Imperfectly Nice

Archive for the month “May, 2013”

Meeting Ian, or, I’m Sorry Nina Dobrev

If you are a fan of The Vampire Diaries, or TVD, as it is known to fans as the CW has drilled that into our heads from the beginning, lest anyone give it the unfortunate moniker VD, you probably know that Ian and Nina have broken up.

Aaaand, I think we all know why:

Ian and April

Seriously, man, I am a happily married woman.

 In a rumor you haven’t heard yet, (because I am starting it here, now) it has been said that Ian couldn’t get a fan he met at a recent event out of his head and it started the rift between the beautiful co-stars. It all make sense now … the hugs, the lingering glances, the arm tweak. All fans know that isn’t Ian’s MO – he’s notoriously standoffish with fans. That’s right, apparently, Ian just tired of the flawless skin, glossy hair and legs up to there of his 20-something lady and may just prefer the laugh lines and fleshy upper arms of a 30-something mom.* My apologies to the fandom.

*Is the sarcasm coming through? Because I hope so. Seriously, meeting Ian (I can totally call him Ian now. After all, we shared fleeting moments of a paid fan experience. ) was  great. I could tell you he wasn’t as pretty as he is on TV or that he’s actually kind of a jerk, but those would be dirty, dirty lies. He was kind and gracious and even prettier than he is on TV. I know. It seems impossible, yet it’s true.

Anyway, I hate that those two couldn’t make it work because it was fun watching them be beautiful and philanthropic together. I think the only right decision here is to make season five all Delena, all the time, yes? 

Sweater pants. Let’s make this happen.

I know it’s a Friday afternoon and all of the folks at Banana Republic HQ are getting ready to go out to dinner, turning their sensible casual Friday outfits into something slightly less sensible and a little more sparkly for a night out on the town, (Flats to spike heels, a statement necklace in a contrasting color!), but they may want to cancel those dinner reservations once they’ve laid their eyes on sweater pants. That’s right. I’m making it a thing.

It may look like a sweater from their factory outlet collection circa 2007, but has been converted – upcycled, if you will – into a lovely pair of toddler leggings, complete with buttons in the back for easy Pullup access. Mommy can wear it to work, toddler wears it when the warm May sunshine becomes cold May rain (Seriously? This is why we live in the south, Weather!) and your child’s adorable seersucker shorts are completely useless.

So, hop to BR designers. We’ve got gold here. And I am not even charging you for this. I am a totally a philanthropist. First, refusing to kill imaginary birds and now this? Will my good deeds never end? The rest of you can thank me when your baby girl is using your capri pants as a cute little scarf.

sweater pants

The eagle has landed … or is dead in the backyard

So, a couple of nights ago, a little after 4 a.m., Vaught woke up. This is pretty rare so I assumed illness, nightmare, a tiny Jake or one of his Neverland Pirate sidekicks painfully poking into his fleshy little knee, something. He didn’t seem too bothered though – just awake. I didn’t think much about it until he really and truly woke up for the day and started telling me, in confusing detail, about the eagle that landed on his bed and eventually came to rest on my shoulder. Now, I know it was 4 a.m., and I was a little groggy, but I think I would remember if a large bird of prey was anywhere on my person.

His story sounded a little like something like this. Which makes sense to me. I am a PR person. This just sounds like a crisis communications meeting to me. We’ve come up with far crazier scenarios and have written press statements for them. Anyway, I did my best to reassure him that I am pretty sure none of that ever happened, but here’s where my logic was woefully flawed – I was trying to reason with a two-year old. Reason with a two-year old. Still, it seemed like a fantastic story he was enjoying telling so I wasn’t concerned. Until that night at bedtime, which is typically full of snuggly reading and rocking, was suddenly an all out battle against the tainted bird bed. He insisted an eagle was IN HIS BED, and he was not, repeat, NOT going to get in that bed. He basically told me to sell my crazy somewhere else because there was clearly a terrifying taloned fowl in his crib and that I was blind not to see.

I determined that the best plan of action was to explain it was all a dream, there was no bird in his bed and hey, look at that, your pals Bullseye and Mickey are the only things in there. No eagles, not even a tiny little sparrow. He seemed to buy it for a few minutes but, for the next hour, he fought, he cried, he insisted he wasn’t getting anywhere near that crib so just give up the fight, mommy lady.

After several tries, I tagged Neil. He rocked, he reasoned, he took everything out of the bed to remove any doubt that an eagle could maybe be hiding under his pillow pet. Still, no dice. I was listening from the living room, trying to think of what we could do and trying to determine if this was true fear or clever two-year old manipulation. I decided that it was fear and was debating maybe going into his room to shoo the imaginary bird out of the real window, mentally weighing the psychological ramifications of that decision. Would shooing the eagle out make him think there actually was an eagle? Would he think another eagle could get in? I even briefly considered pretending I was stomping the bird like I would a bug, but I couldn’t bring myself to really consider birdicide as an option. It’s an eagle. An endangered animal. And, I mean, America. It was about that time that I heard Neil say, “There’s no eagle, buddy. Daddy took care of it for you. I took it out back and shot it.” Vaught’s response? “Okay. Night night, Daddy.” And he  peacefully drifted off to a birdless slumber. I, however, am considering talking to a professional about my inner conflict about ridding my home of imaginary animals.

Post Navigation