Concert Attire

During my high school and college years, I attended dozens of concerts. I've always loved listening to live music. Since college, I'm lucky if I see a concert once every two years. Tonight, I'm going to see Lady Gaga.  I'm getting excited, and am once again facing the age-old question: What am I going to wear?

When attending a Lady Gaga concert, attention must be paid to one's wardrobe. Her fans are very creative and theatrical. I certainly don't want to show up dressed like Meg Griffin. While considering the possibilities, it reminded me how much I've always loved getting dressed up to go to concerts--and then I remembered one concert in particular. Of course I'm going to tell you about it, but first: a little background information:

To appreciate this story, I need to introduce you to my 10th grade biology teacher. She was considered a beast by many. A former Army soldier, she was hardened by her years in the military and her time spent overseas fighting in the first Gulf War. She never, ever smiled, and on the first day of school let us know that she already hated us. In case there was any doubt. Sitting among my classmates, many of whom were mumbling the word "bitch" under their breath, a fire lit inside me. I have a strange need to please authority figures. Earning an "A" in her class, along with gaining her respect and acceptance would be my primary goal this semester. By Christmas, Mrs. H. was gonna like me. She would be my Everest.

I accomplished my mission. She loved me.

Over a year later, I'm going to a concert with my best friend. Let's say it's the Matchbox 20 concert. They're playing at the Amphitheater, and so we park a few streets away and are making our way through the Applebee's parking lot towards the main entrance. I know, that sounds sketchy, but trust me when I tell you that "through the Applebee's parking lot" is a totally valid point of entry. I'm dressed to the nine's for the occasion: an Express black cropped tube top (with the optional spaghetti straps), low-rise hip hugger Mudd jeans, and Candie's platform sandals. Not to be outdone, my bestie was in a halter top and mini skirt. So there we were, bonafide jail bait, struttin' that ass through the Applebee's parking lot. I bet you can't guess who is also in the Applebee's parking lot at that exact moment, taking her daughter to dinner: Mrs. H. What a pleasant surprise!

"Samantha?" Mrs. H. asks with a puzzled expression. She's never seen me decked out in my finery.

"Hi, Mrs. H!", I wave with enthusiasm. I am so happy to see her!

"Samantha! Does your mother know you're wearing that outfit?"

"Oh, Mrs. H," waving my hand dismissively, "my mother bought me this outfit!"

Mrs. H. gasped and hurriedly ushered her daughter inside the restaurant, as if she were trying to shield her pre-teen from my exposed midriff. I had completely misread her look of horror as one of mock-horror. I always do that. My It's A Wonderful Life Violet Bick, "Oh this old thing? Well I only wear it when I don't care how I look!" moment just blew up in my face.

Excuse me, but I was a good girl and an honor roll student, and if my mama let me out of the house in that outfit, I don't think anybody else should have an opinion about it. Seventeen-year-old Samantha had a 25-inch waist and was celebrating the moment.

After that, Mrs. H. didn't like me. Between classes, she would stand in the hallway and monitor the students as they changed classes, and was always questioning my mini skirt or plunging neckline. She even took issue with my "conservative" clothes! I never thought my clothes were inappropriate, but my interpretation of the dress code was like the proverbial tree in the forest: "If I'm showing a lot of leg, but the boys still don't notice me, is it a dress code violation?"  I had to re-route my path from chemistry to algebra, taking two unnecessary flights of stairs while wearing five inch platform heels, just to avoid being hassled. It was great for my calves, but I always arrived to Algebra class late (and feeling winded).

All that being said, I still don't know what I'm wearing to Lady Gaga, but it will be considerably more subdued than my past outfit choices.

Hairy Tales

I've mentioned that my son recently turned seven months old. In related news, a riddle: What has two thumbs, a huge ass and is still saddled with unwanted baby poundage? This girl. I just realized that joke doesn't work if you can't see me point to myself with both thumbs. Pretend you saw that.

Anyway, as a motivator on my weight loss journey, I have devised a reward system with designated prizes as I achieve certain weight loss milestones. I am proud and relieved that as of this morning, I have earned...wait for it...a haircut.

