Baby Showers: The Ghost Expense in my Wallet

I love babies, and am kind of obsessed with watching my friends become parents. Truly. Witnessing my best friends experience parenthood is, unexpectedly, one of the biggest joys in my life. I get emotional thinking of the new love that reroutes their lives, the parenting inspiration they are to me, and…

I am wiping tears right now, so I’ll just stop there.

Consequently, I enjoy celebrating with them at baby showers.

Modern times (and Pinterest) also call for baby “sprinkles,” which are usually thrown for second, third babies, etc.

This is all great, unless you’re Mormon, like I am.

THAT’S A LOT OF BABIES.

Showers and showers mean we LDS women make it rain more than Lil Wayne.

Weddings and babies, man. I don’t know if I can afford this religion. I definitely can’t be forking out money for everyone’s Dock a Tot registry dreams for five people a month without signing up to be an Uber driver. How about a nice box of breast pads?

(If you’ve seen me at a shower lately, don’t worry. Now you know that I REALLY wanted to be there. 🙂 )

If you haven’t been to a baby shower or baby sprinkle recently, let me lay it out for you:

The expectant mother’s mom squad is always there, talking in high voices about baby names they love, that, in my humble, I-named-my-child-Gus opinion, are not names. If there are multiple X and Y and silent Zs and stuff, that’s just not a name, or even a word, but I’ll be by the brownies.

There are not brownies at showers these days, only mini donuts. I wish they were full size donuts. I know cronuts are too much to hope for, so I won’t even address that.

Expectant mothers love flower crowns, which I also like! Flower crowns are pretty, until someone gets carried away with foliage…in which case, I am reminded of Jesus. Don’t be offended. Overzealous flower crowns remind me of Jesus’ crown of thorns, but maybe that’s just because I’m just super holy all the time. Who am I to say? I feel guilty about my thoughts being borderline sac religious, so I look for brownies again, just in case I missed them.

My next baby, I am throwing a party called the “Fat Ash Bash,” and there will be brownies. In lieu of gifts, there will be a donation for postpartum mom reconstruction, because, what the.

Hold me to it.

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Has Anyone Started Dreaming in Boomerangs Yet?

It’s been said that once you truly comprehend a new language, you start dreaming in it.

It makes me wonder if every person active on social media has suddenly experienced endless dreams (nightmares?) of Boomerang videos over and over and over and over and over and over and over and three new views and over and over.

Just curious.

(I haven’t yet, but I have yet to master that Boomerang wiggle, and I am positive that’s a prerequisite.)

Although I mainly use this blog as a reference website for writing samples, can I incorporate other stuff? Like, I don’t know…crappy iPhone photos? My favorite blogs have always been those that show me a glimpse of a person’s (slash total stranger I’m convinced I’m friends with) real life, and you can really get to know someone through their low-quality, quickly snapped pictures. A screenshot of the 72 open browser tabs on their phones, too, perhaps? I’ll save that for next time.

Maybe I’ll do that weekly and make a “My Life Monday,” or “More Than You Want to Know Monday!”
“TMI Tuesday?”
How about, “What the Hell’s Happening Wednesday”?

Yes. I like that one, but my mom would probably thin smile and that’s scary.

Also, it’s not Wednesday.

Also, my kids aren’t allowed to say “butt,” sooo I won’t say PG-13 words like hell. I definitely won’t say heck. I sure as hell won’t say heck. (JK, Mom!)

Anyway, here’s the past week:

I went to a friend’s baby sprinkle. You know that group of friends that you just kind of elbow your way into because they’re fun? Or do you not do that? Here are mine. I really like them and I’m way happy they were forced into the shackles of my love.

After Destiny’s shower, I made the most of my thirty minutes in the mall before the stores closed. I bought my son shoes, had an item to return, and I bought several pairs of sunglasses, because I will break and/or lose them all before July. I had to text a best friend to ask for her opinion while simultaneously doing the same with the Nordstrom girl helping me. (Like I said, forced friends. “Do these look okay? Do I look like I think I’m 17? Do you want to go to spin?”)

