Today E is competing in a iron man hockey tournament, which means he’s basically getting the crap beat out of him for fun. Men. It also means I won’t be taking any long leisurely naps to make up for the hours I spent tossing and turning (and much, much worse) as punishment for eating WAY TOO MUCH delicious food at girl’s night last night because I’m going to be child-minding and/or bandaging bleeding head wounds. I know you’re so jealous.

So between begging the toddler to stop kicking me in the face and begging the baby to stop kicking me in the liver, I could use some happy today. Here are some things that fit the bill:

I have NO PROBLEM admitting my taste in music leans heavily on whatever the Top 40 station tells me to like (also known as: songs likely to be covers by the cast of Glee). And I think Sara Bareilles fits easily into that category. ASK ME IF I CARE. This song is awesome wrapped in fantastic coated in chocolate. I dare you to not find yourself singing it in the car.

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E really likes t-shirts that say stuff on them, which can be both hilarious and horrible. For example, “The first rule of computer club is that you don’t talk about computer club” is funny. “Hey Princess, Bring Me a Beer” is not (<—— ACTUAL SHIRT HE OWNS). Neither are the various candy slogans-turned-innuendo – “How many licks does it take?” OH HAHAHAHA I GET WHAT YOU DID THERE.  So I encourage the hilarious by buying him the shirts myself.

When we were cleaning out the closets, he found these two in the bottom:

(Warner: Movie spoilers below. Although if you STILL don’t know that Bruce Willis is a ghost, I have no sympathy for you.) (p.s. At the end of Titanic, the boat sinks.)

"The mission wasn't impossible" makes me LOL every time

Best part of the shirts: can you name all the movies?

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As I may have mentioned previously, I read a LOT of blogs. And a big portion of those blogs are other moms who mostly just write stuff. They aren’t fancy or sponsored or professional photographers, but I enjoy every single one of their posts. They’re the kind of writers where I WANT to comment on what they say, rather than feeling like I have to and they post because they WANT to, not because they have to. But just like ANY blogger, I’m sure they’d love more readers.* So check these ladies out**:

1.Planet Hausfrau – Audrey is now the mom of 2, a boy and a girl, both just a few months ahead of my own. There are a zillion reasons I like her, but I think a lot of it boils down to her honesty and frankness when she’s writing about anything from growing vegetables to VBACs.

2. And Then There Were Four – I honestly can’t even remember how I stumbled across Natalie, but I’ve been reading every post (and most of her archives) since I was pregnant. She just…writes. I love it.

3. Now Showing! – Again, I’ve been reading for so long I don’t remember how I started, but I’m pretty sure Brigid falls in the same category as Holly (A Baby Grows in Brooklyn) and Amy (BabyBabyLemon) which is “people I know from a previous life where I spent WAY TOO MUCH TIME arguing about reality tv shows and feminism on a popular women’s blog”. Brigid is irreverent, honest and funny, and I often find myself trying to write more like her.

4. Tin Roof, Rusted – I KNOW I know Leah from my time on the above mentioned website and she is the first blog in my old “Mom blogs” bookmark folder. Her son is a genius named after a hockey trophy and I’m pleased as punch she is expecting her second baby right now. Every post is LOL funny.

5. Life V. 2.0 – TMae is a lovely blog friend who has supported me here on bebehblog since the beginning and now has her own little corner of the internet. She is smart and funny and a good combination of cute baby pics and deep thoughts.

*I am under no delusions that my link here will cause a sudden spike in anyone’s traffic. I am not big-time by any means. I’m barely even small time. I just wanted to show some love.

**I almost never do lists like this because I always feel like I’m hurting someone’s feelings if I leave them off, but please know I still love you and your blog too. These are just people I’ve read in the past few days who made me think “More people should read this!”

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And now I’m off to watch some hockey and check Goodwill for a lamp I can use in the new nursery. Not necessarily in that order. Happy Saturday!!

I know people are torn on the ETrade baby and whether or not he’s weirdly creepy and stupid or adorable and hilarious, but after the most recent commercial I fall squarely in the adorable category.

Because this baby? Is clearly related to BabyEvan.

19 Weeks and already BEST FRIENDS

Dog Love

LOVE DOG

So every time that commercial comes on, E and I laugh our head off. Then we started shouting the “frowned upon” part. And then Little Evan started actually trying to ride the dog. Which we discouraged.

If by “discouraged” you mean “helped him ride the dog”.

Wheeee!!!