Yes, I have taken things that we consider to be basic American rights, like haircuts and pedicures, and I am holding them hostage in hopes of motivating myself to succeed. So I haven't had a professional haircut since June. It's beyond scraggly at this point, which just adds insult to injury. The injury, of course, having a donkey butt.

Haircuts have been big news in recent weeks. Tween Idol Justin Bieber got a funky-fresh new look for spring:

At a glance, I thought this looked exactly like his old haircut, with perhaps a different styling product or technique, but entertainment journalists insist that these are two totally different hairstyles. I choose to believe the entertainment journalists, as they are paid to know these things. Sidenote: I love his delicate features. I wish I could carry him around with me in a knapsack, and take him out whenever I'm feeling sad.

Tired of Bieber's fancy hair stealing the spotlight from her legendary mane, Jennifer Aniston changed her hair as well. This is newsworthy for two reasons: 1. Jen hasn't changed her hair in ten years; 2. Everything Jen does makes news.

"Jen hasn't changed her hair in ten years," said the pot to the kettle. I could say the same thing about myself, but like Jen, my hair is one of the best things I have going for me, so it would be foolish to hack it off. I am looking for something that is manageable without being matronly, makes a cute ponytail, and looks good as it grows out--in case I happen to go another eight months without a haircut. What I would like is to cut as much off as possible and still have "long" hair. Err...I want to have the shortest possible hair that can still be considered "long". Am I making any sense? I better learn how to articulate this vision before visiting my hairstylist. Maybe I'll just show him this picture:

Bitchface Goes to the Mall

Warning: This post contains stereotypes, digressions, and movie spoilers.

Ok, so you know how most some home schooled kids are socially awkward (stereotype #1) because they don't have the opportunity for social interaction in their everyday lives? Well, I've been a stay-at-home mom/shut-in since June, so my social skills have atrophied to the level of a Duggar kid. Not Josh Duggar. Isn't that the charismatic, sexy one?

Now that I've got a good case of cabin fever, and have achieved a level of isolation and awkwardness rivaled only by Tom Hanks' character in Castaway after they've rescued him (Spoiler!) along with a few other reasons I will expand on later, I chose to venture out into the world, to a place I loathe...the mall.

I know, the thought of me hating the mall seems like a contradiction in terms, doesn't it? Like Charlie Sheen hating hookers. There was a time, back when I had more money than responsibilities, when I could see no better way to celebrate, reward myself, or renew my broken spirit than to take a trip to the mall. Where else on earth can you purchase a pair of $150 faux zebra platform pumps while eating a giant pretzel? Seriously, is there another place? I want to go there.

Why do I hate despise the mall? Let me count the ways:

I hate despise the parking
I hate despise the crowds
I hate despise the moms who carelessly ram their strollers into my Achilles heel and don't even apologize
I hate despise that the mall compels me to buy things I don't need with money I don't have
I hate despise the guy at the kiosk who lunges at me and insists I allow him to:
   A) buff my fingernails
   B) flat-iron my hair
   C) thread my eyebrows
   D) introduce to me a revolutionary line of skincare products made from ingredients found in the Dead Sea

I just really hate when strangers invade my personal space.

Midway through this rant, I remembered just how much I hate the word "hate" so I'm going to replace it with a watered-down, less aggressive word.

When Kiosk Guy violates my personal bubble, I have fantasies of retaliating in a totally obnoxious way, so he'll think twice next time. But instead of blowing my rape whistle in his face or flipping him off, I go with the old passive-aggressive standby: pretending to talk on my cell phone. Sometimes, during my fake phone conversation, our eyes lock, and I know what he's thinking: "I know you're not really on the phone", and I look at him like, "I dare you to interrupt my fake phone conversation, sucka!" The closest I came to tangling with Kiosk Guy was when I was (extremely) pregnant, and he jumped in front of me and blurted, "Miss, would you like to--" and I shouted, "NOOOOOO I WOULDDDDDN'T!!!!!"

For somebody who clearly despises the mall as much as I do, one might conclude that online shopping is my ideal solution. There's just one problem: I'm married to a retail professional who is of the belief that online shopping will be the demise of retail, which will lead to the demise of our economy, which will lead to the demise of democracy. Or something like that. So, even though there's this hot new pair of Steve Madden platform pumps I just have to have, and I could have purchased them online, three days ago, in about five minutes time, I am schlepping through my third least favorite place on earth (#1 is the airport, #2 is the DMV), pushing a stroller through the frozen tundra, wearing platform clogs. Welcome to my nightmare.

