City Slicker

When I was young, and even now, I loved to listen to my grandma's stories about what it was like for her growing up. Besides the decade and current events being much different, the geographic region was much different. I grew up in the south suburbs of Chicago. My grandma grew up and lived all over Missouri and she was a farm kid. I was always intrigued by the kind of chores she had and the animals she saw all the time. I had heard about cow tipping from the kids at school. Apparently, this is when you go out into a field, late at night when the cows are sleeping. Since they sleep standing up, all you have to do is push them over. This is apparently supposed to be great fun. I asked my grandma about it one day and when I did, she just laughed and called me a City Slicker. She must have seen the look of confusion on my face because then she asked me if I knew how much a cow weighed and that it would take quite a few people to tip over a cow and not only that, the cow would wake up once you touched her. I learned two things that day. The first being that you can't tip a cow, well without an army and without the cow knowing. The second thing I learned was that my grandma was right, I was a City Slicker.

I don't think being a City Slicker is necessarily a bad thing. I wear that title like a gold star. I don't want to kill my dinner before I prepare it. I don't want to have to wake up super early to milk cows and feed animals. The only time I get self conscious about it is when I am at a county fair - I swear those 4H kids are laughing at me. I think if I had to, I could maybe blend in with the country folks for a short amount of time anyway. (I can see Troy and my parents laughing at that line and completely disagreeing.) There would be one thing that would give me away though . . . my amusement of wild animals.

Yep, I am one of those people who gets excited to see a cardinal in the backyard. In fact, my whole family is that way. My parents used to take a certain road on the way to church to see if the resident ground hog was out. We would gawk at deer in a field. One time, my sister Rebecca and I saw a fox at a park and we followed it as it trotted down a bike path. Even Troy has been known to pause the TV to point out a woodpecker in the front lawn. But last week, I saw the mother of all wild animals - well, that can be seen outside of a zoo in the mid-west at least.

The stone archway on my route to school.

I was on my way to work and the neighborhood where my school is happens to be surrounded by woods. The drive through the town is charming. There is this adorable stone archway that only one car can pass through at a time. I actually love to drive to work; it is so relaxing. One morning, I was driving a little bit slower than usual. I had just gone under the stone archway when a WOLF darted from the woods, across the street. That's right, straight out of the Twilight books, Jacob flew across the road with pieces of his ripped denim shorts still in the tuffs of his fur. This City Slicker's mouth must have been gaping wide open; I have never seen a wild wolf before! The minute I parked my car at school, I excitedly texted Troy about what I saw and then went in the building to talk to another teacher about it. At this point I was second guessing myself. Maybe that is not what I saw, but she confirmed that there were wolves in those woods. The City Slicker in me was amazed. That night, Troy and I Googled pictures of wolves so I could show him what it looked like.

The wolf sighting made me think more about being a City Slicker. I am sure that country folks would have thought the wolf was at least mildly amusing, but I thought it was awesome! Maybe my 'burbs upbringing has made me appreciate wild life more. 

Just as long as I am seeing it from the inside of my car.

Nutella

This was take post-Nutella experience. Hence my smile.

The year was 2005. I was studying abroad in Europe for the month of January. Part of our grade was to plan a "free weekend" where we got to go anywhere in Europe for the weekend but we had to meet up with the rest of our group in Paris at a certain time. My friends and I decided to go to Rome. It was awesome. When we made our travel plans to get ourselves to Paris, we decided to take the Euro-rail and sleep on the train. We went to a market to buy some snacks and things to make sandwiches to munch on as we rode. We thought we'd make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because we wouldn't need to refrigerate anything, but when we got to the market, we couldn't find any peanut butter. Our train was about to leave, so we grabbed a nutty protein that I had never heard of before and ran to our platform. Once we found a car that would fit all of us, we settled in and started the operation of putting together the sandwiches. The peanut-butter replacement was good. It was sweet and chocolatey. That was the day that my life was changed. That was the day I first tasted Nutella.

Nutella. I am certain that this delicious treat was found in the garden of Eden, among the fruit trees. Plastic jars of happiness hanging from branches just waiting to be plucked. I am pretty sure the rest of Genesis 2:17 went something like this in the original Hebrew "[the LORD commanded the man] not to eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, but that Nutella tree, whoo boy! you slap that stuff on everything else!" I think the second part was just lost in translation.

This looks like a good sized serving.

