I Thought I'd Care More: The Royal Wedding

Have you set your alarm for 2:55AM, so you have time to don a tiara, slip into your 'It Should Have Been Me!' t shirt and serve tea and scones on your Royal Wedding commemorative china before national coverage begins at 3:00AM sharp?

No? Is that because you're American, or because you have more pressing matters to attend to? I will be setting my DVR to record the wedding coverage, but I hope to be asleep when the celebration begins. I like Will and Kate, and I wish them the best, but I'm ready for this round-the-clock wedding coverage to be over. Because once it's over, journalists, celebrites, and talk show hosts will stop joking that their invitation got lost in the mail, right? I mean, it's a funny, funny joke, but all good things must come to an end, yes?

I don't mean to sound like a Bitter Betty, but the constant Royal Wedding coverage is wearing me out. Ok, for starters, I just realized that I unconsciously capitalized "Royal Wedding" like it's a proper name or a national holiday. That speaks volumes. Secondly, my loyalty as an American makes me question whether there is an appropriate level of curiosity, fascination, and obsession when it comes to the nuptials of another nation's monarch, and whether the American media has surpassed that appropriate level.

Of course I like the Brits and their customs, traditions, and all things British. I think Brits are good chaps. I rather enjoy a pint with my fish and chips. I like those WWII Keep Calm and Carry On posters.

I think the Union Jack is pretty cool.

I'm a fan of Sir Elton John. It doesn't change the fact that I'm not British, and it seems a little strange to be overly obsessed with the royal wedding. Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow are Americans who love Britain so much that they live there and clearly prefer it. And we Americans respond so well to that. It's bollocks is what it is! I don't want to be that girl. I don't mean to slag off on Madge and Gwynnie, but American girls who openly wish they are British are wankers in this humble blogger's opinion. America!

Maybe I would care more if the media wasn't trying so hard to make me care. It's the rebellious teenager in me that wants to rail against convention. They are cramming this wedding business so far down my throat that I'm choking on it as I run away from it. It's taken all the fun out, is what it's done. Yesterday Kathie Lee and Hoda were quizzing people on Royal Wedding trivia. I was listening while unloading the dishwasher, and I knew the answer to every single question. Despite my efforts to avoid this topic, Royal Wedding coverage has been so omnipresent over the past months that I've learned all this crap through osmosis. I shouldn't know how long Princess Diana's train was on her wedding dress. But I do. 25 feet.

I would classify my initial level of interest in this wedding as mild, but sincere. I like Will and Kate. They're a lovely couple. I'm happy for them. I love weddings, and I love wedding fashion. I'm looking forward to seeing Kate's dress, but that doesn't mean I wanted to spend the last five months listening to journalists attempt to analyze and predict every aspect of Kate's wedding day look ad nauseum. What's wrong with being surprised? She's going to look beautiful. Why do we have to pontificate about Kate's wedding day hair? Up or down? Let's imagine the possibilities!

I've also reached my limit on "How to live like royalty" specials. I'm not sure what's worse, endless news segments teaching me how to be as chic and elegant as Kate Middleton, or endless news specials that recount Kate and Will's courtship in painstaking detail. I'm so tired of hearing about how dazzled Will was by the sight of Kate in this dress:

The thing I take away from all of this is: if you wear see-through clothes, guys will notice you. Uhh, duh. How do you think I nabbed Steve?

What Misty Likes

Ahh, Misty. I haven't written about Jarred's favorite co-worker in a while. If you've been wondering what's new in the life of our beloved Methadone Scarecrow, here's the latest installment.

Many of our posts in the blogosphere detail the things we love: cupcakes, Robert Pattinson, yoga pants. Well, this post is about a list of things that Misty loves. The glue that holds the myriad of Misty's favorite things together is that they are universally mocked and/or despised by the general population. For your Tuesday morning enjoyment: Things Misty loves, that most people hate:

Pickle juice: Rotten cucumber liquid

Misty on Pickle Juice: "I could drink it!"

Crotch rockets: Gay noisy motorcycles, primarily driven wrecklessly by dbags.

Misty on Crotch Rockets: "Oh I love them, I cant drive one but I'd love to ride one."

Michael Vick - Involved in an illegal interstate dog fighting ring, reponsible for the death and torture of dozens of dogs.
Misty on Michael Vick: "Oh, Michael Vick. I just love seeing someone come back on top."

