Robinson is Ten Months Old!

Our little boo is ten months old! He more resembles a toddler at this point. He isn't walking yet, but he is boldly pulling up on furniture and exploring the world around him. He gets a little ahead of himself sometimes when he's trying to move from reaching to crawling to standing, so he gets tangled up in his own arms and legs like a game of Twister for one. 

This has caused a couple of falls, a bump and a fat lip, but he's a resilient little fella.

Sidenote: I don't recommend Google Image searching the term "playing Twister". People sure know how to take something that is supposed to be wholesome fun for the whole family and turn it into something dirty. 

His preference for toys is still pretty basic. He's still having so much fun with my cell phone, the Jumperoo, the walker, the stackable rings, Jerry the Giraffe, and the stackable cups. He joyfully crawls around the kitchen floor while clutching these plastic toys in his hand. Banging the plastic shapes and cups on the tile is a favorite pastime. Last weekend when Robinson was visited by his Poppa, Uncle Jay and Aunt Kelly, he was so excited that he was crawling around the kitchen with one of the plastic shapes in his right hand, and one of the stackable cups in his left, joyfully smacking them on the tile.

Quote of the weekend, courtesy of yours truly: He can't decide which one he likes best, so he's banging them both.

Seriously, Jerry the Giraffe and the stackable cups are the most fun you can have with your clothes on.

Oh, and did I mention that Robinson likes to eat?

And eat...

 ...and eat...

 

 The boy has a healthy appetite...

 And be forewarned: if you are ever eating in Robinson's presence, he expects you to share with him.

...the penalty for not sharing your snack and your supper with Robinson is an epic fit.

I know, it's hard to believe that this angel ever throws a fit

Bombshell Accusations

To summarize the Defense's case (chock-full of bombshell accusations, and not facts or beliefs that I personally hold to be true): The reason Casey didn't report Caylee missing for 30 days was because she was never missing. And she isn't guilty of murder, because there was no murder.

Blogger's Note: If you believe any of that, I've got some Florida swampland to sell you.

According to defense attorney Jose Baez, Caylee accidentally drowned in the family pool June 16, 2008. Casey's father, George Anthony discovered Caylee in the pool, and assisted in concealing her accidental death. Why would George do this? Why does Casey go about her life as if nothing was wrong? Because she was "raised to lie" and spent her entire life concealing the unspeakable acts of sexual abuse she allegedly endured from her father and, to a lesser extent, her brother.

Blogger's Note: George Anthony and Lee Anthony have never been charged with such crimes.

So, Casey is damaged and has issues that cause her to behave in ways that appear...inappropriate for a grieving mother. But it isn't her fault. She copes by disassociating and compartmentalizing her life.

This is what "disassociating" and "compartmentalizing" looks like, in case you were curious. Taken four days after Caylee's death.

Regarding the discovery of Caylee's body, that meter reader Roy Kronck was a "morally bankrupt" man who had found Caylee's body, then hid Caylee's body, for a time, then placed her in an area for him to "find" Caylee's body and collect on a reward. Did you get all that?

This opening argument is very incendiary. Lead Defense attorney Jose Baez can take liberties with his opening arguments, but in order to win an acquittal, he will have to support these stunning accusations with testimony or evidence. Methinks Mr. Baez has written a check with his mouth that his ass can't cash. Stay tuned.

Blogger's Note: I will fully disclose that I am firmly planted in the camp that believes Casey Anthony is guilty of murder, and that nothing in Jose Baez's opening arguments designed to explain away the crime is truthful or accurate. If Casey made up these stories of incest to save herself, she's disgusting. Disgusting like a baby killer. 

Next up: Witnesses for the Prosecution and a colorful cast of characters

Not Blogging. Too Busy Watching the Casey Anthony Trial

I realize that since we last met, there is a new Biggest Loser, a new American Idol, a new Schwarzenegger child (in a related story, I can now spell Schwarzenegger without help), Oprah bid farewell to her show, somebody wants to marry a Kardashian, and thanks to the aforementioned Arnold, Tiger Woods' role as America's Most Despised Cheating Husband has been terminated (sorry, had to do it). Poor Tiger. He can't seem to be the best at anything this year.