I have been a fan of Nutella ever since that train ride to Paris and can eat it any time of the day. For breakfast, I have whole grain toast with Nutella and a half a banana sliced on top. There have been times when I will spread Nutella on top of apple slices and then sprinkle them with coconut and sliced almonds for a desert. It is delicious in Swedish pancakes and crepes. I have even been known to just dip a spoon in the jar and lick it off . . . alright, so I usually forgo the spoon and use my finger, but I swear I only do that if the jar is almost empty (fine, half full) or I know we won't be having guests anytime soon.

Since being pregnant, my Nutella addiction has become much worse. And yes, I would call it and addiction since I think about it multiple times a day. I eat it all the time. Sometimes, Troy comes home from work and asks me how many toasts with Nutella I have had that day. Today I would answer two, since I had one  for breakfast and one for snack. I am really restraining myself because I would love to have another, but I know I will probably end up making one for a bedtime snack. I should really get a gold star for showing such self control. I am pretty sure Baby Carlson is made up of 50% Troy, 25% me and 25% Nutella. If he comes out smelling like chocolatey hazelnut goodness, I cannot promise that I won't lick his head.

The Nutella Mecca at CostCo.

The other night, I actually had a dream that we were out of Nutella. It was terrible. Troy was playing video games and told me that he would take me to the store to get more when he finished his game. I was so hungry that I had a hissy fit in the dream (which isn't the weird part) and so I ditched Troy and went to Kroger myself to get my Nutella for breakfast. Thankfully, I woke up and realized it was a dream. We had a whole jar of Nutella in the cabinet, just waiting for me to drive into! Troy and I went to Costco this weekend, and just to be on the safe side, we bought two packs, so I have four large containers of Nutella. Better to be safe than sorry.

My Brain Short-Curcuits

I would like to say that the problem I am about to disclose is pregnancy related, but unfortunately, this has been happening long before Baby Carlson was a thought. Alright, here we go. I am about to get real wit-cha-all.

Sometimes I have super random thoughts floating around in my head. I guess they aren't thoughts so much as names and/or phrases. Sometimes I don't even know what it means. I am not crazy; let me explain. 

Thibodeau coaching Rose - or whispering his name for me.

A couple of years ago I was vacuuming and I kept repeating "Tom Thibodeau" (the last name is pronounced "Ti-bi-dough.") I had no idea why this name kept going through my head, but it did. I didn't think about it until a couple of days later when I was doing another mundane task and it happened again. "Tom Thibodeau, Tom Thibodeau, Tom Thibodeau." One night, Troy was watching a Bulls game and I heard the name on the TV. I ran out to the family room and asked Troy who they were talking about and he repeated the name that had been running through my brain. I replied, mostly to myself yet still audible, that I didn't know he was a real person.  Troy looked at me weird and said, "He's the head coach of the Chicago Bulls."

Interesting. I figured that I must have heard that name millions of times and not thought anything of it. My brain must have just soaked up the name, stored it away and pulled it out at random times as though my brain was short-circuiting. Weird. I wish I could say this was the only time it happened.

Oh heaven help us. Nugent and Palin are apparently buds.

A few weeks ago, I was cleaning the bathroom and as I was scrubbing the tub, it happened again. This time, it was a different name. "Ted Nugent, Ted Nugent, Ted Nugent." I didn't recognize the name and asked Troy if he had heard of him. Apparently, he is a guitar player. When I Googled him, I realized that I knew his face. I went to his Wikipedia page and learned that he was born in Detroit so I am figuring that I must have heard of him when my sister was telling me all the famous people who came from Michigan. (She lives in Michigan with her hubs who was born and raised in the mitten state.) Side note: this is the same conversation I had with her where I was chastised after I foolishly announced that I never knew that Tim Allen was the voice of the Pure Michigan commercials. (I am allowing a pause here to let that sink in for any of you who did not yet know that tidbit about Mr. Allen so that you can audibly go, "Oh yeah!") In my defense, anyone who lives outside of the state of Michigan can't place that voice unless it is in distress due to a project gone awry or an insult directed at the one and only Al Borland. But I digress.

