Mi A Hick

Why is it as soon as I tell someone I'm pregnant they have to ask, "Have you thought of a name?"  Do most couples know what they are going to name their children four months before they are born?  Did I miss that class at college where you discuss the pros and cons of names with future last names?  Stupid Duke.

So, yes, we've discussed names and this is how it's gone:

The Husband: Okay, you give a name and then I give a name.
Kate: (states first idea...yeah, right like I'm going to publish my possible names.  No, blogsphere.  Not today.  Not ever.)
The Husband: So, you want our baby to actually be a 80 year old man?
Kate: You go.
The Husband: (Offers name)
Kate: So you want her to be a stripper?
The Husband: Give me your next name.
Kate: (Offers #3 idea)
The Husband: Are you trying to piss me off?
Kate: Alright, genius your turn.
The Husband: Mia (Actual idea)
Kate: No.
The Husband: Why?
Kate: Say it three times fast.
The Husband: MIA HICK...Mi a Hick...Me a Hick...ahhh...

So, yes, things are going really well on the baby naming front.

Don't Mess

I think this woman is pregnant...

I think as a pregnant woman I've been pretty good.  I haven't just broken down into tears (this week) no, just kidding, I haven't craved pickles and ice cream or have I been on the internets all day looking through names, strollers and other crap like that. (Yes, I realize I'm going to have to come to terms with all those things.)  But, the other day, I got to admit, I sort of had a "pregnant moment."

So, on Saturday the husband and I traveled up to the valley to play a round of golf.  (No, the stomach isn't getting in the way, and the extra boobage has actually helped my short game because it forces my arms to hold onto something.)  Too much?  Anyway, we were having a great day, only three expletives had been used, when we got stopped at the 16th hole.  In front of us were, how do you say, was a group of complete white trash.  First, the foursome had a "gentleman" wearing a tank top, cut off shorts and green Converses.  His drive typically went about ten yards and his club went about fifteen...well, after screaming the "f" word.  His partner, who wore a Taylormade hat, which obviously makes you an expert at golf, usually hit about six balls off the tee, all followed by a scream and some promise to his white trash buddies that he was actually better than this.  There's was a chick, who between smoke breaks would hit the ball a foot and then wait about ten minutes, and then there was one guy, who I think actually knew how to play, but was being held hostage for information on his kidnapped wife. I'm not exactly sure.  Anyway, after waiting about twenty minutes for them to finish the hole, we rushed through our turn in order for them to allow us to play through.  However, as we waited, which apparently you have to do in golf, for them to say we could play through, they just ignored us and drove off.

At that moment this insane rage came over me.  I felt like the Hulk and all I wanted to do was drive over to them, kick them in their faces and drive their balls (golf) down their throats. I honestly could not calm down.  As I stomped around, throwing my hands up in the air and screaming about how selfish and white trash they were, my husband tried to remain calm.  Sure, he was mad, but my display of out of control anger, he later told me, sort of made him fear for his life.  Consequently, the poor guy tried to say, "Hey, it's alright.  They'll be done in a minute.  You don't need to go crazy."  Did he just say "crazy?"  The only crazy person was the guy calling a pregnant woman crazy, who held onto a golf club in a shaking hand.

Eventually, we decided to just leave because I was truly about to kill someone.

Dear white trash folks at Woodley Lakes Golf Course,

One day we will meet again and my husband won't be there to stop me.  That's a promise.

Ketchup and Cake Anyone?

I'll admit as a server, I've dropped a few plates and glasses during my illustrious career.  However, there's only been two times where I've actually dropped food on a customer.  Am I proud of this fact?  Absolutely.  I mean, I can't even begin to count the amount of plates I have carried to tables.  So, if two customers walked out a little dirtier I count that as a victory.  So, as I'm sure you are dying to hear, what were those experiences.  Well, here's some of my finer moments:

1. Picture a party of 18 people.  They have come to our little establishment to celebrate the retirement of one of their co-workers.  Prior to lunch, one of the party members pulled me aside and showed me a special cake they had prepared for this day.  They then informed me that they wanted the restaurant to cut the cake up in small pieces and then present the cake at a particular time.  This didn't sound overly complicated and I took the cake into the bakery area.  Fast forward one hour and I'm given the "nod" to bring the cake out.  So, I have the pastry chef cut the cake up into individual pieces, recruit my co-workers to help me deliver the pieces and head out into the main dining room.  I'm leading the procession, and as the party sees me with the cake, I start to walk in an exaggerated ceremonial way.  (If that makes any sense.  Picture Simba being presented during Lion King - that's what I was going for.)  Anyway, as I go to present the cake to the guest of honor, I somehow trip up and manage to shot put the cake right onto her arm.  Yep, picture someone saying, "Good job" while hitting your arm and that's what I did with the cake.  "Hey, congrats on retiring, here's a cake on your arm to show our appreciation."  I guess it wouldn't have been that bad if one, she wasn't the guest of honor, two, she wasn't wearing a silk shirt that held the icing in place and, three, if my co-workers behind me didn't all erupt into laughter.  The only fortunate part was that parties over 6 get a guaranteed 18% gratuity added to their check.  So, thanks folks and enjoy the cake.

