There are the twins, Madeline and Eli (4), and a new addition, Ward, who is two months old. If you're an aunt, you probably already know that you have to come bearing gifts. This consisted of circus peanuts, trucks for Eli, a princess beauty kit for Madeline, and a stuffed lion for Ward.
You could say the beauty kit was the hit of the weekend. In the kit was a selection on pink and purple hair accessories...and a tube of "lipstick." (A piece of plastic that looks like lipstick.) Madeline spent a lot of time deciding which clip(s) and scrunchies to adorn herself with each morning. And then there was the lipstick. She toted it around in a stuffed unicorn purse all weekend. And I have never seen anything like it. This little girl reapplied every 30 minutes.
"Oh, I just ate. My lipstick came off." "I got sweaty playing outside. My lipstick came off." "It's raining. My lipstick came off."
Hilarious.
We had a ton of fun playing outside.
At some point I was the bad witch(?) and the monkey bars lifter-upper. But mostly it was just, "Allison, watch me!"
They are total hams and posed for me at dinner time. I told them to "pretend you're eating." So they did.
But it was really because they didn't like what was for dinner at all, which they made crystal clear soon after.
I mentioned Ward. Remember?
It's kind of easy to forget this kid sometimes. He's so quiet. He just hangs out like this most of the time. Note the very serious expression. This is not just a random expression. This is how he looks all the time. I'm fairly certain he's a genius. He's pretty stinkin' cute, though.
I had fun with Anna and Brandon too, once all the little heads hit the pillows. We watched some serious football on Saturday. I had no idea that my bro-in-law played for Auburn his freshman year. Pretty bad-ass, right?
If it weren't for the last minute, I wouldn't get anything done. And I don't know about yours, but my clock doesn't say 4:59 yet. So I think I'll list a few more things that I will not be announcing next week. (I know, I know, you've all been losing sleep. Don't worry, it's only a few days away now.)
I'm still not pregnant. You can be sure of this because I would have flung myself out of a window already if were pregnant. Just kidding, just kidding. Kind of. But seriously, I'm a little afraid of/confused by babies. That "fever" thing hasn't hit me yet. Plus, I can't even imagine having to discuss menstruation or nocturnal emissions with a pimply-faced kid who hates my guts. Yeah, so cross pregnancy off the list.
I'm not a man. Nor am I considering becoming one. Sure, I think it would be sweet to toss the tampons for good. Yes, it would be amazing to show up for work braless, unshowered and without makeup every day, instead of only a couple times a week. (I know, ew. Shut up.) And of course I would probably be a totally hot dude. And I would get a little taste of the sweet life, making that extra 25 percent just for having junk. But. Because I prefer men, I'd rather not be one. Also, what if the surgery or the hormone therapy got all botched, and I ended up more like a prepubescent boy with patchy stubble and zits and a cracking voice? Nope, I'll stick to being a woman, unfairness and all.
I'm not going to be on American Idol. Even though I could totally kick ass. (Although I might be too old. Ageists.) Steven Tyler and J. Lo? Really? Those two in one uttering just give me the heebie-jeebies.
I'm not going to run off and live in France. Yet. Une fille peut rêver.
I'm not writing a novel. I don't have any good ideas. I can make funny lists about my silly life all day long, but I could never write 400 pages about one thing. Don't get me wrong, I would love to write a book someday. I've tried to hang out and get the creative juices flowing out of my pencil into my notebook, but it always turns into Target shopping list. And sure, I look cool tapping away on my MacBook, but I'm just finding funny Jezebel stories to post on Facebook. Maybe someday, but for now, I save all my ideas for this crappy blog. You're welcome.
I'm not running a marathon. I'll leave that to everyone else on the planet.
OK, you guys. I am officially the worst. I swore I would never go on some crazy hiatus again, and look at me. But this time I have an excuse. I have an announcement.
But I'm not telling you until next week. (And you probably think I'm pregnant, but I'll save you that excitement at least. I'm not. Sorry. So put down the knit booties and breast pumps and return to your seats.)
I like Target. I don't own a lot of household items, clothing or accessories from Target, as their cheap (not-made-in-the-USA) crap tends to fall apart just as quickly as anything you'd buy from a cart in Times Square. But they tend to have a lot of polka dot items. And I like polka dots. Because I'm five.
And if you ever, ever say Target with a soft "g" and a French accent, I will slap you in the face. Two slaps for letting it slip out without any hint of irony.
So I went to Target last week to purchase a couple of necessities: a gift bag and post-Easter-sale Cadbury eggs.
When I got to the checkout line, the lady in front of me frantically swirled around and held up a pink baby outfit. "This is supposed to be for a 12-month-old, but doesn't it look like it's more for an 18-month-old?"
I don't think she caught the utter blankness of my stare.
"Is this more for a 12-month-old or an 18-month-old?" she asked, clearly in a hurry at the cash register.
"Uh, I uh, I don't know anything about that."
She held the outfit up a little higher, looked at it, looked at me, clearly expecting an answer.
"I'm really sorry, I don't know babies."
The woman was looking at me like I had three heads and flames shooting out of my butt.
The chick behind me came to the rescue. "Oh, that'll be fine for a 12-month-old," she assured the visibly irritated (at me) woman. And then she gave me an all-knowing-that's-OK-sweetie-I've-seen-those-shows-about-those-weird-still-single-in-their-thirties-women-that's-some-funny-shit-and-I-sympathize look.
Um, since when was every woman expected to have a Baby PhD? I missed that memo. I didn't even know how to change my (totally more adorable than yours, btw) niece and nephew's diapers when they were babies...like, last year. Why would I know these things?
So I paid for my sundries, and Little Miss Know-It-All behind me proceeded to the front.
"Excuse me, ma'am," she said to Large Marge at the register, "but I ate one of the bananas in that bunch. I was just going to pass out if I didn't. The man over there in the grocery area said I could."
I could instantly tell just from the expression on Marge's face that her opinion of Know-It-All was right in line with mine. Know-It-All - all 105 pounds of her - was decked out in her cute exercise outfit, with her hair and makeup just so. Her groceries consisted of bananas (minus one), bottled water, and two bottles of wine.
"Was the banana meant to be complimentary?" inquired Marge.
I slowly gathered my things.
"Um, no? But that man. He said I could. Can't you just ring up an extra banana or something? I was just starving."
"No. I can't just ring up a banana. You ate it, so it's gone. You took the banana."
I could just feel Know-It-All shrinking in her tights.
"Don't worry about it, ma'am. From now on, please be sure you pay for your groceries before consuming them."
The gift bag I purchased was for my baby sister's bachelorette party. (The other, ahemalsoyounger, sister is already married.) Being the, um, least conservative of the three, I was in charge of providing the penis straws. Which I did.
My sister aced the scavenger hunt I created for her, which included such items as, "Get a group of guys to sing You've Lost that Loving Feeling to you," and "Tell someone how great your ass is, and make him believe it." Kudos.
The most-heard advice of the night? "Don't do it." Agreed.
But, since my sister insists, I wish her and Matthew all the happiness in the world.
