Day 24: Dimmest Bulb in the Box

Tonight I made a batch of beef vegetable soup while Bradley fed Mary Brooks and whipped up some baby food.

After all the cooking, I really wasn't in a 'soup' mood for supper, but I was still flattered when I saw Bradley had made me a bowl of it and left it on the stove top.

Having changed my mind, I poured my untouched bowl of soup back into the pot as I wondered if Honey Nut Cheerios could pass for a dinnertime food.

It wasn't until two-thirds of the bowl's contents were out that I realized I was dumping Mary Brooks' freshly pureed plums into a meaty, tomato-based pot of soup.

I scrambled to salvage what I could of both the plums and the soup, as I don't think the two flavors mix particularly well.

Lesson learned: pay attention when you pour, don't presume Bradley has made you supper (you are considerate, B, but not usually that forward-thinking), and cereal does in fact constitute an evening meal.

I hope the soup is just as good tomorrow, though I'm sure I'll 'taste' plums even if every bit is long gone.

Signed,
The Dimmest Bulb in the Box

*This post is day 24 in my 31 Days of What Matters.

Day 18: Sweet, Awkward Moments

Last night as I put him to bed, Mac asked me to stay behind and snuggle with him for a minute; I couldn't turn him down. He recovered from his stomach bug, but is cutting his two-year-old molars, and MB is a few days behind him on that tummy stuff. It hasn't been our most cheerful week, though it's nothing we can't handle.

Mac wanted me to lie down for "just one minute" because he didn't want to "start sleepin' alone. I can do it by myself, but I wanna start with you." Who could resist?

As I got in bed, with his white noise blaring and his lights off, it was hard to keep my eyes open. He knew how to keep me awake and interacting, though - he sang to me.

The number was something he wrote on the fly all by himself, and the melody was as repetitive as it was simple. It's the best song I've ever heard:

"I love you, Mama. You are my one. You love God and Jesus and they love youuuuuuu. I am so proud of you. You are my Mama."

I nearly died. "My one?" This kid knows how to lay it on thick, and I ate it up.

A few minutes later, understanding that flattery is the surest way to earn extra snuggle time my heart, this gem came out of his mouth:

"You know what you're good at, Mama? Lots of things. Cooking, sitting down on the potty, washing dishes, opening curtains, finding my shoes, closing curtains, putting your pants on, sleeping with people... All kinds of things."

My son thinks I cook and wash dishes (victory!); he also thinks I'm good at sleeping with people.

I suppose Mac meant snuggling, but still - this is one story I hope he doesn't relay word for word to his teacher. I'll let you know if she starts giving me "you skank!" looks.

Don't forget to leave a comment on Tuesday's post to win a Beaufort bonnet or Beaufort bucket hat from The Beaufort Bonnet Company! The giveaway closes tomorrow morning.

*This post is day 18 in my 31 Days of What Matters.

Open Mouth, Insert Embarrassment

Who, me?
Clutching my lemonade nervously and acting as though I don't see the camera?
Why no, I never behave awkwardly. Why ever would you ask?

I make a fool out of myself so often that, when asked (why does this subject come up so often in my presence?) I can never pick out just one.

I just read a story that kick-started a super-awkward college memory, though. From here on out, I may have a pat answer to that "what's your most embarrassing moment?" question.

In college, everyone of the male persuasion had a nickname of sorts. Whether it derived from a major (Beaker), a memorable feature (diminuitive Doug became D. Low), a hometown (Rock Thrill), or no apparent reason at all (Scuba?), the names stuck.

I was never more grateful to be a girl; the only nicknames given were "sweet pea," "love," or, for the very lucky, "rush crush."

Coming to college, guys must know that nicknames are part of the deal. Some were laughable, others un-repeatable, but everyone just seemed to go along with whatever nonsensical moniker got tossed their way.

My junior year, I became friends with a particularly sweet fraternity pledge nicknamed "Baby," presumably for his just-out-of-high-school face. Precious, right? And hardly cringe-worthy.

As I am wont to do, I chatted up Baby at a variety of events. Pledges seemed to get the short end of the stick, so I felt compelled to be as nice to him as possible. (And since I was technically taken, I knew it wouldn't be perceived the wrong way.)

