My sweet baby girl,
I love you more every day.
Always stay the same.

Baby Gigantor,
I’m really tired of peeing.
Move off my bladder.

Ms. Lady Lawyer,
You’re appointed to my daughter.
So HELP already!

My dear husband,
Five bicycles is too much
For any household.

Dear knitting project,
I wish you could knit yourself
My elbow is tired.

To my beagle girls,
Stop barking at 2 a.m.
Or prepare to starve.

Dear Memphis traffic,
Turn signals will not kill you,
Texting will. Stop it.

Co-workers of mine,
No more candy temptation!
Damned diabetes.

I bought $50 iPhone headphones.
I felt justified because my husband has the same exact pair, but now I have buyers remorse because they’re $50 HEADPHONES.
They go in my EARS, they don’t cure cancer!
And the little devil on my shoulder is waxing on about how I could have just bought the new iPhone (that my husband is going to buy me for our anniversary… the 1st is the iPhone anniversary) that comes with free headphones and saved myself -$200, but NOOOO.

And the headphones came about because I needed a car charger for my phone and something about the car charger made me need to spend money on my phone.
Because iPhones are such a gimmicky bit to own that they require their own blankets, pillows, food and shelter… all found at your handy dandy Best Buy in a handy dandy section that they line with quicksand.

But late last night, when I tucked in Mac Jr. into his pretty little blanket-lined nightstand drawer and turned out the light, I swear, though I didn’t have my glasses on to be sure, but I swear his little screen lit up with the words “Thank you, Mom.”

Maybe those headphones weren’t such a bad buy after all.

“hell, if i worked in a place that was a sweat shop, I would quit.”

::Bangs forehead into desk::

How liberating it must be to have the world at your feet – and the chance to take or leave any job you come across.

A bit more from the comment – not telling you where it came from, so don’t ask.  The poor girl will grow up on her own with her own opinions and without me telling her she’s a child…

“ I could care less if forever 21 went under I could shop other places, but if their workers want to complain they can go find a better job somewhere else, and if they can’t, it’s no one’s fault but themselves… I Feel like if this is a true sweat shop, it wouldn’t even be allowed to be established in America…”

The entire post simply left me slack-jawed.

ETA:
She continued writing more comments later on:
“They don’t have to just settle for a sweat shop; there are plenty of other things. Maybe they are just good at sewing really fast and they enjoy it? you never know.”

WTF, mate?
The whole thing HAS to be a joke, right?

Mom helped me feel better about it though… by grabbing my newly growing baby belly and moving it all around to see how the fat makes it dance. Over and over again.
Yep. That definitely helped my self confidence levels.

Worries more so than anything – I’m a paranoid person by nature, worrying about everyone I love and wishing that I had the power to protect the ones I love from anything that could go wrong in their lives.
I can’t.
But I worry about myself too.

And when I started getting sick this week I discovered a new paranoia and a new part of being married.
The Baby Phenomena.

Logic would tell folks that with my husband and I being separated the majority of the time that getting pregnant is somewhat low on the probabilities list.
However, when you’re a newlywed, apparently probabilities don’t matter that much as Every Single Person close to me has asked me ‘Are you PREGNANT?’ when I’ve mentioned my nausea.
Including my husband.

What?  He’s been there every single time I thought of… eating Jello. 
So, surely he knows… just how much Jello I’ve had and the odds of that… Jello making me sick.
Right?

But, apparently, if you’re a newlywed, a female and sick – that is The Most Logical Cause.

I’ve been home a week from Minneapolis and the paranoia had begun.

A visit to the grocery yielded chicken soup, applesauce and pepperoni.
The smell of frying potatoes almost sent me outside to hide.

But, this morning I woke up feeling very differently, a little silly, and completely glad that I know this about myself and don’t have to worry for the next two weeks.

You know.
As long as someone else doesn’t mention it again.

Not that I don’t like my new last name.
I do.
I just like it better after Nick’s first name.  It’s familiar and comforting that way.
Much less so after my name, which is why I’ve chosen to go by my full name instead of abbreviating.  A mixture of comfort and familiarity combined with new exciting future.
After all, 30 years of one name doesn’t make the jump any easier… especially for one as stubborn as me.

Mostly it’s fine and dandy.

Sometimes…  it’s just a litany of repeated spellings and pronunciations.
Today though – a bit of humor to go along with the incorrectness of it all.

A client called in to the 1-800 number at work requesting to speak to me… only.  Not me.
Instead of “Alisha Labello” this client requested “Lisa Libido.”

Luckily the operator didn’t put two and two together until a moment or so after the frustrated client hung up – or one might have had to cue the 70s disco music.

“Truth in Advertising

I’ve seen a lot of ads and articles lately for tips on getting in shape prior to one’s wedding day. And I guess I just think that’s a really awful idea.  When you stand up there and make your vows, you’re vowing to accept and love the other person as they are.  So the last thing you want to do is lose weight or get plastic surgery or something. Rather, you want to look the way that you’re likely be during the marriage itself, because that’s only fair.

If I were to get married, I would get all method actor about it. I’d gain fifty pounds, lose my job, and drag my James Bond DVD collection around with me in a backpack.  I’d greet my fiancee at the altar: ‘Hey babe, this is gonna be fun!  And after we’re done with this vow thing, do you think you can loan me a hundred bucks? I need to finish paying the caterer.’”

Link, to CMA.

I am unable to buy a cheap Transformers figurine.

My daughter is a huge fan of the new movies and while I am… less than… I have definitely enjoyed the action sequences they have provided.
One of her requests this year is a version of Bumblebee.
Shouldn’t be a problem, right?
Everyone loves the movies and Bumblebee.

Except that it is.

An ex of mine was toy crazy.
And I mean.  CRAZY.
Hundreds of metal collectibles – all taking me back to various points in my life and bringing me to a new appreciation level of the delights of collectible-quality Transformers…
Which aren’t cheap.
And tend to be Japanese.
And because the movie version isn’t the Real Version, aren’t easy to find.

The alternative?
To buy the Hasbro version.
To go to Target.
To spend $10 and call myself DONE with that particular chore.

But I can’t.
I can’t.
Have you seen the faces of those toys?
Cheap.  Plastic.  Icky. 
My disdain for them keeps me from fulfilling this small wish.
It provokes a physical reaction in me.
I like to buy quality – I only like to buy an item once.
Not 1232 of the same cheap item.
So.

…

So, I suppose Bumblebee will NOT be under the tree this year – other things will and she’ll live through this disappointment.

And I?
Well.  Along with a hatred of Ohio State, have found another legacy of a previous relationship.
An eye for expensive toys.