tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-165129992024-03-07T22:03:16.912-05:00mamapantsAnniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.comBlogger185125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-9704867661258205472010-02-06T20:56:00.003-05:002010-02-06T20:59:21.669-05:00Gone, but not forgottenSoo... I moved to Wordpress, because it's honestly pretty cool. Not that we didn't have some good times, Blogger, but... yeah. You know.<div><br /></div><div>Anyway, find me and my updated - I swear! - blog here: ohannie.wordpress.com. (The "Oh Annie" bit is from my friend Jasmine, whose response to pretty much every half-baked scheme I come up with is "Oh, ANNIE. NO." But using all caps in a link is just silly. As is NO!</div>Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-36003557981988834102009-01-03T21:32:00.004-05:002009-01-03T21:36:38.951-05:002008: The year of learning new thingsWhile getting ready to take a bath, New Year's Eve.<br /><br />Norah: I have to go potty. I want to stand up.<br />Me: Um, I don't think that's going to work. Please don't try.<br />Norah: Daddy stands up.<br />Me: Yes, well, Daddy's body is different from yours, and daddies and boys can stand up when they pee.<br />Norah: Yeah. [thoughtful pause] Daddy's got all hanging-down things.<br />Me: [mental note to tell Rob to put on pants before leaving shower] Yes.<br />Norah: I don't have hanging-down things.<br />Me: No. You have girl parts, and they're all inside your body.<br />Norah: Yes. In my VIRGINIA.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-38752080816704295922008-11-16T21:19:00.005-05:002008-11-16T21:44:22.305-05:00HonestyI was all pumped about <a href="http://www.nablopomo.com/">NaBloPoMo</a>, because I was all, "Yeah! I can definitely post every day! Every day IN A ROW! I got this!" And then I realized I was totally kidding myself, because I can't update regularly when it's not an assignment - and given my track record in college (not a WORD, Jefferson) I am not likely to finish assignments. So I'm skipping out, but you're not missing much.<br /><br />I've been suddenly, overwhelmingly, outrageously busy with family portraits, this being the season for that sort of thing. I blame the entire thing on my new BFFFF Kim, who talked me up on the Triangle Mommies bulletin boards. I keep meaning to use TM for social opportunities - they have mothers' nights out, and playgroups, and random events for mommies who just want to leave the house without wearing spitup or play dough in their hair, for pete's sake - but I've just been swamped. Who am I kidding, though, I love it. I love being swamped, because it means I'm doing something right... and then I get to have the grand visions and fantasies about my future studio, which will look suspiciously like <a href="http://mamacat.typepad.com/">Jessica's</a> new loft, but with more pictures of Astrid the Wonder Mutt and her sisters.<br /><br />Speaking of, here's the latest shot of the sisters - they're both looking in the right direction, can you believe it?<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269449272305359746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr3-AwQWryiFW9Dlu00XNnbsEqrD2n60LGV-4boRKPhIRPU7s42tyczUUtVm1RjAtrp951TvLVuyFppK-nFuL9I4GMs5RRS5HoNOy-if9TB-qW4JZn5Npx1ov0pLW5k3-eZsLm/s320/IMG_4766-Edit.jpg" border="0" /><br />Don't be surprised if you see this on your Christmas cards, friends, because it's highly unlikely that they'll ever look in the same direction again. I think it only worked because I was singing "Itsy Bitsy Spider" at the top of my lungs, shaking my butt in the middle of our street. The neighbors already know I'm nuts, so it was okay.<br /><br />I'm off to bed, at the ripe old hour of 9:30. Mostly I'm just cold, and I hate this whole daylight savings junk - it feels like it must be midnight or something. Why do we still do this? Indiana changed their minds about opting out of the whole program - if they can magically change time, why can't we all magically unchange it? Stupid DARK.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-52904818611394326922008-11-03T19:06:00.004-05:002008-11-05T05:48:01.336-05:001-800-REALLY, GOP?** I wrote most of this two days ago, but it seems I've developed strep throat and had to go lie down in the middle of it. As it turns out, Kay Hagan won, and I couldn't be happier - regardless of the issues, regardless of the fact that she's a Democrat, it just goes to show you that <a href="http://religionblog.dallasnews.com/archives/2008/10/how-low-can-you-go-sen-elizabe.html">utter nastiness</a> is never rewarded. Plus now Elizabeth Dole's roboto friends will stop calling me! Yay!<br /><br />Confession: I live with a Republican, and I can't seem to make myself stop it. The GOP has brainwashed my otherwise sensible, lovable, funny spouse, and left me with this guy who's all "Rah John McCain! RAH, I say!" (They have also stolen my BFF, with whom, we have agreed, I shall never talk politics at the risk of short-sheeting her bed next time we're staying in the same house. FOR REAL.)<br /><br />Can we just get one thing out of the way before I start the daily bitchery, too? Yes, I am quite enamored of That One. Yes, I believe in sharing wealth and helping others and all that other bleeding-heart stuff that my spousal unit (and you, friend, YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE) doesn't really get behind. As we have previously discussed, this blog is not a place for political debate, because I don't have time and I don't like confrontation. Moving on.<br /><br />Cohabiting with Rob isn't really what's got me hacked about the election tomorrow, though. Honestly, the presidential race in general doesn't really have me as jazzed as it probably ought to - I'm going to do my part and I strongly encourage everyone reading this to do the same, but that's really all I can say at this point. What is KILLING me is the battle between this <a href="http://www.elizabethdole.org/">old hag</a> and this other <a href="http://www.kayhagan.com/home">candidate</a> who I know nothing about. I swear, Elizabeth Dole's robocaller left NINE messages here today, at at least four every day for the past week. Someone from the GOP just called and asked for me, and then verbally abused me when I said I was a Democrat. Seriously, she told me I was uneducated about the "things" at stake, and after asking me if I had kids, said that I needed to "get some focus on the real issues." I thanked her politely and firmly, said that I intended to vote tomorrow, and hung up. I have never hung up on a stranger in my life, so this just shows you how tightly my panties are twisted.<br /><br />I don't care if Kay Hagan stabs puppies live on the internet - at this point, she gets my vote and a few extra, if I can convince the homeless guys on highway 15-501 to come with me.<br /><br />** And now we're back to today, the day after election day, at 5:00 AM. I can't seem to sleep anymore, either because my fever is too high (103.1? really? Because I thought that was a radio station, not an actual temperature that a reasonably healthy adult could have) or because I've been in bed for about 18 hours. So I'm awake, seeing what everyone on TV has to say about the biggest news of the year. Fox News is, unsurprisingly, crying in their coffee; the local station is too focused on Bev Perdue and Kay Hagan to really talk about That One and how Yes, He Did win. All I have to say is, surely some things will improve. Surely life can't get any scarier. And surely I need to lie down again. This strep thing is SO not conducive to rubbing this one in Rob's face.