After a month or two, Baby's hometown girlfriend came to visit for a tailgate; I couldn't have been more excited. She needed to know how well-liked her boyfriend was and how often (and sweetly) he spoke of her.

"Baby," I exclaimed upon meeting her, "she is even cuter than you described! What a -"

Halfway through my estrogen-induced squeal, she stopped me coldly. "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"

I repeated myself, but evidently it wasn't the statement that bothered her - it was the nickname.

Turns out I was the only one calling said pledge "Baby." The rest of the gang was calling him, with little fanfare, by his last name: Beatty.

I can't blame the girl for being a little miffed, upon driving several hours to visit her long-distance boyfriend, at hearing some older gal call her boyfriend "baby" so brazenly.

I can, however, blame the handful of snickering guys around him who knew I'd been calling him "Baby" and just enjoyed watching him blush, too shy to correct me.

Lesson learned: Double check nicknames before you repeat them or, better yet, leave them to the boys entirely....

Anne-isms

As much as I talk, and as many people as I talk to, I pick up on verbal tics fairly easily. We all have them, the "ums" and "uhs" that are our go-to time fillers in conversation.

It's a breeze to note others' chatting habits: An old roommate said "craaazy" as a mindless comment during lulls; it was as much a catchphrase as Paris Hilton's "that's hot." A dear friend says "anywayyy" several times before she wraps up a call.

It's tougher to catch your own tics, to pick up on your verbal "fall backs" in conversation. (It's also difficult to discern when you're using your "phone voice," something that makes B laugh out loud. Evidently I speak in a syrupy sweet tone to strangers on the phone. Who knew?)

I've noticed a few "Anne-isms" lately. It makes me grit my teeth to read these, something like hearing your voice on an answering machine, but I'll share all the same:

1. Can we talk about how...
"Can we talk about how I just burned my chicken pot pie?" "Can we talk about how this cold weather makes me want to wear yoga pants all day?" "Can we talk about how the doctor just rescheduled my appointment for the third consecutive time?" Fascinating tidbits, all.

2. Well, the good thing about that is...
My instinct, upon hearing any remotely negative piece of news, is to find some semblance of a silver lining. This has to get annoying when people are genuinely upset, but it pops out before I know it. "Well the good thing about your car being stolen is you weren't in it! You're safe and you get a brand new ride!" Cringe.

3. Y'ALL.
This is more of an exclamation, total filler when I'm far too flustered or excited to elaborate. As in: "Y'ALL. (gasps for air) You'll never guess who I just saw!" or "Y'ALL. (long, lip-smacking pause) Can we talk about these shrimp and grits?"

4. Perfect, perfect.
This would be my trademark a la "that's hot." I utter it entirely without thinking, in place of yes, okay, all right, sounds good or anything close to agreement. "You want to meet at 8? Perfect, perfect. Italian? Perfect! We'll pick you up. Perfect." I'm sure B has heard my half of a phone conversation more than once that has consisted entirely of "perfect."

5. You've got to be kidding me.
I reserve this for anything that wakes me in the middle of the night, requires me to walk half-dressed into the cold, costs me lots of money or makes me skip a meal. The worse an event is, the more emphasis on the "got." B must hear this incessantly on my bad days.

What do you say repeatedly, without thinking? Any you-isms?

Sunday Do-Over

If today were third grade gym class kickball, I would ask for a do over.

