Thursday, April 9, 2009

I kind of like Jethro.

Sometimes, I think the Internet is a sick, sick thing that the devil has put here to suck up my brainpower. Like Wikipedia. Wikipedia is like crack for me. It’s the world’s longest game of “6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon.” Last week I watched Love Actually (for the 427th time) and looked up Emma Thompson in Wikipedia to see what other roles were listed. Before I knew it I had gotten mired in an entry dealing with the divide between church and state. No kidding.

So I have been trying to curb the wiki-ing, but other brain sucking diversions have sprung up to take its place. Have y’all seen One of my preggers buddies, Nicole, is having a girl and we (well, okay, just ME) have been fascinated with Nymbler. Check it out.

I like baby names. I am obsessed with baby names. I could discuss baby names for hours. Days, perhaps. I am not remotely ashamed that I have a collection of baby name books dating back to when I was 13. I was very upset at the original name of my Cabbage Patch kid and sent in the adoption certificate to have it changed from Heidi to Carla, after a character in the 80’s cartoon Kidd Video. If you remember Kidd Video, you are my new best friend because even Baby Brother could only muster up a vague recollection.

Oddly enough, this obsession does not extend to actual babies, just their names.

(Dear friends: This does not mean I don’t like your babies. I love your babies. I just don’t love them with a sick and freaky obsession, for which you should be relieved.)

As you can imagine, this tends to drive my friends (all of whom seem to be pregnant right now) batty. Especially when I break out the baby name rules…..which, let me explain, are only MY rules. You choose your names as you wish, more power to you. You want to name your kid Bronx Mowgli, Ashlee Simpson, float your own boat. Maybe he can grow up and hang out with Kal-El Cage and Pilot Inspektor Lee. (Then again, if Jason Lee wanted to have babies with me, I would let him name them Inspektor Gadget, if only he would get rid of that Earl mustache.)

Who named your baby? Jamiedidit.
1. No nickname names. Call her Katie. But make the birth certificate say Katherine. Unless, of course, there is a tradition of some sort.
2. If you fight over a family name, whoever pops the kid out first wins.
3. Last name-first names are great. I think this is because NOBODY will ever be able to use my last name as a first name and I am jealous of the rest of you.
4. Nicknames (as long as you have a regular name for formal use) are even better. Baby Sister has a rocking nickname, and I am way jealous. There is nothing one can do with Jamie except amend it to James. I have a great-aunt named Winifred, which is way up there on the list of World’s Most Hideous Names, but the nickname she has is so rockstar awesome that I will most likely use it one day, and therefore will not tell you people about it.
5. British names are great. In the UK you can use the name Jemima (LOVE Jemima) and they think Beatrix Potter’s Puddle-Duck, not Pancake Syrup. For that matter, you can use Beatrix!
6. (The Golden Rule) Spell it conventionally, people. Let me tell you, I spent the first half of my life hoping there would be stuff with “Jamie” preprinted on it at tacky Florida souvenir shops, and it never happened. There was always JAIME, but no JAMIE. So I know you think all those funky Kaitlyn, Katelin, Caytlan, etc. spellings are cute, but then your kid will never get any fun personalized stuff because nobody will be able to spell her name.

Oh, and Nicole? Decided on “Amelia Claire.” Very classy, very perfect. I think I will call her Millie.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Here I come, Dancing with the Stars!

I have this mental list of things I absolutely refuse to do. Things like this random sample: skydive, return to Mexico, watch Old Yeller, ever attempt post-graduate studies and...go to the gym. One of these things has been removed from the list.

I went to the gym.

Exercise and I do not play well together. I never even had the “Get in Shape, Girl” playset. My only real attempt at any sort of athletic pursuit was a hellish couple of seasons in girls’ softball. My wonderful and equally daydreaming friend Amanda and I often split the position of catcher, and argued over who would remain in the dugout. But then I hit a pop-up into my own eye and was allowed to gracefully retire from my team.

I take that back……I also took dance lessons for years. Tap and jazz at the CEA with Miss Julia Hope and later Miss Jennie. I can work a step-ball-change and I can shuffle off to Buffalo, but the jazz skills are lacking. I did, at one time, join the junior jazz group of a different local dance/gymnastics center. For one sweet, shining moment I was a Tumbletown All-Star. And then I singlehandedly ruined our chances to win the Kiwanis Kapers due to my complete inability to perform the Bobby Brown. (Or the Roger Rabbit, whichever you prefer.) "Pump Up the Jam" still gives me a panic attack.

So, you see, physical prowess is not my strong suit.

Angie & Dr. Brenton are trying to change that. Angie is on this health kick, which I am really not excited about, as it removes her cube steak from my diet for the forseeable future. And she makes really good cube steak, with home-made mashed potatoes and everything.

So Angie starts talking about how she’s so excited about starting this thing called Zumba, and I thought she was playing bridge or something. I was so confused. I think I got it mixed up with Mah Jongg and I couldn’t figure out how that was at all healthy, because I thought it was some game named for the Chinese word for gossip.