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-27678772067933083752008-11-01T21:41:00.005-05:002008-11-01T22:14:44.347-05:00Halloween hangoverYay, Kristen's first Halloween (and Norah's first in which she actually participated)! Oh, we had fun. We have ten thousand Tootsie Rolls and Norah's got pneumonia from trick-or-treating in the cold, and I have a blister from walking house to house in incredibly cheap Old Navy shoes, but we DID have fun.<br /><br />Norah was Fancy Nancy for Halloween, for a couple of reasons - one, because we already had the dress and I suckered her into using it for both everyday and The Big Dressup. Have you not met <a href="http://www.harpercollinschildrens.com/harperchildrens/kids/gamesandcontests/features/fancynancy/default.aspx">Fancy Nancy</a>? She's pretty precious, actually, despite my earlier refusal of all things pink and plastic. The books are cute - Nancy uses big words and explains what they mean, and declares that "everything sounds fancier in French." Which, of course, it does. And who needs other excuses to wear every accessory in the house?<br /><br />So here's how it came out (apologies for the crapola photo):<br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263886611513115810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 134px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdVfi0NbFI2W2GRxR3RaPTNSOhUD57HPb2RBbtxtn_9fA73YaAqFisz6uKVlchx6eBpWisk0tJLuODdvx_5hYkYcAyIl6JUA6tyBRdIN3sLHzGFCLqFc41aM_s4VVKBChNzJkO/s200/hall-002.jpg" border="0" /></p><p>This is at her school, where we had a Halloween Breakfast, featuring eight tons of pumpkin baked goods, several quiches (it IS French school, after all), and a full box of coffee for every grownup present. Look closely and you can see Kristen's carrier - she wore her bear bunting, but since she spent the morning in the Bjorn on my chest (as usual), I couldn't get a good picture. Somehow she didn't seem to mind.</p><p>We went trick-or-treating in Chapel Hill, home of the infamous Franklin Street Halloween <a href="http://http//en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franklin_Street_(Chapel_Hill)">Party</a> - we didn't go to that, of course, but I did get a little rankled about the way the city treated that particular event. Traditionally, the event is enormous - 80,000 people last year, I heard - booze-fueled, and slightly out of control. However, "out of control" in this area is more like "traffic" in this area - clearly, these guys have never been to Fells Point, is all I'm sayin'. The CH leaders were all, "This is supposed to be a family show, college kids go home, no drunkies, grumble grumble grumble." I'm sure it's a huge expense for the city, and the police force loses years off its collective life, but I would imagine that it would just make the students go home and drink more on campus and throw their dorm furniture out the window. And now I can't wear my <a href="http://www.spirithalloween.com/product/Captain-Booty-Adult-Costume/">Captain Booty</a> costume, darn it.</p><p>(I'm sorry, can we just recap something? Captain BOOTY? Seriously? What makes grown women, especially those of us who should deny the lure of the exposed garter, think this is a good idea?)</p><p>Anyway - the kid had a great time at what I'm calling "Franklin Street for the Chicken Nugget Crowd," and yes, she has a ripper of a cold, but the giant box of candy in the kitchen makes up for a lot. Mmm, tiny Snickers... Happy day-after, gang. Now go eat some stale Smarties.</p><p></p>Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-55015312950618527782008-10-30T19:44:00.005-05:002008-10-30T20:43:46.056-05:00Coupl'a things1. Oh dear, The Rocky Horror Picture Show is on channel 12, and I may die from the high school nostalgia. Is this a band/theater geek thing, this tradition of checking out Tim Curry's bustier-clad bod every Halloween? Or do you all do it, even you cool people - do you flip past it while doing your channel-surf and then flip back for a minute, just to see if it's as insane as you remember? The last time I sat through the entire thing, I was 17 and making out with a boy in a hot pink wig at someone else's parents' house... I was wearing a tuxedo jacket and ludicrous amounts of eyeliner, and the whole thing seemed perfectly normal, if a teensy bit nerdy. Teensy.<br /><br />2. I have to make two large <a href="http://www.cooks.com/rec/view/0,185,158181-234196,00.html">casseroles</a> for Norah's Halloween breakfast tomorrow, and I haven't even started. It's kind of funny - we're all making things and bringing them in, and yet we're all being charged $10 per family to attend. It's a fundraiser, so it's cool and all, but seriously. Doesn't "fundraiser" make you think of overpriced candy bars and wrapping paper? Candy bars do not require an hour of my time and two bags of refrigerated hash browns. Wrapping paper is not going to burn my legs when I accidentally set it on my lap while trying to down a coffee, drive to school, put on makeup, and be as fabulous as all the other mothers. Note to school: next year, let us consider chocolate. It's safer for people like me.<br /><br />3. Speaking of makeup, time to shill for Bare Minerals! Have you guys ever tried this stuff? I was touring Sephora the other day, hunting for a pretty foundation brush for my sister, and the salesgirl talked me into letting her apply it to my face. She was pretty and chirpy and I think her name was Crystal, or maybe Cricket, but I don't care if her name was Adolf - she made me glow, and this is no small task these days. Children are murder on the glow (except for the glow in your HEART, am I right, Hallmark card writers? Hire me!) Seriously, it's great makeup. I've been a bigtime Clinique junkie, but I think we might have to break up.<br /><br />4. Norah's going to be <a href="http://www.harpercollinschildrens.com/harperchildrens/kids/gamesandcontests/features/fancynancy/default.aspx">Fancy Nancy</a> for Halloween. I bought the <a href="http://www.target.com/Fancy-Nancy-Dress-Up-Poodle-Dress/dp/B0018MPUSG/sr=1-22/qid=1225417013/ref=sr_1_22/191-0050886-1610376?ie=UTF8&index=target&rh=k%3Afancy%20nancy&page=1">dress</a> and sparkle <a href="http://www.target.com/Toddler-Circo-Adamaris-Glitter-Ballet/dp/B0017LO7PK/ref=sc_pgc_r_6_0_393620011/191-0050886-1610376?ie=UTF8&frombrowse=1">shoes</a> at Target, and the rest of it is coming from our various dress-up boxes. I'm kind of tickled that she wants to actually wear a costume - I think for a while she was a little frightened of the whole costumes-in-public idea. I'm pretty sure this is related to her hatred of the mall Santa, a big bearded man IN A COSTUME who clearly tried to burn her to death with his jolly red nose. (You'd think, anyway, given her last - and final - attempt at sitting on his lap.) But now she's three, and now she understands that costume + late bedtime = CANDY, and all three of those components are SO much more interesting now that she's experienced Snickers and gummi bears.