The facts:
1. B had to work today, so he left the house at 6:30 am. Not entirely unusual for a weekend, but very rare for a Sunday.
2. Last weekend's cold has become a sinus infection and an upper respiratory infection. Four days of antibiotics mean I'm not contagious but still cough like the Marlboro Man.
3. I patted myself on the back for getting myself and Mac up, dressed, fed and ready for 9:15 service on time. Hair done, make up on, cute outfit and all. Until...
4. Precisely 2 minutes before we needed to be on our merry way, Mac had a mega-meltdown about wearing shoes, then dirtied his diaper. There went my schedule.
5. At 9:20, we arrived at church to find zero available parking spots, especially near the Children's Center. (Baptism Sundays are my favorites; lots of visitors come to celebrate their loved ones. Thus, lots of cars.) We circled, circled, circled, looked at the clock, panicked and parked by a curb.
6. I checked Mac in to find his class was full. The fabulous staff helped me find an open class, but by now I was very late.
7. When I finally got to service, wearing an invisible "I AM REALLY LATE TO CHURCH" sign that made me extra antsy, I couldn't find a seat. Not even in the adorable sit/chat sofa areas in the lobby. I felt so darn awkward that...
8. I headed back to the Children's Center and found a quiet spot (read: empty room for nursing moms) to watch the sermon on closed circuit TV. Two sweet moms eventually came in to nurse but wouldn't have me leave - so they let me coo at their newborns, rock baby-less in a glider and chat with them. Just what I needed.
9. After first service, I headed upstairs to teach our four-year-old Sunday School class solo, as B had done last week when I was sick. Our girls wanted to know where B was, why he wasn't coming, when he would be back, and if we would both be there next week. They understandably looked at me funny when I nearly coughed up a kidney upon arriving, before promising I was well.
10. In the midst of our big group singing and dancing, my sweater dress began riding up and got all kinds of static clingy. I had forgone tights given the warm weather; this left my hemline, shall we say, very questionable during our "shout for joy!" jumps. Not quite a role model for our sweet four-year-olds.
11. We got home, Mac ate his lunch then (hooray!) napped - right through small group. I didn't have the heart to wake him, so I partook of cough syrup and couch time, just what I needed.
12. It's 9:45 and I'm still flying solo, worn out from what was a relatively easy day (can I blame it on the sickies?), under the covers still wearing said sweater dress (and knee-high socks - hot stuff), watching the cutest documentary ever.
13. I just realized I've eaten six saltines (Sunday School snack) and half a PB&J all day. No wonder I'm cranky!
14. I also just realized I misnumbered this list in my first go-round. When you can't count to 13 without assistance, it's time to hit the hay!

While this was nothing near a legitimately bad day, I'm sure I was a sight to see today. I'd like to hug to anyone who dealt with my frazzled, fast-walking, Sudafed-head craziness today.

I'm especially thankful for the shadow who helped in our Sunday School class this morning; without her I might still be looking for the craft supplies that were in my hand as I searched furiously for them.

I rarely say this, but bring on Monday! I'm ready for a fresh start.

Sweet side note: At the start of second service, Mac's regular teachers had him switched back into their class. Evidently they couldn't bear the thought of a Sunday without our Macky. (That could just be my bias talking.) I love that the nursery volunteers give so much of themselves and get to know each baby individually.

And also, they covet the snuggles and kisses he gives each of them, our "don't snuggle me" mover and shaker of a boy. He's quite the ladies man at church, our McNugget. He blew each teacher farewell kisses right in front of me, then refused to give me a smooch all afternoon. The heartbreak!

Tag!

Callie tagged me to answer a few questions, so here we go:

1. Where and how did you and your husband meet?
We met at Clemson, though we don't exactly remember when or where specifically. We're not even certain of the year. That's terrible, isn't it? Doesn't make for a compelling story to tell the grandkids.

We were friends for three or four years before we started dating, so for as long as I could remember, Bradley was just around. He thinks I was wearing a white shirt the first time he saw me in the lobby of an engineering building. (I had a statistics class there and he was a civil engineering major, as was my boyfriend at the time.)

I wish I could remember the first time we spoke, but I can't! I do remember setting him up with someone else years later, but that's another story for another day.

Bottom line: The "how did y'all meet" conversation at cocktail parties is a little boring when we're around. The short answer is "at Clemson."

2. What piece(s) of advice would you give your 16 year old self?

1. If you had the good sense to break up, trust your instincts. No use in making the same mistake twice - or three or four times, for that matter.
2. You aren't fat. Seriously. You'll look back at photos and wish you could be "fat" like that again.
3. Plenty of people peak in high school. One day you'll be grateful to have bloomed a little later.
4. Go abroad for a semester. A summer in Paris will only make you wish you'd done the real deal.
5. In two years absolutely no one will care how many honors cords you graduated with, where you ranked in your class, or what you got on your SAT. Stop fretting over the difference between "with high honors" and "with highest honors." This advice applies doubly to college.
6. Listen to your heart, but only if it's listening to the Lord.