My brain has recalled other, random words to repeat, but they are so humdrum that I can't remember what they are. Obviously, names like Tom Thibodeau or Ted Nugent are a little harder to forget. Here's what I would like to know:

1. Why these men? I am not interesting in their hobbies/careers.
2. Why can't I repeat the names of men who are at least a little bit of eye-candy? Let's be honest, these men are not winning People's Hottest Man of the Year award.
3. Why do these names only come up when I am performing a trite task?
4. If I do something more exciting, will a more exciting name pop in my head? For example: should I decide to make a meat dress, will I repeat "Lady Gaga"?
5. Will the people in the white coats be knocking my my door tomorrow to take me away for writing this? Highly possible, yet not probable.


Like I said before, I am pretty sure that my brain is just on the fritz. Some of the hard-wiring just shorts out for a second or two and random information gets recalled. I guess I should be grateful that I only think of weird people's names and don't lose my gross motor functions. I only when I laugh to hard. Crisis averted. Let's just relax to one of Tim Allen's soothing Pure Michigan commercials.

MC Hammer Galoshes

Today, I had a little bit of a fashion faux pas. It was quite rainy this morning; however, for the past two days we have been enjoying temperatures in the mid to upper 60's, so a rainy day in January is pretty nice. As I looked out the window this morning, I thought I should probably wear my rain boots that I finally broke down and bought a couple of years ago. I really hate having wet feet, but then again, unless you're taking a shower, who doesn't? So, I put my cute, ballet flats in my purse and stuffed my toes into their waterproof protectors. 

Then, I thought about how I wouldn't want the bottoms of my dress pants to get all wet either, so I stuffed those into the boots as well. My dress pants didn't fit nicely in my boots, so when I stood up, I looked like MC Hammer in galoshes. I figured it was better than slopping around with wet feet, so I just went with it. When I got to school, I passed stylish mothers dropping their children off, wearing their skinny jeans or leggings tucked tightly into their Hunter boots, while I splashed through the puddles with my Hammer Time maternity pants shoved into my Target brand boots. Though I was dry, I thought that maybe I had made the wrong call this morning. I was only too happy to peel those boots off and replace them with my cute flats. 

As the day went on, I didn't think too much about my frumpy rain boots. I was glad to have dry feet and since the rain stopped in the afternoon, I didn't wear them home. I guess I am an adult for sure since I choose comfort over cuteness. I may have looked like MC Hammer, but at least my feet could say to the rain, 'can't touch this.' (Yeah, I just did that.)

Sewn Up Hugs

If you read my blog, you know I love me some pockets. And who wouldn't? They are conveniently and ergonomically located at a comfortable distance at your waist. You always have a place for your hands when you don't know what to do with them. You can store your small treasures such as chapstick. I mean, even the word "pocket" is nice. It's like a hug you wrap around your hands that happen to be located in your Levi's. You will never hear a woman complain, "Awe man! This dress has pockets! Dang it!" Ever put on a pair of pants without pockets? It's terrible. Your hands freak out for the whole day as they search for their tiny getaway. Oh, is that just me? NOPE, you do it too.

As I have been in the professional world for a few years now, I have donned many-a-dress pant. Have you noticed that some new dress pants have the pockets sewn shut? This irritates me to no end. How in the world will I know if my hands like their pockets? More importantly, why on earth would someone sew up a hug? It's just wrong. I was thinking about this recently due to a shopping trip with my mom.

For Christmas, my parents' gift to me was some new maternity clothes which was great because I really needed dress pants for work. My mom and I went out shopping and she helped me pick out a nice pair of dark grey, lined trousers - I love that word.  I was excited to have a pair of pants that didn't make me look frumpy at work. The first time I put them on to wear to work, the pockets were sewn shut. Grrrr. I was going to need those pockets ready for active duty - Hello! Chapstick? - so I got my trusty seam ripper from my sewing kit and opened those puppies up. When I went to slide my hands inside, the pockets only went as far as my knuckles!!! I still rock those bad boys, but every day that I wear those dress pants I stand a significant risk of losing my Burt's Bees Pomegranate chapstick. I guess, I like to live dangerously, but I seriously question the integrity of the person who designed such small pockets. I am sure this person is utterly unhappy in life. But I digress.

Here's what I don't understand, why even sew the pockets up in the first place? What a waste of thread. The only conclusion that I have come up with is that clothing companies know how amazing pockets are. So, they sew them up, almost like you would wrap a present to be opened on Christmas morning. When you rip open those seems, the clouds part and the angels from heaven shower you with their 'halleluiahs' as you slip your hands inside the pockets.

