I Am...

*I am seriously concerned about the swine flu. We think Anniston is at high risk because she makes noises that are similar to pigs and Ryan was convinced she was going to look like a pig because of a faulty picture of her nose in utero. Also, we have to put her on a plane soon and I know they don't keep those planes clean. All we need is one swine-flu-ee to get aboard and breathe one puff of their toxic breath into the plane and we are all goners. To further complicate matters we are flying to San Diego which is close to Mexico. And we live in Texas... which is close to Mexico. And I have bad luck. Which has nothing to do with Mexico. But still, I am genuinely concerned. Can I put a mask on her for her first flight? Can I ship her ahead of time in a quarantined crate? Uggghhhh. I've never cared about pandemics. But now there is this little person. And I don't want her to get pig coodies.  

*I am angry at the cosmetic moguls and at myself for supporting them. I've been catching up on all my magazines (Rachel Ray, Real Simple, The Week, and Women's Day) and every other page has an add that talks about having "flawless" skin.  For some reason it just dawned on me that every time they talk about me having flawless this or that, they are insinuating that what I have now has flaws. That I have flaws. That my butt or my face or my skin color needs some help and they can make me better.  I'm sorry, but that is rude. I take great offense to someone telling me they have something that will fix my flaws... you don't even know me. If you did, you would know that there were a lot more serious issues than some pimples and cellulite. Still, I will buy their products and cover up my blemishes and try to miraculously dissolve all my baby marks and this makes me mad at myself... I am feeding the beast. Why can't nuns come out with a line of cosmetic products? At least then I would be feeding God and not some tacky butt rich guy in New York who is presuming to tell me I have flaws. Seriously. Rude. 
*I am terribly annoyed with this man called Billy Mays. I'm not a huge TV watcher so imagine my surprise when I am trying to enjoy the NFL Draft in peace this weekend and have to endure commercial after commercial of this bearded man screaming at me and waving his hands around. I'm not your average ESPN target audience member, but I think I can speak on behalf of most of the ESPN watchers and say, "we don't care about Mighty Mend It fabric glue!" I mean, look, he has a sweet smile and I am sure he is a great man, but oh my gosh he makes me want to rip my ears off. I can't find the mute button fast enough. He stresses me out. 
Only in America. Only here can you become a millionaire simply by babbling and being suave. 
And while we're on it... only here can you be a 21 year old coming straight out of college and be drafted to the NFL with a $78 million dollar contract and a $41 million dollar guarantee!!! Are you kidding me? Matthew Stafford (the number one pick) was born in 1988. 88'?  He has never even played one down in an NFL game. $78 million dollars? I love football, but there is a serious problem when there are kids going to bed without clean water or food and some American kid is getting $41 million dollars to throw a football. The NFL needs to implement a salary cap. Now. 
I think there is a common theme here... feeding the beast. We don't want to, but we are all doing it I suppose. 
*I am reminded that the world is full of good people and second chances because of Michael Oher's life story.  If you didn't watch the draft this weekend, this is one story that you missed out on. Take five minutes and watch this short video about the Baltimore Raven's newest player.  It is well worth your time. Watch here. And yes, for those of you who get mad when I don't give you a Kleenex warning... get your kleenex. This is inspiring. 
*Finally, I want to retain all of my faithful readers! So I will make a valiant effort to not bombard you with baby pictures, stories, and details. Maybe just once a week? Please? For now my only update is that she still remains perfect. She spits. Poops. Cries. Makes weird noises. And keeps me up for hours on end. And somehow this makes her terribly perfect. I think this time last week Ryan and I actually shook hands in bed and agreed to never, ever, ever, ever pro-create again.  I cried every time I fed her, laid her down, or got in the shower. I thought I might die from exhaustion and utter helplessness. I thought this might even break Ryan. He might actually cry in desperation. I was pretty sure we would not make it through the weekend. OK, no thinking about it. We shook hands and agreed... never again. 
But here we are. She is napping. I am writing. Eating. Smiling. Heck, I'm even going to the bathroom again. This is a big improvement from last week. Sure, I perpetually smell like milk. But even that smells perfect. Maybe I will re-consider our middle of the night pact after all. 
Happy Monday.