I ran into a girl at the airport wearing these shoes, and I had five minutes left to casually run to the other side of the mall to decide if I was pulling the trigger on copying her. The run! The color decision! It was all very thrilling. I’m saying I bought these shoes for Mother’s Day, but I am still holding out hope for a will. Shoes just sound appropriately less morbid for Mother’s Day.

We went swimming with a few friends at our friend Dylan’s house, went through the carwash at least six times, celebrated our friend Trey at his birthday party, celebrated the opening of a friend’s soda store, celebrated my friend Jackie’s birthday at a Backstreet Boys concert.

Wow. I guess I know why my boys napped so well.

Every week, I’m more and more in love with these little guys. Even with a bunch of fun events, my favorite moments are at home. Seen here: playing In n Out Drive Thru in Halloween jammies. They even ask, “You want animal style?” #proudmom

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What If I Match My Babysitter? Age Appropriate Shopping Concerns

I just have a question under the category of “adulting.”

What am I supposed to be wearing at age thirty?

It’s less my age, maybe, than my stage of life.

Here’s my sitch: pregnant, postpartum, disproportionate nursing bod’, pregnant again, think-I’m-normal-size-but-not-really, back to normal (ish). Another baby wanted.

Am I given a pass to buy inexpensive clothing where sixteen year old girls waste time in line posting their Coachella pictures?

Or, is having a real-life wardrobe imperative to my being taken seriously during squabbles with our pediatrician’s front desk staff? (“Oh, you’ve been sitting in the empty room with a fevering child for over an hour? I must have not checked you in. What’s your name again?”)

Next time, I want to be like, “THIS IS A CHICO’S BLAZER, KAREN, DO I LOOK INCAPABLE OF A TERRIBLE YELP REVIEW TO YOU?”

I’ll bust out any amount to have the upper hand at a pediatrician, I’ll tell you that much.

I dislike paying $75 for a made-in-China shirt that I will ruin with hair color at my job, or Cheetohs at my other job, but I’ll break out my Southwest credit card if needs be. I’m happy to rack up enough points to get to San Juan this summer.

Well, at least Wichita.

(Below are some of my most complimented pants. I wasn’t aware they were pajama pants when I purchased them. I just assumed Kate Moss for Topshop meant English chic. I DO wear them to social events, and you SHOULD be jealous I found the only comfortable high-waisted pants ever made. Or just bless my heart.)

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Do I know you? Do you want to look at my room service pictures anyway?

Blogland slowed down for a second, because, to be honest, I got a little freaked out.

When I started a little blog in 2008, all my friends had one. It was how I communicated with friends and family prior to Instagram.

My readership has increased since then, especially since I’ve been trying to promote it to find writing opportunities. I can’t believe it! Frankly, I’m stunned that anyone stops by here, but it’s awesome!

It’s just…who are you?

Are you someone who cares to know that my post 9:00 PM time management is terrible, and I complain about never getting laundry done as I pick my face for an hour?

Are you someone who finds it interesting that my husband legitimately accused me of forgetting a burrito in our bedroom a few weeks ago? (It DID smell like Mexican food in our room for a couple days, and it IS a valid hypothesis, but I did not. I haven’t eaten a burrito in our room…for years. It left me offended and hungry.)

Are you the type I can confide in that I feel completely overwhelmed, and recently bit off more than I can chew? Are you the kind friend that will put an arm around me and tell me that’s just life? And to stop wasting time picking my face?

Are you a person that doesn’t mind if I post no-makeup, not professional pictures occasionally?

As a reader, I enjoy elements of raw emotion in writing. That will inevitably bleed onto Fluent in Blonde (unless I see a therapist for my emotions, or something), and I spent a week debating my level of not-child-related caution in what I share. By no means am I controversial, but I have a personality, you know? What if I offend someone? What if I unknowingly make myself way too vulnerable?

…buuuuut coming from a girl who can pound an entire pack of Springtime Oreos, I probably weigh too much to walk on eggshells.

I’ve also concluded that sharing my thoughts with you is less detrimental to me than it is to you. My overexposed emotions is probably more like…a flasher. A streaker. Okay, maybe something more mild, like mooning. As a verbal (or more traditional) mooner,I can’t feel vulnerable if I’m intentionally expoooosing myself to you.