Bret Michaels: Hair metal singer/bandana jockey/stripper collector
Misty on Bret Michaels: "Turn that radio up! I wish Bret Michaels would sing to me!" [begins singing "Every Rose has its Thorn]

Citrus Cooler Gatorade - This shit's so bad they only sell it at the dollar store
Misty on Citrus Cooler Gatorade: "Citrus flavor is the bomb, its my all time favorite."

Nickelback: Overly-sexual Canadian rock group
Misty on Nickelback: "Man is that Nickelback? I sat in a parking lot for six hours to see them once."

Jon Gosselin: Paunchy, Ed Hardy-loving lothario and divorced father of eight
Misty on Jon Gosselin: "Poor guy, I dont know how he pays that child support."

Chad Ochocinco - NFL player so arrogant he renamed himself his jersey number
Misty on Chad Ochocinco: "Chad Ochocinco is soo hot"

You see, it would be this mat...and would have CONCLUSIONS written on it that you could JUMP TO

If Tom Smykowski from Office Space ever raises the seed money to manufacture his Jump to Conclusions Mat, and you decide you want to play, you don't want to play against me. I am the master of Jump to Conclusions. Or maybe you would want to play with me. You be the judge:

So, I was driving to the grocery store to buy Hot Pockets and sour cream (and nothing else) when I noticed a spectacle on the street. In front of one neighbor's house were three very LARGE trucks. Like large moving trucks, and plastered all over the trucks, bigger than hell, was their logo and advertisements as a carpet cleaning company that specializes in REMOVING PET ODORS. That selling point was heavily emphasized on all three trucks, which were so cluttered with information that it looked like they had been decorated by a child who loves stickers way too much. Neighbors down the street are standing in their yards scratching their heads, and I bet they're wondering the same thing I'm wondering: What in the hell happened in that house that would necessitate three enormous trucks to clean it up? I guess the obnoxious trucks serve as a great marketing tool for the business, but for the home owners, it's like posting a memo in the neighborhood newsletter that says "Our house is vile. Seriously. Do not go in there."

I mean, I have no idea what transpired in that house leading up to the carpet cleaner's arrival, but I think they should just move. Did somebody hose down the entire house with urine or something? In case you have forgotten, I have three mutts and a baby, and even I have to I ask myself what terrible thing would have to happen inside my home to require such drastic measures. Maybe if we returned from a week-long vacation to discover a rotting carcass in our living room. Then again, I probably would just rip out the carpet in the unlikely event of such stench. Oh no, I hope there wasn't a dead body in there. That would be unfortunate.

As I return home, Hot Pockets and sour cream in tow, I take another close look at the trucks in search of clarity. A subtle banner across the top of the truck reads, "Flood Repair". Oh. Yeah. Flood repair. That makes a lot more sense. And is a lot less sinister and gross. Why do I immediately jump to the worst possible conclusion? Flood damage never crossed my mind, but dead hobos and garden hoses filled with urine did. Does that even exist? What in the hell is wrong with me?

In a related note, the last time I took Robinson for a stroll in a nearby neighborhood, I saw a house that still had its Christmas lights up. I decided that everyone in that house was dead.

The Robster is Nine Months Old

Nah, I don't actually call Robinson "The Robster". I'm just trying it out. You know, because "Robster" rhymes with "lobster". And since he has red hair, I could call him "Red Robster". No? That's a terrible idea? Fine. Let's talk about Rob's nine month check-up, shall we?

 Height: 29.5" (95%)

Weight: 20 lbs 3 oz (50%)

Head: 18" (75%)

Laney is so over it. She wishes she was at Arby's, cause there's better food and cooler people.

The doctor recommended I offer Robinson a greater variety of foods to introduce new textures. This is something I've attempted, but Rob has been resistant and so I backed off for fear that I was pushing something he wasn't ready for. Also, Robinson already has toys designed to develop fine motor skills, but apparently these toys have too subtle an agenda and I need to buy toys that are more obvious in their purpose. The doctor explained that some babies, often little boy babies, don't develop their fine motor skills quite as quickly because they're like "cave babies". Does that mean that they like to bang blocks against other blocks while grunting? Yes. Yes it does. He has opposable thumbs, he just doesn't need to use them. Get it?

Since Rob was in good spirits, I took him to Buy Buy Baby and Kroger, where I bought clothes and age-appropriate toys for his Easter basket and baby food, respectively. While settling Rob into the shopping cart at Buy Buy Baby, I noticed a mother with a preschooler and a toddler exiting the store empty-handed, while the mother carries the toddler who is mid-tantrum. I don't know the details, but I gathered from the brief exchange I witnessed that the tot wanted a toy that Mommy wouldn't agree to buy, and the tot was voicing his objection. Big sister, who is all of four, decides to seize this opportunity to steal a random item from the store. Over the tot's screams, Mommy says "Hannah Elizabeth, put that back!" Mommy has eyes in the back of her head. She's kind of my new hero, I'm not gonna lie.