3. What's your most embarrassing moment?
I'm a walking awkward moment, so it's hard to keep track. One especially memorable incident happened my first semester in grad school, when I was desperate to be the straight-A superstar, typing a furiously fast transcript of my professor's every word. (I've alluded to this before.)

Professor: If you really want to succeed in business, and particularly in journalism, you're going to need just two things. Your ears. (continues with lecture as I type)

Me: (puts hand up) Um, you said we needed two things to succeed. Somehow I missed the second one.

Professor: (smiles knowingly)

Class: (stares blankly at me as I realize he meant two ears)

4. What one thing can make you smile, no matter what?
Mac laughing. And B doing anything to make him laugh.

5. If you had $5000 to spend today, what would you buy/spend it on?
If I couldn't invest or save it (I hear you, Dave Ramsey!), I'd buy a DSLR camera, a pair of black boots and a ridiculously unnecessary piece of jewelry.

6. What do you enjoy most about blogging?
Keeping up with faraway friends and making fabulous new ones! I couldn't get by without a lot of the sweet girls I've met through the blogosphere.

Tears on a Treadmill: Take Two

All evidence to the contrary, I don't often cry at music videos - even sappy ones. And, while my complete inability to run long distances has brought me to tears in the past, I rarely ever boohoo at the gym, in full view of strangers.

Yet here I am, acknowledging my second bout of tears on a treadmill. Perhaps I should avoid CMT while I'm running* from now on?

(Side note: My ballet teacher told me in grad school that the only time a woman should run is if she is being chased by a bear. I stand behind this statement. My lower half, however, appreciates a little cardio now and then. If you're wondering why I took dance in grad school, ask my co-ballerina Kristen. Then ignore the other stories she tells you about me in tights.)

I'd heard that "The House That Built Me" was Miranda Lambert's best song yet, but hadn't seen the video until I was halfway through a workout last week.

I was plugging along quite nicely when Miranda crooned:

"And I bet you didn't know: Under that live oak, my favorite dog is buried in the yard."
(1:10 mark)

In an instant, that line had me misty-eyed. Then she followed up with this gem:

"Mama cut out pictures of houses for years from Better Homes and Garden magazine. Plans were drawn and concrete poured. Nail by nail and board by board, Daddy gave life to Mama's dream."
(2:00 mark)

Thank heavens the man next to me was engrossed in his baseball game! Home renovations must be a soft spot for me, because there was more than a little chin quivering going on...

What could possibly explain such a public lapse of any emotional control? No, I'm not sleep-deprived, underfed, pregnant or on drugs. (Odd that those things might have similar symptoms.)



Have you seen this video? Would you indulge me with a, "Yes, I find those lines a touch sentimental, too?"

*read: attempting to run, moving my feet, making a valiant effort to burn a few calories

Things You Should Know: Part Four

I cried at the gym today.

For some reason, exercise has always made me emotional. Just ask Kristen, at whom I snapped on a long run, "Could you please breathe a little more quietly?" Or something along those lines. Bless her heart for not tripping me right then.

So today I was going full steam ahead on a treadmill when Zac Brown's "Highway 20 Ride" video came on. Hearing those lyrics always puts a lump in my throat, but the combination of an accelerated heartbeat and watching a little boy "grow up" onscreen did me in.

There were tears, y'all. On a treadmill. I am mortified.

I've cried every Sunday in church since I found out I was pregnant 14 months ago. That I can blame on hormones, on gratitude, on thinking of our precious son in God's house and feeling overcome with emotion. (I know I'm not alone on this. Brooke, feel free to back me up!)

The people who sit near us each week must imagine I'm struggling with some intense issues. I had to warn our friends who were visiting Grace the other week that I probably wouldn't make it through tear-free, and not to be alarmed. Sure enough, in the last song before service ended, the saltwater started flowing. I was so close!

I have no idea what my treadmill neighbors thought, but I'll tell you one thing: next time I'm changing the channel!

