State of the J.Q.-nion

The kid has become... temperamental. Sort of like the easily-agitated love child of Leona Helmsley and Naomi Campbell. Whoa, that'd be pretty boss... an endless supply of shoes to fling at underlings! ["WHAM!... bitch!... WHAM!... get back here!... WHAM!... I'm not even up to the espadrilles yet!").

It is worth it, however, this taming of my own personal shrew. In the past twenty-four hours, J.Q. has:

1. Discovered Led Zeppelin. While driving to New Jersey, a block of Zep came on the radio. The child damn near voided his car seat's warranty, what with the gleeful whipping around. During "Misty Mountain Hop", he also kept yelling, "GO! GO! GO!" Were there such a thing as a Fisher-Price Baby's First Zippo (and why the hell ISN'T there, I ask?), he would have held it aloft over his tiny head. When we arrived at his grandparents' house, he requested more "Zeppin". Thus, I found myself encouraging my one year-old to dance to "Heartbreaker" at 10:00 PM. Perhaps I should start funnelling his college fund directly to the local bail bondsman.

2. Looked at the Dunkin Donuts coffee cup I was clutching and piped, "Dun-nit!" "HOLY SHIT, YOU CAN READ!", I thought. Before I'd finished mentally reorganizing my bookshelves (Will Self being the literary equivalent of a flaming, cyanide-tipped lawn dart), it became apparent that he'd merely recognized their logo. Still! Brand recognition! And loyalty ("Dunnit? Dunnit? DUNNIIIIIIIIIT!")! He could be a valuable market research tool... assuming there's a "0 - 2" market ("Okay, in regards to the Lil' Schiele Washable Crayon 8-Pak... HEY! Get the demo product out of your mouth, please!").

3. Devised the awesomest method of misbehaving, ever. J.Q. became somewhat agitated while we were browsing the local beauty supply store. Perhaps he grew weary of mommy's repeated demands that he not touch/lick/fling various products, lest he get killed/indelibly stained/Jheri-Curled. After being systematically relieved of four pairs of sunglasses, ten bottles of hair dye and a massive tub of leave-in conditioner, J.Q. finally had it. "Night-night!" he declared, flopping sulkily to the carpet. "Uh... sure. Knock yourself out," I muttered. He remained prostrate long enough for me to finish choosing between "Mutagenic Maroon" and "Known To The State of California To Cause Cancer Crimson". In retrospect, I probably should've feigned extreme annoyance in order to guarantee a repeat performance. "For the love of god, will you PLEASE stop lying motionless in one place and thereby enabling your mother to enjoy this retail excursion?"

He's sleeping now, no doubt dreaming of the lustrous golden locks he was thwarted from achieving (well, ingesting). And I am retiring to the bathroom to dump a batch of rouge goopiness on my scalp. Should I wind up looking more like Bozo the Clown than Franka Potente, I'll just have J.Q. sue Clairol for me. It's clear that he's already very much an American.