Unfortunately, strollers require the use of an elevator. As the doors finally open on the world's slowest elevator, I stand aside to allow a mom with three kids and a jogging stroller to get off. And boy, do they take their sweet ass time. They come to a dead stop--right between me and the elevator, barring my entry. Everybody knows this particular elevator's doors only stay open for a nanosecond. After that, it's five whole minutes for it to come back. We're inches apart, yet Stroller Mom has no idea I exist. If she would just scoot, I can push my Go-Go Gadget arm out and hold the elevator. Once she finally begins to move, Stroller Mom notices me and says, "Oh!" and attempts to "help" me in the way your three year old "helps" you frost a cake. Sweet gesture in theory, hot mess in reality. Stroller Mom lunges between me and the elevator, much to my bewilderment, and instead of stopping the elevator, she mashes all the buttons, causing the elevator door to slam shut in my face and take off for the third floor where presumably nobody is waiting.

Realizing what she'd done, she says "Oops!" I let out a sigh and give her a withering look. Ok, "withering look" is just a euphemism for "bitchface". This bitchface was so blatant, Shannen Doherty got a royalty check for it. Shannen owns the rights to "bitchface"!

Stroller Mom freezes, apologizes, and her eyes twitch. That's when I realize that she sees my bitchface. Dammit. Ever since my Botox wore off last year, everybody knows what I'm thinking. That's the glorious thing about Botox (besides not aging). No matter what I'm feeling on the inside, my forehead is as smooth and placid as the ocean on a peaceful day. Without it, my angry forehead is as choppy as the ocean in The Perfect Storm, and that didn't end well. (Spoiler: Everybody dies!)

After much delay, I arrive at the Steve Madden store, where I learn that none of the seven area locations carry this particular shoe.

Disappointed but not defeated, I roll into Nordstrom. No blue suede shoes here, either. I inquire with the sales associate, explaining, "Well, I know which shoe I need, and it's available for purchase at SteveMadden.com, but I figured I'd try to support my local economy and purchase the shoe from a brick-and-mortar store..." "Yeah..." he sighed. And no luck buying the picture frame I wanted from Pottery Barn, which was also available for online purchase. This is just a big shopping FAIL. There's only one thing left to do...go to Williams-Sonoma, where I can indulge my love of overpriced spatulas.

As I'm exiting Nordstrom, I pass A Pea in the Pod. "Mama doesn't shop there anymore!" I say to Robinson, who smiles. Next door is Bebe. "Mama doesn't shop there anymore, either!" [Sigh]. Robinson laughs, as I gaze longingly at all the slutty halter tops I'll never wear.

Kris Kardashian and I have one thing in common: bitch loves her some colored spatulas. I thought I was the only one.

Did you see the episode where Khloe tries to help Kris organize her kitchen and discovers that Kris hoards red spatulas? No? Just me? Damn. Williams-Sonoma carries different colored spatulas throughout the year. After some careless cake frosting last fall, Libby ate my last red spatula, and I knew that I had to replace them quickly before the pastel spatulas arrived and ushered in springtime (yeah, you thought it was the Groundhog. You're wrong, it's the Williams-Sonoma pastel spatulas that signal the end of winter.) So, I left the mall with one orange spatula and one yellow spatula. Not exactly a pair of blue suede platform pumps, but I'll take what I can get.

Everyone Loves an Auburn Girl

Me and my ladies, 2006

Ok, in honor of the Auburn vs. Alabama football game taking place this Friday, I'm going to publish some related posts. Hopefully nothing I write will offend my gentle Crimson Tide readers. Seriously, I love what you Tide ladies have done with houndstooth:

photo via fannation

I am admittedly not very educated on the subject of football, but I love my Auburn Tigers. This year's meeting promises to be a hell of a game. I should probably write a post about My Boo, Cam Newton. Maybe another day. Today I'm going to tell you an embarrassing story about myself. Enjoy.