Watch this video and see if you can make it through - then teach me your ways! This line, at the 3:00 mark, gets me every time:

"It was the pleasure of my life and I cherished every time. And my whole world, it begins and ends with you."

Things You Should Know: Part Three

Me to fellow gym mom: They do grow up so quickly. Mac used to sleep swaddled and still; I'd find him just where we put him. Now I'm watching him do baby yoga in his crib!

(Aside: I meant that I watch via his monitor. And I meant baby yoga in that he pulls up his head and shoulders to grab his toes, rolls over and arches his back like a swan, then follows it by stretching in in ways incomprehensible to fully grown adults.)

Gym mom: (Truly intrigued) Are you using a book to guide him? Are there classes at the Y for babies his age? Do you think it's helping his flexibility?

Me: Um, no. I meant baby yoga like baby break dancing... You know, what they do in their cribs when we're not there. Spinning on their heads, stretching their legs, pushing up?

Gym mom: (Realizes I'm not nearly cool enough to have a yogi for a son.) Oh. Well I plan on signing ours up for baby gym classes this summer.

Clearly Mac already has the embarrassing mom in the gym daycare class.

Things You Should Know: Part One

I called the gym yesterday to make childcare reservations for the little McNugget. There's another Mac who goes there; I've seen his name on the wall as part of a list of children with food allergies. (FYI, never serve the other Mac peanuts.)

When the gentleman taking my reservations asked for my child's name, I gave him the wrong one! So I had to call back with Mac's correct last name. You know, my last name. It went something like this:

Me: Um, hi. I just called and made reservations for Mac Brown?
Him: Yes, ma'am. I've still got you down.
Me: Well, my son's name is actually Mac Smith. I'm sorry. I (pause) got confused.
Him: (really long pause) Okay. Mac Smith?
Me: Yes. Definitely. That's definitely his name.
Him: Okay then. So I have Mac Smith down for childcare this afternoon.
Me: (Embarrassed, unable to squeak out an explanation for my awkwardness.) Thanks so much!

Awkward.

Macky's sleeping through the night, so I can't blame this on sheer exhaustion. Unless I'll just never catch up on sleep and this spaciness lasts forever?!

Anyhow, I thought someone should know. I'm sure gym guy is telling this story to his buddies over a beer as we speak...

Photo Failure

Things you should not do before your first photo session as a family of three:

• Spontaneously go get your hair cut the day before.
• By someone you've never used.
• Who may or may not understand the concept of a trim.
• Who leaves your hair layered, chopped and unrecognizable.
• The morning of your session, spend too much time picking up the house.
• Spend so much time feeding the baby (hungry boy!) that the photographer arrives while your hair is wet, your makeup's not on and you're shoeless. Classy.
• Leave just ten minutes to dry your wet, choppy hair and put on some semblance of makeup.
• Pick out six outfits for the baby but none for yourself.
• Throw something together, then realize it's too big and looks silly.
• Realize halfway through that your bra may or may not be hanging out of your cardigan.
• Change immediately like a Mariah Carey-esque diva.
• Totally forget that the session is about the baby, not you.
  
• Then blog about it.
  

Planning ahead used to be my specialty. Now I'm so focused on feeding, clothing, cooing at and squeezing baby Mac that I can barely keep myself together. Work days have a very particular routine, but anything new throws my system into a tizzy. As evidenced by the list of issues above.

I trust the photographer implicitly and, let's be honest, I do have a super-photogenic child. But the shots with me in them? Let's hope Photoshop can work some magic! Sigh.

I'll do better next time, right?

Hope you have a happy Monday!

I punched a man in the face yesterday.

Yep. Thought that'd raise an eyebrow or two. What did you do this weekend?

My fabulous four and a half day weekend was just what I needed - food, family, football, friends, Bradley, Blue and sleep. More later, but here's what you really need to know:

-Not a Black Friday item was purchased. Just FYI.

-Our first Thanksgiving with my in-laws was fantastic. I contributed the mashed potatoes and cornbread casserole, but the rest of our amazing spread was waiting for us when we arrived. And it was delicious. The lemon ooey-gooey cake was beyond words. Seriously. I'm scared to ask for the recipe, it's so good. Mmm.

