Miss Cheapy Pants Ain't Gonna Like This At All

Look who lost her first tooth!

And look who "has a toof loof too, Mama!"

Worst Ever

Today I was quite taken by surprise when one of my attendees stuck a gift wrapped in baby-print paper into my gym bag. I mean, this is my third after all, not to mention I am no where near close to giving birth. The sweet woman gave me a couple of pregnancy/baby books, one of them being this one:
It's a book that makes fun of baby names and the people who name them. Genius! It was immediately added to my "Why Didn't I Think of This?" list.

The name "May" wasn't in there, but here's what it said for Ruby: "A derivative of the popular 18th century name Buby, which did not survive the evolution of handwriting. Unfortunately, 18th century b's looked a lot like today's r's. That's too bad, because girls named Buby were really stacked."

Annie wasn't in there, neither was Ann but Anne was. I guess I'll take it: "Most girls named Anne become clinically depressed when they find that 50 percent of girls have Anne for a middle name--and usually because their parents couldn't think of anything else."

Brandon: "Brandon is generally chosen by families that plan to spoil their son to the extent that he will be rude and horribly disliked. Poor families do not choose this name since they are unable to fulfill their obligations in this regard."

Some other family members of mine and known readers of this blog with fairly common names: (I will just keep typing until May comes out of her nap. You can only imagine the amount of things I'm putting off right now. Most of which involve domesticy things. Type, woman, type.) Maybe you'll find yours included here. It's alphabetical.

Beth: " Of the many derivatives of Elizabeth, this one is most popular amoung drug users because of the ease with which it can be transformed to the uproarious nickname Crystal Beth."

Catherine: "The Starbucks of names. Classy, popular, and, in various forms, everywhere. Also, much like Starbucks' baristas, Catherines except tips for doing something as simple as pouring you a cup of coffee. More than a few Catherines are bitter and really ought to be returned."

Chad: "Parents who name their children Chad know that they are flying in the face of common wisdom, as anyone who's watched a sitcom knows that Chads are wealthy jerks."

Diana: "Originally shouted at viciously hated girls named Anna. Later in ancient Greece, Diana became a cute nickname for girls that every Greek girl hated. Finally, Greek men, knowing that the most hated girls were always the prettiest, began awarding the most attractive woman at the orgy the Diana Prize. From there, the rest is history."

Elizabeth: "After all these years, this name still brings to mind the Virgin Queen who practically created the term "imperialism" and in the process created the term "hegemony" and eventually the slogan "down with all Westerners!"

Emily: "A cutesy, little, scrunched-face name for girls whose parents think they might have given birth to a cat."

Erica: "A refugee from those mediveval days when girls were consider wasted births, and fathers would name the unwelcome newborn only in passing--usually by simply tossing a vowel at the end of the name they'd have chosen had they been lucky enough to have sired a boy."

Ethan: "Whereas this named used to have a revolutionary air to it, in recent years one most associates the name Ethan with suburban soccer games and shouts of "Kick the ball, Ethan!"

Harrison: "Son of Harry. Not Harold, but Harry. As if your son's real father is an old fella in a recliner trying to read his evening paper over the constant chattering of his nosey wife, Gladys."

Heather: "A side-splitting hazard of this name happens when Heather's kindergarten scrawl is taken as "Heathen" by her teacher. Funnier still is when that teacher happens to be a heathen herself and, delighted to finally find a kindred spirit, befriends little Heather, taking her out to share lunch and a satanic ritual. Straightening out that mess can be one crazy time!"

Holly: "Every January, countless girls named Holly disappear as they are mistakenly packed away in boxes and stored in attics and crawl spaces. On a happier note, such families always seem to look forward to the annual "unpacking of the daughter" every December."

Jackson: "Son of Jack. Jack's son. A particularly confusing choice when made by the many parents who are not named Jack."

Jake: "Everybody's buddy! Jake is a pal! The sort of kid who'll open up your house when you're on vacation and have the wildest, kicken-est party your town's ever seen. Way to go, Jake! You rock!"

Jennifer: "When making a list of the most popular girl's names in 1994, researcher Dr. I. P. Nightly found that during the month of March in that year every single baby girl born in the United States was named Jennifer."

Jessie: "Your daughter's famous namesake: Jesse James, a homocidal bank robber who came to personify everything horrible aboue the American West."

John: "So common a name that even in the New Testament two different guys are named John."

Joseph: "Of Biblical fame, Joseph was one of Jacob's many, many, many sons. Anyway, one day his brothers toss Joseph into a pit and sell him into slavery. Not one brother says that getting rid of Joseph was a bad idea. Not one! It was unanimous! Now, how good a guy could he have been?"

Josie: "A name that became popular in the early seventies during a time when young parents, still suffering the effects of hang-overs from their drug-addled Woodstock years, began naming their children after characters from Saturday morning cartoons. Other popular baby names of the time include Witchy Poo and Hong Kong Phooey."

Julie: "A name originally coined by William Shakespeare in an early draft of Romeo & Juliet as Juliet's younger and uglier sister who, unable to catch the eye of Romeo, convinces Mercutio to kill him."