The night before Steve moved to Dallas, he took me out for a farewell dinner at the now-defunct Restaurant G in downtown Birmingham. It was a very classy, white tablecloth type of place, and I was enjoying a chocolate martini for dessert, which may have prompted this little gem:


Waiter: So, where do you go to school?
Me: I'm a junior at Auburn.
Waiter: Oh! My baby sister went to Auburn! You know what I like about Auburn? My little sister was a good girl when she got to Auburn, and she was a good girl when she left Auburn.

Me: [enthusiastically] That's right! And what happens in Auburn, stays in Auburn!

Waiter glares at me and walks away.

Me: Jeez, what's his problem?
Steve: I think you just called his sister a slut.

It Gets Better

All the recent news stories about teen suicides and school bullying are really upsetting. Celebrities and public figures have been reaching out by posting their own videos on the internet where they share their own bullying experiences and send the message to kids that "It gets better." It's fair to say that at one time or another, we were all either victims of bullying, or were bullies ourselves. If you're reading this and thinking that you can't relate to what I'm saying, you must have had a cop for a dad or a big brother to protect you. You're lucky.

In high school, I spent two years being intimidated, mocked, glared at and threatened by an upperclassman. At times I was in fear of bodily harm. The reason? Her best friend liked a boy who dated my best friend, and my locker was beside the boy's. Six degrees of separation = six degrees of hell. I didn't even know this girl. I had to actually look her up in the yearbook so I would know the name of the girl who made my palms sweat and my stomach churn everyday.

When I was twelve, my mom took me to the mall and told me I could get whatever I wanted for my birthday. I chose a black cord necklace that had beads of every color: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple. I thought it was the perfect necklace. Since it included every color, it meant it would go with every outfit I owned and that I could wear it everyday. Twelve-year-old Samantha was practical like that. I've always been the kind of girl who finds something that I like fashion-wise (v-neck tees, maxi dresses) and I buy five of them and wear them all the time. That's what I did in sixth grade with this necklace and Gap pocket tees. I was a happy, yet socially awkward twelve year old...until somebody decided to make my life hell.

similar necklace

This classmate informed me that my necklace was a "gay pride" necklace. I don't know that she went so far as to call me gay, but it was implied. She basically let me know that by wearing the necklace I was sending a message that I was at the very least gay-friendly. This was apparently a bad thing, as indicated by the endless mocking from her and her friends. This went on for months. Unwilling to concede that she was humiliating me, I became indignant--I went from wearing the necklace just a few times a week to wearing it every. single. day. I wasn't going to let this bitch get the best of me. Why would I subject myself to further ridicule?

1. I was sheltered and innocent, and therefore unfamiliar with rainbows being a symbol of "gay pride." I thought they were a symbol of "God's Promise". Or they were just colorful beads. It's like comedian Demetri Martin says in his stand-up routine: "How can one group own refracted light?" Basically, I thought this girl made it all up to hurt my feelings. I reasoned that, if I gave in and stopped wearing the necklace, where would the torment end? Would she then tell me that blue t-shirts, or green dresses symbolized a social taboo or cause that I supposedly should distance myself from? It's a slippery slope my friends, and I was not giving this girl the power to take my wardrobe and style hostage. 
2. If I'm playing devil's advocate, so what if she's right? What if rainbows do symbolize "gay pride"? I'm twelve. I'm not gay. At this time, I don't know anybody who is gay. The necklace doesn't symbolize gay pride to me, but I'm not some homophobe who isn't going to wear my necklace for fear of what people might think of me. 
3. Eventually my mom caught wind of what was happening. My mom is one of those crazy lioness moms: if she catches you messing with one of her cubs, she will maul your face off. Here's the deal: kids are bullied when they are perceived as weak. Nothing says "I'm weak and defenseless" like having your mommy fight your battles for you. My mom's threats and intimidation tactics were effective in this case, but it was a risky move that I would not recommend.
4. I eventually did put the necklace in my jewelry box, never to wear it again. I told myself it wasn't because of her. I reasoned that enough time had passed, I had worn the necklace for two seasons, and it was time to update my wardrobe. I do the same thing with handbags.

