Check it out:

BLONDE. On me! It’s so bizarre. I think I like it though! Well, aside from the prospect of constant maintenance…what do you guys think? (The hairstyle is not mine, sadly, but courtesy of Blake Lively on instyle.com – I just tweaked the colors).

And special thanks to Busty Satan for giving me the link!

A while ago, some bad things happened to me. These things caused a rift between me and some of my family; I felt betrayed, and they thought I was being ridiculous. Things haven’t improved very much, despite the passage of time and the lack of discussion pertaining to what I’ll call The Event.

I never said a word about any of it to my oldest brother – partially because I wanted to forget and partially because I had a feeling I knew exactly how he’d react, and I didn’t want to lose another family member.

I’m wrong a lot of the time, but I rarely consider it a relief. Today it was. I ended up randomly talking to him about The Event – he brought it up – and was surprised by how understanding he was. His perception of things was more like mine than I ever would have given him credit for.

He was supportive. He was very nearly gentle, a word I can rarely apply to him. I definitely misjudged him.

I’ve got to start giving people more credit.

I’ll be at the lake for the next couple of days, spending quality time with my sister, her husband, and hopefully a pair of skis. Oh, and the Marine.

For those of you who don’t remember, a brief history: Smoking hot Marine recently out of service also happens to be good friends with my sister’s husband. We spent time together. We flirted. We went on one fabulous date. I was dying for him to kiss me, but NO. Which is fine, because I would’ve been breaking my first-date rule anyway. He was sweet, funny, HOT, and interested. And then he blew me off after I bought a new sweater for our second date (in retrospect, it was probably best, as that sweater wasn’t quite as flattering as I initially believed). Then he blew me off again. Then, there was a THIRD blowing off. So I said to my sister, “Screw the Marine.” Sadly, the statement was metaphorical.

And now he and his equally foxy brother are planning to go camping with us. With them, really, but I’ll be there too. So US. All of us, together. With fewer clothes on than usual.

WORSE, much worse, is that my body is not as bikini-ready as I’ve been hoping, largely (a key word, that) due to my consumption of, oh, every edible thing to cross my path. So maybe the Marine will think he isn’t missing much, which HE IS.

The important thing is confidence, yes? (And appropriate grooming). So I’ll just make sure to be happy and stick my butt out a lot.

I took Lara to her first official swimming lesson yesterday. I had no idea what the hell I was doing, so I did an awful lot of nervous smiling and prayed over and over that I wouldn’t have to strip down to my swimsuit – some of the toddlers were terrified enough, screaming bloody murder as they were cradled in the water, and I would have hated adding to their future nightmares. Luckily they had instructors already in the water who were both willing and able, so I was spared the humiliation of exposing my upper thigh flesh.

Lara wasn’t afraid at all. She was delighted, nearly skipping as we made our way over the gravel and into the pool area. “Let’s do it!” she exclaimed.

I took off her clothes and shoes and she bustled over to the ladder, only to come back a minute later and say, “Here, Auntie Amber!” before spitting her wet, lumpy wad of gum out and dropping it into my already outstretched hand.

Why…thank you. (GROSS).

I stood up to dispose of the gum (seriously? GROSS) and my heart sort of did a slow, dizzy roll in my chest. And I realized that while I talk a good game, I want kids. I really, really want them. Two or three. I love my niece so much, so hugely – every kid, actually. I love their sticky faces and their silly questions and their laughter.

I want children of my own someday, and while I still harbor deep fears that I’d be the kind of parent who has to set money aside for therapy instead of college, I’d like the opportunity to try.

I had an appointment in Havre today at nine o’clock, which forced me to get my lazy butt out of bed at seven-thirtyish (it takes an hour to get there from here, and yes I did have bad hair why do you ask?).

I stopped at my friendly neighborhood gas station to fuel up and add antifreeze (my tank has been working on a slow drip for a little over a month, and being who I am I chose to continually add antifreeze instead of spending what I figured would be an exorbitant amount of cash to fix whatever was wrong). The attendant added antifreeze and checked the oil and I was just about to drive off on my merry way when he motioned for me to pop the hood again. I did, but it was already 8:02 and I was muttering impatiently under my breath. Then he started gesturing for me to get out of the car and have a look – never a good sign.

Sure enough, my little leak had turned into a cascade. Ever hopeful, I inquired about possibly still making my appointment in Havre. I wish I’d had a camera to capture the look on his face as he said, “You can’t drive this car anywhere.”

I went back to my office to inform my co-worker & friend that I wouldn’t be making my appointment after all (okay, I just wanted to bitch about my car) and she suggested borrowing my sister’s car.