I did some Googling and found that companies sew pockets shut because it keeps the clothing looking its best in the store. Whatever. I think that's lame so I am going to go with the Christmas morning theory; plus it is much better than thinking that the clothing companies just want to make your mornings that much more difficult by adding another step to your grooming rituals. (Well, maybe the person who creates small pockets does; we know how unhappy that person is.)  

They just want you to open up your sewn up hug.

Pregnancy Brain

I know. It seems like I have abandoned you. I suppose to a certain extent, it is true. My last post was a million years ago; at least that is what it feels like. The truth is, the unthinkable has happened. The hubs and I decided to expand our family. First we got a dog, Bruce . . . . and then a few weeks later, we found out I was pregnant. I think our families and friends were shocked. After all, Troy and I were on the two year plan, which just so happened to get bumped back everyday. But, we were bound to procreate someday and five years later, that day has come. Baby Boy Carlson will make his debut the end of May.

Thus, part of the reason for my absence from the blog world. For the longest time, we were just trying to keep our huge secret. I was really worried we would end up spilling the beans. After all, Troy and I would talk about the baby all the time and then when we were around others, we had to pretend like nothing new was happening. We wanted to wait until I was in my second trimester and things were safe, but mostly we waited because my sister, Laura got married the beginning of November and we didn't want to share the news until after her big day. 

When we did share the news, the reactions were hilarious. We decided to tell our families by pretending to take a picture while the camera was on video. That way, we would always be able to see our family's reactions. Troy told the families to say "Pam's pregnant!" My family in particular was in a small state of denial.  They all put on their nice smiles and repeated his phrase without thinking about what they said! It was so funny! I have personally watched the video about 30 times and each time I still laugh so hard. The best is Laura's reaction when she goes after Troy for an excited hug while he is still filming. Here's the video. It is definitely worth the watch.

Anywho, it's been an easy pregnancy, in fact, my friend Becca called it a "ghost pregnancy" because I haven't really had any symptoms besides about three weeks of nausea and exhaustion. There is one symptom I have that I thought was an old wives tale - that is my Pregnancy Brain also called Momnesia. I thought this was a joke, until I started walking into a room to get something and by the time I got there, I had already forgotten what I needed. Or when I start to tell Troy a story about something that happened that day and I can't remember the rest of the story while I am in the middle of it. I also tend to blurt things out that are completely stupid. Thankfully, that happens mostly around Troy - albeit just about everyday - but there have been a few times when my Pregnancy Brain fly its freak flag for the world to see and the two stories below are the best ones so far.

The Phantom Phone Incident

One afternoon, I was talking on the phone with Laura while on my way home from work. I parked in the garage and started collecting all my things to bring inside, but once inside I realized I had forgotten to bring my phone into the house. The next few minutes are a product of my pregnancy brain, and I suppose I have to take responsibility for my actions; however, this in no way lowers the embarrassment level I encumbered that day.

"Oh, shoot! I think I left my phone in the car." I said.

"What?" Laura replied, confused.

"I think I must have left my phone in the car; it's not in the pocket of my purse where I usually keep it. I better go get it." I explained.

"Do you mean, you left the phone you are using to talk to me with in your car?" Laura said, slowly.

Here's the problem with this scenario is that it repeated itself the very next day. That's right folks. I called Laura again the next day on my way home from work, came into the house, and announced to her that I left my phone in the car . . . again. We had not yet shared our news, so I think Laura was concerned, and with good reason.

Catch Phrase Freak Out Incident

Troy and I were invited to a dinner at the home of one of his colleague's. Afterwards, we played a few games of Catch Phrase. If you haven't played this game, you have to get your team to say a particular word without saying it yourself. Teams can steal points if the buzzer goes off during their turn to guess. **Side Note: I am notoriously loud while playing this game and use large hand gestures. Troy often has to tell me to calm down and lower my voice. I will literally be shouting by the end of the game.

We decided to play girls against guys. The buzzer went off on the guys and us gals had a chance to make a guess as to what the word was and steal a point. My teammate said she thought the word might be "convict." I nodded as I mulled over the clues that the guys had given and knew that I had thought of the perfect answer. I shouted out, "CONVICT!" as though this was a new idea. I found that everyone at the table was laughing at me. "Christine just said that," Troy told me. Oh my word. I am sure my face turned so red. What on earth is wrong with me. I am pretty sure I heard her, but it was like those moments were completely wiped out of my brain.

