An accessory explosion

Something big has sneezed at our house.

I call it the Accessory Monster. In brief, I cannot walk through the Diller Estate without finding belts, silk scarves, and ties (dh's) everywhere. Oh, and let's not forget the car. Apparently, my daughters find it useful to be prepared for ANY fashion emergency.

But I held my head up high when I toted Caroline to Costco (for photos) and GapKids (for socks) today, clad in nothing but a huge tie-dyed silk that fit her like a strapless muuumuu, her big sister's pink flip-flops, and face paint (our Improv teacher is also a professional clown).

When we arrived home, the girls set to work playing one of their favorite: "Birthday Party." Of course, they needed me as a guest. The birthday party was basically an indulgence of their wildest sugar fantasies, including not only cake and ice cream, but also a verrrry looooong parade with lots and lots of people throwing candy at us.

At the coffee shop during Improv this morning, I was chatting with my friend Greta about household skills. Basically, she has them and I don't. No, no, I mean that Greta's very intelligent husband, who works long hours examining people's brains as a neurologist, would rather have a root canal than, say, trap the rats that have encroached upon their attic or plunge an uncooperative toilet. Therefore, Greta (have I mentioned that she herself was a doctor in her former life?) pulls herself up by her bootstraps and spreads peanut butter on the rat traps (or calls The Guy Who Does That for Money). So she is acquiring Skills. And setting a stellar example for her five kids in the process, who probably never hear the forlorn phrase, "Um, let's see if Daddy can fix this when he gets home."

I, on the other hand? My husband (also very intelligent; hi sweetheart!) just makes those rats Disappear (the ones in the chicken coop), and knows that he's not supposed to ever show me any of his hapless victims. He plunges the toilets (how bad am I about this? One time I made our friend Randolph, who had brought his kids over for Spanish class, do this task, as if the Y chromosome made him more fit for it. Because I am so the hostess that way). He fixes stuff. I, um, blog about it. Move over, Paris Hilton.

But, but, but ...

MOM!!! I need you to tie on my fairy wings!!!

Right on it, honey.