Karen: "An old standby, always willing to step in and take over when you can't figure out what to call a girl. Like an old station wagon or a straw broom, it'll get the job done."

Kate: "For families without the means to acquire the multisyllabic Katherine, Kate is a terrific compromise. As an additional benefit, most Kates are perfectly happy to wear faux perfume and gumball machine jewelry."

Katie: "Many parents, hoping to extend their daughter's childhood, will slap her with Katie, in the hope that Katie will play happily on the backyard swing set well into her thirties."

Kelly: "The third choice of unimaginative Irish fanatics, behind Shamrock and Leprechaun."

Kristen: "A word created by the Swedes to refer to the act of evangelizing door to door, as in "Sven! We're going kristin' this weekend! You coming?"

Leah: " Where the chastity of your daughter is concerned, naming her Leah probably doesn't help matters much. If she ever acquires the nickname "Easy Leah," it's time to change her name."

Leigh: "See Leah. It's the same problem."

Mary: "The Chevy of girl names. Just about everybody has had some experience with a Mary. For some of us, Mary was our first girlfriend just as Chevy was our first car. She kept us comfortable, and we kept her for awhile. Then we grew up and tried some of those foreign names out. We even took a few spins with some real luxury models. But we all come back to Mary eventually, even if it's just in our memories. There's a Mary everywhere you look. And who knows? Maybe one day you'll get yourself one of these newer Marys. But what's the rush? Marys will always be there. They always have been."

Matt/Matthew: "A Matt is to be stepped on, and wiped with one's feet. Matthew sounds like a pretentious form of Matt--probably one of those Matts with fancy French designs."

Max: "This name has traveled from humans to dogs and recently back to humans again. Consequently, many babies named Max can hear sounds normally undetectable to the human ear. They also shouldn't be around leather shoes when they're teething."

Megan: "A variant of the variant Meg, from Margaret. Most parents find that researching the convoluted origin of this name is a frustrating waste of time. Most grandparents find that attempting to figure out which of the millions of spelling variations the parents have chosen is just as frustrating and a waste of time."

Michael: "Only John is more common in America. If a pre-birth IQ test, a lack of heavy kicking in the womb, or a series of uninspiring sonograms indicate that your son looks like he might not amount to much, this is the name for you."

Melissa: "Ancient Greek for "bee," Melissa is a sweet little girl named that, on a grown-up looks as strange as saddle shoes and black tights...just not as sexy."

Paul: "A name so common that even the biblical Paul can't stand it and changes his name to Saul. Now, nobody would voluntarily change his name to Saul unless he was really discouraged. That's what Paul'll do to a guy."

Robert: "Your prospects look good. You hope to raise a Robert, handsome, strong, creative, and according to its meaning destined for greatness. Unless, of course, he chooses to be called Bob--in which case he will be as ordinary as American cheese on white bread."

Sam/Samuel: "While the biblical Samuel means "Name of God," this name has been revived in recent years as simply Sam, which in Old English means "half."

Sarah: "A name that requires no lips or teeth to pronounce. This is an excellent choice if you think your child might not be very smart. Having so simple a name just might keep her clear of stigmatizing therapy classes."

Thomas: "Guys named Thomas are notoriously skeptical (or doubting) and cheap, the sort of people who bring McDonald's coffee into a Starbucks or spend an hour divvying-up checks at dinner. Name your baby Thomas and be ready for him to reply, "Prove it!"

Timothy: "A silly name for silly little boys. Timmys are squealers and toadies. They grow up to be the sort of man who is happy to find a hair in his salad, just for something to complain about."

Todd: "If this were not a name it owuld be the term to refer to any protrusion beneath the skin. It's always a good idea to have a doctor look at any Todd that should happen to show up."

Zach/Zachary: "You can always spot the boys named Zach at a grammar school. Just go to the gymnasium and look for the boy at the end of the line. He'll be the one to get the most worn, under-inflated ball. Or saunter on by the cafeteria line, where Zach will be waiting for cold lasagna and stale fries, which he'll have to scarf down as fast as he can before the bell rings. Occasionally, a teacher will conduct business in reverse order, but Zachs will tell you that it can never make up for the daily indignities."

Apple Turnovers

After my friend Tamara gave us a bag full of fresh-picked apples, I was like "Ooo...this means I get to bake." While I'd venture to say I'm a good cook, I'm not an outstanding baker. A lot of things I bake just don't come out right, but I've had better luck lately. I found an awesome oatmeal chocolate chip cookie recipe (which is to come later on) that resulted in the perfect cookie consistency (chewy on the inside, slightly crispy on the outside) and these turnovers turned out perfect. This recipe isn't wild, crazy or anything out of the norm. It was just really good and pretty easy. I found it on allrecipes.com, which is a site I really like. I love knowing how many people tried/rated it and what they rated it as, so if you find a 5 star recipe and 500 people have rated it, you can bet it's pretty good.