Turns out Zumba is Latin dance aerobics. And Angie loves it. She loves it so much she’s already talking about starting Pilates, too. But her enthusiasm won me over, and I went to my first Zumba class this past Saturday.

I had this image in my head of becoming like a Southern Jane Fonda crossed with Salma Hayek, but I think I came out of the class a little more like Charo. But I finished it, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as I feared.

Maybe next week I can work my way up to being Suzanne Somers.

Monday, April 6, 2009

Welcome to April!

Time to redecorate around here! Baby Sister spent the day Saturday helping me tweak my home decor, so today the blog gets the same treatment! Maybe tomorrow you'll get a real post.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

I should do infomercials.

My Aunt Marian, doyenne of Poplar Creek, she of the 57 china patterns, is unsurprisingly very strict about her personal beauty regimen. Powder, mascara and lipstick, that’s it. But, it has to be from Estee Lauder. All Estee Lauder, all the time. Rosa Rosa for subdued events and a flashy fuchsia (I want to say it was Azalea Pink, but I am not sure.) just for general fabulousness. Ooh, boy, I just thought that bright hot pink lipstick was the most grown-up, sophisticated thing EVER when I was a kid. No matter that she had to put it on before entering and just after leaving ANYWHERE.

Come to think of it, this may have something to do with my need for dark lipstick. No, not fuchsia….I do dark, not bright. Plus, at the moment I am into this color I get at Walgreen’s which is from some el cheapo brand, but it’s called “Metallic Seduction” and makes me feel very old Hollywood every time I put it on. You know, every time I enter or leave anywhere. Oh, dear.

Somewhere around 75 or 80, when she finally started to wrinkle, AM jumped on the Estee moisturizer bandwagon. No more Oil of Olay for that girl! So, now she is an addict, and gets a little panicked when the supply is running low. Mom got the call from AM yesterday for the moisturizer run, for her first time. See, what you have to understand is that we don’t do expensive makeup. (See above on Walgreen’s.) I do have mad love for Clinique, because of my long affair with Black Honey Almost Lipstick that began when it swept the halls of Gardner Newman Middle School. But after one splurge on a $40 tub of Superdefense Anti-Aging Moisturizer (What can I say? I had just turned 30 and had a fistful of Christmas Bonus cash.) I forced myself to tone it back to Revlon. Which sucked, because that Superdefense rocked my newly tightened pores off.

Mom calls me and is astounded that she just paid $58 for the face lotion. ASTOUNDED. And it was the small size, so I’m pretty sure AM reamed her when Mom delivered the package, because the last time I made the face lotion trip, she had to have the big dog $115 version.

And, of course, there was the ever-popular free gift. This is where I have a bone to pick with Estee. Probably her own bone, because if she’s not dead that anti-aging line should be WAY more emphasized. It might even be worth the $115.

Estee, Estee, Estee. You need to drag your ass out of that grave, honey, because you have left your company in the hands of some reprobates.

I might not BUY expensive makeup, but I will rock a free gift like it’s nobody’s business, and Baby Sister and I have always been the beneficiaries of AM’s free gifts. We ESPECIALLY love your free gifts, because of 2 things: More than Mascara and that fun brown shimmery lipstick that ALWAYS appears in free gifts. You know, with that horrid Rosewood color that nobody (meaning me) looks good in?

Estee, I have to tell you, your folks are slipping. There was no fun brown shimmery lipstick! There wasn’t even any crappy Rosewood…….just a vile hot pink, although I am sure AM is enjoying that part. And – horror upon horror – what is this madness about taking away my beloved More than Mascara and substituting Projectionist? I call foul. At least you left the rocking awesome brush in there. I will not totally write you off until you take away that brush. Y’all can tell me all you want to about curved or contoured or tiny fancy mascara brushes. Nothing in the world will beat a travel size Estee brush. Holler if you hear me, ladies.

However, I was willing to forgive this because you included some fancy schmancy SPF 15 lotion. Which I mistakenly assumed would resemble my beloved Clinique Superdefense. I mean, you rich chick cosmetic moguls are all the same, right?

Let me tell you, Estee, I got out of the shower this morning, snatched on a robe, and ran…ran, I tell you, to try out my new face stuff. I dipped out a nice size daub and spread it on my newly washed cheeks. And do you know what my first thought was, Estee?

“My face smells like a perm!”

That’s right. I don’t know who is scenting your products these days, but you made my face smell like a bad day at Regis. When you sit down to eat your Mall Food Court Chick-Fil-A and you get a whiff of some banana-clipped hairdresser named Wanda (no offense, Wandas of the World) giving a permanent wave next to the Claire’s tennybopper outlet and that nasty funk stink ruins your meal.

Thanks, you nasty little minx. Next time I go free gift, I’m scoping out Elizabeth Arden. Take THAT.