Don’t you hate it when people pronounce Valentine’s as Valentime’s? Don’t you hate it when you have to wait in line forever at the grocery store, because everyone is in front of you with last-minute flowers? Don’t you hate it when people talk about things they hate about Valentine’s Day?
Well me too, and you wont have to experience any of those things today. Or at least for the next four minutes and thirty-two seconds because…
IT’S TIME TO WITNESS THE V-DAY COLLABORATION OF TWO DESTINED BLOGGERS!
Who: Adam of My Right to Bitch (also known as: dashing) and me, Becca (also known as: many other nicknames involving the faux color of my hair)!
What: A virtual date!
Where: Right here on this blog, a diamond in the rough sands of this wasteland we call the internet!
When: Right when you click play!
How: Divine intervention!
I used approximately five exclamation marks just now. That is how you know I am beyond stoked about this. So, without further ado or anymore annoying punctuation, here is our vlog baby.
[Am I hallucinating again? Does that really say hot air balloon rides? Aliens may have abducted my blog yesterday, but I don’t think they abducted me and messed with my noggin. Maybe they erased my memory. Either way, yay for massive balloons and me inside of one.]
Next week brings Independence Day. This obviously brings with it celebrations, pyromania, and most importantly one much-needed day off of work. A certain conveniently placed party will be going down in my neighborhood. A neighbor of mine gushed about the annual fireworks show over the pond a few weeks ago in a Pilates class, and naturally, I have been impatiently waiting to enjoy the spectacle from my third story balcony ever since. I like it there. It is safe there. Just because I love fireworks doesn’t mean that I am not pathetically terrified that they are all defective and will somehow turn in to
heat Becca-seeking missiles as soon as they leave the cannon. There is a chilling childhood story that explains the origins of this fear, but it really isn’t chilling at all… at least not to anyone besides myself. I’ll keep that one in the vault for now.
Speaking of fear, I’ll get back to that balloon thing. Assuming that wasn’t an epic typo, this 4th of July is starting to look up (literally). Read the rest of this entry
[Let’s pretend that this is an appropriate photo for this post, and you can just call me whatever the female Vito would be called. Or, just let me pretend I look this cool. Alright, I am a horrible phony. I haven’t even seen The Godfather. ]
You know what I have seen though? A bunch of ultra-sounds and baby bump pictures. Yes, the infamous Booger is growing a tiny human these days. While I never expected we’d planning her reveal party for the sex of the baby this weekend, I also never expected to get so amped about baby stuff in general. And probably the least expected, but most incredibly exciting part of it all… she offered me the position of godmother.
Here in the south, godmothers are generally called the nanny and the godfather is the paran (I don’t think I can give an accurate phonetic spelling, so just pronounce that with your best French accent). When Booger called me to ask what I would prefer to be called (Godmother, Nanny, Aunt Becca), the whole life changing event became more real in my eyes. I can only imagine how she feels.
All of my friends know me as the one who was never overly concerned with settling down or marriage and definitely not procreating. The slightest thought of child-birth always triggers the “NOPE!” section of my brain. Even as a child, I never fantasized about my wedding or was much for playing with baby dolls that were promised to realistically defecate on me. I was more in to putting Ballet Barbie in her convertible and playing make-believe as a restaurant owner. No lie, I had boxes of faux meal receipts that I organized to keep tabs on my imaginary diner’s success. We had the best hot dogs. All the regulars said so. Read the rest of this entry