There should be a real post here.

There is not.  An update is forthcoming, but is still on the horizon.

However, there will be another TLC book review this afternoon and that’s exciting, right?  Books are more fun than stories about c-sections and babies who smell like mashed potatoes, right?

Most of your are nodding right now, and I love you for it.

Some of you agree, but still think I’m lazy and I concur.

And a few of you don’t care because you’re just hate-reading anyway and it doesn’t matter what I post, I will still suck.  And I think you might be a little bit right there too.

But for those who will not be satisfied until I stop slacking off, I give you this. Read More

TLC Book Tour: A Simple Thing by Kathleen McCleary

I was super excited when TLC Book Tours contacted me again about doing another book review, this time fiction!  Contemporary fiction!  Yay!

I was given A Simple Thing by Kathleen McCleary.  I’d rehash the plot, but since the publisher paid someone a lot of money to do that for them, I’ll let them do their excellent job. Read More


Marshall Ryan.

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TLC Book Tour Review: Marriage Confidential by Pamela Haag

Y’all know how I feel about books, so when TLC Book Tours contacted me and asked if I wanted to be a part of one of their online book tours, I had pretty much said yes before I even finished reading the email.  And then when I found out the book was Marriage Confidential: Love in the Post-Romantic I was even MORE excited.  I’d read Pamela Haag’s work on Huffington Post and had planned to pick up a copy of Marriage Confidential once I slogged through the giant pile of books I keep adding to.  (So, around 2014, thereabouts…)  Plus, I’d spied it on a couple of y’all lists in GoodReads, so I knew I wasn’t the only one who was interested.  (Also, things with words like, “Post-Romantic” in the title get me a little swoony.  What?  I enjoy academia.)

From Haag’s own site, here’s the summary.

Through story, personal reflection, research, survey, and interview, Marriage Confidential takes us inside a world where marriage is more like “friendship;” where the husbands of “workhorse wives” pursue the having it all dream that wives have long ago been told to abandon; where children have migrated from the children’s table to the emotional center of marriage, defined as a co-parenting arrangement; and where technology, demography, and economy place new stresses on marital monogamy. Read More

Sad Bastard Songs: Blowing Off Steam Tunes

I am a crankypants lately.

Well, I’m a crankypants all of the time, but it’s usually limited to my “Stop that or I will kill you” list which includes spitting, sticking your gross toes on me (I DO NOT LIKE FEET), asking me for advice when you’re really looking for validation and then getting mad when I offer neither, crop-dusting and unfunny snark or condescension. (Make fun of me, that’s fine – but for God’s sake, be FUNNY about it.)

The loss of my patience is in direct proportion to the rising temperature and my growing stomach, making for a very not fun Alyssa.  However, this latest bout of crankypants-ness is unusual in it’s vigor.  While at work the other day, I had a small child point at me and say, “Her belly is too big!” and it took every ounce of my being to not reply, “So’s your head!”

How bad is it when y0u start insulting toddlers?

Seriously, though.  She did have a huge head.

Like an orange on a toothpick wearing Dora the Explorer flip-flops. Read More

Cookin’ with Carol: Guyanese Pepperpot

As I may have mentioned, my dad is from Guyana and my mom is a white lady from New York.  This makes me not only makes me mixed, but also a first generation American on my dad’s side.  It also makes me always in possession of something to say when you have to go around the room in those stupid introduction exercises.  (“Tell us your name and something interesting about yourself.”  “My name is Alyssa and I hate pointless sh*tty exercises.”)

And since I’m talking about it, can I just interject a side-note?  Not too long ago, I called myself “half-black” and got corrected to “African-American.”


Not only is that incorrect, it’s stunningly insulting.  I get politically correct terms, I truly do.  What you are called is important.  And I am not insulted if someone refers to me as African-American; it is a kind gesture of someone attempting to be conscientious.  They don’t know my background and I don’t expect them to.

HOWEVER.  Do NOT effing correct me on my own self-identification.  You want to get it right?  I’m half Afro-Guyanese with a teeny bit of Indo-Guyanese plus my Grandma swears that her grandfather was some Scottish white guy. (She also likes to tell me I’m fat and then try to feed me, so we take her with a grain of salt.)  And that’s just on my dad’s side.  Sounds complicated, huh?  Sounds like a situation that could be potentially fraught with assumptions, huh?  Sounds like I should use a word that I approve of that simplifies things when the issue comes up, even though it rarely matters, HUH?

Yeah.  You can kiss my half-black a**.  It’s the left cheek, in case you were wondering.

ANYWAY.  Sorry.  I’d blame the ranting on pregnancy hormones, but we all know that little bit of crazy is straight from my soul and not the fault of my child.

My point is, I don’t know a whole lot about Guyana. Read More

9 more weeks? Sh*t.

Ah, pregnancy.  Between growing a tiny human, work, class and trying to make Jethro do the dishes more than once a week (I mean, REALLY, son?) my second trimester was busy.  And fun, though I wish I’d realized how fun it was at the time.  Seriously, I could be 6 months pregnant for the rest of my life and be perfectly fine with it.  Your belly is showing but still small enough to maneuver around, your energy is up, you’re fairly perky even when you’re tired…I was in love with being pregnant. **

Then came month 7. *sigh*

And things slowed down at work and with school, thank goodness.  And instead of picking up the slack I left off in the last few months, I’ve been awful…cocoon-y.  I mean I do things, but when I’m not doing something, I am indulging myself in Not Doing A Damn Thing.  It feels guilty, but I just can’t work up the urge to care about much other than staring at the ceiling fan sometimes.  I’m waiting for the nesting urge to set in, the baby’s room still needs to be done and those walls aren’t going to decorate themselves.  Then again, the baby won’t give a damn about his room probably until he’s 5 or 6, so the decorating is mostly for Jethro and I.  And so we don’t get pitied when people see how bare the room is and think we hate our child. Read More


Christ on a cracker…I’m tired, y’all.  I let myself slack off on blogging during second trimester so I could catch up on my classes and life in general, but now that I’m waddling through third…I’m tired.

Not of y’all, I heart every single one of your faces, just in general.  I have about 27 (not kidding, I counted) blog posts that I have started and have not finished.  I have an entire board of Pinterest projects that I have been meaning to do before the baby gets here.  I need to clean out a closet and storage room and do some serious purging.  I have the second season of Veronica Mars just begging to be re-watched.

Instead, I go to work, come home, cook dinner if Jethro is lucky and then stare at important shows like The Voice and Bones before I pass out at about 9:30. Occasionally, there are games of Words with Friends, Zombie Jombie or Draw Something involved, but not always.

I’d blame it on me growing a baby, but I think we’ve heard me complain about not getting stuff done before, haven’t we?  (I’d link to the posts, but I’m TIRED.)  Besides, at this point he’s just getting fat, you’d think all my energy would have been depleted when he was forming lungs and the part of his brain that deals with algebra, or something.  But no, second trimester I was perky!  Full of pep!  I even gladly took the steps in my building instead of the elevator!

Now, when I drop something, I have to have a talk with myself about how badly I need it or if it should just make a new home there on the floor.  And I have two more months, y’all!

I think I might just be lazy.  It is a distinct possibility.

Anyway, this is me, stopping in, waving hello and hoping some of y’all are lazy like me and haven’t taken me off your Google reader, or whatever you kids use these days.  Hug your mom/mom-figures this weekend, go see the Avengers (seriously) and if I get my ass in gear this weekend, there’ll be a brand-spankin’ new post up on Monday.

Well, newish.  It’s probably been sitting in my drafts for two months now.

And here’s a belly shot, because apparently I’m supposed to be sharing these more.  We are rapidly heading into torpedo-shaped territory, y’all.  I’m 30 weeks, so seven more until I’m full term and ten more until sh*t officially starts to get real.

Still think there’s time to change my mind and get a puppy instead?

Yes, I took this in the bathroom at work.  LEAVE ME ALONE, I’M TIRED.

Kate Spade…I love you.

One of the items on my life list is “Own 5 new Kate Spade items.”

I know, so shallow.  “Meet David Tennant.  Offer to have his children,” is much more noble.

And I am now the proud owner of FOUR Kate Spade item. Y’all…I am SO CLOSE.  And it is only due to the generosity of my loved ones; all of my Kate Spade lovelies have been presents.  People are WAY too good to me.  Must be my good looks and effervescent charm.  (YOU HUSH, MOM.  I know that’s you chortling over there…)

And now?  The girls. (Yeah, I named them.  It’s more fun that way.) Read More

The agony of defeat

So I had my 20 week sonogram on Tuesday. I spent the night before bouncing off the walls and talking too much, and the day-of feeling like I was going to throw up. The sono wasn’t just about finding out the sex, it was about whether Tater was growing correctly, had all the right parts, had ANY parts.

This was especially nerve-wracking because I hadn’t felt Tater move yet and hadn’t heard a heartbeat in four weeks. All kinds of horrid thoughts were swirling around and it was making me a bit loony. Loonier than usual. I was two steps away from pulling a Jessie Spano; “I’m so excited! I’m so excited! I’m so…SCARED.” (If you did not get that reference, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You are very young and you are making me feel very old.)

My dad actually talked me down from the ledge a bit, which is strange because he’s usually not one for words of wisdom. He did say that “if it has three lungs, you just deal with it,” or something along those lines, so he wasn’t EXACTLY Dr. Phil but the effort was appreciated.

It wasn’t until about ten minutes before that I hit a calm-my old friend theatre zen. When I was acting, I’d get crazy nervous the day of the show until right before my entrance when my body would go, “Well. Ain’t sh*t we can do now, whatever’s gonna happen is gonna happen. Let’s do this damn thing.” I missed you, theatre zen. You kept me from pooping my pants on stage lots of times. (Don’t worry, that reference is keeping in line with my baby mama promises.)

Anyway, Jethro and I headed to the OB and it was there that I made him finalize our bet. I’d been insisting that we bet on Tater’s sex because, as we all know, I knew Tater is a girl. He didn’t want to bet anything monetary, but I am not above wagering on my child. So we ended up betting an X-Box game for him and jewelry for me. Because Mama needs shiny things.

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