Obviously, my sweet ninos are a different story, but writing with emotion? I think I’m okay with you reading it, you. Whoever you are. (I’m glad you’re here.)

Here’s what I’ve been doing while ignoring you:

It was brought to my attention by an online Zappos customer service rep that April 20th is National Cheese Fry Day. There was no questioning eating animal fries, animal fries know no shame. That’s why I unapologetically ate them in a swimsuit. It was also the first time everrrr that my little angel babies were being little angel babies in the kids’ pool. I sat on the side eating 3000 calories, and they just played! Gloooooooooooo-ria.

I enjoyed a one night vacation with my friend, Taylor. I never enjoy leaving any of my boys, but laying on a beach all day? Sleeping in until 10? Room service? Not currently physically attached to a baby? Well, okay. I’ll go for one day.


No vegan, gluten, dairy,or sugar preferences here.


Alwaaaays happy to be back home and wake up to my little loves snuggling in my bed.

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My Hypocritical Distaste for Blogs and a Question for You

Hello. I have some statements and questions for you.

Consider this a diary entry regarding my qualms about recently and wholeheartedly diving into blog land.

In general, I dislike blogs. There are a smaaaaall handful that I follow and enjoy. You can consider me a total hypocrite since I’ve been writing on a blog since 2008.

Since then, blogs turned into bloggers, and (many) bloggers turned into some kind of narcissistic subculture of social media.

And now I have this twitch anytime I say I have a blog.

But—aren’t all blogs essentially the same? Travel, fashion, food.

They all consist of the same few things, packaged up slightly differently.

Not unlike: Taco Bell.

It’s just the same handful of ingredients in a variety of shells (chalupas being my favorite).

Haven’t we had enough, America? Aren’t you sick of this stuff?

Nope. America can never have enough. Beans, Crunchwrap Supremes, Mexican pizza, processed nacho cheese, bloggers posting aerial view pictures of themselves drinking coffee in bed with a laptop, all of it. America EATS IT UP.

So, do I have to have the same ingredients to gain traction? Is that the secret to success? My traveling is to Costco, I like fashion BUT, and food I could never photograph before I eat it.

Also, I don’t care. (I would hope to still be considered a chalupa shell, though.)

That leaves one element of “blogging” (twitch)…photos.

My question to you: do I have to have pictures? If so, can I just look down and away in them all?

I’ve nixed all the rest of the blogger secret sauce trifecta (food, fashion, travel), and respectfully disregarded all my paid-for mentoring advice. (An aesthetic for my feed with a color matrix? Who has time for this?) I reminded myself that I’m spending one year out of the nine I’ve “blogged” actually trying, and I won’t let myself shy away from this completely, so I did have my friend Jess take some photos for me today. Thankfully, she knows I’m super embarrassed having a photo shoot of myself, and makes me feel a whole lot less stupid. She even drove twenty minutes away to an undisclosed location, because I would be mortified if anyone I knew saw it all in action.

Wow, yeah. Jessica Cannon, you’re super nice.

Have I emphasized enough how awkward posting photos of myself makes me? I had to remind myself of other uncomfortable situations I’ve been in (albeit less self inflicted).

Liiiiike having my luggage searched on my honeymoon.

Or having Gus give a loud play by play of (and usually applauding) everything going on in my stall when I’m using a public ladies room.

Pursuing goals often tiptoes out of your comfort zone, right?

DID I LEARN NOTHING FROM LALALAND?

If you’re telling me photos make blogs more enjoyable, it’s important to me that you know this: I’m not taking photos because I think I’m awesome and living some fabricated life. I don’t care if YOU think I’m cute, but I would crawl away in shame to an Amish town if you thought *I* thought I was cute. Okay? Like Uncle Jesse says, “Capisce?”

This little chalupa shell will sleep a lot better tonight getting this clarification of her chest.

(Somewhere, an old boyfriend is feeling so relieved that he sidestepped a girl that is making Taco Bell analogies at 11:30 PM.)

