organa. Smarter, snarker, a better shot than her brother or the love of her life.

6) Marion Ravenwood. She can out-drink a Tibetan giant and go toe-to-toe with Indiana Jones.

7) John Adams. From 1776. Although I am very fond of the real John Adams, too.

8) Zoe Washburn, nee Alleyne. From Firefly. Zoe is the action heroine I’ve been waiting for my whole life. Thank you, Joss Whedon.

9) Justin the rat. From The Secret of NIMH. I know, I know, it sounds weird, but this rat really is pretty dreamy.

10) Hans Gruber. From Die Hard. I thought about Al Swearingen from Deadwood and Sam Gerard from The Fugitive and Liz Lemon from 30 Rock, but no. Hans Gruber it is. Plus, apparently he’s still alive on Twitter.

Honorable Mention: Tina Fey and Amy Poehler on SNL’s Weekend Update. Because I’m pretty sure those are characters, and only kind of the real Tina Fey and Amy Poehler.

When I was a child, my mother had a collection of bright cream eyeshadows that came in stick form, like lipstick. They clipped onto a display rack that had the effect of a jewel-toned eyeshadow tree. I think we can agree that such a thing is designed to be irresistible to four-year-olds. And it was.

My mother didn’t wear much makeup–cream blush and lipstick, maybe a little foundation–but I knew that eyeshadow went above your eyes. And what’s above your eyes? Why, your eyebrows.

Therefore, when I would dress up as a “Christmas tree” in my greenest nightgown with all of my play jewelry pinned to me or hanging around my neck, I would be sure to apply eyeshadow. So I was a Christmas tree with gummy purple and blue eyebrows.

Years later, I asked my mother, “Why didn’t you ever tell me that’s not how you wear eyeshadow?” And she answered, “I figured that, your way, you weren’t getting it in your eyes.”

That, my friends, is parenting genius.

I was allowed to start wearing makeup–well, concealer–in the sixth grade, and that was the same year when my mother let me buy a carefully vetted lipstick. It was some shade by Clinique that was very sheer. But it wasn’t until high school that I really started wearing makeup.

It was the 1980s. We wore all the makeup.

Since then, I’ve gone back and forth on what types of products I use, although I long ago gave up on eye makeup for pretty much any occasion (watery eyes are not the effect I’m going for, generally). Foundation? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Powder? Sure, except absolutely not. Powder blush or cream? I’ve tried both.

When Mr. Sandwich and I got married, I did my own makeup. That’s right, I did. Because I’ve had it done professionally, and it has always been a disaster. You should have seen me in the aforementioned 1980s, when I went to my junior prom. Although you won’t. Just trust me. I was wearing All The Makeup. And my hair from that night is a post of its own.

But when I got married, I knew two things: (1) I needed to wear more makeup than usual, because of the photography, and (2) I wanted to look like myself. And, looking back on those photos, I did just fine.

After Mr. Sandwich and I got married, I stopped wearing makeup. It’s not that I couldn’t be bothered, it’s that I didn’t have to be. Mr. Sandwich has made it perfectly clear that he likes people’s faces as they are, and that includes mine. When I do wear makeup, I know I’ve gotten it right when he says, “I can’t tell you’re wearing any.”

At some point, I stopped wearing it even to work. Most of the women who outranked me wore little or none, and at some point I was pregnant and lacked the energy to put in contact lenses. Makeup? Get real.

Lately, I’ve started again. Not every day–I haven’t worn any this week–but on a fairly regular basis I wear beauty balm (wasn’t that called “tinted moisturizer” a few years ago?) and cheek stain. But I have a lot of trouble with lipstick.

I’m not crazy about the nude lip craze that swept the nation a few years ago, no matter how often I saw it on What Not To wear. But since I got out of the habit, I find that a great many colors look too . . . obvious. Too intense.

And that’s without addressing the question of shade. So I want something that has color, but not too much color, and that’s a pinky-peach, but not too pink, and not too peach, and not too chalky, and not too shimmery, and and and.