-I missed my family but I think they managed just fine without me. :) I gave my brother a top-secret stealthy mission to take care of while he was home, but alas it was not to be. So my sneaky Christmas present plan is going to have to change a bit. Wish I could discuss it here but I'm not at liberty to say anything until December 26th. Just in case it works out...

-I got lots of sleep these last four days. Good sleep. Rainy and cold outside, cozy and warm under my down comforter kind of sleep. Nine hours at a time sleep. Ahh.

-After a breakfast-for-lunch with the girls and a spa manicure, I pushed it a little too hard at the gym on Friday. Perhaps the memory of my two-thirds mashed potatoes plate on Thanksgiving? Regardless, I'm hurting something fierce today. You should have seen me attempting to play with our four-year-olds at church this morning. If they hadn't thought I was so weird it might have been hilarious. A hot shower and two Advil later, I'm at least hobbling around with less difficulty. Heels tomorrow should be fun!

-Blue's unbelievable South Carolina tartan holiday collar came in from Pecan Pie Puppies. Pictures to follow - he looks so handsome!! And the proceeds support cancer treatments for our friend Ryan's beautiful yellow lab Sullivan. Absolutely worth it.

-The game I'll have to discuss in a bit more detail tomorrow. Suffice it to say that every minute was worth the cold and the rain. GO TIGERS! And good job, Dabo!! (But since when do we have to check really cute, one-of-a-kind favorite umbrellas just so you can forget them in the stadium? Only to remember it a mile away in the pouring rain. Genius idea, folks.)

-Three full weeks of work await me, then two shorrrrt weeks for the holidays. Whoo! Let's hope these next weeks fly by! (But go slowly enough for me to get everything done. If that's even possible.)

-Oh, and that little punch to the face? He certainly didn't deserve it; I definitely didn't mean to do it. Poor guy behind me at the game became a victim of my jumping up and down, fist pumping excitement. Guy leaned over, hopping around as well, and received a swift punch to the jaw. My hand hurt for twenty minutes, minimum. The sweet, sweet Tiger fan was so excited he just kept jumping. Sometimes love hurts, I guess. Particularly when it's the love of a football team. (This season, at least!)

Enjoy your Mondays back at work, lovelies!! Miss you and hope you had fabulous (non-violent) fun this long holiday weekend...

xoxo,
A.

What's that you say??

Many of you may not have been exposed to the sheer kinetic joy of graduate school ballet class and the accompanying addiction to the movie Center Stage, as my lovely friend Kristen and I were.

If not, you may not have been infected with delightful but relentless ear candy that is Jamiroquai's song. I'm not going to give you the title quite yet, because I want you to watch this clip with an open mind.

You've got what in your heels, Jamiroquai?? (Listen for yourself by skipping ahead to 6:40. Better yet, enjoy the whole performance but listen carefully towards the end.)

Center Stage - Final Dance Scene

So these gorgeous, talented and exuberant young dancers are expressing themselves onstage in a piece that represents the culmination of their rigorous years of training. The song suits the scene perfectly, and it's an iTunes favorite when I'm on the treadmill. (Or trying to get motivated to drive to the gym.)

In the years since I first bought a ticket to see this gem on the silver screen - the better part of decade for those who are counting - I have been singing the song with the wrong lyrics!

Last week this song was featured on my all-time favorite reality show, So You Think You Can Dance, which lists song titles and artists on-screen at the start of each routine. I was shocked to determine that Jamiroquai does not, as I had so long believed, have candy in his heels.
What does he have? Canned heat.

Every time I listen to it now, it becomes clearer and clearer. But for those ten thousand Center Stage viewings of old, I was singing the wrong words with more enthusiasm than I could muster for just about any movie or song these days. Kind of embarassing to think about.

Add in the leotards and tights we wore and the jelly beans we snacked on, and my co-ballet felon (thus named because we were known to skip class to watch this movie) Kristen and I were probably quite a sight. I still love us, though.

(Let me digress to say that I've got to find the pictures of us teaching Bradley the proper first, second and third positions at a cook-out in Columbia. The boy has awful turn-out, let me tell you - and I'm one to talk.)