Anyway, here's the recipe. There isn't a picture because I didn't want my beloved camera getting sticky with (also beloved) apple turnover goo.

Apple Turnovers

• 2 tablespoons lemon juice
• 4 cups water
• 4 Granny Smith apples - peeled, cored and sliced
• 2 tablespoons butter
• 1 cup brown sugar
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1 tablespoon cornstarch
• 1 tablespoon water
• 1 (17.25 ounce) package frozen puff pastry sheets, thawed
• 
  
• 1 cup confectioners' sugar
• 1 tablespoon milk
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

DIRECTIONS

1. Combine the lemon and 4 cups water in a large bowl. Place the sliced apples in the water to keep them from browning.
2. Melt butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Drain water from apples, and place them into the hot skillet. Cook and stir for about 2 minutes. Add brown sugar, and cinnamon, and cook, stirring, for 2 more minutes. Stir together cornstarch and 1 tablespoon water. Pour into the skillet, and mix well. Cook for another minute, or until sauce has thickened. Remove from heat to cool slightly.
3. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F (200 degrees C).
4. Unfold puff pastry sheets, and repair any cracks by pressing them back together. Trim each sheet into a square. Then cut each larger square into 4 smaller squares. Spoon apples onto the center of each squares. Fold over from corner to corner into a triangle shape, and press edges together to seal. Place turnovers on a baking sheet, leaving about 1 inch between them.
5. Bake for 25 minutes in the preheated oven, until turnovers are puffed and lightly browned. Cool completely before glazing.
6. To make the glaze, mix together the confectioners' sugar, milk and vanilla in a small bowl. Adjust the thickness by adding more sugar or milk if necessary. Drizzle glaze over the cooled turnovers.

A Baby

When I was around Ruby's and May's age, I wanted to be three things when I grew up:

1. A bus driver. I guess I accomplished my goal, seeing as this was my vehicle in high school and considering the number of people that were stuffed into it at times.

2. A tap dancer. Are you laughing? You should be.

3. An artist. I've done enough now that I can say with confidence that yes, I am an artist. Now if I could just get my dang etsy shop off the ground, I could even further my standing.


While making apple turnovers today (post/recipe to come):

Me: Rubes, what do you want to be when you grow up?
Ruby: My teacher asked me that yesterday and I said a zookeeper but I want to change it to a teacher.
Me: Cool. You could actually be both if you wanted to. May, what do you want to be when you grow up?
May: Um, a baby.

I'm with May. I want to be a baby when I grow up.

Especially if I looked like this: Look at those rolls. And how it looks like she has rubber band around her wrist. I miss that. I'm very much looking forward to seeing if this next baby will be just as fat and delicious as my other two. I sure hope so.

Tooting

I did it.

Without a pattern.
For $0.00.
And it fits.
Now on to May's.

Growing Up Very UnHalloweeny Part Two

When I was like 11, I was a cheerleader...isn't it obvious? Because cheerleaders wear sweatshirts and turtlenecks...it's really no wonder I never went onto seeking after the real thing in high school. This is my Dad (who is a football player. Obviously.) and I at a Daddy-Daughter Halloween Party. Have I ever mentioned that my Dad is a king among men for many reasons, one of them being actually going to this thing with me cheerfully even though I knew he'd rather gargle a hand full of staples?
See those gold skorts I'm sporting? (Because cheerleaders wear skorts, duh.) They were only fastened and held together on one side by a single snap. A couple years prior to when this picture was taken, I wore these to school one day. During recess, we were playing Red Rover and having a grand time until I was "called right over." I started running and halfway across to the other side, I realized it was getting more and more difficult to run. I also realized that I was feeling a gentle breeze on bare thighs. I stopped in my tracks and looked down and found my gold skorts around my ankles. Needless to say, I never made it to the other side.

And then I was a gypsy for the next four or five years again.

One year in high school, though, I went crazy and was Waldo or Wanda or whatever her name is. The outfit was recycled from another school's dance I went to. Where'd I go? I can't find me.

And then in college, out of the clear blue sky, I started trying. My freshman year I was asked to be Baby Spice from the Spice Girls. Because I was cute and petite like Emma Whatsherface? No. Because I was the only one in the dorms that had long blonde hair. I would not categorize this as a proud moment.

The next year, I splurged on some wings and was a fairy. I don't know what Melissa and I are doing here but I might be granting her some wishes and she might be basking in my glory. Just a hunch. And those are my boyfriends Ossie and James in the background who always waited patiently for me to finish getting ready.

The following year: a recycled fairy. Thank you to my dear friends who neglected to tell me that night that I was wearing my wings upside down. I'll remember that next time I'm in town and we're at the Cheesecake Factory and there's spinach in your teeth.

The picture above was taken a couple of weeks after we started dating. I'm not sure Go had his costume on yet--he looked like this most of the time. Ah, yes. Here's his costume below. And let's all be keeping in mind that Brokeback Mountain came out like six years after this picture was taken...

