signs that Lizzy's growing up much too fast

A couple of weeks ago, Lizzy and I sat in the waiting-room area of a Vienna hair choppery, waiting for Matt to get his coiff styled. (he's gonna kill me when he reads that. He bemoans the further signs of hair loss every time we go.) I was flipping through a People magazine because the Hunting and Fishing mag didn't interest me much, while Lizzy drooled over the Chiclet and M&M vending machines.
At one point, Lizzy paused to look over my shoulder. I was looking at the "stars playing with their babies" page. First up: Mrs. Jen Affleck and her darling daughter, Violet. "A baby!" Lizzy said. "Show me more babies!" We turned the page to see more celeb babies (Julia Roberts' twins, I believe). Lizzy wanted me to keep turning the pages; wouldn't let me keep reading the four-ish scintillating paragraphs on each page. Oh, well.
"Oh, what a pretty dress!" she next exclaimed. "And look at that little bag!" I don't remember the stylish celeb who was worthy of such praise, but Lizzy kept heaping it on at a disturbing rate. "Look at that gold dress!" she said. "It looks just like Belle's." I admit, that made me feel a little better.
It's funny, because I rarely remember or notice what people are wearing. Sometimes I note to myself that they look nice (or, in the case of some of the ensembles I see on the streets of D.C., garish). During Rush Week at my sorority, at night, we would pore over the lists of potential pledges, reminding each other who they were. A lot of the girls remembered exactly what they were wearing, down to the hairstyle and shoes. I rarely could remember them at all, unless I'd had a conversation with them. And then I had trouble conveying any useful way to trigger others' memory of the girl. My reaction tended to be, "They were nice," or something along that line. Have I ever said how much I hated Rush Week?

In a similar vein, as we were bowling Saturday night with Matt's brother, Nick, and good friend, Shane, Nick had taken off his sweatshirt at one point. I didn't notice (who cares?). Lizzy did. "Mom, did Nick take off his coat or something?" she said. Hm.

Which leads me to the other scary sign that Lizzy is growing up. It took a spare in the 10th frame for me to beat her in our second game.
Final score: Mom, 97. Lizzy, 93.*
Yes, we had bumpers set up -- she took great advantage of those, obviously. But, well, the adults also had the bumpers. So that's not as much excuse as it should be.

*My pride compels me to point out that, usually, a 130 is the worst I do these days. And I might do as well as a 170-something fairly typically. It is with great shame that I admit I did not break 100.