Moving right along, I have not been paying attention to any of that stuff because of the Casey Anthony Murder Trial! Allow me to give a little background as it pertains to me watching trials:


Gavel to Gavel Obsession
My fascination with watching court trials began in 1994 with a slow-speed Bronco chase. Back when Nancy Grace looked more like this:

And not this:

Why, Nancy? Why? I promise, she didn't always screech and preach and sound like an overzealous lunatic. She was always bold, but she really had a gift for astute and biting observations. Those were the days. Now it's all...what was it, again, Nancy?


Booze...and hot pants! Of course! How could I forget? (Nancy's hilarity begins at 0:22)

During the summer of 1995, when I was 13, my mom and I watched the OJ trial on Court TV every day and recaps and commentary every night. Often while eating pepperoni and sausage pizza from Papa Joe's. No joke, every time I see a photo or clip from the OJ trial, I think of pizza. It's like, Pavlovian. I realize this isn't the sort of thing your typical 13-year-old pays attention to, but over the years I also watched Danielle van Dam's, Dr. Dirk Greineder's, and Rabbi Fred Neulander's murder trials, among others. So yeah, this ain't my first rodeo. I listen to the trial all day while I'm cooking, cleaning, exercising, and taking care of Robinson. I'm interested in the cases themselves, but also in observing the American criminal justice system at work. It may seem voyeuristic, but we as Americans have the right to a fair, public trial. I'm doing my part as the "public" to pay attention. Also, I think I'm an OK amateur lawyer. While listening to the attorneys question a witness, I have been known to shout out Objection: assumes facts not in evidence! while sweeping my kitchen floor, or Objection: calls for speculation! from my elliptical trainer. So, since I have nothing else to talk about, I'll probably post a little on this trial. You seem to prefer my posts in bite-size portions, so I'll try to be brief. Plus, if you actually care about the trial, you already set your DVR and have been reading articles online from legitimate news sources. This is just my rundown and color commentary, humbly served up for your consumption.


Analyze This
The analysts, oh the analysts. Many of the analysts, correspondents, and other pundits invited to discuss the Casey Anthony trial are familiar to me from watching televised trials over the years. Many of them (I'm looking at you, Vinnie Politan)

are like cartoon character versions of their former selves. It's as if their decaf coffee was secretly switched with espresso and the entire panel mainlined amphetamines before going on-air. Not only are they jittery and excitable, they love to sensationalize, speculate, rinse and repeat.  As such, they repeatedly refer to the "bombshell accusations" made in the Defense's opening arguments.

Beth Karas is my port in the storm, even if she does love to say "bombshell accusations". You know what? I love it too. Bombshell accusations. There, I said it again.

Then there's Sunny Hostin. Ugh. I don't know if she actually believes the shit that comes out of her mouth, or if she is trying to offer commentary from a skeptical defense attorney point of view, or if producers asked her to play devil's advocate, but when she starts talking, I start feeling like we aren't watching the same trial. Sidenote: She at times resembles actress Rosario Dawson. This isn't relevant, but as the trial progresses, I notice a lot of celebrity doppelgängers. You'll find out soon enough.

I like me some Dr. Casey Jordan, though. She's not only an attorney, but also a criminologist and behavioral therapist. I co-sign pretty much everything she says. Added bonus: she doesn't talk like she just ate a donut sprinkled with meth and dunked in a triple espresso. What I'm saying is, she's calm.

There, now that introductions and background info are out of the way, I can move on to the matter at hand.

Next Up: Bombshell Accusations

Conversations About Nothing

Seriously, if the lives of Steve, Robinson and me were a television show, it would be a show about nothing. So it would be either a quirky and loveable smash like Seinfeld...