Growing Up Very UnHalloweeny Part One

I grew up in a home with a mother who never liked anything about Halloween. Ask her and she’ll give you like 18 reasons. She made some attempts in my preschool years but now when I picture her at the sewing machine working on a costume, she is swearing like a sailor, which is odd because the most foul thing I've ever heard from her mouth is "Crap-ola." I hold no resentment for her hatred of Halloween. I side with her attitude and I think I got as much candy as any other kid who wore an elaborate costume. But really, because I was forced to come up with something on my own, my costumes were for the most part, super lame. I think the most creative I ever got was in fifth grade when I cut out holes for my head and arms in a black trash bag, squeezed into purple tights I had left over from a gymnastic recital three years prior and said I was a raisin. My brothers followed suit in this lackadaisical attitude toward the holiday, and wore their soccer uniforms out trick-or-treating almost every year. (Joe, why don't I have a soccer picture of you?)

So needless to say, actually taking the time to make my girls strawberry outfits is really stretching for me.

My First Halloween. I did not start out very strong:


Here are the few "golden years" when my Mom actually tried and to her credit, they're pretty cute.

Little Red Riding Hood.

A Fairy. See the look on my mom's face? Total disgruntlement. See that look on my face? That's my game face. I wanted to win for "Prettiest Costume"...and I did. See that lady standing next to me in a strawberry costume? (What a copy cat.) She should have worn some shorts.
A clown. Yikes.
This is where my Mom gave up completely. I am a "Pretty Lady", wearing make up and some things from our dress up box, which is an old night gown and a belt. And John in the unfortunate recycled clown costume.
After this, I believe my Mom stopped bothering even taking our pictures. There's a three year gap between when the above picture was taken and the below picture was taken, because this photo was actually shot on my 8th birthday for my Hawaiian Luau birthday party in July. And then I wore the mu mu again that Halloween and was "A Hawaiian Lady."
Then I was a gypsy for a couple of years after that. Put on a skirt, throw a bandanna on my head, and find some bracelets, I’m good.

Like a Boy Scout, Only More Pleasant Smelling

Miss Cheapy Pants told me that posting on blogs was good, free fun so I decided to post again today.

I made a couple of sketches of ideas of how I wanted to construct these strawberries. Allow me to insult your intelligence when I explain that the circled outfit is the one I'm going with and that the swatch of fabric in the corner is what I'm using for the costumes. I really do think you're smart. Can we still be friends?

The fabric is super heavy so we'll see how it turns out. I've got everything cut out and ready to go and will probably start sewing tomorrow. I'm interested to see if I can actually pull this off.

I am now several steps closer to being prepared for Halloween. Miss Cheapy Pants is so proud of me right now.

Strawberries

As I was trying to fall asleep last night, I found myself having a conversation with one of my alter-egos, Miss Cheapy Pants. Miss Cheapy Pants talks with her nose pinched between her thumb and her forefinger. Note I did not say that it SOUNDS like she talks with her nose pinched. She actually pinches her nose so that she sounds like that. She breathes less air that way and she's all about conservation, no matter what price she may have to pay (so to speak), asphyxia be darned.

Miss Cheapy Pants: So Annie, Halloween is coming up. Do you have the girl's costumes ready?
Annie: No, not at all.
MCP: Why ever not?
Annie: I've never planned, bought or made a costume more than a couple days ahead of Halloween in my life. It was just the way I was raised. But I don't want to get into that right now because I'm planning about blogging about it later on.
MCP: I understand completely. You're saving up. But my goodness! That's preposterous you're not more prepared!
Annie: Really?
MCP: You have no excuse! You should have been in the costume aisle at Target last year, picking through the leftover Little Mermaid and Hannah Montana costumes!
Annie: Nah. I'm not much for wigs and pleather pants.
MCP: But what about the $1 ladybug costumes?!!!
Annie: I don't know. I guess I just don't care that much what my kids are for Halloween. Like I said, it was the way I was raised.
MCP: Say no more. I want to wait for your post.
Annie: I appreciate that.
MCP: Well, do you have an inkling of what you're going to do?
Annie: Actually, I do. You'd be very proud of me. It's not going to cost me a cent.
MCP: I think I just peed my pants.
Annie: You should really get that checked out, Miss Cheapy Pants.
MCP: I know, but I don't want to pay the co-pay.
Annie: People are going to start calling you Miss Pee-Pee Pants.
MCP: But I'll be able to hold my head high knowing that I saved $15.
Annie: Suit yourself.
MCP: So what are you going to do?
Annie: Well, I have a huge bolt of red upholstery fabric that's been sitting around for the past 2 years.
MCP: You could definitely do something interesting with that.
Annie: I actually think I'm going to try to make strawberry costumes for the girls.
MCP: Strawberries! How delightful!
Annie: That's what I thought. But I'm going to just kind of wing it. I'm kind of nervous because I'm not using a pattern.
MCP: Because patterns cost money.
Annie: Yes. And I highly doubt there's a strawberry costume pattern out there.
MCP: I agree. Don't waste gas going to a fabric store and looking for one. Just construct one yourself. But be sure to measure twice and cut once.
Annie: I will, Miss Cheapy Pants. Good night.
MCP: Sleep well, Annie. If you need me, I'll be downstairs adding water to your milk cartons and juice containers.