To make matters worse, I realized as we were about to put our coats on, I had a price tag still attached to the new maternity shirt I was wearing. I had been rocking that tag all day. It was the icing on the cake. Thankfully our hosts thought my Pregnancy Brain was funny. I had warned them about it before we started the game. I think they thought I was just setting myself up to save face should my team lose. After that night, they saw that I have just completely lost my mind.

While I seem to have misplaced my brain for the time being, it does make for some entertaining moments in the Carlson household. So, I write this blog as a warning to all you who happen to be near a pregnant woman. Watch them closely, you may get to see them do something hilarious. Like put their cell phone in the fridge in exchange for a glass of water, and let it stay there all night long. (Yes, my friend actually did that.) 

Let's just be grateful I am not a surgeon. I only work with children. They are resilient.

Cottage Critters

The hubs and I are big fans of the comedian Jim Gaffigan. He came to Cincinnati last weekend and we went to see him. I was laughing so hard, my throat hurt. If you haven't heard him, you simply must. He is hilarious and his jokes are not raunchy or dirty. He does one bit about the outdoors and camping. He is against the whole idea of camping and says that if it is so nice, why are bugs always trying to get inside? It is funny because it's kind of true. 

Now, Troy has helped me realize that I do love to camp and be in the outdoors. I never went camping when I was a kid - (Jim Gaffigan would say that was because my parents loved me.) In fact, my parents were shocked when I told them I liked camping, since I am the girliest girl they have out of us three sisters, but it's true. The trick is to adapt to your surroundings. You have to know that when you wake up in the morning, you will either be scorching hot or freezing cold and there will be at least ten of those tiny bugs flying around the top of your tent who scornfully laughed at the "protection" of your netted windows as they shimmied through the teeny squares. There is a good chance your pillow will be damp and and smell like campfire embers. But you signed up for this. You know what to expect and there are other things about camping that make it great, like s'mores and good conversations with people you care about.

The other nice thing about camping is getting home, to your controlled environment where you can regulate the temperature, go to the bathroom without having to putting on shoes to walk a 1/2 mile to the john, and living in a place free of critters. Or so you think. Last night, you would have thought that coming to our house you were entering one of those creepy-crawly buildings at the zoo that you only go into when you're on a field trip and the kids beg you to go inside.  

I was going down to our creepy basement to get a load of laundry out of the dryer when I saw it. At first I thought one of the girls decided to leave a little gift on the basement floor instead of in their litter box, but then I realized that this poop had eyes and then saw that the poop was moving, thus I deduced that it wasn't poop after all. Genius moment. My initial reaction was first relief because then I didn't have to clean up poop, but then I was slightly panicked because now I needed to figure out what to do with this slimy creature who we learned via the internet was a slug. When I realized what it was, I had a minor freakout, which involved me calling Troy and begging him to remove it, but as he was looking for his flip flops, I came to my senses and realized, this slug was more disgusting than dangerous and the little slimeball was quickly scooped up with a piece of cardboard and flung outside. Of course, we were hopeful that our fearless felines would aide us in our slug removal venture, but all Molly did was poke the slug with her nose until he contracted into a chubby ball. After our unwelcome visitor made his necessary departure, I put on my detective hat and found his trail began at the drain in our basement. Eww. We chalked it up to this being an old house (it was built in the 40's) and old plumbing.

Once that excitement was over, we brushed our teeth and got ready for bed. I went upstairs and found Molly crouched down, looking at something on the carpet. When I got a better look, I didn't like what I saw. It had a hard shell plus six legs and was the size of a half dollar. This sum of this equation is never pleasant. Begin emotional meltdown - I mean, are you kidding me right now? I just got rid of slug that was the size of a fruit roll up and now this?! I ran downstairs to get a glass to cover him with. (It was literally the only solution I had at that point.) Then I hollered for Troy for the second time that night. This time, I wasn't going to be able to take care of it myself. Anything with legs that moves quickly gives me the sweats and the goosebumps all at the same time. Once again, Molly was zero help, as she was just pressing her nose to the upside down glass which where the entrapped beetle was scurrying around. My knight in shining armor - or the hubs in a Chicago Bulls warm up tee - trapped the beetle in the glass and flung him outside as well. 