I gave Brutus ALL my pizza crust tonight to make up for this. He hasn't pooped in my shoes yet, so I don't think he minds.

For at least an hour after nap time today, Brutus lay on a blanket on the floor while Little Evan leaned against him and drank two sippy cups full of milk. It’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen and it reminds me that adopting Brutus four years ago wasn’t just luck – it was one of the best things we’ve ever done.

(Apologies for blurry iPhone photos – I had the memory card for the DSLR in the computer so obviously it didn’t work so well when I tried to use it.)

(Uh, and for the record, this post is not in any way sponsored or approved by ETrade.)

In a far off land, a long long time ago, possibly in another life, I wore a lot of REALLY ugly clothes. And by ugly I mean extreme skimpy and inappropriate for public as well as unfit for human eyes. But it seemed like a good idea at the time.

If anyone ever makes a movie about my life, “It seemed like a good idea at the time” would be the tag line on the posters for both high school AND college.

Most of the blame falls on a) being 19 b) losing a lot of weight and suddenly being about to FIT into extremely skimpy clothing and c) being a regular at a bar where a fake velvet cheetah print bell bottom unitard was considered perfectly normal attire. Did I mention this bar also had a disco ball shaped like a saddle? And that it was not just a bar but a country line dancing night club? Where I was not only a regular but once asked to take part in a “Girls of Neon Moon” charity calendar?

Are you going to stop laughing soon? I’ll wait while you go put on dry pants.

FOR THE RECORD: The calendar never happened. So stop Googling.

ALSO FOR THE RECORD: I met E at that bar. And married him mostly for his line dancing skills.

As part of our current home renovation, we needed to make room in the storage half of the attic for all the junk we need to get out of the living space half of the attic. Since I am the kind of person who Has A Hard Time Getting Rid Of Things, I found three giant tubs full of clothes I have kept for far far too long. Some are just too small (I gave them to my friend Megan who has lost like a zillion pounds and wears tiny midget sizes now), some are just out of fashion (I donated them to Goodwill), and some are so terrifically awful I kept them just to take pictures.

I present for your mocking pleasure – The black sparkly mirrored pants:

I think I mentioned before they were a size 5. Turns out they’re actually a 7. But they’re a 7 the same way fat free mayonnaise is actually mayonnaise. NOT AT ALL.

Now, you may be asking yourself “What does one wear with such lovely, lovely pants?” So I present, the matching shirt.

Still not convinced it’s a shirt?

Sigh.

Fine.

P.S. For the record, don’t expect awesome vintage pictures with future bad fashion posts. They all seem to have gotten lost somewhere between my college apartment and this house. But boy am I going to hold this against my kids some day – LOOK WHAT PREGNANCY RUINED!

THIS HAS BEEN…Extreme Moments in Bad Fashion!

I like to think I’m pretty good at telling stories. I have a good sense of timing and rhythm and can make something slightly amusing into a must-tell party anecdote. It’s one of the reasons I like blogging so much, because I get a chance to tell so many stories and really take my time writing them up in the most entertaining way possible.

In high school, I had a friend named Matt who was eightybazillionty times better than I will ever be at telling stories. He could make anything funny, and even after retelling the same story over and over and over he could still have us rolling on the floor laughing over that one time he walked into the wrong hotel room and yelled at a total stranger. Or the time he was canoeing with the Boy Scouts and the younger kids ran their canoe into a dead cow that was floating in the river.

I swear, when Matt told it, the cow story was the FUNNIEST STORY EVER. And he told it so many times I could have (and did) repeat it word for word. But I’ve forgotten most of the context and all the funny parts. Now it just sounds sad and kind of gross. It seems I’ve forgotten tons of those anecdotes over the years, stuff I thought I could never lose from my brain, the same way I thought writing “Today C and I met J at the ice rink, but SHE was there and made me mad” in my diary would still mean as much to me today as it did in 1995.

So in the interest of never forgetting, today I’m going to share two stories: one that happened a long time ago but is still one of my favorites (although it’s truly much funnier in person) and one that just happened recently but is too good not to be immediately added to my collection.

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Although I didn’t exactly go to a Serious College, I at least picked one that didn’t make my guidance councilor cringe. And although I didn’t exactly take College Seriously I was proud to graduate in the standard 4 year/8 semester time frame without ever getting into trouble that involved police involvement or parental notification.

It was finally the week of graduation and I was attending mandatory ceremony rehearsal. My school graduated everyone together, all walking one huge stage, in a beautiful outdoor extravaganza that hasn’t changed at all since the school was founded in 1770. Except for in 1905 when they started allowing in women. Or 62 years later when they integrated (South Carolina is not the most progressive state, y’all). The women wear white sundresses and carry red roses and the men wear formal white dinner jackets and red boutonnieres.

It’s very, very Southern.

Somehow, thanks to pure luck, a major in the most common concentration at the college (Communications, WHOOOP!) and a last name that started with a “G”, I ended up sitting in the very front row. Since the stage is raised above the audience I was in pretty much the only seat that made my parent’s presence worthwhile – every student in rows 2-infinity was invisible until the moment their name was called to walk. It also meant I had to sit like a Lady in my skirt and pretend to be interested in the most boring 90 minutes of speeches EVER.

Towards the end of the mandatory rehearsal, the head of campus security got up to make a few announcements about the behavior he expected from us as Ladies and Gentlemen of a Certain Quality. We were not allowed to make spectacles of ourselves during graduation. We were not allowed to make condom balloons. We were not allowed to show up late. We were not allowed to show up DRUNK.

“Because,” he said in his most serious rent-a-cop voice,”If you show up intoxicated, I WILL be arresting you and I WILL take you to jail. You’ll be happy to know the Charleston County lock-up serves Rice Krispies for breakfast.”

The girl sitting next to me rolled her eyes. “That is so not true!” she scoffed. “I’ve been to jail TWICE and all I got was toast!”

During the ceremony later that week I made her wave to my parents. I wanted them to see how worthwhile that education they just finished paying for was.

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In case you’re new here (or you forgot), my friend Erin got married a couple weeks ago and I was one of her bridesmaids. Erin was actually one of MY bridesmaids back in prehistoric times when E and I got married, which I thought was really special. I also thought it gave me the right to be Mrs. Bossy McBossypants when it came to offering advice, whether it was asked for or not.

At the rehearsal, as we practiced lining up and walking (two things everyone learned in kindergarten but requires 2 hours of practice before all wedding ceremonies), someone mentioned that after the ring-bearer brought down the pillow he needed to give it to the best man, who would in turn put it on a little table, because when it came time for the exchange of rings they needed to be available.

“Oooooh” I said doubtfully, “You’re putting your REAL rings on the pillow? Maybe you should use fake rings. We used fake rings, like from a gumball machine. I mean, I’m not saying your ring-bearer {who was at least 12 and not at all irresponsible} can’t be trusted but those rings are important.”

I was assured the rings were fine on the pillow.

“Well. Ok. If you say so. Although I don’t think anyone would NOTICE the fake rings and then your best man dosn’t have to worry about untying them or anything but if you want to do it your way that’s good too. I’m sure it will be fine.” I was really annoying about it. I think I followed up my comments with a story or two about lost rings at various weddings, although they might have been stories I read on the internet rather than anything that happened to anyone I know.

“And just so you know,” I jokingly added, “I’m wearing my wedding bands today for the first time in like a zillion years so if it comes to it, you can always borrow mine.”

Fast forward to the ceremony and the moment when the minister asks for the rings. The best man grabs the pillow, unties the groom’s ring…and starts to look panicked. He glances at the ground. He turns over the pillow. The minister says “Do we have the rings?”

15 incredibly long seconds tick by while everyone stares at the ground uselessly.

The bride snaps around and whispers “Give me your ring!”  I hand my bouquet to the bridemaid behind me, yank my diamond band off my fat swollen finger, and pass it to her before anyone even notices.

Erin hands the ring to the minister, everyone thinks the crisis has been averted, Elliot puts my wedding ring on Erin’s hand and they are declared husband and wife. And lived happily ever after.

Personally, I think using my ring means I’M married to Erin. Or maybe E is married to Erin? Or we’re all four married to each other? I am fine with any of the above scenarios. And if you had to use someone else’s ring for your wedding ceremony, I ring that’s brought 6 successful years of marriage and 2 babies to the original user isn’t your WORST choice, right?

P.S. I did not say “I told you so” or anything similar to “I told you so”. Although several people said it for me.

P.P.S. It turns out the ring-bearer didn’t lose the ring at all – it was still tied to the pillow, just tucked under a ribbon. The best man just couldn’t find it and once he started to freak and assume it was lost no one thought to double check the pillow. So the person we should have been worried about messing up is the Englishman who had been drinking constantly for the previous week. Shocking.

What’s your favorite personal story?