Not long ago, I was shopping for a wedding present at Williams Sonoma. Near the register, a whisk caught my eye:

I was in a hurry, so I resisted to temptation to buy this whisk. I still love colorful things. But here I am, fifteen years after being bullied for wearing a rainbow necklace, and the first thought that crosses my mind as I hold this rainbow whisk in my hand is: "I wonder if what's-her-face would make fun of me today for buying this 'gay pride' whisk?"

People come and go from our lives, and we won't always remember the things they said or did, but we'll never forget the way they made us feel. I hope that school administrators work to put an end to the tolerance of bullying in our schools, and that the school bullies would have the foresight to realize that if they don't want their legacy to be that of an asshole, they need to stop making sport out of making other people's lives hell.

It gets better.

A Day Without Makeup?

When I heard on the local news that a group of girls at Colleyville Heritage High School in nearby Colleyville, Texas made a "no makeup" pact to promote self-esteem, acceptance, and "redefine beauty", the very first thing that came to my mind was: whoever dreamt this up does not have blonde eyelashes. In high school, I spent roughly thirty minutes each morning applying makeup, only to be later asked by my classmates, "Samantha, how come you don't wear makeup?" [sigh]

In high school world, we can only wear jeans once a week, we can only wear a ponytail once a week, and on Wednesdays we wear pink. 

Now we should add "no-makeup Tuesdays" to the list. It's a sweet notion, really, like a child starting a lemonade stand to solve the national deficit. Going to school sans makeup highlights the biggest disparities between the haves and the have-nots in the looks department. Makeup levels the playing field.

This little girl with Heather Locklear is her 13-year-old daughter, Ava Sambora. Thirteen?! Imagine going to high school with her. I pretty much did go to high school with her, and I needed the entire Lancome counter just to keep up with her and be the "funny sidekick".

Another case in point: In the news package below, (that's what the pros call it right, a "package"?) reporter Susy Solis has a moment (around the :50 mark) where she decides to join the girls and bravely [eye roll] remove her makeup on camera with a moist towelette. Then we get to see side-by-side photos of her dark eyes and complexion and immaculately groomed eyebrows with and without makeup. I swear on Robinson's bouncy seat (which is sacred) that the woman looked exactly the same. I would also swear on Robinson's bouncy seat that half the reason she did it is so that her little interns and drones in the newsroom could inflate her ego with "Oh my gosh, Susy, you look exactly the same without makeup! You make me sick!" and Susy is all, "Oh, puh-lease! You are too much! Now go fetch me a latte. And it better be sugar free hazelnut this time! What do I have to do to get good help around here?" What I'm saying is, Susy is a princess. And about as subtle as a brick through a plate glass window.

Walk a mile in my abino ginger shoes and then talk to me about how "scary and liberating" it is for you to face the world without your eyeliner. Where my Accutane patients at? Holla! The only thing worse than having cystic acne in high school is being left out of the no-makeup club because you require two tablespoons of special Clarins spackle foundation (in color: alabaster whisper) just to leave the house.

If I sound bitter, I probably am. I'm bitter that I lack the Colleyville High girls' youthful optimism. On them, it's refreshing and lovely. And they really are beautiful. Plus, if 200+ girls are putting cosmetics aside, that leaves more mascara for my old crusty face.

But What if He's NOT "Handsome Like Daddy"?

I mean, I don't have that problem. Robinson tested "negative" for Rumer Willis Syndrome, but...can't his cuteness just speak for itself? Why do I have to advertise the cuteness on his clothing?

Can a baby just wear clothes without announcing plans for future greatness, boasting cuteness, or projecting Mom and Dad's ownership of the baby?

My only baby is a boy, so I'll stick to what I know. The mothers of little girls have problems all their own, what with it now being fashionable to dress your little girl like a Yorkshire Terrier.

You have the onesies that boast the baby's cuteness:

You have the onesies that brag about the baby's parent's attractiveness:

Then there are the onesies that profess a baby's future talent:

Then you have the brutally honest onesie:

And of course, the onesie that shares a message that no baby would knowingly share:

Steve, for one, thinks it is hilarious to dress a baby in a onesie with a wildly inappropriate message.
I was going to go on a rant about how all little boys clothes are plastered in footballs, baseballs, and soccer balls, but after searching the internet for onesies for this blog post, I've discovered there are much worse things I could dress my son in besides a baseball onesie.