2. This one actually happened last week and was probably the worst thing I've ever done to someone.  Picture, a pregnant woman (that's me) carrying three tubs of ketchup down three stairs.  As I hit the third stair the top ketchup tub falls off and hits the ground.  Now, here's where it gets bad.  As the ketchup tub hits the ground it instantly explodes, and like a torpedo, immediately shoots out onto an innocent woman sitting there buying coffee.  If I didn't know it was ketchup I would have thought this woman was shot from behind.  Ketchup was all over her dress, up her legs, on her back, in her hair and on her purse.  (I'm actually completely convinced that she is still finding ketchup in parts of her body she didn't know existed.)  I, with no other recourse than to start crying, grabbed my protruding stomach hoping she would feel some sympathy for my unborn child, but she wasn't feeling very forgiving.  As I attempted to wipe off the ketchup she kept muttering things like, "I knew I shouldn't have worn this new dress," "Is this a PETA thing?" "Are you retarded?" "I was just getting cookies for my friends..."  Needless to say I replied with, "Huh, new dress?  Sorrrryy," "I hate PETA and animals of all kinds" "Yes, I am retarded," and "Our cookies are good..."  She finally left and I considered killing myself through drowning in ketchup, but I decided my unborn daughter deserved better. 

So, there you have it.  TWO moments.  Well, there was the time I drenched a guy's iPhone in grapefruit juice, but who wants to hear more stories?

The Ghetto Mix

I have a friend, who for my birthday always sends me a mix CD. (What? I grew up in the 80's and music mixes will always be cool. And so will Growing Pains remain one of the coolest shows.) So, this year she decided to send me two CDs: 1. Country Mix. Again, no mocking. I lived in the south for four years and will always love country music...and I'm a Republican and 2. A Ghetto Mix. Now, you are probably wondering what constitutes a "Ghetto Mix." Well, before everyone flips on their hoodies, a "Ghetto Mix" to me usually means music that I have never heard of or only heard pulsing in the background of the gym. Or in other words, this is the mix that makes me laugh out loud. Honestly, this stuff is hilarious.

For starters, the names of these "artists" are all spelled liked how I used to write letters to my Mom: "Mom, I lerned alot in skuul my frends r niss I playd ball and I luv u." (Yes, I was clearly just as articulate as I am now.) Seriously, here are a few of the names: Trey Songz, Wiz Khalifa, Tyga and Youngbloodz...what? When was it decided that a "z" made your name way cooler? If that's the case then I'm definitely naming our girl Madisonz. Are you messing with that kid on the playground? Didn't think so.

Second of all, the songs....oh, the songs. Sure, country music sings about pick-up trucks, loving country and God, but these songs. Wow. Here's a little sampling:

Black stripe, yellow paint
Them n-ggas scared of it, but them ho's ain't
Soon as I hit the club look at them ho's face
Hit the pedal, make the floor shake
Suede inside, engine roaring
It’s the big boy you know what I pay for it
And I got the pedal to the metal
Got you n-ggas checking game I’m balling out on every level
Hear them haters talk but there’s nothing you can tell em
Just made a million, got another million on my schedule
No love for em n-gga breaking hearts
No keys, push the start...

Did you stop reading at "make the floor shake?" Because that's when I started to laugh. What in the world is this guy talking about? Honestly, this song makes Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" seem like pure poetry.

And lastly, I must ask, because I'm 33 and becoming way too old for this "kid music" are any, and I mean any, of these songs going to be around in say two years? Is there anyone out there in this world who are going to play these songs in twenty years for their children and say, "Now, that's when music was good." Will this be said as he calls his daughter a "ho" and encourages her to bring some Benjamins so then can go shoppin'? Too far? Did I mention I just turned 33?

I'm old.

Did I mention I turned 33? Sorry, I'll take my vitamins and go to bed.

It's All Coming Out

On Sunday I turned 33, and my brother decided to send a very thoughtful note attached with these pictures. His intent was to show how he remembered his twin sisters and how much fun it was to grow up with twins. Unfortunately, this little walk down memory lane proved to be slightly dramatic for the husband. He just called and asked if I had seen the pictures. (Now, I should note that he sounded rather stressed about the contents of these pictures.) I tried to laugh it off, I mean sure, I rocked a pretty serious truck driver look throughout the 80's (and preferred all my beverages in paper bags), but I didn't think it was that bad. Apparently, when you have a daughter coming, and slightly unflattering pictures surface of the mother, the husband starts to worry. I tried to assure him that I'll make sure she carries a sign that reads, "I look this way because of my MOM'S GENES AND Not because of my Dad's genes."

I guess it would be a bad time to tell him this wasn't actually my worst stage.