As I was laying in bed, I was grateful that we are only renting this house and decided that my desire to live in a "historical home" was stupid. I also had a minor panic attack of what other creature will come crawling into our little cape cod cottage over the next two years. Then I thought back to Jim and his comment about if the outdoors are so great, why to the critters keep trying to get in? I decided to look on the positive side of things. After working all summer on this house, it is finally cute, cozy and (despite the critters mentioned) clean. Who wouldn't want to sneak in and freeload. The snail and the beetle probably saw Molly and Olivia laying around all day doing nothing and figured this was a good set up. So, thank you Snail and Beetle for your complements to my house, alas, you are not invited without adoption papers. Olivia and Molly are the only cottage critters we will be taking in, at least until the next furry animal steals our hearts.

Negative Jokes

I love humor, but then again, who doesn't? When I am in a lousy mood, one big belly laugh usually does the trick to snap me out of my funk. I tend to be an equal opportunity aficionado of humor as well. I love a good dry sense of humor - especially if the comedian happens to be a grandpa, particularly my grandpa. Then I love it even more. I love what I call academic humor, where you need some educational experience to understand the pun or have an excellent memory from your sixth grade history class. I love cheesy jokes which require a groan after the punchline has been given. I love kids lame-o jokes because you know the kids think they are funny.

There is one kind of humor which I feel is not funny at all. These are the kind of jokes that require a fake laugh that sometimes I cannot even muster because of how I loath them . . . the negative jokes. The term "negative jokes" is really an overarching umbrella for all jokes that are the snarky or rudely sarcastic where the "comedian" thinks it is funny but they generally poke fun at someone. These jokes usually have a truthful undertone that allows the person telling to joke to say what they are really feeling in a way that would make the victim seem like a whiny baby if they called the person out on it. These jokes tend to be used by people who like to make themselves look good at the expense of someone else and the victim always ends up feeling foolish. I will sheepishly admit that I tend to be the butt of these negative jokes due to my naivety. It honestly really bothers me because if you know me, you know I am naive so I feel like it is a cheap shot.

Don't get me wrong. I love sarcasm. Love it. It is a part of my personality. I remember one time my youth group went on a retreat. The guest speaker was talking about sarcasm and how we need to be careful in how we use it. My youth pastor literally leaned forward in his chair and eyed each one of his sarcastic youth. We of course thought he was being sarcastic and saw his act as funny. In an effort to do research for this blog (you're welcome) I tried to refrain from any sarcasm. My goal was to do this for a whole day. I forgot for a split second and ending up failing before I even had breakfast. It doesn't help that Troy is a fan of sarcasm as well. 

I guess I am a little bit of a humor snob, but at least I am a snob who wants to promote good over evil. Negative jokes or making someone feel stupid is a big no-no in Friends 101. Now obviously, in our culture, it is natural to embrace some form of sarcasm. As long as you know the other people isn't serious, minor ribbing is okay. You can dabble in this kind of humor if you are with excellent friends who know you're joking and if this is not your go-to humor tactic.

Or if you are Troy and all of our guys friends we grew up with from church (yes, church). For some reason, those guys can rip on each other and still stand up in each others weddings. I honestly think that when one of the guys tells another that he throws like a girl, what they really mean, "I love you, man."

You'll Grow Into It

When I was a kid, we went clothes shopping once a year for new school clothes. My mom would look at the jeans, sweaters and shirts and throw desired items into the crook of her arm and when she was satisfied with her selection, my sister and I were ushered into a fitting room. I specifically remember the pants always being too big. My hips would get swallowed in the waist and I was certain I could pull them down without unbuttoning them. My mom would bend down and roll the pant legs up. Then I would hear the same message as I heard the year before, "They're a little big, but this way you can grow into them." After all, we only bought new clothes once a year, my mom wanted to make sure I didn't have a growth spurt and grow out of them.

After we got our allotted pants and tops, we would head over to the shoe department for a new pair of gym shoes. We got to pick out the shoes we wanted but my dad was in charge of the sizing. He would help us get the right size and tie our shoes. Then we got the "Toe Test." We would stand up and my dad would say, "Wiggle your toes." While we were wiggling our littlest digits, he had his thumb on the toe of our shoe to make sure that we had enough room. When he thought we had the right fit, he would say, "Yeah, those will be good. You'll have some room to grow into them."