<br /><br />5. <a href="http://www.ritasice.com/">Rita's</a> just opened down next to the new Harris Teeter, and I have died and gone to mango water ice heaven. Also in the same strip mall: Neo Japan and, lord help us, a Dunkin Donuts. My quest for thinner thighs is being thwarted by commercial real estate developers. Somehow, though, the injustice of this is a lot less <em>injust</em> when it's coated in vanilla custard. 'Night, all, I have a spoon to lick.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-61944890048376364082008-10-22T19:30:00.000-05:002008-10-22T19:30:40.299-05:00Holy WOW HalloweenSo I'm pondering my blog reader, as I often do instead of writing my own posts - it's easier, and I don't have to remember whether it's "that" or "which" - when I came across this on <a href="http://blog.heygirlniceshot.com/">Jessica's photography blog</a> (I was just looking for office and workflow tips, and poof! Instant jawdrop!) If you're a crafty sort and you're pondering what to make your little girl for Halloween, DO NOT CLICK THIS LINK, as you will never, ever be able to top this.<br /><br /><a href="http://grosgrainfabulous.blogspot.com/2008/10/marie-thrse-gown-giveaway.html">The Marie-Therese Gown by Grosgrain</a><br /><br />Norah saw it and her little bugeyes went woooOOOP! wide open, and I knew it was all over for me. If I don't win this gown, I will have to live in the yard and eat acorns or something, because the princess will not allow me back into the house without it. <br /><br />In other news, Kristen rolls over (she does not, however, fetch the newspaper and/or slippers, which would REALLY be an accomplishment) and laughs. And is there anything cuter than a baby laugh? It's this gaspy, "puh-HAW" sound that you'd never know was a laugh if it weren't for her big old grin. When she grins, her tongue sticks out. In 15 years, I am SO telling her dates about this.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-28616349886415701512008-10-15T21:52:00.005-05:002008-10-15T22:06:30.023-05:00Oh, THAT wall. Yeah, I hit it.<div><div>So I promised Adrienne I would write something tonight, and Patty's been all up my nose about it (which is acceptable, since she lost about half my body weight and she looks all cute now), and I'm sure you guys were just DYING to know what was up over here that kept me from updating you on the scintillating details of our lives...<br /></div><div>Um, yeah, sorry about this, but I've been fiddling with the stupid template for eleventy hours, and this is all you get:</div><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257580019670352274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtyXwH1HpRgRl8yzjVlotF3hcmSjuGTXcmtWFo2uynhlttejxZGk0MqP5qg7bWENKVoZOZlPtnWMsQajM32smuZJOsLdnbzCNlm6ssPqsxat_aG0MGu6UvB5y9bvNSvACGBiN_/s320/october-4.jpg" border="0" />Because a twirly dress is really all you need, and thanks to Adrienne, we got one! Bon soir, mes amis, a demain (as Norah says at school).</p><p>Okay, here, have a few more:</p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257581124234410098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkpEtZmSiO1_eGOSs5Hv-fvquEoKWeMUvHkB0Nx6k3-DutZCeFyOqGH2merEXycxcp20U5NAowiTSJ6Cz4-a5TF7_tGDXt7wY9aYAbq03C-Hu1DxXiIGDaKSaCz9kNKlS3zPbW/s200/october-5.jpg" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257582103446807122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCfERRcwl_arxIgzsJs2Na1ad-_3wE0HrP-_7UIPMm8Rcgl19gBMXgNikzV3Z0oNnYIsRlebEUcPSYRTU0a96huidJqtXsrpHC_4V3bepU1CCtEzn56C4Ep6uYWH87uPeVu597/s200/october-10.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><div></div></div>Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-87576290004970760882008-09-09T15:58:00.003-05:002008-09-09T16:00:06.010-05:00So does Daddy, but his don't do anything.Norah: Mama, my nose is wet.<br /><br />Me: Yes, yes it is. Have a tissue.<br /><br />Norah: [much honking and generally missing the tissue, blowing her nose into her hand, ew GROSS] Thass better.<br /><br />Me: Are you okay?<br /><br />Norah: Yeah. I just have the snipples.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-87149398664043798542008-09-06T12:40:00.011-05:002008-09-06T13:38:05.229-05:00So glad we invited Hanna to the party"There's a WHAT coming today?" asked Kristen this morning.<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242967218928815202" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9saLIuMUKKM1SIIE4XdW2R3YiIMeqlMfBclIHB01JlWP6YyHwHoo1H3dqHIEW44x3BS4gjscjYqI37uWfM9HqV5FkbORQiFskgsFW2SLnrGai-iACc2ZhjqIgHQsIMW9tfc2I/s320/IMG_0602.jpg" /> "A hurricane," I said, "and it's going to be a hoot. There's going to be some major flooding in our neighborhood, but because we're lucky and live in a safe place, we'll be totally cool. Tell Norah to get her boots on."<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242967816865797282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF9y6I9GxYmrp8isy2eoMhGtJUtE_pOxkqOXNzczfKz1q7rvNRHIelb7V8stJMY_EVHGpG3D7sN1CgSnQkn_P2BSZzjQW1NgnCM3I3H6T9MdqEWU0-U7xOFTUZx2XzPVDh7V4o/s320/IMG_0156.jpg" /><br /><br />"Hey, Norah. Your friend Ellie is going to try to pull that walking-on-water act again, but if she does, just knock her flat. If she's <em>really</em> that good, she'll float."<br /><br /><p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242968077024359298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7KBJ6o3elN8GdfmhvBd93aELhLMynJYtYo5vY-f4dLp_9xX9Jb9N_3db-n0Da0ws9WXMitUD1D1a0Za3XPghAqR8ASkjbdBZfUfw_I9Xt88-TY6UOufD9R1eXQ0COhthloQlA/s320/IMG_0164.jpg" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242968383072478034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN2_1G0GTGATicIDn7QT17Smv9S95lsxupUHx14W5opQ-OEf7Fc_uNYy8-lQELc44QqhzBVw8yYvglKRo3jP3dRSbB1xYN1UuHKCchtqcki9vBx8rI8-J1MVh3l9902ALRAM0K/s320/IMG_0167.jpg" /><br />"We'll bring out some toys, get the neighbors involved, and have sort of a block party - ostensibly to watch you girls romp around like nuts, but also because we sort of want to romp, too. In fact, Mama may go on out in her sleep-shirt, just because it's fun, and because she's too busy trying to find your hippo floatie to change."</p><br /><p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242968946021977826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb_q5nTu_8RsiGE_Ho0JSRBl_NUBOj69XsahzPqbFU_YTgAl2TKkFPFC7qel4RqRb7bTqgWaBSYf7QjfLlm6a58AACmsgvJoAqM7VqwzWXo0y-aUzwWQpjO9v16Ma-TXHUB-St/s320/IMG_0170.jpg" />"Don't let it go, though, or we'll have to wade through the woods to get it back, where we'll encounter two crawfish and a beaver. Yes, a BEAVER. In our DRIVEWAY. Too bad he'll be a fast little bugger and we won't get a photo."</p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242969947762482642" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZHcJ6tRN6ZqqvryvCtuh6pOMGlhfB6CJtaoaNL8_IZa5TUOL56QsgxScaZVzuJehPnBLauqycTr0VnPzKH92mcC4b4WSic_SGAxuE6QCNlxbP_oUQCOqqH2wQzjvL5od1uUHW/s320/IMG_0171.jpg" /><br /><p>"Mama, the floatie is gone."</p><p>"It's cool. Astrid's swimming after it. Across the patio."</p>Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-58498425699487190592008-09-03T08:28:00.003-05:002008-09-03T08:37:19.796-05:00The stars say go<blockquote><p><strong>Aries, September 3:<br /></strong>Things aren't exactly where you want them to be right now and that could<br />mean that you're in for an uncomfortable time -- but not necessarily! Try your<br />best to smile and keep others smiling.