...or it would be dreadfully tedious like The Real World: London. "This week, Jacinda buys a puppy. She names him "Legend". He pee-pee'd in their flat" [a bored-to-tears thirteen-year-old Samantha turns to ten-year-old Jarred and says "Please stab me."]

So here's a scene from last night in our house: Steve is on the patio, grilling steak, and I am cooking on the stove. Robinson is sitting in his high chair watching me. He's taking those Gerber Lil Crunchies (they're like cheesy poofs for babies), stuffing them in his mouth two at a time, and then spitting them out all over the place once they are a nasty, gummy mess. I have no time for that at the moment though, because I'm cooking potatoes and having this totally necessary conversation with Steve.

Ok, so when you read this, just imagine all 6-foot-2-inches of Steve bouncing around the kitchen all wound up like Tigger, and I am completely calm and expressionless and never bother to look up from what I'm doing.

Steve: Do we have a spray bottle?! For water?!
Me: Yes.
Steve: We have a spray bottle?
Me: Yes.
Steve: --For water?!
Me: Yes.
Steve: We have a spray bottle for water?!
Me: Yes.
[I reach into the cabinet under the sink for the spray bottle, and pass it over the counter to Steve, who cradles the spray bottle in hands like it's a gold chalice]

Steve: Why--do we have a spray bottle? For water?
Me: To mist my house plants.
Steve: Really? [we both glance at the house plant in question]

Regular misting is what makes it so...crispy. Oh, and while you're here, can somebody call "Time of Death" on this ivy? I can't do it. I'm not a doctor, I'm just an intern.

Steve runs back to the grill. I hear the sounds of vigorous spritzing, and then the air surrounding Steve turns steamy/smoky. So yeah, I think he was extinguishing a small fire. I guess that explains the urgency.

You're out of the woods, You're out of the dark, You're out of the night

My blogging activity has experienced a steep decline in the past couple weeks. I tend to write about marriage, motherhood, friendship, light-hearted observations, pop culture. I'll write about any little thought that crosses my mind, but I keep it upbeat. The past couple of weeks I have been met with an onslaught of sad events, and while I wouldn't say that I'm overly affected, I would say that my blogging inspiration has been temporarily extinguished. I mean, really, how could I joke about dogs humping babies and adventures in Netflix at a time like this? I'll return to blogging, just as Dorothy returned to Kansas, but consider this my attempt at a graceful segue: Things that happened while I wasn't blogging, that kind of made me feel like I have nothing to blog about.

North Texas is spellbound over case of missing woman: for the local reader, I could sum this up by simply saying the name "Susan Loper", but I'll recap for my non-Dallas readers:

A beautiful mother and local fitness instructor is kidnapped in the early morning hours from the local country club where she teaches Pilates, leaving behind only her phone, her purse, and signs of a violent struggle. A touch of irony: this was to be her last day of work at this country club before realizing her dream of opening her own Pilates studio. She is found a day later, brutally murdered, in an open field off a major road that I drive every day. Adding to the tragedy: she has an eight-year-old autistic son. As our peaceful suburb comes to terms with this shocking tragedy, police finally name a suspect. News outlets show his photo and photos of his home...and he lives across the road from me.  Authorities announce that they have located him. In the Grand Canyon. After he jumped into it. And lived. It's just awful, piled on top of tragic, smothered in horror and sprinkled with bizarre. Family and friends of Susan Loper are asking donations be made to help secure her 8-year-old son's future. You can assist by sending donations to

Jake Loper Trust
c/o Ferguson Law Group
2500 Dallas Parkway, Suite 260
Plano, TX 75093

Make checks payable to Jake Loper Trust


Tornado devastates Tuscaloosa: The level of devastation throughout the state of Alabama following this tornado is really beyond comprehension and I'm deeply saddened by it. At the same time, I feel kind of disconnected because I am all the way in Texas. We don't have to be in Tuscaloosa to help, though. Anybody can make a donation (every dollar helps) to the American Red Cross.

