It’s a busy time of year, but as hectic as life is, I’m never too busy to know better. That’s right, I know better. At least, I know better than my kids, and I really don’t see anything wrong with it. I don’t try to rub their (already dirty) little faces in it, but I’m am sooooo much smarter than they are. About almost everything. Certainly about these bloody American Girls dolls. After last week’s drama, I have delegated the entire decision making process to M. And by “delegated” I mean that he took it away from me because it was really about to go nuclear. But what I don’t understand is why, for the life of me, if you look like this (as Francie does):
.. you’d want a doll that looks like this:
I gotta be honest, I looked like that, and it wasn’t that much fun. All she needs is braces and ganglier legs, and I’ve found my long lost doll-pleganger. (I just made that up on the spot.) I know better, and that blondish doll is significantly cuter than this future captain of the debate team. Why won’t she listen to me?