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International Women’s Day. Some Interrogating and Some Thoughts.

First of all, this is meant to be lighthearted and politically neutral.

I am a woman, I admire women, and I am blessed to have more strong, incredible women in my family than most Thanksgiving tables have seen. I respect women, and I’m all for women’s rights. I work, I contribute to my family’s finances, and I’m all about building people up. What was even the point of me listening to Spice Girls if I didn’t support “gi’l powah”? (Said like Ginger Spice, the best Spice Girl.)

That being said, WHAAAT?? Women’s Day?

New holiday, who dis? I have questions.

Is this from a Beyonce song? Or is this about Hilary again?

Is someone going to bring me flowers for being a woman? What about chocolate covered strawberries? A doughnut, anything?

Was this celebration fueled by love, or anger?

Were there enough marches that someone at Hallmark said, “You know what, Miley? Here. We will just give you a day, okay? We’re sorry that Hilary lost and Trump is creepy and has terrible hair, but calm down. We’ll throw in some inspirational key chains and limited edition Beanie Babies.”

Did Donald Trump really write those tweets? That’s not a question, actually. Donald Trump did not personally tweet well phrased formalities about gi’l powah, or his name isn’t Donald Trump. (Sorry, Donald, no back pedaling now.)

Was I expected to make an Insta-tribute to my mom, like Mother’s Day?

Am I supposed to be teaching my sons to open doors for girls, or is that going to offend everyone?

Were all my friends serious about missing work for the corporate world to experience life without women? If so, was it like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, or is this serious? Is this a good representation of women? I hope the ladies at least went to IHOP’s Free Pancake Day. (What a coincidence!)

In conjunction with that, did any men notice their absence? It is March Madness time, and if I know men…

International Men’s Day is November 19, just for the record. Very unfortunately for them, it’s not during March Madness, but maybe Buffalo Wild Wings will have some kind of promotion for men celebrating manhood.

I became so intrigued about Women’s Day Instagram posts that by 9 last night, I had to look it up. According to Wikipedia, International Women’s Day has been observed since 1909. It was started by a socialist party for anti-discrimination/gender equality. I read all about it.

WELL. I’ve been alive since 1986, and I’ve never heard of it. I’ve heard of National Everything Day by now, thanks to social media. Best Friends Day, Sibling Day, Doughnut Day (am I hungry?), Associate Day, but International Women’s Day doesn’t ring a bell.

So, I am circling answer D.) Hilary started the fire in November to highlight all things pro-women.

…which is cool.

I don’t feel suppressed, and I haven’t personally felt victimized of sexism. Yet, I believe it exists, and promoting awareness is great. Plus, I like any opportunity to give kudos to awesome ladies.

I do want a heads up next time so I know to burn my bra and not go to work.

It got me thinking, what would happen if I called out of my mom job for the day? Let’s see how the house would run without a woman in it. MUAHAHA!

Then, I realized I’m an idiot and I leave for a couple days at a time for work EVERY single week…and it’s fine. Everything is just fine. I have an awesome husband who can run the house perfectly, and is probably a lot more fun than than I am. My kids LOVE their daddy days.

I didn’t let that ruin my spirit of “muahaha,” and it fueled me to organize a trip with my girlfriends.

I’m now planning to be here in April. “Women’s Day” inspiration at it’s finest.

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Has Facebook Raised Blood Pressure, or…?

I move at a snail’s pace with this writing thing.

Or molasses.

More like that last-drop-of-honey pace, when you’re squeezing the life out of that little honey bear’s neck, trying to meet the toast demands of your three year old master.

That’s me. I’m that annoying little drop of honey that bungee jumps in and out a few times because it can’t commit to it’s toast fate.

But! I did make a couple of “swing for the fences” submissions, and I did make strides in self-promotion the other day and reactivated my Facebook.

I hadn’t been on Facebook in six or seven years, and I was unaware of the complaint forum it’s evolved into. Ricardo, were we friends? Your public complaints about the tortillas at a certain Café Rio location leave me feeling embarrassed for you. Also, I’ll eat your tortilla if you don’t want it.