I've heard examples of the "classic" misheard lyrics like there's a "bathroom on the right" instead of "bad moon on the rise" but I'm interested to see if y'all have any similarly embarassing slips you'd like to share.

The more public, the better - I just admitted that we wore black leotards and pink tights over the age of 21, y'all. (And I think even 8 is pushing the cute factor on that particular ensemble...)

Happy Thursday!

Slip of the tongue

Our office is putting together a Wii-mbledon competition tomorrow, so the joyous squeals and digitized tunes of the game have been drifting to my cube all day during "practice rounds." That's the context of the following:

Me: (Spoken classily over cube walls.) Wii is going to be the downfall of this agency.

Coworkers: (Stunned silence.)

Me: (Confusion. Do they not hear the obsessed game players? Pause for a deep thought.)

Coworkers: (More puzzled silence from the PR department as they mentally question my self-esteem, competency and basic grammar knowledge.)

Me: (Light bulb!) Oh no, not WE. We are not going to be the downfall of this agency. Clearly, I think we're pretty awesome. Oh never mind - y'all practice away.

This reminds me of my "two ears" flub in grad school - a story for tonight. Unless Kristen gets to comment before I return.

Pulling an Anne

After my last (wahoo!) shift at the Junior League's Nearly New Shop Saturday, I got home to find a seriously amused Bradley just itching to tell me something. (You can imagine how rare this is.) What could have tickled him so? He'd just "pulled an Anne." Turns out he turned on the faucet, walked away to do something else and momentarily forgot. (His story didn't end with flooding the house as my own experience did last year, but that's a tale for another day. If you haven't heard it already!)

The idea of pulling an Anne piqued my curiosity. What do I do often enough, or with enough gusto, that it could be considered a signature quality?

If I had to guess, I'd imagine that people would use the phrase "pulling an Anne" to mean:
-running into a stationary object
-overlooking something obvious
-having a "boulder" moment
-sharing information learned only through Facebook
-sporting pink shoes
-shopping online excessively
-craving spaghetti more than any woman (outside of Italy) ever should
-packing a spare outfit in the car just in case (it rains, you're overdressed, etc.)

I think it'd be a lot more flattering, and therefore pleasant to hear, if pulling an Anne indicated that you'd just done something wonderful. Something I fancy myself, on my better days, to be pretty darn good at.

I'd like it to mean:
-sending an unsolicited but sweet note that makes someone's day
-telling a wildly funny story
-maintaining composure when the world is all but on fire
-rocking Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit or a crossword puzzle hardcore
-finding the good in a less-than-fabulous situation
-swooping in to save the day with a meal, a shoulder, a prayer, a smile, a ridiculous anecdote
-saying just the right thing in a difficult moment

(To be fair, I "pulled a Bradley" on my husband the very next day. If he's in the middle of something at work when I call, he'll open his phone and let me hang tight for a moment or two until he can talk. Bradley got to hear 30 seconds of a titillating work conversation before I was able to put the cell phone to my ear...lucky guy.)

How would you define "pulling a you" - or how would you like it to be defined?

I'll give a few examples later from many of your own signature moves...that list is in development.

Just so you know

I couldn't effortlessly say "World War Two" until I was about 15. At 26, I still struggle with "rural" - being from 'round these parts, that's a relatively important word. Maybe by 30 it'll have a little more distinction and won't sound so much like "rurr."

Reminds me of a 30 Rock episode where they couldn't determine the name of a movie based on hearing its title. Turned out to be "The Rural Juror." I felt very validated.

Embracing Your Inner So-and-So

In our small group last night, adorable Ashley talked about letting go of a self-imposed boycott and embracing her inner hug addict. So if you're in her sight and she's so much as laid eyes on you before, you're likely going to be the lucky recipient of a little affection from this gal.

What's the harm in that, you ask? I wonder if we don't each have a lifelong battle with our inner whatever-the-case-may-be. I consider myself to be a closeted dork, a fully-grown but still-awkward accident-prone gal, and a far-from-secret chatterbox.

In my mind, the problem only develops when I fight my basic nature. (For me in particulatr, that'd be my awkward and nervous chatting.) My friend Marianne and I have termed this sort of situation a "boulder" problem.