The Lastest Photo Shoot

Do you want to know what makes me UN-cranky?
Looking at this baby.

Crankiness

In Go's family, if you are one of the eight sons, you fall into either one category or the other: You are either "cranky" or "cheesy". It was not me who came up with these labels but I would agree with the generalization. Though I wouldn't go around calling my husband and his brothers "cranky people" or "cheesy people" per say, but I would use them for easy blanket terms. Go falls into the "cranky" category. Like I said, I wouldn't describe him as cranky, just outspoken about what he thinks and how he feels in situations.

It is a known phenomenon within Go's family that the "cranky" brothers are superbly nicey-nicey in the middle of the night when woken up or getting tired. And the "cheesy" brothers turn very irritable at night when sleepy or woken up.

Here is an example of the nicey-niceyness of my "cranky-during-the-day" husband this morning at 4 am when he found me downstairs, awake and on the computer. Side note: I'd fall into an entirely different category, seeing as I'm not a blood-Reynolds, which is cranky-during-the-day and even-more-cranky-in-the-middle-of-the-night.

Go: Sweetie. What are you doing?
Annie: Baking a pie. What does it look like I'm doing?
Go: Why are you awake?
Annie: Because I just love being awake at 4 am. Go, I've been awake since 2.
Go: I know. You've been tossing and turning. What's wrong, babe?
Annie: I just can't get comfortable and my body hurts.
Go: I'm sorry. Here, let me get you some ibuprofen.
Annie: I can't. I'm pregnant, remember?
Go: I meant Tylenol.
Annie: I just took some. It hasn't kicked in yet.
Go: Come back to bed. I miss you.
Annie: I will when I feel like it.
Go: I just don't want you to be tired tomorrow.
Annie: And I cannot wait to be tired tomorrow. It's going to be awesome!
Go: Will you please just come back to bed, sweetie?
Annie: (growl) Fine.

If this conversation was to take place during the day with my "cranky" husband, it would have gone something like this:

Go: Hey, what are you doing?
Annie: What does it look like I'm doing?
Go: Why are you on the computer and not in bed trying to fall asleep?
Annie: I can't sleep.
Go: I know. You've totally been keeping me up. What's up with you?
Annie: I just can't get comfortable and my body hurts.
Go: Well, did you take some ibuprofen?
Annie: I can't. I'm pregnant, remember?
Go: I meant Tylenol.
Annie: I just took some. It hasn't kicked in yet.
Go: Come back to bed. You can't fall asleep at the computer.
Annie: I will when I feel like it.
Go: You're going to be cranky tomorrow.
Annie: No I won't.
Go: Hm. I disagree. Will you just come back to bed, please?
Annie: Fine.

And you know what? I was right. I'm cranky this morning and it IS awesome!

Just a Bad Joke

There's this mini backpack we have floating around our house. I don't know why we have it; it was certainly never worn by me. I was never, nor ever will be, a fan of the mini backpack. I believe in wearing a backpack that is bigger than my bottom, so that my backside may look smaller in comparison. It's like how you should never buy jeans with teeny tiny pockets. Its result is an optical illusion, tricking the eye into seeing a gigantic, gigantic bum. (It's wasn't the Haagen Daz, it's just my pockets!) I also employ this concept for handbags, sunglasses, bling, cowboy hats, wigs, tutus, head gear, fake moustaches, etc.

May likes to wear this little backpack around filled with all sorts of weird things. But when putting her down for her nap, I take it away so that she doesn't strangle herself in her bed with its straps. Because I'm a very responsible parent like that, that's why. Somehow, though, by evening time, the backpack has somehow made it's way into May's bed. Go, when home in time, is the one who usually puts her to bed and every night, he has to confiscate the backpack again. So last night, Go was putting May into bed and as usual, found the backpack.

Go: May. Why do we have to do this every night? Do not put your backpack in your bed. It's not safe.
May: Sah-wee, Daddy. (Sorry, Daddy.)
Go: Why do you keep putting it in your bed?
May: It's just a joke, Daddy. A bad joke.

Ten Things On My Mind Tonight, Mostly Griping But Not Entirely

1. I think Keanu Reeves is the worst actor in the whole wide world. In fact, I dare you to name an actor worse than this guy. Double-dog-ding-dong-doobie-dare you.




2. Michael Phelps is on SNL tonight. I'm not expecting greatness but I'm for sure watching it. I don't care what people (GO) say, SNL is still funny and I support it. And it's not as dirty as people who haven't watched it in a long time think it is; they've cleaned it up. Or maybe I'm completely desensitized. That's entirely possible as well.

3. Tonight I made Lentil Soup. My house smells of lentils and lentils don't smell good at all. The soup wasn't delicious or tasty but my girls surprisingly liked it, so it wasn't a total bust. Getting May to eat anything besides pancakes or fishy crackers is akin to parting the Red Sea, so though my home is now fumigated with the stench of lentils, I'm ok with it.