And who are all these other people? Were these my friends? Are we sure?

Why is everyone trying to sell me stuff?

Am I still a woman if I didn’t march anywhere this week?

And THIS is who I kissed that one time? Has my contact prescription changed since then, or was I really into personalities?

I’m going to have to delete several hundred people (and photos from 2004-2008), and then I’ll be posting writing. I’m assuming it will be a better platform for me to avoid taking a million embarrassing selfies and just write.

If there is any future posting that you can relate to, feel free to Facebook re-post! I’d love you forever.

Unless you start complaining too much…then I will retract my love like that little honey bungee.

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Regarding My Last Post…

Ok, hold on.

Thanks to all those long wearing lip colors (Lipsense, Kylie, and otherwise), I’m not looking perfect for 10 hours straight like everyone else seems to be. I’m sitting here looking like the Joker after scrubbing my face with only 90% removal success. I get it…you use makeup remover. What about that faint pink tint that’s still stained all over my mouth, like I’ve been lapping strawberry Kool Aid out of a dog bowl? What ABOUT that?

No wonder my kids aren’t scared of anything. Imagine the terrifying mother they see every morning after a red lipstick night out, smiling at them while she pours their Corn Pops…

I once had a rash like this when I was pregnant. Perioral dermatitis. Google it when you’re feeling bad about yourself.

Anyway, that’s a visual of me right now as I read and feel embarrassed by the many responses to my last post. My experience is so minuscule compared to others’ stories, and I’m just short of cringing for posting all my thoughts. It’s like I just pressed “submit” to posting a diary entry online, but I guess that’s kind of my M.O. on Fluent in Blonde.

…which is cool, until hundreds of people see your naked soul and how weird you really are. The dolphin girl on The Bachelor premiere understands exactly what I mean.

This is a round about way of saying thank you for deeply heartfelt thoughts and words. As unmerited as they are, I cannot believe how fortunate I am to have such a supportive, caring, inspirational network of friends and family. Thank you. Really.

(And if you REALLY love me, will you text me a good makeup remover? Because if not, you know the lipstick below isn’t coming off until Saturday.)

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Pecan Pie, Okra, Biscuits, Collard Greens

I am a total dreamer. I don’t know that all my dreams would be qualify as “bucket list” items, because things like installing a Stair Genie for recreational use probably shouldn’t be eligible for bucket listing (unless I’m about to kick that bucket).

Anyway.

For about ten years, I’ve hoped to live in Georgia. The height of my Georgia obsession was in 2006, when my friend Natalie and I made “in our dreams” plans to move there for a summer. (Did a favored TI album release around that same time fan the flame? Hard to say. Was I a regional ebonics expert? Yes.)

That summer move didn’t happen, or else at this moment, I would be living in a plantation style home with a peach orchard heir, writing this from a patio rocking chair that my 500 pound, Southern-food loving self finds most comfortable.

I may have simultaneously been applying for a feature on My 600 LB Life, but think of all the fried okra!

My friend Jessy moved to Atlanta from Miami recently, so you already know Natalie and I were there. Natalie came in from D.C., and I had theeee best time. These two are truly my best friends. You know, the type of friends that even make gas station pit stops fun? And you can be completely, fully, pre-mom-life YOU around? Throw in some homemade biscuits, and I mean…

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Pregnant Jessy kept working us out. We showed up in matching pants for a Britney/2 Chainz themed spin class, and both those things made me so happy.
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Her cutest little guy. I love him.
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MY WHOLE 2006 LIFE LED UP TO THIS MOMENT.
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georgia

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If you can overlook the pink camo workout pants, I’m such a natural here, right? I (independently) sent Brian’s resume to several Atlanta based companies right after college. We didn’t hear back, which was rude, especially considering the amount of time I’d spent watching Paula Dean shows in preparation, but okaaay. Jessy introduced me to pimento cheese, and now I’m back on track. I’ve got to get to Georgia. Even if it’s just a couple of years, I’ll take it, especially if Natalie and Jessy stay put for a while!

No one question my fraudulent accent after I’ve only been there a few weeks.

Hashtag I wish these two girls lived closer.

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