This picture touches me because those kids look just like my friends and I did when we were in college. I'm so sad for them over what has happened to their college town.

The Royal Wedding Happened: The coverage began around 3:00AM, as did my dutiful DVR, but I didn't press "start" until about 9:00AM. My mom's house was without power, so, being the good daughter that I am, I took photos of the television screen with my camera phone and sent picture messages of Kate's wedding dress, and I downloaded photos from online gossip sites and texted those to her, so we could discuss the hideousness that was Princess Beatrice's Fascinator (also, I'm proud to have learned the difference between a hat and a fascinator), and debate just how little effort we believed Chelsy Davy put into primping for the day.

It's my personal belief that her messy updo was the product of an all-night bender with the boys, and that her hangover hadn't even kicked in yet. Takes one to know one. Not for nothing, the girl's as cute as a button and would look good in a paper sack, so I'm not trying to be mean. I'm just sayin'. Also, if there had been a betting pool for being able to best predict Kate's wedding gown description, my mom would have a fistful of cash right now. The day before the wedding, since she was bored and without power, I indulged her in a little game of "What do you think Kate's dress is going to look like?" Her prediction: full skirt, strapless bodice, long lace sleeves, plunging v-neck, "very similar neckline to the blue dress she wore to announce her engagement". Well, how do you think my mom did?

Special thanks to Pippa Middleton for setting the bar for aspiring foxy bridesmaids everywhere. I have my work cut out for me if I want a chance to compete for the title of Hottest Bridesmaid 2011

Osama bin Laden was killed: Steve and I are watching TV in bed and simultaneously surfing the Internet on our respective phones. I know, it's good, quality time spent together, right? Steve catches a whiff of something on the Internet about an important announcement from Obama that will be taking place in moments. Of course we now know what that announcement is, and that we were kept waiting for over an hour to hear the announcement. Steve turns the channel to CNN, where the journalists, stalling as the press conference is pushed further and further back, repeat that they refuse to speculate as to what the announcement may be. Steve is all up in arms over this, but I'm all like, "Pfft, Barack Obama schedules press conferences more often than I schedule pedicures. He probably just wants to tell us that he saved a lot of money on car insurance by switching to Geico...or something." Steve insists, along with the news anchors, that this announcement is going to be major. Well, if this announcement is so major, where is my silver fox, Anderson Cooper? Steve gets bored with CNN and their refusal to speculate, so he changes the channel to Geraldo Rivera. I know, I know. Geraldo is so amped up, his voice has gone up a couple of octaves. He, of course, is not above speculation. He keeps shouting in a high-pitched voice that this announcement is going to be earth-shattering, etc. Not even looking up from my celebrity gossip, I nonchalantly mumble to Steve "The only way this is going to live up to the hype is if Obama is announcing that they've killed bin Laden." Steve gasps, "You think?! That could be it! You could be right!" "I've been right before," I say with a shrug. Moments later, Geraldo rips a printed email out of the hands of somebody off-camera and excitedly reads aloud on-air that Osama bin Laden is dead. This news comes as a relief, but I'm always going to kind of hate that Geraldo Rivera is the person who told me. I wish it had been the President. Or Anderson Cooper. Or Hugh Jackman.

So, throughout this flurry of events, my mom is living for six days like a pioneer woman--without power. This of course, is due to the aforementioned massive tornado. She calls me on the morning after her power is restored.

Mom: Well, I turned on the TV for the first time in nearly a week. I'm finally seeing footage of the tornado that has ravaged our state and only missed my house by about ten miles. Charlie Sheen is visiting Tuscaloosa to assess the damage. There was a Royal Wedding. Osama bin Laden is dead...

...My lights are back on, and it's a dramatically different world than when the lights went off.

Me: It's frickin' trippy, right? Did The Lollipop Guild greet you outside?

Mom: Pretty much.