4. Today it was in the 70's. Tomorrow it's supposed to be in the 90's. Then Monday back to the 70's. What?

5. My life was feeling mundane, so I made a bunch of new pillows for our front room, just to mix things up a bit. I'm very into mixing patterns right now, giving my already eclectic front room an even more eclectic feel, which makes me happy but tends to confuse first timers who walk into our home. I can see it in their eyes, like "Hey, wait a second. You guys are supposed to be LDS...where's the fake ficus tree? Where's the gingham? Why is there no navy blue in here? This doesn't feel right. Where am I?"

6. My etsy shop will be open soon. I'm excited!

7. Tuesday I get to take pictures of a newborn baby. Close your eyes and inhale. Smell that? It's heaven.

8. I'm starting to show, which means maternity pants are right around the corner. Oh, joy! This brings nothing but ecstasy to my husband. He is a HUGE fan of elastic waisted pants. Ok. Anyone who knows my fashion-minded husband at all knows that I am being 100% completely and utterly sarcastic. I love this about him--it was actually the first impression he made on me two years prior to actually meeting him, when I was just creepily watching and observing him from afar. The guy has style. By now, he's learned not to say anything about the wretched elastic, as it's about the only option out there. I just see him looking at it though and I can always tell the presence of it slung about my bulging waistline burns his retinas. I'd even venture to say he's more excited than I am when I get back into my pre-baby jeans. Not because I'm that much closer to not being a fatty, but because it's the end of an elastic-filled era.

9. Sadly, my neighbor told me today that she and her husband are going through a separation. I've been told similar news like this before but never by the actual person who is separating from their spouse. It was one of those situations where you don't know what to say, especially on the spot, but it really doesn't matter as nothing you can say will change or help the situation, as much as you wish it could, but you've still have to say something so you do; you just can't say nothing. And whatever you say, it always comes out lame and for the next day or two, you're mulling it over in your mind about what you could have said or should have said even though it really didn't matter in the first place. Lameness in that situation is inevitable.

10. I dream about Swedish Fish--the big red soft ones. I wish I could swim in a pool of them. And then eat that pool.

Bahbwah Wahltaws

Lately while falling asleep, I imagine what it would be like to be interviewed by Barbara Walters.
Because also while I'm falling asleep, I like to think of myself as famous for something. Her face also scares me a little, and who wants to dream about puppy dogs and rainbows? A nightmare or two never hurt anyone. If she were to interview me tonight, I think it would go something like this:

