I believe that men and women are different. That each gender has a special, God-ordained role that allows us to shield our weaknesses and maximize our strengths.

There's one area in particular that I -- quite inflexibly -- consider a domain for The Man of The House. If, by some chance, the Women's Liberation ever attempts to "equalize" this activity, I'll be on the Washington Mall with a protest poster faster than Al Sharpton after a traffic stop.

What could this dark abyss of gender inequity possibly be, you ask?

Killing household pests.

In our house, this is and ever more shalt be The Man's Job.

I consider myself a capable, level-headed and resourceful housewife. I can install curtain rods, unclog a toilet, change lightbulbs, move furniture and repair a vacuum cleaner. But I do not kill vermin.

If I were attacked by a chainsaw-wielding cockroach and was in fear for my life or the life of my child, I suppose I might resort to self-defense. But, short of that, I leave all vermin-killing assignments in the capable hands of my knight in shining bug spray: my darling hubby, Scott. Case in point:

Yesterday, as I got Griffin up from his nap, I heard a tiny squeaking that I mistakenly thought came from a loose board in our floor. Upon further inspection, I discovered an univited guest of the Mickey & Minnie variety stuck to one of the glue boards that Darryl (yes, we're on a first-name basis with our exterminator) put out after our Brown Recluse invasion last year.

I am not normally one to shy away from animals, as long as they're furry, but stumbling across a mouse in my own home was just too much for me to stave off the willies. Eeeeeeeek!

The little guy was good-n-stuck to the glue board and absolutely terrified. He writhed and squeaked almost as much as I did. I wanted this interloper evicted -- and quick -- but couldn't bear to kill him. What's a girl to do?

So I called in the reinforcements. Hooray for my wonderful husband! He cut his workday 30 minutes short and was home in a flash.

Yet even a pillar of strength has a soft side. Scott couldn't kill the mouse either but somehow managed to pull him off the glue board and set him free (running toward the neighbor's house . . . Sorry about that).

So you see, even our intrepid hero is a man of mercy. Except, of course, to the thievin' squirrels in our backyard. But that is another story . . .

I always wanted to look like a movie star. Who knew that all it takes is a haircut?

Wanna see the new me?



Minus the sideburns, this is my new "do." Jealous?

WELL, YOU CAN HAVE IT! I WANT MY HAIR BACK!!!!!

I kid you not. This is my hair. Take a good look at yonder Adam Brody because you won't be seeing me in public anytime soon.

It isn't just that it is too short. It's a man's cut. Plain and simple. I look like a man -- or at the very least a turbo lesbian. In fact, Martina Navratilova has more hair that I do at the moment.

I have a longstanding engagement coming up in August. I think three weeks might be enough time to double the length of my hair to maybe four inches if I eat nothing but gelatin and prenatal vitamins between now and then.

Aside from trying on hats, wigs and head scarves -- mail order, of course, since I won't be leaving the house -- I think I'll be plenty busy planning revenge on my former new stylist.

Mark this one down as Life Lesson # 29. "Never get your hair cut by a new stylist unless you have eight weeks straight to spend inside the house."