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: