A name.

A lot has happened since I last updated this blog. Thanksgiving, a fender-bender, Andrew's Christmas concert at school, a handful of holiday parties, and an ultrasound, to name a few. With this ultrasound came the knowledge that the baby growing inside me is very healthy and quite female. She was even doing abdominal crunches during the ultrasound. (Maybe that's why I'm hardly showing for 20 weeks...)

Armed with this newfound knowledge about our baby's gender, Andrew and I thought it might be safe to start discussing baby names again. (The discussions were recently halted due to concerns over marital well-being.)

[Now comes the disclaimer: We don't actually want to tell anyone the name we eventually select for this baby girl. I'm not very good with keeping my own secrets, so please help me out and don't ask me to divulge too much information. That being said, I asked Andrew for permission to tell the following story, and he agreed that the story was too 'classic' not to tell.]

Knowing that we're having a girl has really helped our baby name conversations. So much so, we thought we already had a name picked out yesterday - the same day as the ultrasound. How's that for turn-around time?! The name? Emily Rose. Now isn't that beautiful? I thought so. We loved it. The initials didn't accidentally spell anything inappropriate. It passed all of the tests I had in my mind. Or so I thought...

As I went to bed last night saying 'Emily Rose' in my head, I started to think maybe I'd heard that somewhere before. "Was it a book title? Maybe. Wait, no, I think it was a movie. Gee, I hope it was a good movie. I'd better check on that in the morning." So, this morning I had Andrew google "Emily Rose" for me. The top result: "The Exorcism of Emily Rose".

One name down, and one more thing to check when considering the next name.

An Open Letter to Merv Griffin, Entertainment Business Magnate and Creator of Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune

Dear Merv (or Merv's secretary, or Merv's fan club volunteer),

I'm sure you get this all the time, but I just have to do this. [Deep breath. OK, here we go.] I have a great game show idea for you. This show requires a bit of background information, however, so please allow me to explain:

I'm pregnant with my first child. Like many new mothers-to-be, I have subscribed to a number of automatic e-mail updates from baby websites. The websites typically send information once a week, alerting me to the changes that are occurring inside me. The websites vary in every way possible: their level of detail, their humor content (or lack thereof), their sponsors, and their layout. However, this week (week 16) they all had one thing in common: they announced that I may start to feel the baby move this week.

Yes, I know. Momentous, right?

Unfortunately, this alert was quickly followed by a discouraging caveat. It was worded differently each time, but the message was the same: Don't get too excited, it could just be gas.

Yes, I know. Total letdown.

So now, here I am, trying to be casual about my newfound internal-working alertness. Wait, what was that? [Body tenses] Oh, it's just my stomach growling because I haven't had breakfast yet. [Sigh and exhale] Be cool, Becky. Be cool. The e-mails said you probably won't feel anything now, just that you could. But I digress.

You're wondering where the game show comes in, aren't you? Well, let me tell you. The show would take three first-timers like me and hook them up to a secret ultrasound machine. Then, they'd have to guess if the tremors inside were gas or the baby! I know! It's perfect! I'll let you take care of the details regarding wins and losses, but here's one idea that I just have to blurt out. The loser shouldn't go home empty-handed - you could give them a lifetime's supply of Beano! Oh, and one more thing - you should call it "Is It Gas?" Cool. Catchy. Concise.

Before I close, let me just say that I don't even need to be credited with the idea. All I ask is that you let me be one of your first contestants.

Thank you for your consideration,
Mrs. B. Stecktastic

Long time, no blog.

Well, today I might be forcing it. When it dawned on me that I hadn't blogged at all in October, I realized I was pretty pathetic. And had to rectify it. Before October ended. Which leads me to now.

Excuses? Yeah, I could give you some. They're all pretty lame though. For instance: I'm newly pregnant, and going downstairs to the basement (where the computer is) makes me sick. See? Pathetic.

What's that you say? Now you feel guilty for bugging me about not blogging in a month? My, how the tables have turned.

Well, now that we're even on the guilt-spectrum (and I'm almost over my "morning" (=all day) sickness), I can get down to business.

Today is Halloween. It's the day when people like me go to work but don't actually get much done. Oh, and we go to work dressed as someone else. Which helps, because then we can say it was the alter-ego that wasn't being productive. Today my alter-ego was Sarah Palin. I'm a brunette that owns a power suit, so it was an easy mark. I even went the extra mile and made a price tag for my suit jacket: Neiman Marcus, $75,000. It was a small detail, but those who noticed it were pleasantly rewarded with a trademark Tina Fey wink. The response I received the most from my costume? "Where did you find a John McCain pin in Ann Arbor?" Touche.

The Cowboy Ten Commandments

Through a strange turn of events involving a co-worker's high school classmate's Facebook friend request (everyone still with me?), I happened upon this interesting eBay item: a t-shirt with a cowboy's version of the ten commandments on it. In case you can't read the teeny-squeezy font, I have dictated below.

1. Just one God
2. Honer yer Ma and Pa
3. No tellin' tales or gossipin'
4. Git yerself to Sabbath meetin'
5. Put nothin' before God
6. No foolin' around with another feller's gal
7. No killin'
8. Watch yer mouth
9. Don't take what ain't yers
10. Don't be hankerin' fer yer buddy's stuff

Now all of you cowpokes reading my blog have a perfect birthday gift idea!

The Small Things

Today one of my co-workers brought his new-to-preschool daughter into work with him for a few minutes. Though shy at first, she immediately opened up when I asked her if she went to school today. She smiled widely, then struggled to take off her backpack - which was over half her size. Out of this Disney Princess-emblazoned cavern of creativity and spare pencils came one of my favorite things: a puppet made out of a paper bag. Her puppet was a dog, complete with ears and pink tongue (similar to the Martha Stewart-provided example below).


I realized that I too had a paper bag at my disposal, as well as a medium point Sharpie primed (from a lifetime of solely redacting) for drawing facial features. Add one orange Post-It flag for a tongue, and I had created my very own happiness-factory (otherwise known as a paper bag puppet). It was a good day.

South of the Border (or "The Smell of Frustration")

Today was a long day. I'm spending the Labor Day weekend in Seattle with my husband and another couple who happen to be semi-professional bargain hunters. These savings sleuths discovered that the cheapest way to get to Seattle would actually be via Vancouver, British Columbia....so away we went, passports in tow. [Please don't say "Why would you go to Seattle if you were in Vancouver?" I've heard that once or twice or thrice today...customs agent, border patrol, rental car clerk - all understandably confused by our travel plans.]

Well, my seat on the plane was in the first row of coach, directly behind first class. Many times the coach and first class seats are separated by an insulting half curtain, allowing the schmucks in coach to only get a glimpse of the flight attendant's navy nylons. Well, not today. Today I experienced a more insulting version of this middle class mocking. I've decided to call it "the impenetrable forcefield of loose fabric and velcro." Instead of half a curtain separating me from the good life, the upper echelon merely held me back with two curtain tiebacks that hung loosely in the middle of the aisle attached by one square of velcro, taunting me with paltry-ness. This barrier was easier to break than the ribbon at the end of a marathon (and not even as wide).

But just like in a marathon, the issue is one of stamina. My bladder was already going to be asked to persevere (do I really have to walk all the way to the back of the plane when there's a perfectly fine bathroom four rows ahead?). I was ready for that. The sneak attack came against my nostrils. You see, the head flight attendant (you may consider him the antagonist) was going to test my will in a way that I was not prepared for this morning. As the head flight attendant, you can apparently toe the line of "the impenetrable forcefield of loose fabric and velcro" without actually having to cross it. To do so, you simply roll your cart full of delicious smelling breakfast foods right under "the impenetrable forcefield of loose fabric and velcro". You see, the delectable and unattainable foods (including the cliche forbidden fruit) were the only things able to break this unstoppable barrier. And where does that leave them? You guessed it, directly next to me - the schmuck in coach that isn't even offered pretzels anymore. I too have to travel through four time zones and two mealtimes. But we coach passengers have a higher calling. We are called to endure. And so, as buttery croissants accosted my olfactory senses, I didn't budge. I looked directly to my left (see poorly crafted Microsoft Paint drawing below) and stared those baked goods in the face. "The impenetrable forcefield of loose fabric and velcro" may not have been able to hold these delicacies back, but I was able to hold back my desire for these delicacies. As "I Will Survive" played on loop in my brain, I finished a physiological marathon. I may not have been able to break through any ribbons at the end of it (the antagonist would have scolded me), but I finished nonetheless.

Epilogue:

We decided to wait until we crossed back into the U.S. to get food, as it's only about 25 minutes south of Vancouver. Unfortunately, we waited in line for almost three hours to cross the border. When we finally got across, we stopped at the first restaurant in sight: a Burger King. Now I smell like onion rings. My nose has justice.

If my ear was a pancreas.

In my line of work (let's just call it cancer research), I have to read a lot of academic papers about specific research experiments. In many cases, these papers are brimming with anatomical terms that I find slightly difficult to say with a straight face. I'm not the only one that gets a chuckle out of this at the office. One of my co-workers started a game inspiried by "Three truths and a lie", except it's with three anatomically correct terms and one made-up term. [I'm taking a risk in blogging about this. For one thing, you all might think my dork-meter just skyrocketed: she plays anatomy games at work?! And let's not forget my boss might read this blog. Then again, I think she finds the game amusing herself...]