Bradley once remarked that he watches me get nervous in the same way that he'd watch a rock rolling down a steep hill. Once it gets started, there's very little he can do to slow it down, much less stop it. For me, that nervousness is manifested entirely in rambling. I'll chatter nervously, feel as if I've said something a hair too awkward and then keep going so that last silly remark isn't the very last thing hanging in the air.

Can you picture poor Bradley slowly backing out of a room as I'm doing this and hoping I'll soon follow suit? Because if he's around, that's what happens. Every single time. He can see it happening, and I can absolutely feel the boulder start rolling at a break-neck speed, but I can't seem to put on the brakes. If only my rambling was as endearing a habit as Ashley's inner hugging instinct.

My friend Stephanie once told me to worry a lot less about my chatty nature, that it was part of my charm and what put people at ease around me. (Coming from the woman who offered me my dream internship only to have it accepted with a speech about how her phone conversation was as ambigious and misleading as a Bachelor-style break-up/proposal...well, it means a lot. We may have to discuss that timeless conversation on another day.)

True or a bit biased, Steph's sweet comment has stuck with me. And it has talked me down after many a "boulder situation" post-mortem has left me worried that half of Greenville thinks I'm off my rocker.

In high school I handled this anxiety by incessantly flipping, twisting or just plain playing with my hair. You'd be hard-pressed to have caught me in a room full of people with my hands in my lap, that's for sure.

All of this to say (who knew I'd digress?!) -- what is your inner so-and-so? Do you struggle to quell a particular habit, a trait that makes you feel like every eye in the room is on you?

And may I say that, if you do, I'm dying to know what it is. I find all of you as charming and precious as can be and only wish I could be more like you... I relate entirely to the saying "I love you down to your last freckle," because I do. If only we could all be so forgiving of ourselves!

Ashley, next time you see me - hug away! For the rest of you, come out of the closet already and let me hear about your boulder...

Happy Friday to y'all

This morning, as I was hard at work just a-tippity-typing on my laptop, I felt a little tickle on my arm. Thinking it was an errant thread or perhaps one of my incessantly-out-of-place hair strands, I gave the spot a thoughtless wave of my hand.

I was greeted by a spider. A black one. With eight legs. (I think. I didn't really look at it that closely or for very long.)

I don't have a problem with spiders, per se. I'm not scared of them when I spot them in the wild or, more often, in the great indoors. On my arm, however, it's clearly a different story.

There was some significant estrogen- and adrenaline-induced squealing. I think there may have been a little hopping in my fun summer wedges. (Thankfully there are more than a few people out of the office in my corner of the agency today.)

I swatted the visitor off of my arm, stood up in a near-panic and then tried to distinguish the large (very large) black body from the unvacuumed mystery pattern on our artsy and modern carpet. A gentlemen, very disturbed by my distress, aided me with just the stomp of his foot.

Truthfully, I could have done that myself. In any other instance, spiders have little effect on me. I'm grateful for the help, though, and the knowledge that spider-killing chivalry is not dead.

But now I can't stop rubbing my arm. There's a phantom tickle there constantly. Silly spider ruined my morning. Now I'm worried that Monday morning y'all may see someone at the agency meeting looking vaguely like a future comic book hero.

The sweetest thing

Morning, ladies! I'm a little off today and it's feeling like it will be a long, yucky Tuesday - too little sleep, Bradley worked all night, Friday can't come soon enough. Just general Anne crankiness.

So let's think some happy thoughts, shall we? What's the best compliment you've ever been given? The sweetest thing anyone's ever said to you? Reading those should perk me up. (Selfish, I know.) Hopefully you'll enjoy them too.

I'll start:

1. A teacher told me in the 9th grade, when my arms were too long and my gawkiness was at its peak, that I was very elegant-looking. Couldn't have come at a better time.

2. Bradley asked me to marry him. That's a pretty big compliment, having someone want to spend their whole life with you. I couldn't tell you exactly what I said - he lost me the moment a ring box appeared. But I feel convinced that the question was in there somewhere.

(I'm leaving out compliments from my parents, because I truly believe they're bordering insanity in their biased-ness. But they've said some pretty sweet things!)

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