Boulevard of Broken Outfits

My next big purchase is going to be a DSLR camera. I love how I say "my" next big purchase, when I have an income of *zero* dollars. I'm full of jokes today! Until then, I'm still working with the point-and-click my grandparents gave me for Christmas 2004. It's been a great camera. I'm still working with the original memory card. I thought about buying a new memory card, but at this point it doesn't make much sense to do that. Instead, I occasionally go through and delete old pictures. At this point, that memory card holds only my most favorite moments from 2004 to present. It documents puppies, babies, my bachelorette party (Holla!), Auburn football games, vacations. Good times. Another thing I noticed as I was delete-delete-deleting was all the pictures of me in beloved outfits I no longer have.

Join me won't you, as I journey through the graveyard of my wardrobe!

Purchased: 2004

From: Banana Republic

The Story: A beloved one shoulder size 4 top (whoop whoop), it combines my love for metallic and orange

Where is it now?: Packed away in a tub of clothes I won't part with, despite no longer being a B-cup.

Purchased: 2005

From: Bebe

The Story: It's the freakin weekend, baby, and that's all the reason 23-year-old Samantha needs to buy a new outfit!

Where is it now?: No clue. The color washes me out, and it's just about backless. I think I gave it away?

Purchased: 2005

From: Laney's Place (a boutique in Homewood, Alabama)

The Story: A Christmas gift from my mom. I love this top!

Where is it now?: After dragging in late one night, I carelessly left this top on the floor. Puppy George chewed the shoulder. Pretty sure I cried.

Purchased: 2005

From: Bebe

The Story: Just another cute going out top that made me feel like a million bucks, but not like I'm trying too hard.

Where is it now?: Missing in Action

Purchased: 2006

From: White House Black Market

The Story: My bridesmaid, Kristen, had a cute idea for me to wear white to my bachelorette party, while all my bridesmaids wear black. It was a lot of fun and the pictures turned out great. Since it was the middle of winter, these winter white pants were all I could find, and the hems were completely destroyed by the dirty floor of Mako's in Atlanta

Where is it now?: In an alteration pile at my mom's house, I think. She has repeatedly tried to stain treat these pants and may try to shorten the hem and remove the damaged fabric at a later date. I think it's a moot point now.

Purchased: 2006

From: Saks Fifth Avenue (Theory)

The Story: I bought this for my bridesmaids luncheon. It now features loose and missing rhinestones and is tinged with self tanner.

Where is it now: In a bag to go to the dry cleaners for two years. As if it could be saved.

Purchased: 2006

From: Saks Fifth Avenue (BCBG)

The Story: Favorite top of all time. It's beautiful silk, in just the perfect shade of green, with wooden beading.

Where is it now?: George got a hold of it and gnawed the wooden beads off and chewed the zipper at the hem. I kept it hanging in my closet for two more years after that, convincing myself that I would wear it anyway and that nobody would notice the missing beads.

Purchased: 2006

From: The Auburn University Bookstore

The Story: I bought it the day before the game, right after arriving from Dallas

Where is it now? Oh, I still have it. Washing and drying this shirt was the last act of laundry I permitted Steve to do in our house. I think it would fit Laney now.

Purchased: 2004

From: Arden B

The Story: There was a time when I would buy anything that was green. In 2004, camisole tops were so hot. Most people would be thrown off by a top that doesn't allow for a bra, but not me.

Where is it now?: I loved it enough to save it, but the plastic ring that adjusts the strap is broken

Purchased: 2005

From: Bebe

The Story: Saw it in a mailer from Bebe, fell in love with it and bought it, despite it being a terrible color for me.

Where is it now?: I gave it to Amy

Purchased: 2006

From: Saks Fifth Avenue (BCBG)

The Story: I can't explain this. That band across the top is fully sequined, too.

Where is it now? Tucked safely away. I now leave this sort of dressing to JWoww.

Purchased: 2006

From: A boutique sale in Atlanta

The Story: As I said, there was a time when I would buy anything green

Where is it now? I hope I gave it away, it will never be appropriate for me to wear again

Purchased: 2007

From: BCBG

The Story: I needed a new top to wear on the Girls Beach Trip. This was on sale. And it was green.