Babs: So, Annie, may I call you Annie? I hear you're famous for something.
Me: (Blushing. Well, not exactly blushing, per say. I pinched my cheeks right before the cameras started rolling, knowing that BW's style is to lay the flattery on nice and thick right from the beginning.) Of course. And yes, I'm very famous. That's what I've been told, anyway.
Babs: So you want share with me what you're famous for?
Me: Um...I don't really know. You tell me.
Babs: Well, let's see if we can't figure this one out. Did you write, extremely poorly I might add, some lame books about a one-dimensional vampire and zero-dimensional quasi-heroine? And use the same four words over and over to describe each character? And then in the credits of your books, constantly thank the band "Muse" for inspiring you? Like you actually listen to Muse?
Me: No. I didn't. But sometimes I wish I had. Because then I wouldn't have eaten tuna out of a can for dinner tonight.
Babs: Gross. Ok. What else could you be famous for?
Me: Uh. Let's not focus on the "Why", Babs, and move on. I've got to get to sleep tonight.
Babs: No, really. It's my job to get to the bottom of this. We've got to start somewhere. What do you do, Annie?
Me: I'm a stay-at-home-mom.
Babs: Oh. Well, beats me, then. Let's move on to something else. How about you tell me your deepest, darkest secret and then start crying? That's always fun.
Me: Sounds good, Barb. Well...only a handful of people know this. (Deep inhale. Deep exhale.) I'm pregnant again. I'm in my second trimester now, the most glorious of all trimesters.
Babs: I wouldn't know. I've never had children.
Me: Because you are frigid, frigid woman?
Babs: What? Have you seen me on the View? I talk about sex all the time! Which means I must be having sex all the time! Me! Barbara Walters! The sexiest woman alive! Did you not see the cover of AARP magazine last month?
Me: I don't watch the View. Nor do I read AARP magazine.
Babs: You don't watch the View? I thought you said you stayed at home with your kids!
Me: I do, but I have a life. And apparently, I've been out doing something that has made me famous.
Babs: But you're pregnant. You should be lounging on the couch with a carton of Ben & Jerry's watching me talk about sex.
Me: That wouldn't exactly help curb the morning sickness, Barbara.
Babs: Right. Let's move on. We've got to get you crying.
Me: Let's do it. I'm pregnant, right? This should be easy.
Babs: So Annie. Your third child, right?
Me: Right.
Babs: And when is the blessed event scheduled?
Me: Scheduled? Like when is the kid scheduled to arrive? This is a baby, not an airplane. You've never had any children, have you?
Babs: No...it would have been imposssible.
Me: Oh, I'm so sorry.
Babs: (Blurts) I lied! I'm a virgin. (Starts to sob) I've never been touched by a man. And I'm 200 years old!
Me: There, there. It's not that you're unattractive. I'm pretty sure under that stretched, gauzy face of yours and those layers of makeup, not to mention that weird speech impediment, there's a living, breathing, beautiful soul, that many, geriatric men would want to get to know and...uh...I don't know...uh...
Babs: Like John McCain?
Me: Exactly! But I'm pretty sure he's married.
Babs: Right, I knew that. That tramp.
Me: Hey, wasn't this interview supposed to be about me?
Babs: Ah, yes. My apologies. (Blows her nose on crumbled hankie she retrieves from her magenta colored pant suit.) All right, let's get back to it, shall we? I still haven't made you cry.
Me: But I made you cry, so doesn't that count?
Babs: Heck, why not?
Me: Good. I really didn't want to cry on national television anyway.
Babs: I don't blame you. Is my mascara running?
Me: No. You look like a perfectly made up corpse.
Babs: Thank you. All right. Where were we?
Me: Due date.
Babs: Yes. When's your due date?
Me: March 19th.
Babs: And are you going to have some reminder for those who read your blog? Perhaps a floating fetus in the sidebar, with a countdown of how many more days the baby has left bumping around in your womb?
Me: Nah.
Babs: Why ever not? Those things are so handy!
Me: I know, they really are. But "Seriouslysoblessed" has one and I just can't do it.
Babs: Ah. I see.
Me: I think we're due around the same time, too. Well, I'm really due. She's fake-due.
Babs: That chick is getting rich.
Me: And fast. And she's not even really pregnant.
Babs: And she's famous. For reals, yo.
Me: Word, B-Dub.
Babs: Hey, speaking of famous people, why are you famous again? Why am I even here? (Looking around, confused.)
Me: Barbara, Barbara. Let's calm down now. It's just your dementia kicking in again. I'm really famous for something. You're here to talk to me about...ok, fine. I'm not famous, really. I just needed to make you cry before I fell asleep tonight because I get mean when I'm pregnant. It's the only way I can have good dreams, if I make someone cry before I fall asleep every night.
Babs: That's awful. Well, mission accomplished. Sweet dreams, you fat cow.
Me: Not quite yet, but I'll get there soon enough, don't you worry your wrinkled, smelly head. Sweet dreams, Barb. May you dream of old men.

Taken back in July:

The Marimba

My phone's ring tone is nothing fancy. I have never downloaded one, but if I did it would definitely be "The Thong Song" by Cisco. I kid, I kid. For me, downloading a ring tone seems like getting a tattoo almost, like every time your phone rings, you're proclaiming to the world "This is who I am" just as a tattoo proclaims who you are, like "I'm eco-friendly because I have this dolphin frolicking across my lower back," or "Don't get too close. I have a very sharp barbed wire on my bicep here," or "I must be bilingual from the looks of these Chinese characters on my calf." Just by what song is playing on your phone every time it rings, you could be telling people that you like big butts and you cannot lie. Or maybe you're a cowboy, on a steel horse you ride. Whatever comes out of that pitiful little speaker, it says something major about you to whomever you're with. And I'm just not sure what that would be for me, as quickly as my mood seems to change, just as I would never be able to decide what I'd want to tattoo on my left bottom cheek. So instead of something novel and self-defining, I have one of the iPhone's standards. It's called "Marimba", a jaunty ditty named after the instrument that it is played by--a glorified xylophone played with two hammer thingees in each hand. I like it; it isn't that annoying and pretty non-descript. But every time I hear the joyful little sound, I am reminding of a weird little time in my life and am washed with a wave a guilt. Won't you join me down this frightful path known to me as "Memory Lane?"

I'm 19, a sophomore at BYU, working at the Games Center, which for you non-Zoobies, is the bowling alley and arcade located in the pulsating righteous heart of the BYU.
There's just nothing like the stench of sweaty bowling shoes not-really-being-masked by lemon-scented spray in the morning to fill your lungs and soul with pride, knowing that once you spray that toxic substance into that dripping size 14 shoe that has been worn by an elephant of a man for the past 2 hours, you are getting paid approximately $4 an hour for doing this disgusting but necessary work, all in the name of progress and enabling you to afford the holy grail of all college food: ramen noodles.

