Angela, who posted in my comments yesterday and pointed out the idea of actually CALLING the school to see how formal the Homecoming dance will be before going out to buy a dress. Call and actually ask how formal the dance is going to be. What a radical idea! And yet somehow it simply never ever occurred to me. Duhhh. I made Fred call, of course, due to that whole phone phobia thing. It’s not formal. The guys will be wearing khakis and button-down shirts. Whew! I’m still going to take the spud shopping for a skirt and maybe a shirt, but the pressure is OFF. I never know what will set y’all off. I got a lot of comments about the horribleness of that dress that I linked. Hmph to you! What I’m thinking is that if the spud goes to her prom, I’ll need to have a PromGownCon and y’all will have to come to Alabama and help with the shopping and preparations. Deal? (I’m glad I didn’t link the dress SHE really liked…)

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A Robyn And3rson wrote a letter to the editor (fourth one down) over on Salon.com. People have been emailing me about it – who knew so many of y’all read the letters to the editor at Salon.com? – so just to let you know, no. I didn’t write it, but I wish I had! Just goes to show that we Robyn And3rsons agree about most things. Except for buying guns for high school students, that is.
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Smokers, Fred and I were having a disagreement last night about how much cigarettes cost. I thought they might be up to $5 a pack, and he said they were only about $3.50. How much are y’all paying these days?
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I did a little experiment. Once it was apparent to me that Stanley was a beanie-bean (because clearly, he is. He is SUCH a beanie-bean!), I wanted to see how long it would take Fred to pick up the nickname. It took two days from the first time I called Stanley “Beanie-bean” in front of Fred before Fred started doing it too. He’s such a copycat. Of course, you can hardly blame him. Stanley’s a total bean.
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Almost sixteen years ago, my brother Tracy came home to visit with his 6 week-old son. I’d never had much to do with babies and always said I never wanted any of my own, but after spending time holding and playing with (and taking a million pictures of) Christopher, I fell in love.
“Please god don’t let me break the baby…”
Baby power!
(Chris at about 4 months)
Fifteen years ago today, this is what I looked like:
I didn’t show until I hit my 7th month, and one day I woke up and my stomach was poking out three feet in front of me. When this picture was taken, I was one day away from the doctor appointment where the nurse practioner would do an ultrasound, estimate the baby’s weight at 10 pounds 4 ounces, and get the doctor on the horn. The doctor told me that since the baby was the size of a small moose (“The nurse saw antlers!” he said) it would be prudent to go ahead and schedule a c-section. I’d actually suspected all along that I’d never actually use all that stuff I learned in Lamaze class. Fifteen years ago on Sunday, I was coming out from under the anesthesia, and when I could stay conscious for more than five minutes, the spud’s father went and got her from the nursery and brought her to me. Everyone else was talking about how big she was, but to me, even at 10 pounds 2 ounces, she was tiny.
My immediate thought when I first held her was a panicked “What the hell have I done? I’m not ready for this! I can’t have a BABY.” I was almost 21.
I think she’s turned out pretty well so far.
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When I was looking for the above pictures, I found this:
How could I have thought this was a good look, ever?
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“Iiiiiii’m too sexy for my dad, so sexy for my fur, so sexy it hurrrrrts…”