I’ve tried lip gloss (too glossy!) and long-lasting lipsticks (too drying!). I’ve tried a variety of drugstore brands. And I was just steeling myself to head to the department store when, at the end of a trip to Costco, I spotted a three-pack of Clinique lipsticks. A three-pack. For something like $22. That’s cheaper than three lipsticks from the drugstore. And while I wasn’t able to try them on, I was pretty sure I recognized one of the names.

And you know what? Two of them are pretty good on their own, and the third works well as a layer to change up the other two.

This is good. Because I don’t care what retro fashion is next. I am not wearing that brown lipstick from the 1990s again. I’ve learned at least that much.

It didn’t start out that way. Baguette woke up happy, because we were all there. Mr. Sandwich, who normally leaves at 6:00, was home to take care of some car repairs. I was about to get up; my alarm went off about two minutes after Baguette woke. There were snuggles and giggles and more snuggles.

She did not want to get up and go in the living room with me; she wanted to stay and snuggle. But eventually I needed her to get up, and managed to relocate her. Getting her dressed, on the other hand, was a different matter.

First, she didn’t want to take off her pajamas. Putting on pants wasn’t a problem, but she raged against the first two shirts I offered her, throwing them across the room. All of this was accompanied by screams.

She screamed at me when I changed clothes, retrieving my pajamas in an attempt to put them back on me.

And then, once we got to her school, she ran up to sit next to a little boy and play with the toys he had out.

Back home, she wanted Play-Doh–as she always does, these days–but she screamed rather than say “please,” and then she screamed instead of saying “sorry.” So the Play-Doh went away.

Later, she found another container of Play-Doh. Rolling it flat led to screaming. Packing it into a ball, or returning it to the container? More screaming. I handed her a wooden block in the shape of a cylinder so she could roll it out herself. She screamed as she rolled, tears streaming down her face.

She couldn’t tell her what was making her so angry and upset, no matter how we asked. Instead, she just screamed. So that Play-Doh went away.

Finally, dinner calmed her down. And you’d think all that screaming would wear a tiny body out, but no. She was up until nearly 10.

Although on the plus side, she slept the whole night through. Can we call that a win? I’m having trouble answering that question.

Photo by Photos by Mavis, via Flickr. Creative Commons.

See that owl on my forearm?

Baguette says that’s a “Mommy Bird.”

Try-pair-a-ops

Macmohmee cheese

Play keep-ee-boo!

Cock-oh-lee

. . . which is not to be confused with

Cock-a-doo!

Rooster photo by bagsgroove, via Flickr. Creative Commons.

So, what am I going to do with those beets?

Local on the left, store on the right.

Local on the left, store on the right.

Local on the left, store on the right.

The store egg yolks seem to break much more easily. The local egg yolk didn’t break at all. That’s store yolk you see there.

1) Baguette’s kisses.
2) Mr. Sandwich’s love for me and her.
3) Snuggles with Wicket.
4) Rain on the roof.
5) Going for a walk and seeing our great neighbors.
6) Opening the windows and letting fresh air blow through the house.
7) Friday evenings, with the whole weekend ahead.
8) A compliment to a stranger.
9) Sun salutations.
10) Conversation.

No, this is a list of books that are widely agreed to be excellent, and I just don’t care.

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. I’ve loathed every adaptation I’ve seen, and I only read the book after it was suggested that I might like it better if I read it as a horror story, rather than as a romance. I didn’t.

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I just can’t get into it, and I’ve tried more than once. I also tried Tender Is The Night with the same result. For my money, Fitzgerald–like Hemingway–is better at short stories. I’ll pass on the movie–particularly since I also don’t love Baz Luhrmann’s work. (Fun fact: If you want to excerpt, the Fitzgerald estate will only approve it if you have pulled your selection from specific editions, which they will identify by ISBN.)

Play It As It Lays by Joan Didion. I do not get the appeal of this book. I didn’t get it when I first encountered it in college, and I didn’t get it several years ago when I re-read it after loving The Year of Magical Thinking.

What about you? What books mystify you with their acclaim?

The spitting of water onto the floor during bathtime.

The regimen of snowman drawing, which is so precise that I am afraid to try, because I will get it wrong and there will be screaming.

The shrieking. Dear Lord, the shrieking.