Where is it now?: I gave it away to somebody who might want to look pregnant.

Chateau Samantha is Still Occupied

Apparently I provide such gracious and cozy accommodations that Robinson never wants to leave. I'm too nice to kick him out, so unless he comes to the decision to be born on his own, we're inducing on Thursday, July 22! I am comfortable with this because I like the number 22. The doc promised me that if we induce on July 22, I will have a baby in my arms on July 22. None of this making-me-labor-for-36-hours business. I'm grateful for that.

The baby and I are both doing well, so there is no medical reason to induce earlier. My doctor and I have agreed to try and let nature take its course. There are plenty of medical reasons to not want the pregnancy to continue beyond 41 weeks however, so that is why there is an induction date on the books just in case he doesn't get here the old fashioned way by the deadline.

I'm super sleepy today. That's why I haven't blogged about The Hills finale yet. George and I barely slept a wink last night, because around 3:30am, we both heard this really loud "boom" sound. I guess I've seen that ADT commercial too many times, because I immediately had an image of a strange man with pantyhose or a ski mask on his head trying to kick in my door to invade my home.

In my nightmares when this happens, I always try to hide or escape without the burglar seeing me. Also in my nightmares, I'm mute. When it happened in real life, George and I jumped out of bed and were running around hollerin' (I really tried to type "hollering" just now and I couldn't do it. Must be a southern thing). Well, I was hollerin'. George was barking. It was just the two of us. I couldn't believe the entire house didn't wake up. I made Steve join me in the investigation. Laney and Libby stayed in bed. They are the worst watch dogs ever. I felt kind of dumb later, because usually George runs around the house, barking all by himself and looking like a jackass and everybody just points and laughs at him, but last night we were both jackasses. It was like we had this one moment where we were on the same wavelength. Being on the same wavelength with George is about as cool as being on the same wavelength as Stimpy, so I might be losing my mind.

Also in "I've been pregnant forever" news, the friendly staff at Cache called to check on me because I haven't shopped in their store since December. They wanted to let me know there is a terrific sale going on now! In my pre-pregnancy days I was a loyal Cache shopper. What can I say, I'm a big fan of slutty cougarwear. Unfortunately, they don't manufacture their clothes in size: Goodyear blimp so I've had to do without.

I suspect they're calling because business is down. I had to finally unsubscribe to their email updates last week because they were sending me emails every single day. It just reeks of desperation, like Lady Gaga's publicity stunts. I haven't been donating my disposable income to their cash registers for the past seven months, and now they're probably gonna go bankrupt and I won't have a place to shop for MILF attire. The day I go to the mall and their store is closed will be a sad one.

My Favorite Things. Alphabetically.

Auburn University. The loveliest village on the plains. The best four years.

Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream

Coconut Lime Verbena. Thank you, Bath and Body Works.

Dyson Animal. The last vacuum I'll ever by (I'm counting on it)

E! Favorite channel. Exclamation point.

 Felix the Cat

Glee. Because I love Sue Sylvester. I love spontaneously breaking into song. I love jazz hands.

Hoop Earrings. The bigger the better. That's what she said.

iPod.

Jarred. The reason I'm not an only child. The reason I'm so happy not to be an only child. The main source of my laughter.

Khloe Kardashian. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Kardashians are everywhere, and this is the one I'd rather hang out with. Say what you will.

Left-handedness. It's a lifestyle, not a choice. Actually, it's just a less common hand dominance.

Mutts. Preferably with big ears, curly tails, and disproportionately long legs.

Napa. Our honeymoon destination. I can't wait to go back!

Orange. My favorite color.

Peacocks. I'm sort of obsessed.

Q-Tips. Well? Have you tried to go a day without using one?

Redheads. They're my people.

Steve. My boo.

TomTom. He's saved my bacon on many occassions.

Us Weekly. It's news. It's entertainment. It's in my mailbox.

Vanilla Latte. Best way to start the day.

Weddings. The love. The optimistm. The cake. 

X-Ray. I may take them for granted now, but if my kid ever swallows a rock...or my wedding ring...I'll be grateful

YouTube. ITube, we all tube.

Z Gallerie. Favorite store ever.

Thanks, Marcie for the idea for this post!