</p></blockquote><br /><p>And just when I needed some cheerleading, too. Norah's transition to preschool is not going all that well - today when I dropped her off, she had to be peeled from my legs, and I had to walk away without letting her know that my stomach was somewhere north of my throat, and breakfast was headed for the sidewalk. My BABY is CRYING, I thought, and I CAN. NOT. RESPOND.</p><br /><br />I know this is going to get better, but good lord, it's hard right now. Good thing I have to keep my shit together for Kristen and Peyton (the youngest of the nanny kids, who's with me most of the time these days) or I would be a pile of jello.<br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241787770011416418" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXZFih3wzzfIN8CyKEXbZXJQqtGdJ9TDhg3EBtevA2HLD2VUMz7-FWKjlzu4hX35CFjz_VNlHrFtHfhDq5m0WR-X5io8K0tTbUvmpc92iwvGw8eRJ6-UE-MTovQa0iES_Mhuqi/s320/august+067.jpg" />Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-62110880561147586872008-08-29T20:18:00.011-05:002008-08-29T21:28:21.426-05:00Seasonal updates. That's the ticket.Hi! So in the last two and a half months, it seems I've had a child, gone on vacations, had the in-laws over for a week and change, delivered Norah unto preschool, knocked out a wall in the kitchen, and made bread that ended up larger than Kristen (y'all ever play with yeast? Seriously, play with yeast. That stuff is MAGIC.) Here is said bread, with a chicken egg for size comparison. When I braided it, it was reasonable - then we had to let it rise some more, and it crawled across the counter and ate the toaster oven.<br /><br /><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240124982959789138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZjwaau_-qu043t_mBjS6RWmgfziNVz4ys4Lu4DtmHjcOYuNZYSLDFfWEW6KviX5aryjf33pJx60AZhyphenhyphenouORyDmkCt-IZhEMwTXL6I4QhqLYV4mL1YavPliU3KMUEFz7XJcu9/s320/august+004.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><div>So the rest of the summer, geez. First and foremost, this whole baby issue - what a trip this two-kid thing is! After some rough weeks in the beginning, we've all gotten used to each other, and it's fun. It really is. Watching Norah turn all cutesy and gentle when she's around Kristen has been hysterical. Her jaw juts out like a barracuda, she clenches her teeth, and grits out, "Aww, baby shissher, you're sho KEWT you baby shissher, you gonna shpit up? You gonna shpit your milk on Mama? Mama thinksh you're shilly, you baby shissherrrr..." I guess she thinks this is how one talks to babies, and I want to tease her about it, but I'm terrified that she'll stop doing it and I won't have anything to make me shpit diet coke out my nose.</div><br /><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240127584969610802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXsF92r0tnU6vP6q8aZOQyHne9oip1g3WS6IWkCQofZ0tgMNsUlHT9Fi5odCLpsYRXzYShxhWZuXhyJ7Tbk1QV5BY7fBVl8hYEqOjXjcHph9kRxHjKuM-ni6x_6lDrp0ebPRkR/s320/Kristen+Birth-039.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div></div><div>Kristen herself, now that she's worked out her original notion that sleeping is for wussies, is a pretty cute little bugger. She's long and lean - even taller than Norah was at this age - and it's becoming a challenge to find clothes that are long enough but not wide enough to fit in the entire contents of the diaper bag. (Although that would lead to one-handed maneuvering... Hmm...) She looks very much like Rob, especially when she's annoyed - their lips get all tight and lemon-sucked in exactly the same shape. And of course, like her sister and father, Kristen sleeps with her mouth wiiiiide open. The snoring in this house, my lord, it's enough to set off the car alarms in the driveway.</div><br /><div></div><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240128001139436594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3aWh0gwab1RNVg4VG9BSXQDI3iJGfMz7IhtLqWmWskRNYvUto1DAb8tqBfhE8Wufj6H457TuL9Y29HqOnTda8LgQUty3OwMYtJJ4VJuskPFKyO2AuAx-KLgKxrmvRv7hXyJOQ/s320/august+007.jpg" border="0" /> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240128231095753506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiRIzVBLnBYoUWp-Au1-LQbSl_fExjnNKNn5uNNetJLmaKA9_z7_BVPMtvlUVilUxwodCLdl0bJUIBpf6xC9MOOoQL1okZjx5Q_teZBxliN7mXPBalDLuxe71aHMOE9mYf9z1H/s320/august+014.jpg" border="0" /> </p><p>We bashed out the wall in the kitchen, and now instead of looking like this (and please ignore the majority of the furniture in this photo, as it is no longer there and/or part of our fabulous collection):</p><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240117955738706818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYIxQhCtDae9dadsb_rFq9AFRrPEa67aiTC1FKkUH73QW3byy_XnAFgsfB_3DPY-joAD7UekDpAzMmK4Iftv5Ts8odTeNa37EIpN_yNMsW6-6R6bsto8LFH5fbm0VVfeJV7LfG/s320/diningroom.jpg" border="0" /><br />It looks like this (and yes, we just spray-painted that godawful chandlier and put shades on it, but hey, it was a $12 fix):</p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240118616196805874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCjCI8qZ_2ByBt-62PlU0IPF6g5WdV9OKmYxK1PtHkctrCbLCvxFJy4uVIoiNH1WkheopW91vshQtZG-t9XBkGJPmphIqGGJacSUbMZRBtaml8vYUGPqOK1uBMVP4XiuBcWQ_E/s320/kitchen+001.jpg" border="0" />SO MUCH BETTER! We're putting a small column at the end of the shelf and a pot rack dangling from the ceiling right above it, but that's going to have to wait until either of us is more inspired. At this point, I don't think there's much else we can do to the downstairs, aside from gutting and redoing that nasty little bathroom... Yeah, okay, that's kind of major. One of these days, maybe.<br /><div></div><br /><div>Norah leaped into preschool today at the snooty-booty, awesomely fabulous Montessori school. It started out brilliantly: she marched up there, took her new light-up shoes off, put on her ballet slippers (they can't wear outside shoes in the classroom), hugged the teacher, and went off to see the fish while I melted with glee. Glee for her, because she was clearly having a good time and bypassing that whole freakout issue, and - let's be honest here - glee for me, because I only had one small, non-mobile, morning-napping kid to shuttle around with me. I love me some Norah, but Mama needs her working time. And time to watch CSI reruns on Spike. Oh yes I did.</div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240128878031561858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQosymXrBP2DYMGy6yW6D82glviv4f82M-DUr5XJdjvqjR902XXc_24q5LbR6R57UqJBDfYXh1P3l7jpqbHWXghX2Fz_9SIsTY79pTLM4SpP1Vr61xmfPeTGFpMbVpbsadKz3w/s320/august+057.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div>Then I went to pick her up, and all thoughts of the mad zexy Nick Stokes went zip! out my head, because there was my poor, defenseless, abandoned baby, crying her eyes out and holding her teacher's hand. "It's been on and off tears for about two hours," the teacher said, "but in between, she seemed to have a really good time. I really think she's fine." Then Norah cranked up the waterworks, and I killed myself with a tiny wooden Montessori-approved play knife. "What happened, pal? Are you okay? How was it?" I asked her.