Smiles

Patrick called today and told me two things about new Annabelle.

1)She's an "advanced" pooper. Apparently she has gone #2 more than the average day-old infant. I see a Ph.D. in our future. Keep it up, Girlfriend.

2)Patty thinks that his new baby girl looks like ME :) :) :)

I'M AN AUNT!!!

Welcome to the world, Annabelle!!! And welcome to your crazy family!!!

Love it

Last week my coworker Matt was describing his wife to me. He was explaining her need/desire for organization, straight lines, cleanliness, etc. "She's CDO," he said.

"What's that?" I asked.

"OCD. It's alphabetical."

Imagication

Yesterday I made Spanish rice. Today I went to a Thai restaurant with Mom and ordered a pineapple rice dish.

I bet you're thinking I'm going to write about my overdose of rice. Wrong!

Now. I don't have a lot of money to travel. Let's be honest, I only have enough money to travel as far as the door of my future apartment, then drop my bags and remain there for two years while I finish my degree. Then, after approximately 12 years of paying off student loans, we'll see about maybe landing an awesome job that gives me enough pay for those things people speak of called "vacations." In the meantime I fantasize about traveling/get jealous of those who can travel and find excuses so as not to have to listen to the fine details of their traveling experiences.

I also eat foreign food as a coping mechanism. When I'm really getting pangs for Southern Africa, for instance, I eat rusks and drink rooibos tea with milk. Southern Africa is the only place where I've really traveled, so when I eat Chinese or Ethiopian or Mediterranian food, I just mope about not having been to those places (yet, hopefully).

So I'm thinking. If I mixed yesterday's Spanish rice with today's Thai rice, could I eat it and, finding a geographic midpoint as I do so, pretend that I'm in Iraq? Kind of a three-for-one special?

Toys 'R Us "Kid"

First of all, in regard to yesterday's post: not a hoax, people. Those pictures are not of me. I've been receiving a lot of skepticism, but I promise. Not me.

Okay, now on with today's business. Tonight I was hanging out with my favorite three year old, Lucy. Lucy wanted to give baby Sam a gift, in the form of a glittery, 3-D chicken sticker. I.e., an awesome sticker. She placed the sticker on the bottom of Sam's foot, adhering it to his footy pajamas. I told her to be careful, because the baby could put the sticker in his mouth

(because I am a paranoid freak. It's not that I view others as incompetent parents, it is 99% of the time that I am a paranoid freak. Please always remember this when I point out to you that the jagged edge of your bit-into ice cream cone is centimeters away from gouging the inside of your mouth. Please remember it is me, not you, before you lash out in anger at my comments that seemingly insult and discredit your abilities in adulthood).

Lucy obediently peeled the sticker from Sam's foot and regifted it to me.

Perhaps this was all an action on my part because of my subconscious desire to be the owner of the awesome, 3-D, glittery chicken sticker. I wouldn't throw out this theory.

Lucy placed the sticker on my cardigan a couple of times, and after it kept falling off I suggested she stick it on my face--perhaps it would "stay stuck" better. Again, dutifully, following Aunt Bailey's directions, Mr. Chicken migrated to my cheek.

Lucy stepped back to admire her handiwork and, hands on hips, declared, "Stickers are for grown ups."

Not "Stickers are for grown ups too," just "for grown ups." Period. You speak the truth, Baby Girl. You speak the truth. Keep it up. (But I'll happily share my stickers with you.)