Heidi has witnessed my driving more than once, and ONLY once she was a white-knuckled, prayer-reciting passenger. I was fairly certain she would just hang up on me, but miraculously she agreed to let me take hers – although she did include a note mentioning that driving very safely would be in my very best interests.

I made it to my appointment and when I got back, a couple of the guys I work with were rummaging under my hood (eek!). I hustled over making noise about maybe hiring someone who actually has a clue what the hell they’re DOING to fuss with my car’s inner parts, but I needn’t have worried. THEY FIXED IT!

Evidently the problem was a crack in the bottom of the plastic tank thingy, which they took to a friend of theirs to weld shut. Even if the handiwork doesn’t last (which it should), they said I could get a second-hand tank for cheap if I needed one. IT WAS FREE! A free fix! And if it doesn’t hold it’s going to be a CHEAP fix. This is the best news I’ve had in a while, and I was grinning like a lottery winner as I test drove it to make sure the temperature gauge was behaving (it was!).

Most of the time it drives me insane that the men I work with are macho, very old-fashioned types (in this instance old-fashioned can be defined as someone who still believes women are ignorant about everything except making & raising babies), but not today! Today I love them.

Even better news? Now that my car is fully functional again I can actually GO TO THE GOO GOO DOLLS CONCERT in Billings on the 26th! Kate bought tickets and invited me and OH GOD OH GOD the Goo Goo Dolls, people! They’re my favorite band and I was so bummed at the prospect of maybe not being able to go, but now I CAN.

Coming soon: embarrassing antidotes about things I did at the concert one should probably never admit to.

I got to plant my clumps of raspberries today, and all the digging and arranging and covering put me in a VERY summery frame of mind. The sun was beaming down, tempered by a nice breeze. My spirits soared. (On the other hand, I could have just been riding high on fatty goodness from the cheeseburger I ate for breakfast. Yes, BREAKFAST. Today I wanted a bad cholesterol fix more than a flat stomach).

My time outdoors in the complete lack of snow put me in the mood to wear a dress. So I did. A pretty, airy blue sun dress that stops at my knees. It’s flattering and cute. Unless, of course, there’s a couple of stray officers nearby when you stand up to put paperwork away, and one of the aforementioned officers politely points out that the static from the STUPID office chair has caused the dress to hike up so far that your lacy pink panties are clearly visible.

In which case I think it’s safe to say that the dress is less flattering and more humiliating. I turned various shades of red and yanked it down as far as I could while making a rapid escape to the ladies room, where I hid for about ten minutes muttering under my breath about the indignities of goddamn dresses, and WHY did I wear a dress anyway? I’m not a dress person, or a skirt person. I’m a tomboy – and clearly there’s a great reason why.

It’s true that I talked about wanting to show off my new & improved tush, but I had a specific time and place picked out and was also planning on helping myself to some liquor beforehand. I cannot BELIEVE my co-workers saw my UNDERPANTS.

At least I didn’t wear a thong.

What nonsense. What complete, unbelievable nonsense.

You would think after living in Montana for most of my life, mornings like this wouldn’t be quite so surprising, but they are.

I took my niece, Lara, to the park. It’s directly across the street from where I used to live when I was a kid (how lucky was I, growing up right next to a park?), and I still love going there. Besides, it was a completely gorgeous day.

We played on the slide several times, squealing in delight as we raced to the bottom. We took turns watching each other go, and once I hooked my hands over the top and launched myself through as fast as I could. She was very impressed, and asked how I did it. When I explained, a serious look came over her face. In a very adult-sounding voice she said, “I’m just Lara. I can’t do that.” To which I replied, “You’re just Lara, and you can do anything.” And gave her a kiss.

We played on the swings and I gave her an underdog. It was well worth it, since I wiped out in the mud and she giggled hysterically. Evidently the swings can’t hold a candle to Auntie Amber making an ass of herself.

Later I took her to the monkey bars, where I abandoned all dignity and showed her how to hang upside down “like a monkey.” She immediately wanted to try it, and I held her carefully while she dangled. When she wanted to try climbing up the other side, I helped her up, steadying her from behind.

And then she slipped. She lost her footing, and I didn’t catch her in time. She fell, with her little legs spread, onto the bar. Hard. For a second she looked stunned, and then she screamed.

I scooped her up and tried to comfort her, but she was pissed. Between hiccuping screams I heard, “I WANT…TO GO…HOME!”

So off we went, with my explanations about how I’d once done the same thing doing very little to console her.When I set her down in front of her mother her first words were, “I hurt my privates.”

That’s not exactly what I wanted her to take away from the experience, you know? I felt terrible. She has so few good memories, despite being so small (she’ll be three years old in June) and I was really hoping to leave her with happy thoughts.