</div><div></div><br /><div>"Oh, Ma-ha-ha-ma," she wailed, "it was GUH-REA-HAY-HAAAAT." <em>What? Great? Then why--? </em>"There's a fish, and he's a blue fish, and we have beads on a string and I put them on the string myself, and Jenna is there and Anne-Sophie, and also Mellya [or Amelia, as her parents call her] and some more kids and there is a mat and I played on that mat and we have to play our things on the mats and then put them away and we have tables and on the tables we can read books and can we do books at home and where can I go potty at home that it will be like going potty at school?"</div><div></div><br /><div>"Then what's up with the crying? Why were you crying when I came to get you?"</div><br /><div>"Because, Mama," she said in a tone that might as well have said <em>because, dumbass</em>, "I MISSDED YOU and I wanted you to see the fish. I fed that fish. Can I go see him tomorrow too?"<br /></div><div>And believe me when I tell you that nothing in the last two months prepared me for that. We've been through childbirth, sleeplessness, houseguests, demolition, drywall dust in every orifice, screaming fits, gassiness, and endless wardrobe changes for spit-up and other charming bodily fluids. I thought I was tough, but I still felt a little wobbly inside when my baby a) declared that she missed me and then b) got over it and moved on. To a fish. We're some big girls now, boy.</div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240131471636141362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikoznDFfAi8KVEEa7bLAfFc0SQTvEd5E2sq8T5PJZha0OiOpiS_MKIVEnq4Uy-pjfGvwANyB7lHRpY02H90sMimkeqMvvo0feeYElMVR0kdamUUf5rKnP06F5Y5qOOfsLt7kUs/s320/kristen-023.jpg" border="0" />Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-90040058825714418252008-06-26T06:25:00.003-05:002008-06-26T06:28:25.326-05:00Deliverance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8j1BvCm4iUAdaTH8TZwpwT6sh6NUtzmqHfVxp2KmEeGJb5GrEHXNc0vGXLphn15z7rDsqJqPRpwyJceTh_DexWGaFkqlty3-lHMMEivNrjHbNcIXpLU0SdfbE9YDVqPBmMDHU/s1600-h/announcement.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8j1BvCm4iUAdaTH8TZwpwT6sh6NUtzmqHfVxp2KmEeGJb5GrEHXNc0vGXLphn15z7rDsqJqPRpwyJceTh_DexWGaFkqlty3-lHMMEivNrjHbNcIXpLU0SdfbE9YDVqPBmMDHU/s320/announcement.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216150108913968146" border="0" /></a><br />We're all delighted, especially Norah, who refers to the baby as "my baby sister Kristen who is here now" at all times. And now, if you would, please excuse me while I fall asleep sitting at this computer.<br /><br />Y'all, I am so happy.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-54498126896249111882008-06-16T19:55:00.002-05:002008-06-16T20:13:30.600-05:00Yup. Stiiiill pregnant.Wow, it's really hot down here. I mean, really really hot. I knew it wasn't exactly northern Alaska when we moved, but I seriously did not anticipate this open-oven-draft-in-your-face thing we're having these days. I also thought I would plan pregnancies around the foul sweaty weather, but ha ha! Delusions are cute, aren't they?<br /><br />I'm now three days from my official due date (the 19th, which is also Rob's birthday, and how much do I want a newborn for my/his birthday present) and every night for the past three weeks I've thought, "Oh okay, this is it, I have back pains and WAS THAT A CRAMP?" Obviously I've been incorrect for three weeks, which is getting a little wearing - no one likes being wrong, let alone consistently wrong for 21 days, let alone alone about removing a foreign body from one's abdomen and thereby relieving oneself of a number of unpleasant issues. Like the back pain thing, and the restless leg, and peeing all the time. I feel like a dog in a field of hydrants.<br /><br />The plus side of being fat, hot, and lazy is that it means I spend a great deal of time inside, which means that I've gotten ALL of my two months of wedding photos uploaded and sorted and processed. I still have a ton of album stuff to do, but most of my girls haven't even scheduled design sessions with me, so it's all pretty much backburnered until a) whenever they get their calendars in order or b) after I get done a'birthin'. Rob's had most of his weekend days off, and will likely have weekends off for the next six months or so (hi Duke! thanks again!) so he's been spending some serious QT with Norah, and hopefully I can anticipate similar <strike>sweet sweet freedom</strike> work time in the days ahead. Minus time spent with the wee baby attached to my body, of course - which will be SO WAY BETTER than having her inside my body.<br /><br />Y'all, I really want this kid to get here. Aside from the whole "reclaiming my body" thing, there's the babylust thing, which inspired me to redo the girls' closet, get the crib ready, wash the clothes, all that good stuff - three weeks ago. I want to play with her feet and watch Norah kiss her cheeks, kind of like she kisses my belly at night. (And says, "Good night, baby sister, and I will see you in the morning time. You can wake up and come out ANYTIME NOW." Oh my heart.) I loves me some babies, I do. And, let's not lie, I really want to sleep for more than an hour without staggering blindly to the bathroom sans contact lenses. I feel both are compelling reasons to go into labor tonight, don't you? I'll let you know how that works out.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-59008520247118992552008-05-28T20:38:00.003-05:002008-05-28T20:43:33.088-05:00Is me!Dear Owen, and the rest of the internet, but really specifically Owen, since he reminded me to update things, or at least his mother did,<br /><br />I'm fine. Bloated, crabby, and in the 15th hour of the dumbest damn thing on the planet: Braxton Hicks contractions! Woohoo, false labor! I've been torn between "Please God, let this just go ahead and turn into birth," and "Oh Satan, keep 'er in there for another two days, because I have this wedding on Saturday and it's my last one, and I really don't want to have to call the bride and tell her that I'm panting my Lamaze on the side of the interstate." I didn't have this false labor thing with Norah, and I'm gonna go out on a limb here and CALL BULLSHIT ON IT ALTOGETHER.<br /><br />But that's only today - otherwise, I've been tired, overworked, back-sore, and all the other joys that come with being full-term knocked up with a second child during a pretty much full-time job with ludicrously odd hours. I promise to resume regular posting at some point - this is just not that point. Believe you me, internet, whenever this child gets herself bornded, as Norah says, YOU WILL KNOW, if only because I will have finally, FINALLY stopped whining.<br /><br />For now, however, I am off to consume my body weight in watermelon, my current crush food. Ohh, melony watery goodness.