I thought that when I became an adult, and stopped growing, I could forgo this phrase that is said by almost every parent on the planet. I don't need any more room. I will not grow into anything anymore. However, it seems I still have to grow into one more thing . . . my name.

Pamela is a name that my dad was set on naming his first daughter. My mom liked it too and ironically, her dad would have named her Pamela, but the deal was if she was a girl, her mom got to name her, so alas, Pamela would need to be shelved for the next generation. Growing up, I knew a couple of Pamelas, but the majority of them were older than me, like my parents' age. Usually when I introduce myself, I hear comments regarding Pamela Anderson (of whom I am not equipped to be compared to), Pam Beasley from the Office (who is awesome yet fictional) or the cooking spray (that has gotten icky, quickly).

Since moving to Cincinnati, Troy and I are on the hunt for a new church. Yesterday, we went to the community church in our town. When it came time to greet others around us, the woman in front of me turned around to introduced herself. The woman looked to be about 60 years old and cheerfully told me that her name was . . . Pam. Yep. Then when she turned to introduce me to her husband, she excitedly told him that she met another Pam. His response, "Wow, I thought they stopped making those."

This is the issue I run into all the time. If I meet a Pam she is usually about my mom's age. Don't get me wrong, I like my name. I like that people have heard of it but that it is not too common. I can usually find it on a coffee cup if I was interested in purchasing such kitschy souvenirs. I like that I can walk into a room and usually be the only Pamela there . . . unless I happen to be at a Baker's Square for the four o'clock dinner rush.

Someday, I will grow into my name. My kids and grandkids will talk about the name Pamela like my generation talks about the names Betty or Helen, as "Old People Names." And at that moment, I will not have to wiggle my toes to check my fit. I will have grown into my name. 

I hope I live that long.

English Thinking

In college, I was a waitress at the Cracker Barrel. One night, a young couple came in with their toddler. When I went to greet them and take their drink order, I was pleasantly surprised with their English accents. It pretty much made my shift. At the end of their meal, like a fool, I told them that I loved their accents. They kindly replied that they liked my accent too. Then I ran into the kitchen like a school girl and I quite possibly giggled as such.

I don't know what it is, but I just love accents and English accents are in my top three. (In case you are wondering, the other two are Irish and Australian.) There is something so classy about English accents. I went on a Europe trip when I was in college. Our first stop was London (one of my favorite places) and we were there for four days. While on my trip, I kept a journal to remember all that we did. I found that as I was writing the events of the day, I was thinking in an English accent. I kid you not. It started to seep into my daily thinking too. I would get hungry for lunch and want to say something like, "Shall we pop into the pub for a bit of fish and chips?"

Recently my "English Thinking" has come back. Last Friday was my birthday and Troy and I should have been celebrating at The Melting Pot for drinks and fondue, but I caught a cold which inhibited me from smelling or tasting, so we took a rain check for the Melting Pot and ordered a pizza. I decided to peruse Netflicks and see what girly thing I could tap into when I stumbled upon a little show called Downton Abbey. Also known as crack for your eyes. I had lots of friends tell me that I needed to watch the show especially since I love historical fiction. So, I decided to give it a go.

The show is about Lord Grantham and his family living in an enormous mansion in the countryside of England. The first episode takes place the morning after the Titanic sinks. This already tragic event is compounded by the news that the family's heir was on the ship and the family struggles to figure out their future with a new heir. The costumes are fabulous as is their way of life. It is so interesting to see how the elite lived with their rituals and social graces. After the first episode, I wasn't sure if I was a fan, but after episode two I was hooked. It have been four days since I was introduced to Downton Abbey. I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that I have already finished seasons one and two. Due to my surplus of Downton Abbey viewings, I have had a hard time getting much of anything done and my English Thinking has come back.

Unfortunately, my execution of English accents is very poor. I have always wanted to pretend to have an accent when I go to a restaurant or store or something, but my acting is not good enough and I know I would start laughing. I think the only way I could get a real English accent would be to move to England. Troy said that I am like a sponge with accents, but I need to be immersed in the culture. I had a Chicago accent until I moved to Minnesota, and now I say things like "Ufta" and draw out long o sounds like Sarah Palin. After we move to Cincinnati, it is only a matter of time before I start saying "ya'll" and offering people grits with every meal. So, I guess the only way to get my English accent to match my English thinking is to move to England. I'm in.

I wonder if the Crawley's have any room for me at Downton Abbey?