As much as I loathed working there and loathed the bright blue polo shirt I was required to wear even more, I did meet some interesting people. One of them was a co-worker, a boy who was a year younger than I, a freshman, who I flirted with because I always preferred to flirt with boys I had no intention of dating, as opposed to flirting with boys I actually liked because I was a socially-retarded chicken like that. During our hours spent behind the Games Center counter, devouring Tootsie Rolls and hot-wiring the juke box to play what we wanted (The Thong Song?) we learned a lot about each other. One of these deep, dark secrets I unearthed about this kid was that he was a champion marimba player.
At the end of our time together, right before I quit that wretched place and moved onto to less stinky pastures and just a week before he left to serve his two-year mission, he and I made a bet, which was by the time he got back from his mission, I would be married. I, of course, bet against him, saying I would be wandering the halls of BYU for years, an old maid with menopausal wiry grey hairs coming out of my chin before I would get hitched. We bet $50 that if he ever saw me on campus after he got back, he had the right to grab my left hand and look for a ring. If I was wearing one, I would have to pay him $50 on the spot. If I wasn't, he would have to pay me $50 right then and there. We wrote up a contract. We shook on it. We might have even spit and shook on it. I could almost feel that $50 that would be in my pocket in two years, just thinking of all those ramen noodles I'd be able to afford.

So fast forward a year later, I am engaged. A year and a half later, I am married. And it was worth losing $50. I guess. Except for the fact that I never saw the kid again, so I actually didn't lose $50. I totally owe him $50. I would had never guessed that the marimba would induce so much guilt. I would just change my ring tone but I don't like any of the others. Perhaps I should just down load one, come out of my pink, prissy closet and let everyone know that I'm a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world.

Flowey Mango Reynolds

Lately, May's been carrying around a stuffed alligator swaddled in a blanket.

Go: What's your alligator's name, May-May?
May: It's my baby.
Go: What's your baby's name?
May: Flowey.
Go: Flowey. And what's her middle name?
May: Mango.

Two Things That Are Still Making Me Laugh

1. This promo for the VMA's featuring this year's host, Russell Brand:

"I agreed to host the MTV VMA awards as a stepping-stone from which I could launch a global revolution in which we will recognize that the material world is an illusion; ideas such as finance, borders and control are all meaningless and only exist if we allow them to. That within ourselves is the divine light of God, that we are connected to all time and all people, through breath and divinity. But coming up first, Justin Timberlake!"


2. These pictures:
I was needing a diversion and decided to take horribly ugly pictures of myself on Photo Booth. Yes, I realize that this is was a very big waste of time, that I should have been doing something worthwhile like passing out homemade bread to the homeless or dusting our ceiling fans but I was all alone and stressed out and needed a good laugh. Newsflash: taking really bad pictures of yourself can be really, really funny. (And yes, I realize that these pictures are only really funny to myself.)

*If either of my brothers are reading this, they are rolling their eyes because they have seen me make all of these faces every night at dinner while we were growing up. Hey, you would have done it too if your assigned place faced a mirror. You might have even pulled the apron up over your head, right at your hair line and pretended your were a nun, too.

Hey, Did I Mention My Husband is Very, Very, Hot?

Lately, when I do my art work and sewing when the girls are sleeping, I watch CSI reruns. This was never a show I was into until this past summer. Unlike the other TV characters that get into my head when I sleep (Gilmore Girls) and random celebrities that somehow creep their way inside my subconscious, the actors on CSI haven't shown up in my dreams...until last night.

Confession: I dreamed I kissed CSI character Greg Saunders in a high school bathroom stall.

Yes, it was as icky as one could imagine a high school bathroom stall to be. I'm going to go ahead and say that in my dream, I was still in high school, just to help eliminate any guilt I might have regarding about kissing a man in my dreams other than my hot, hot husband who is really hot and is a way better kisser than Greg Saunders, who is not hot because my husband is so hot in comparison. I don't love Greg Saunders but I do love my hot husband and I never want to kiss anyone else but my hot husband because he's so hot.

Also to help eliminate any smidgen of guilt I have left over after writing that last paragraph, I have to honestly say that I don't find this guy particularly attractive. He's not my type and something about his ears creep me out, not to mention I get a very strong homosexual vibe from him even though on the show he's supposedly uber-hetero. Anyway, I like hot blonde guys with beards, glasses and turquoise scrubs. And who wear hot surgical Dansko clogs.

So today while May napped I turned on CSI, sat down with my sketch pad and inevitably on the screen popped last night's fake-make-out buddy. I got a lot of work done today because I was having a hard time making eye contact with ole' Greg-o. I think it was very awkward for the both of us.

Well, One Should Hope Not

Me: Do you like the bag I made last night?
Go: Yah.
Me: That wasn't very enthusiastic.
Go: I don't know, I guess I'm just not into homemade bags as much as you are.

Vote!

I'm not talking Obama or McCain, I'm talking about something much more appetizing:

cupcakes.

Remember my friend Mandy who made me those awesome cupcakes for my birthday? She has entered the Iron Cupcake competition where chefs and bakers all around the globe have entered their recipes; the secret ingredient being chili peppers. I was lucky enough to photograph her creations, Chili Cacao Mayan Cupcakes.

Here is the recipe from her recipe blog, Gourmet Mom-on-the-go. Trust me, she should win. I got to take a box home after I took pictures of these little beauties and they were divine.

To help a her out, go here to vote. Click the bubble next to "Gourmet Mom-on-the-Go" on the left-hand sidebar, then scroll down and click "Vote". Voting is open until Thursday. Long live spicy chocolate!