Yesterday found me in a similar predicament, reading about a pancreas with my fellow "gamer". As it turns out, pancreases (or is that pancreai?) have heads, bodies, and tails. Who knew? Upon discovering this, my peer asks "What does a pancreas even look like?" My efforts to make the shape of a pancreas with my hands fell short. So did my verbal explanation: "It's like an oval that's not really an oval and it's sort of bulbous on one side and, well, tapered on the other...". Eventually, the conversation digressed to using another body part to describe this most elusive of organs. Which leads me to the title of my post: If my ear was a pancreas. And if my ear was a pancreas, the tail would be pierced. And I'd want it to wear pearls.

But, if that description is not enough for you all to picture the head, body, and tail of a pancreas, here's a diagram. (You should thank me now that this is a simplistic artist's rendering - there are plenty of pictures of the real thing out there on the internet.)

Also, if you're looking for more information on the pancreas, here's a great informational video.

Have Rock Band, will travel.

Ever since we bought Rock Band a couple of weeks ago, I've been hooked - especially on the drum set. I've discovered that after a certain amount of coaxing, my feet and hands can indeed work independently. I've also figured out how to avoid injury while drumming, and am proud to say I have been shin-split-free for three weeks. However, whenever I play with "newbies", I volunteer to sing. I like to give others the opportunity to try the instruments, and I've found that singing is the most awkward role for someone that doesn't know the song. This past weekend, however, I had another reason to grace the microphone with my dulcet tones...

I went to a friend's house in southwest Ohio over the weekend. She and her husband live in a quaint and quirky community full of brick houses holding happy families. As we decided to migrate to her basement for an introductory round of Rock Band, I couldn't help but notice a metallic sound coming from the house next door. My friend explained that the kids next door have a garage band. Until then, the thought that someone outside of the house might hear me singing had not crossed my mind. From that point on however, it was clear to me that we walked right into the middle off an epic Rock-off, vying for avenue-wide bragging rights (all in my mind, of course). I was going to show this two-bit hack ensemble, with their original songs and their red button-less instruments, what a band front(wo)man should really sound like. Not only was I going to put on a voice clinic, I was also going to demonstrate the ancient arts of unknown note triangulation and tambourine simulating. The battle went on for minutes. Improvisational shouting was heard. Unison bonuses were earned. And untold numbers of drum fills ended on green notes. You could cut the connection (to the Playstation) with a knife.

I'm not going to say who won the Rock-off; my bias is unavoidable. All I know is this: the garage band next door is currently looking for a new lead singer. Sorry, neighbors - I'm not quitting my day job.

I'm a Phelps Phan.

Well, it's safe to say I've got Olympic fever. Though not typically interested in two weeks of non-stop-sports, I've found a reason to pay attention: Michael Phelps. Why, you ask? It's not because he's an athlete representing our country at these monumental Olympic games. It's not because he trains here in Ann Arbor. It's not because he's making history right in front of our eyes, trying to solidify his title as one of the greatest Olympians in history.

No, I like Michael Phelps because he reminds me of my husband. Think about it. Periodic ridiculous facial hair. Often found screaming at the top of his lungs. A supportive "hugger". Now can you see the resemblance?

Two for two.

I just realized I could squeeze in a second post by offering up pictures of my potential subject matter. I give you the formidable Toonces and the devious Della:

The start of something...Garfield?

I've decided to enter the world of blogging. Up until now, I've just been a casual blog reader - is there a word for that? Casblogder? Through the years, the list of blogs I follow has grown - and so has my desire to pen one of my own. (Hey, that rhymed!) Only problem: I've been a bit intimidated to blog. For one thing, there's a tiny voice in my head saying "You don't have anything exciting to report." We aren't training to swim to England or anything. Good gravy, most of my posts will probably end up being about the not-so-epic battles between our quirky cat and rambunctious dog. It'll be Garfield revisited, except the dog will be the one eating the lasagna. Another reason I've been intimidated to blog is that I don't have a mastery of the cyberspace language. (I had to ask for clarification on 'zomg'. Seriously, what's with the 'z'?!) Am I foolishly trying to keep up with a trend that's out of my league? Lastly, I'm not sure if I can keep this up, and I'd rather not contribute to blog-cruft. While trying to come up with a name for this blog, I had a couple of ideas: randomcrap, theblogaboutnothing, ablogaboutnothing, blogaboutnothing, etc. (As you can tell from the prospective titles, I'm not too confident that I have intriguing things to write about...) ALL of these names were taken, and most of those blogs hadn't been updated since 2004. I don't want to be "that guy" with one blog entry to my name. My promise to you: I'll take this puppy down if I can't keep up with it.

There. One entry down, and hopefully many more to go.