Who knew we'd all be so into the circus? (And yes, I still want to be one of those fancy ladies.)

We can't stop talking about the circus

Even though Lil E had never seen the clowns, the elephants, the trapeze artists and all those classic circus thrills before, it was a toss up whether he or my parents were more excited to be there.

We did the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey thing around here. And that's how it should be, only days after Lil E's first visit to the circus., the four of us. Of course, my parents have been to the big top many times and they took us every other year when my brother and I were kids. We haven't been in a long, long time, though, and there is just nothing like watching that awe of seeing it all wash over a small child's face.

And awe, Lil E had. He was mesmerized the moment he saw the sequins (once again clarifying that he is my child) and acobats the moment we stepped on to the main floor for the All-Access Pre-show (why didn't they have this when we were kids?).

He tried on performer costumes, clapped enthusiastically for the clowns and got uncharacteristically shy around the pretty ladies (oh yes, I took notes on their whole fishnet-blinged out get-ups). 

When the lights went down and the live show started, Lil E's mouth dropped and I don't think he closed until the last tiger went through the closing curtain hours later.

BBecause the circus seems to have taken a Cirque vibe, we all were entranced by the men climbing, sliding and swinging from fabric and the women working the spinning rings in impossible contortionist maneuvers. I knew it would be fun, but I was surprised at what a great time we all had.

I'll admit, I was excited. But I was also prepared for the headaches and logistics and screaming masses of children that make even the best-intentioned outings with kids into a time of under-the-breath prayers and mathematic calculations to determine whether the wait in the concessions line and then the bathroom line are worth the sweet relief of a ten-dollar watered down beer. But this was not that. This was just so fun.

I didn't watch every single sequence and I saw my mom looking away as well. My dad did take his eyes off the Harley-inspired dancers with handlebars around their waists momentarily. When we did turn away it was to watch Lil E spontaneously throw his hands in the air or wave without realizing it, so caught up in the moment.

Even if it hadn't been so fun for all of us, I think I still would have been just as delighted seeing Lil E act out the motorcyclists in the big metal ball (do you think they make new ones or that it's the same one we watched back in the Evil Knievel days?) and pretend to be the horse riders doing stunts on my dad's legs. It would have been worth just to hear his uncontrollable little giggle remembering the "siwwwy clown" who put the cell phone down his pants and then yelled out, "Ooh! It's cold!"

Sitting in the dark and laughing with Lil E makes me remember how in love I was with the lady who twirled from her hair above me when I was a kid. And it makes me happy he gets a little of that cotton candy-laced dreaminess to take with him too.

Tons of photos after the jump.

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Analyze my dreams, please. Leave out any references to my inability to commit and dead dogs from my childhood, but do analyze my dreams.

I am committed to NaBloPoMoing my ass off this month, but I am also working a lot, exhausted and in need of a long shower, a cup of tea and a good night's sleep. So I will leave you with this to ponder, analyze and then make appropriate therapeutic recommendations based on your own experiences, that Dream Analysis for Dummies book on your desk you've been meaning to read since 1997, many conversations you had with your social worker grad student roommate or whatever it is that you personally base your words of wisdom on in situations like these.

Ever since I got this pillow and perhaps since I've been sleeping more, I have been sleeping much deeper. In fact, I've gone back to the crazy dreaming patterns that have ruled my REM through most of my life. Well, except when I am not sleeping enough to get to the place where characters are developed enough to hide out in my room until I wake up (usually rather naked) to throw me a surprise baby shower or the other wackadoodle shit they do in my dreams. 

Over the last week or so, my dreams have amped up and I've woken up to my alarm groggy and still confused.  As much as I hoped my dreaming life would become a complicated web of nonviolent ass kicking with me as the breastplate-wearing, sword-yielding samurai of sassiness and savagery, no such luck. I am lost. So please, help me out.

Why in the name of sleep deprivation did I dream I shoplifted from WalMart? And after I was caught and sitting in the security office waiting for the police to haul me out of that palace of low-prices and big hair wasn't I more upset that I lifted clothes when I was so willing to pay for all the other items in my bag? And why is the only thing I remember going through my mind in the dream -- no, it wasn't to run like hell past the old man security guard or some ethical justification for thievery -- complete confusion wrapped in one more little question, "What in the hell am I doing in WalMart?"

Before you go off on the virtues of stupendously cheaper diapers or Cheetohs or reinforced toe pantyhose, let's move on to the second dream that left me shaking my head.

Why did I dream I was in a cottage at a camp where the Almost Ex and I were splitting up a week with Lil E? And why in that dream did the Almost Ex ask me to hold his cell phone for him and then forget that it was in my pocket, where I found it later and immediately hacked my way in to purely for snooping purposes? And how was he savvy enough in that dream to snap photos of uploaded screen shots of all the posts I've ever written about getting divorced and save them in a mobile file with his attorney's name on it? And why, in the shock and horror of finding this technical wizardry that is laughable to imagine the Almost Ex even thinking of doing in waking life, did I choose not to delete the files? Why did I instead just squint soooooo hard to read those teeny tiny posts on the itsy bitsy cell screen that I woke up with my whole face scrunched up in worried concentration?

OK, go! Get to it! Tear apart those muthahs until you have my pysche nailed down. Please. And don't hold back. I am completely open here to any symbolism or subtext you uncover. In the meantime, I will be settling in for more subconconscious fucked upedness that will keep you busy for a good seven minutes tomorrow morning.

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Yeah, that's right. I'm talking about my make-up again.

Since the only comment I got on my post about how the laser doc didn't imply that maybe, possibly I could lighten up on the lip gloss but in fact, should stop piling on the make-up like I'm spackling a small cottage was a little IMed "he he he...read your post" (you know who you are, you pixie with your natural beauty and your humor and your whatnot), just know that I get it. I get the message. I'm not just a shameless shoe whore, I'm an eyeshadow overloader. I'm Tammy Fay. I'm seventeen and applying so much liquid eyeliner my mom swears I bruised both eyes in front of the bathroom mirror before school.

I get it, I hear you. Loud and as clear as my supposed concealed concealer.

I've heard your silence, people of the internets, and I'm going bare.

Aw hell, who am I kidding? I couldn't give up mascara if the doctor removed his cherubim-cheeked and crazy ear hair mask to reveal himself to be Carmindy and the whole stunt earned me some crazy lasery discount. But do know that I am taking a second look. And maybe toning it down a smidge.

Don't get me wrong, I am not the mom on the playground affectionately referred to as "Jersey" or "mall mama" (come on, people, you know you know her, you know you've thought it, you know you've stressed at least once you were her) and I swear I've never owned an AquaNet-crusted pick to adequately heighten my hair to go adequately compliment all that rouge. Honestly, I'm not putting anything on the inside rim of eye or wearing darker lip liner than lipstick or even touching up (much) during the day. None of that. But I do wear make-up and I do wear it every single day. Not this Chapstick and a swipe of clear mascara bullshit, either. I wear make-uuuup. Hey, if the doc and the gazillions of Sassafrass readers out there think I need to tone it down, then I will tone it down.

I'm pretty sure Lil E and the one psych/pottery/child development major part-timing as a barista at Starbucks won't protest a little less paint on the barn. Since those are the only people I see between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m., then I should be covered.

Or not so covered, as the cosmetic case may be.

So yeah. I heard you. And it's not just on, betches. It's (slightly) off.

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