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-45467328796495305532008-05-06T16:19:00.002-05:002008-05-06T16:28:45.511-05:00Please note that this is not an invitation to snark on ANY political candidates. I'm just bitching.Dear Barack Obama,<br /><br />Dude. For real. I love the fact that your name is Obama. I love your wife's pearls. I love that you came to Carrboro not that long ago, because that's about the last place I'd expect any high-powered Mr. Man to visit (not that Carrboro isn't a really cool place, because it is, but you'd think you'd stick to Chapel Hill, its more snooty-boo neighbor). <br /><br />But seriously. Just because I am a registered independent does NOT mean you get to call me four times in five hours to remind me to vote. Your people, or people claiming to be your people, have now dialed my number with their magical autodialers ELEVEN times since yesterday morning. That Other Candidate has not yet called, which at first hurt my feelings and made me think she didn't care, and now is sort of making me like her more, despite her mannish voice and unfortunate choice in lady politician hair.<br /><br />So please, please, stop calling. I know I need to vote, and I fully intend to do so as soon as my (deep breath) <em>Republican</em> spouse gets home to relieve me in the childcare duties; this would suggest that perhaps I am aware of my responsibility as a good American citizen to a) choose a candidate and b) cancel out Rob's vote in the future, and perhaps you should call off the damn dogs already. I got a kid what needs a nap, and if your people wake her up again, I'm dropping her off at YOUR house.<br /><br />Love and frustration,<br />AnnieAnniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-89826037824467324622008-05-01T13:55:00.005-05:002008-05-01T14:36:20.836-05:00The skink in the sink, and other Seussical reasons for me not bloggingI'm not dead! Just thought I'd start by informing you all of that, since it's been about six years since I posted anything of merit (and what, three weeks since I posted at all, har har har). I keep experiencing things and thinking "Oh dear, I've just got to blog about that," but I then forget, because what else is there to do when you're pregnant, other than bitch and moan about the inverse correlation between your ever-expanding belly and your ever-decreasing wardrobe options?<br /><div></div><br /><div>(And oh wow, do I do this a lot. I am down to four shirts, FOUR, that I'm willing and able to wear on a regular basis. This wouldn't be such a big deal, since I don't really do much that requires fancy wardrobery, except for the fact that three of said shirts have grease spots on the front and force me to constantly hold something over them, like a purse, or a small child, or the car. My back may be aching but my biceps are remarkable.)</div><div></div><br /><div>Anyway. The skink in the sink is kind of funny, so here you go. A couple of days ago, Norah and I were doing our thing in the yard - she in her swing, me on my knees in the garden, pretending that the plants are actually going to survive this year - when the phone rang. I trotted inside, leaving her in the swing (she can't unbuckle herself, so I figured she wasn't going to escape or anything), and answered the phone that hangs next to the sink with a cheery "HellOOOOH GOD WHAT IS THAT?" Good thing it was a telemarketer - bet they won't be calling here to offer me any more Scholastic books THIS year, huh?</div><div></div><br /><div>"That" was this, a Southeastern Five-Lined <a href="http://www.bio.davidson.edu/projects/herpcons/herps_of_NC/lizards/Eum_ine.html">Skink</a>, who had wiggled his skinkly way through the screen and onto the sill, and fell off into the sink. One would think that skinks would have stickier toes, or something, but this one was clearly a somewhat deficient skink, because OF COURSE the only ones who come to my house and get themselves in impossible situations are the messed-up ones. He was missing part of his tail, he was orange, and good golly, he was looking at me. And skinks bite. </div><div></div><br /><div>I didn't want to alarm the kid, so I maintained my cool and attempted to trap the little bugger under a Tupperware bowl. Deficient or not, he was pretty bloody fast, and reluctant to be trapped under the Tupperware. So we spent several glorious seconds chasing each other around the sink, until I got mad at him and slammed the bowl down in front of him, trying to scare him into holding still. Because that's wise, right? Scare something that bites? Heck yes! He didn't bite me, though. He had some kind of skink seizure and fell into the garbage disposal.</div><div></div><br /><div>At this point I was pissed, both at myself for leaving poor Norah in the swing through all this ("Mama? Would you like to come out here and push me now? Mama, I am not having fun, did you know that?") and at this clearly STUPID lizard for getting himself into this position. My hand was on the switch, y'all - I was going to make skink pudding, the easy and downright nasty way. But I stopped, and I thought about how it really would kind of be murder of a defenseless little thing, and how I am not That Person who murders things, and I had a MacGyver-style idea: I stuffed the disposal full of angel food cake, backed it up, flooded it with water, and watched Sir Skinksalot float to the top. Scooped him out, stared at him for a while, did a few fist-pumps in the air to celebrate my toughness, and chucked him out into the yard, where Norah saw him and descended into hysteria. I felt good, righteous even, for having saved one of Mother Nature's creatures... until I realized that now we have no angel food cake, and that's probably even worse than murder, maybe.</div><div></div><br /><div>Other news: pregnancy good, baby due in eight weeks (wha?? how??), photo biz a'rockin', and my buddy Mills and sister Kate ran the Stick Horse and got medals, because they're that kind of cool. Next year, girls...</div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195494594283324418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwVESy9xC4HGmtsWBFBq9gp1ANSHfUznKX6qUMh83FaIvTFe1U6qqZqRV1ucT0uFrru4ifZdakapthIOB80wWPSNuajocbHcSfjq6oPUtXzKxsw3efmIi2RmBaJ1KKnWKMN367/s320/DSC00751.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div>(Thanks to Mills' mom for the photo, which I have printed and hung on my fridge in an effort to inspire myself out of the ice cream. Ha.)</div>Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-76782878072888597292008-04-12T14:58:00.008-05:002008-04-12T15:09:42.240-05:00Because Zoot's made me laughYeah, <a href="http://www.misszoot.com/2008/04/11/i-think-id-like-to-punch-him-in-the-face/">she</a> totally started it.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKb9KfZ3ynm_Nf09eRbH7J7XtnOaH-FcJJpBBDsGRzzTPv8peuAsp56_EacZoXU-a8_N_c4uyT97FVg02E4HRCLvvVYf3IRzD6cDP7-gOXEkontSAZtXjLoYaVd-uBTSbKOgLX/s1600-h/image.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188452058450133730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKb9KfZ3ynm_Nf09eRbH7J7XtnOaH-FcJJpBBDsGRzzTPv8peuAsp56_EacZoXU-a8_N_c4uyT97FVg02E4HRCLvvVYf3IRzD6cDP7-gOXEkontSAZtXjLoYaVd-uBTSbKOgLX/s320/image.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Indeed. Sorry for the lack of updates - I've been swamped with kiddie portraits, bridal portraits, and the overwhelming fear that comes with knowing that in three months, I'll have a two-week-old baby and a three-year-old child. How in the world did THIS happen?<br /><br />(I'd just like to point out that this is a rhetorical question - I do in fact know how in the world this happened. I'm pretty sure I was there.)Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-64719216426370907882008-03-31T08:23:00.005-05:002008-03-31T08:30:33.716-05:00PSA for my fellow cheapiesShould you happen to want restaurant gift certificates for way cheap, <a href="http://www.restaurant.com/">Restaurant.com</a>'s 60% off sale is currently on for one more day... The discount code is GENIUS. And it is. We've actually used these several times, and it's been great. You buy your certificates for specific restaurants in your area, and then you use them for anything but booze (which in my case isn't such a big deal...) The kicker is that you can get $25 worth of certificates for five or six bucks during the sales; they're always discounted a little, but spending a fifth of what something should cost really appeals to the tightwad in me.<br /><br />This is significantly more important today, as our heater has crapped out and of course, OF COURSE it's not going to get above 60 degrees for a few days, so the repairman is on his way and I already know it's going to cost $89 for the diagnostic service. At this point, I would probably sell off an arm or something just to get heat back in here - Norah and I both slept in multiple layers last night under a series of quilts and down comforters. Rob was on call, so he got to sleep in the heated deliciousness of the VA. Life is so unfair.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-39464987615147938602008-03-26T12:34:00.010-05:002008-03-26T12:56:35.780-05:00Rah Raisin Neon!<div><div>Having <a href="http://wordsmith.org/anagram/anagram.cgi?anagram=annie+harrison&t=1000">anagrammed</a> myself (thank you, <a href="http://supamb.com/">MB</a>, for giving me this incredibly fun way to avoid doing the dishes), I've discovered that my name can make the following useful phrases:<br /><br />A Insaner Rhino<br />Hernias Rain On<br />Insane Air Horn<br />Ha Roar Ninnies<br /><br />So! Easter was this weekend, which was extra fun - we had a neighborhood egg hunt, and Norah was delighted to learn that hollow plastic eggs are actually sometimes filled with things! And those things are often edible (although in the case of these things, they are decidedly NOT)! Or shiny! Or stickery! Needless to say, the Easter Bunny is the big stud around our house these days; yesterday, Norah sighed contentedly while wearing all of her <strike>mardi gras</strike> Easter necklaces and said, "That Easter Bunny. He's a good guy." </div><br /><div>Here is the slightly confused Norah at the beginning of the hunt. She still doesn't really understand the Easter Bunny concept, even though now she knows he's the source of all things sweet, sparkly, and/or made entirely of crystallized high fructose corn syrup. He's either a gift-giver, like Santa, or he's a delivery boy - both grandmas sent Easter packages that they both swore were from the Bunny, so Norah's pretty sure that he's kind of like a nice version of our UPS guy.</div></div><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182108460423686930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSt0rJGXcx1HEP13bbmrzRERN-eGZGmQFvi8Z3kAFMJ3k9Ep10rFZWv9DCDZhVXH-RH-RvGr6XxJkp08UyQ2z1kIUsVxcnSO2NRI1hUaNA9RO7ZUq8672CoRXJzUuw0Z77FRak/s320/easter1.jpg" border="0" /></div><br /><div></div><div>Adrienne was here, as previously discussed, and helped with the searching (which was convenient, since she also got suckered into helping with the hiding). Norah's butterfly t-shirt was "delivered" to Adrienne's via the EB, yet another confirmation that he travels in a big brown panel truck.<br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182109177683225378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtqTks3ho9GzjKVyQhqolRLdKLCSJZPXg__1ObL02hSB1SeNINcgMJ6333rM6h1P5ynJiq7YT7fwGkqTbldCEBw5jfRB7WaTvlVcBbRV4zqmm1Et1FS-eBZW0qCmENNTvmZAon/s320/easter2.jpg" border="0" /> </div><div>This is Norah's buddy, Ellie, who lives down the street. Ellie's mother is at exactly the same point in her residency at UNC as Rob is at Duke, but Ellie's mother is about 30 weeks pregnant. Talk about dancing backward in high heels, man.<br /><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182109882057861938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivDXM6Al60BUtH9x1ztTOHpUMWUMSiGXm9CDNhIM2JvLVcCHGOwW59XTMx7mPQN37N4O18ZAMApFK2eCdB6yrqhnd1hfVCWEN8i5PIxo9MDIjLmsEEzqC8SSJfOqGywsmTxUHk/s320/easter3.jpg" border="0" />And lo, there were plastic beads. And the beads were GOOOOOOD. Happy Easter, friends.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182108322984733442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtS6Vm6wKEPoQan899VsfrGeId-pMGQJ1JmFXYWxXSUVks59ccmM7RNXMZE75zkoy69H41AJ2nz7Ns3soUJ-eqbR-Pr2XDHtyJlzs1XrUVj1nwvrsNDk7lPjENr695LfKHXgH8/s320/easter4.jpg" border="0" /> </div></div>Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-70694977426937613702008-03-16T19:36:00.004-05:002008-03-16T20:15:19.826-05:00They're just trying to scare youI hate email forwards. I mean, seriously, I HATE them. Not the ones that are kind of cute, like Mills' dogs movie or, and you know you love it, the dramatic Prairie Dog!<br /><br /><object height="373" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/jHjFxJVeCQs&rel=0&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f&border=1&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/jHjFxJVeCQs&rel=0&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f&border=1&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="373"></embed></object><br /><br />I also don't mind the ones that are actually worth something - Restaurant.com's secret 50% off code springs to mind. Speaking of, right now it's "green," but I think it's changing soon. No, I hate the ones that are designed to create mass panic, like the one I got today that said in HUGE RED LETTERS that Glade plug-ins cause house fires. Come on, guys - don't we have enough to panic about without adding fear of air freshener arson? Besides, my only fear regarding air freshener is that someone will someday buy me a nasty one, and I'll have to use it out of politeness, and it'll make my house smell like a gas station bathroom.<br /><br />Anyway! Not much up around here, as you can tell. Rob has just finished installing a new showerhead, faucet, and turny-onny part (handle? what is that thing?) and now he's dancing around doing air punches and saying, "Who's bad ass? WHO IS BAD ASS?" Honestly, I think it's bad ass, too... the old faucet, etc., was held to the wall entirely with mildew. Yesterday he put down the new floor - we were going to tile, but decided that that's <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=putting+lipstick+on+a+pig">lipsticking a pig</a>, so we used those sticky linoleum <a href="http://www.lowes.com/lowes/lkn?action=productDetail&productId=125734-79508-21092&lpage=none">tiles</a> instead. And voila! Instant proud Rob, instant happy me, instant delighted Norah because she didn't have to take a bath tonight while the plumber's putty set.