I just remembered that I forgot to buy Lean Pockets at the grocery store. Damn it. What am I going to eat now? I also bought all of the ingredients to make a sour cream cake...except the sour cream. Isn't that just perfect?

...and now there is a crashing sound in the kitchen. Robinson just pulled a large, oval-shaped copper bucket off the bottom of the baker's rack onto the kitchen floor. He's been fascinated with it for some time. I should have moved it already. The allure of the copper bucket proved too much for Robinson. I felt the same way when I bought it.

He's into everything now. He grabs items off the grocery store shelves. He loves the dogs' water bowl, looking at his reflection in the dishwasher door, and pulling up on anything that has wheels or a hard or sharp surface to fall onto. And if you ever looked at those safety outlet covers and wondered "who would ever play with an electrical outlet anyway?", the answer is "my kid."

"I want to go to there."

The Curse of the Sambino

Yesterday, we took Robinson to his very first baseball game, Rangers vs. Angels. Steve won four tickets and a parking pass in a silent auction to raise money for Meals on Wheels. We invited Scott and his little boy Holt, who turns three tomorrow. Happy Birthday, Holt!

On the way to the game, I sat in the backseat with the boys. Robinson was fascinated with Holt and couldn't take his eyes off of him. Holt was really sweet with him and would smile at him and show him his book about trucks. Holt is really into transportation right now. As we are driving to the stadium we pass a lot of road construction, and Holt would excitedly point and shout, "Truck!" "Train!" "Tractor!" and "BIGGGG TRAC-TORRR!" It was hilarious seeing how excited he was. It reminded me of Jarred when he was a little boy. He loved pointing out and identifying all the different types of construction equipment we would pass on the road. It's really sweet how even though times change, these little boys stay the same. I also learned that everything that isn't a truck or a train, is a tractor. Bulldozers, cranes, doesn't matter. When you're three, they're all tractors.

Watching a baseball game with little boys is so different than sitting with a bunch of adults. Holt gets so excited seeing the "tractors" on the baseball field, and the mascot riding around in the "tractor". It's fun getting to be silly and excited with him and point out things to Holt, like "Look at the tractor!"

Robinson sat in my lap during the game. He kept fake-coughing loudly and making obnoxious fart noises for so long, the elderly lady seated in front of me turned around to see just who was sitting behind her. She laughed when she realized it was a baby.

Robinson was in pretty good spirits, especially considering how close it was to his bedtime. We did one feeding and one diaper change while we were there, and this was my first adventure in changing diapers in a public restroom. I think it went pretty smoothly. What complicated matters was that I too was in need of a bathroom break, but being loaded down with an infant and a diaper bag made this impossible. So I had to carry Rob all the way back to our seats and give him to Steve so that I could return for a solo trip to the bathroom.

Back in the bathroom by myself, I'm washing my hands at one of the six sinks. As I walk towards the wall of seven paper towel dispensers, I discover what the woman directly in front of me has already found: only one dispenser has paper towels, and for reasons unknown, an old lady is standing directly in front of it, preventing anyone from reaching around to take paper towels for themselves. She doesn't seem to realize that there are other people in the bathroom. Why is she bogarting the paper towels? What in the hell is taking her so long? She's not drying her hands anymore...she's using the paper towels to polish an apple. Who brings an apple to the ball park? Who meticulously polishes apples in the ladies' restroom? Now she's carefully wrapping the apple in a paper towel. Now she's wrapping it in a second paper towel. Now she's wrapping it in a third paper towel. It's not a large apple. The woman and I are forced to just stand there while our hands are dripping with water. I'm about to just give up and dry my hands on my jeans. But I'm curious. Did she bring the apple from home? Why does it need such polishing? Is she about to eat the apple? If so, why does she have to wrap it up in three paper towels? What is she trying to protect the apple from? Is the apple for Snow White? These are the questions that run through my mind. She is sure she has secured the apple in her purse before walking away, still never acknowledging us. I totally bust the woman in front of me making bitchface at the old lady. Shannen Doherty just got a royalty check, thankyouverymuch. I'm amused.

Rob lasted until the bottom of the sixth inning. I consider that a huge success. Of course, in the grand tradition of Samantha attending Dallas sporting events, the Rangers lost. I'm ten for ten at this point. I'm like some kind of victory assassin. So now we refer to this phenomenon as "The Curse of the Sambino"