Instead she hobbled around pouting and giving me suspicious glances, like perhaps it was my fault the monkey bars attacked her. I still feel guilty. I hope she remembers swinging, sailing back and forth through the air, instead of falling.

There’s this guy.

According to my sister he asked me out multiple times a couple of years ago, but I refused.

As fate would have it I ran into him and recognized him immediately – possibly because Heidi mentioned him, or possibly because he was singing along with the jukebox to the oldies. He was funny and charming. He invited me to sit with his group and I accepted. He’s tall, with a full head of hair. He has pretty blue eyes and a nice smile.

The longer we sat there, conversing and sharing drinks, the more I started wondering why I turned him down two years ago. There’s nothing wrong with him, NOTHING. He’s not rude or ugly (bite me, I’m shallow). He seemed fine – better than fine, actually. He seemed great, confident and happy.

I left – after politely refusing an invitation to follow them to a different bar – and found myself wondering if my standards have changed so much in two years, or if he just approached me at a bad time, or if I was just MYSELF – judgmental, defensive, and suspicious of any male who looks at me sideways. (Ah, therapy. So enlightening).

My point is, I’d be more than happy to let him take me to dinner – assuming he’s still interested (and by the way he was flirting last night I’m thinking it’s a definite possibility). Now if only I had his phone number.

I came home from work on Thursday night, drank a glass of milk, and climbed into bed. At 1:00 AM I was wide awake, clutching at my chest and cursing my body for developing acid reflux (and myself for downing two cups of coffee at work). The pain was intense, but I figured it would subside fairly quickly; I’ve been taking Nexium faithfully for three months now, and milk is usually soothing. HA.

2:00 AM: I took three Tums and drank another glass of milk.

2:45 AM: I thought of calling the Tums people and accusing them of false advertising, but the phone was in the living room and I was worried moving around might make me throw up.

3:00 AM: I took even more Tums, plus a Pepcid AC tablet.

3:50 AM: I drank some water because my throat was dry and scratchy, then built a mountain of pillows to prop myself up on, thinking if I slept upright the acid would stay down.

REPEAT. REPEAT. REPEAT.

At 11:30 AM on Friday, after experiencing almost no sleep and absolutely zero pain relief, I caved and called my doctor. I went in at noon and explained everything, including my two cups of coffee. He gave me two chalky white tablets (GREAT, right?) called Gaviscon, which looked a hell of a lot like Tums, but bigger.

He assured me that they should nix the heartburn immediately. I was so desperate by then that I didn’t even care that the Gaviscon tasted HORRIBLE, and foamed in my mouth (likely giving me the appearance of a sleep-deprived, rabid raccoon). I waited for the promised relief, which didn’t come.

I expected him to do what the other doctor did the last time this happened, which was to give me a GI Cocktail, a nasty little orange-y shot that tasted like puke and numbed me from my throat to my pelvic bone.

After putting me on the exam table and pressing on various parts on my stomach he declared that because the Gaviscon was ineffective, and because of the pain (which was pretty localized), it wasn’t heartburn. He also said two cups of coffee wouldn’t do that to me, particularly because of the Nexium. He said it’s more likely that it’s a problem with my gall bladder, which can feel very similar to heartburn. GOODIE. He scheduled an ultra-sound and told the nurse to get me a shot of Toradol to deal with the immediate pain.

Now, being eternally hopeful and deliberantly ignorant, I was expecting a nice, friendly shot in the arm. Instead I got a nice, friendly shot IN THE ASS. Lovely. And so dignified. Furthermore, I waited (doctor’s orders) for a little over a half an hour, and the shot did NOTHING to decrease the pain.

I ended up getting an IV and getting pumped full of Demerol, and some other drug I can’t pronounce or even remember. The first dose did a nice job in taking the edge off; the second erased not only the pain, but my ability to think clearly. Or walk in a straight line.

My Grandma drove me home, advising me not to eat or drink anything creamy, especially DAIRY (milk, anyone?) because if my gall bladder is malfunctioning, it will only exacerbate the problem.

I spent the rest of the day sleeping in a drug-induced coma. I had dry cereal for dinner.

When the Demerol wore off (sometime in the middle of the night), the pain came back. It isn’t as severe, not by half, but whatever the problem, it’s definitely making itself known.

Proof that I am indeed as vain and self-absorbed as you all suspected: If the ultra-sound confirms my doctor’s worries about my gall bladder, I’ll probably end up having surgery. And my first concern was that I’m going to have SCARS and end up looking gross in my bikini.

On the upside, honesty is clearly one of my virtues.

Oh, and if I wasn’t a drug addict before yesterday…