<br /><br />Yesterday I volunteered for the WUNC-TV telethon thing, also known as Festival 2008! because nothing makes me party as hard as spending the shopping money on invisible airwaves. Honestly, I'd send them money if I thought we had it to send, but the police, firemen, and homeless guys got to me first. So I gave up my time and answered the phones for three hours, which was an exercise in dealing with humanity. Some people were very direct - here's my credit card, here's my amount, send me a thank-you card, and g'byenow - but the majority of the callers really wanted to discuss something. Anything. The current program, what was on yesterday at 2:30, the incentive gift (for a while, it was a home remedy book that consisted entirely of fodder for those horrible forwards; you should have seen some of the remedies for constipation). It was actually pretty fun, if a little nutty now and then, and I felt like I did a good thing.<br /><br />And Norah would like me to tell you that she has yet to have an accident in her Curious George underpants, because you can't pee on Curious George, that would be SILLY. Everything that would be bad, or wrong, or sinful, is SILLY in Norahese - I can't wait to tell the next bank robber I see to knock it off, he's being silly. Or rather, SILLY. Indeed.<br /><br />There you go, all the news that's fit for public consumption - don't you feel smarter? Now go unplug your Vanilla Cookie Breeze before we have to call 911.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-79730967971321721722008-03-12T18:11:00.004-05:002008-03-12T19:20:06.495-05:00Things which make the tire man seem utterly insignificanter than he already isNorah got into her snooty-booty Montessori preschool! It's actually not even close to snooty-booty, but every time I tell someone about applying there for next year, they get this LOOK like we're monogramming her toilet paper before she uses it. These are the people who are unfamiliar with how cool Montessori education actually is - how amazing the kids are with each other, how everyone respects everyone else's personal space, how three-year-olds add multiple columns of numbers while the four-year-olds write cursive. Really, I'm more into the social skills aspect of it, and the fact that the teachers are totally kind, 100% of the time. My baby is leaving me, and she just has to go someplace where the parental figures are as sweet to her as I would be.<br /><br />And also, that adding thing, that is just BAD ASS.<br /><br />So that's cool... Also, my sister called today and said she was coming for my birthday in two weeks, as did my parents, who have to go look for their new house in the mountains anyway. This is kind of especially awesome, because I was afraid I would have to spend my last 20-something birthday alone while Rob spent some QT with the sicklies in the VA. (I fully support healthcare for veterans, but SERIOUSLY, it's my birthday. We used to do birthday WEEKS in college. This is not something I take lightly.) Nonos already made my mom promise a cake, which is somehow Their Thing - Mom says they're coming or we're going to whatever holiday, Nonos says, "Are you making cake?" Usually there are sprinkles involved, and once even five bottles of food coloring. Either of these things clearly say "excellent birthday" in my mind.<br /><br />And <a href="http://adrienne.blogs.com">Adrienne</a> is coming next weekend, and we shall party with <a href="http://meandertail.blogspot.com">Lisa</a>, sans kids and plus margaritas... at least, two of us will be plus margaritas, and I will be plus sweet tea. Which is almost as good, really.<br /><br />Although I have asked Rob about none of this - I hope it's all right with him, and he gives me PERMISSION. Ahem.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-73855642010989360722008-03-10T16:41:00.002-05:002008-03-10T18:16:45.759-05:00Oh, REALLY now.So the Highlander needed some tires. The old ones had seen me through 48,000 miles and a nail pop on Labor Day weekend (one that cost me $100 to get fixed, because hey, it was a holiday and apparently even though the tow/tire place was open and readily available to plug said nail hole, it was still a holiday, and ha ha ha that costs more. Duh!) Rob explored the internet, and we learned the valuable lesson that, like self-diagnosis, one should not tire shop online, because one will inevitably pick the wrong tire and end up with dengue fever instead of a cold.<br /><br />The Sears guy took one look at the printout I handed him and said, "That one won't work, because you have a limited edition Highlander, which is just code for 'requires extra special parts that are totally going to cost more.'" Maybe not in so many words, but yeah, that's what he said. I laughed bitterly and explained that my husband had printed that out, and he must have just been wrong about the 17" versus 16" size requirements. We got things figured out and I picked a new fancy tire and all was going smoothly, until we got to the pricing.<br /><br />"Well," sez he, "this one is the right tire for your car, but maybe you want to wait."<br /><br />"I don't really want to wait, since my old tires are essentially bald and losing about 15 pounds of pressure every ten minutes. I think maybe I'll just go ahead now," I said.<br /><br />His eyebrows met in the middle. "Yeah, but these tires, they're $20 more each."<br /><br />My eyebrows met in the middle. "That's okay, really. I knew it would be expensive, and you guys are doing that free installation thing right now, so I would just like to--"<br /><br />"What I mean," he said, "is that you might want to talk to your husband first and make sure it's okay with him. I mean, that's an extra $80."<br /><br />[cue scratching record, and of course screeching tires.]<br /><br />My eyebrows actually crossed and switched places.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-17226825107281903142008-03-02T10:09:00.002-05:002008-03-02T10:15:36.300-05:00End of an era that will not, even while intoxicated, be missedNorah's wearing underwe*r, using the potty, the whole bit... and she is rather jubilant about the whole thing:<br /><br /><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3127/2304041193_65a3a78aeb.jpg?v=0"><br /><br />For a short, nostalgic, probably insane moment, I thought about how much I didn't want to do this with her, how much I wanted her to stay my dependent little babycakes. And then I thought about the smell, her poor little sensitive butt, and the diaper rash that would NOT go away, and I changed my mind quicker'n we can get those p*nties down in an emergency.<br /><br />I LOVE THIS STAGE. LOVE IT. Almost as much as I love her Curious George undi*s.<br /><br />(I'm putting asterisks in here to avoid pervy Googlers. You know how it goes.)Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16512999.post-39075235560777663352008-02-27T14:39:00.003-05:002008-02-27T14:41:58.664-05:00What every conversation sounds like at our houseRob: Babe, are you making dinner, or should I--<br />Me: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. I'be sick.<br /><br />Norah: Mama, would you like to read a story with me?<br />Me: Ub, ask Daddy. I dod't doe if I cad right dow.<br /><br />(This is her new thing, "Would you like...XYZ?" Mama, would you like to make me a snack? Daddy, would you like to carry me upstairs, or would Mama like to do it? Mama, would you like to DRILL HOLES IN YOUR FACE SO THE CONGESTION CAN OH PLEASE DEAR GOD <em>FINALLY</em> BREAK? Yes, precious, yes I would.)<br /><br />So disgustingly sick. Will return at a later date.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007876061828000482noreply@blogger.com2