As the story goes, my mom named me “Angie” after Angie Dickinson. She says she saw the name on the television screen and liked the way it looked. Good call, I say, since I spent almost a decade as a TV journalist. My full name is Angela Carmen (Carmen just because Mom liked it) and as I entered the professional world, some suggested I drop “Angie” and go by the more grown-up sounding “Angela”.

Nope. To this day, Angela is the name on the bank statement. If you call me Angela, it means you don’t know me. Like the second grade teacher who refused to call me Angie.

Which brings me around to how my husband and I came up with the name “Cate” for our (when are you going to get here?) baby girl.

We’ll start with Cate’s middle name “Frances”. Frances was the name of the grandmother I adored. (Yes, friends. The grandma who posed next to a snowman in a bikini.) Shawn and I picked her first name “Caitlin” for a number of reasons. We’ve always liked the name Kate. Caitlin is a combination of Shawn’s grandmother’s first name and my mom’s middle name. We spent more time figuring out how we wanted to spell Caitlin and Cate… which in the end boiled down to personal preference. So there you have it: Caitlin Frances, aka Cate.

My grandma went by the nickname “Frank” so I like that Cate will rock a nickname, too. I also like that Caitlin means pure and Frances means free.

We named our oldest son “Dillon” because Dylan means sea god or son of the waves, and my husband and I feel a connection to the ocean. We opted for the alternate spelling. Again, just personal preference. Dillon’s middle name is George, after Shawn’s late father.

Blake is “Blake” because we liked it. And it really suits him. His middle name “Evans” is a family name.

Last  year, Becca wrote about how her son and daughter-in-law named their first child. Like Becca, I’m interested in how babies are named. So entertain me. How did you get your name? And if you have children, how did you name them? Then, make your Monday a bit brighter and sing “The Name Game” all day. Angie angie bo bangie…

Also, check out Brock Heasley’s post about how he and his wife named their daughters, Elora, Cami and Violet. And be sure to remember Brock’s name. A guest post from Brock is coming up soon! (Like Wednesday, unless baby Cate decides to interrupt regularly scheduled programming.)

My email inbox is a happening place. Lately, I’ve been getting one type of message in particular: So and so is following you on Pinterest. Pinterest has been around for months now, but this surge of new followers tells me it’s catching on. The general population is making the transition from, “Huh? What is that… that… Pint…oh how do you say it?” to “Okay, I’m going to try it,” to “Oh wow, I’m officially addicted.”

I first heard about Pinterest this past summer, on the night I wore the cheetah suit. My friends were going on and on about how ah-mazing Pinterest is, and I was one step away from rolling my eyes in between sips of my I’m-too-pregnant-for-happy-hour non-alcoholic spritzer. I recall having a similar attitude about Facebook four years ago. I don’t get it. Oh, I don’t have time for that. 

But I finally broke down and requested an invite. And now, I’m beginning to understand.

According to the FAQ page, “Pinterest is a virtual pinboard. Pinterest allows you to organize and share all the beautiful things you find on the web. You can browse pinboards created by other people to discover new things and get inspiration from people who share your interests.”

Pinterest is still in the beta version so it’s invitation-only. Sounds exclusive, but I bet you could find someone willing to send you an invite before I finish typing this sentence.

I like Pinterest because it’s visually appealing. When I go to my Pinterest page, I see rows and rows of pretty pictures. It’s like the best. magazine. ever. I’ve gotten hairstyle, recipe and fashion ideas from Pinterest. It’s peppered with inspirational and motivational quotes. And it’s polite. Pinterest etiquette rules include: Be nice. Credit your sources. Avoid self-promotion. The site explains, “Pinterest is designed to curate and share things you love. If there is a photo or project you’re proud of, pin away! However, try not to use Pinterest purely as a tool for self-promotion.”

And Pinterest is so pretty. Did I say that already? Disclaimer: My personal Pinterest page is sad. As in, there’s nothing on it. But I’m getting there.

I wrote this post in order to get sucked in. I’m ready to move from “This is so neat” to a full-on “Pinterest, you complete me” kind of attachment.

So tell me all the things you love about Pinterest. Is it purely for pleasure? What are the benefits? Can you justify the insane amount of time you spend on the site? 

Still wondering what it’s all about? Ask questions. I’m sure some Pinterest pros out there will be happy to answer. 

And please, enable my border-line addiction. You can follow me on Pinterest at pinterest.com/angiemizzell.

Last night, my cousin had a Christmas party and you’ll never guess was happened. Santa stopped by. I know! Santa. Freakin. Claus. My son asked if he was the real Santa or a fake Santa, and I told him I wasn’t sure.

“What do you think?” I asked. He looked real to me. And I have to admit, I was giddy. After all these years, Santa still gets to me. Finally I said, “It’s whatever you believe.” Dillon didn’t answer but seemed pretty mesmerized when he crawled into Santa’s lap.

“So Dillon,” the jolly old elf boomed. “What do you want for Christmas this year?”

This was his big chance. You’ve seen his Christmas list. Dillon’s eyes got wide. He looked at me. He looked at Santa. After what seemed like hours, he finally said, “I want everyone to have a good Christmas.”

Tear. We didn’t even rehearse at all. But I thought about it and realized that’s what I want, too. Whatever holiday you may celebrate, I pray it will be filled with love and blessings.

On the way home from the party Dillon said, “Santa left in a jeep.”

“No way!” I replied, in shock. “Maybe he landed his sleigh at the airport and rented a car?” We were quiet for a moment as we pondered the possibility. My husband snickered. “Santa’s a mysterious guy,” I said. “I’m still trying to figure him out.”

If you’d like to subscribe to my blog, click here.

My son Dillon helped me select the winner of Robin O’Bryant’s book, Ketchup is a Vegetable and Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves. 

The names

In the basket. Face down.

I need to sit down for this.

Who do we have here?

Congratulations, Courtney! Your signed copy of Ketchup is a Vegetable is coming soon!

And thanks to everyone who entered the giveaway. Maybe Santa was paying attention. Tell him he can get the book here.

Dear Santa,

This a list of stuff my 5-year-old wants. We haven’t gotten around to the actual letter, because we’re still negotiating here at home. Perhaps you need some help making this out:

~ Lego Star Wars X-Wing Fighter with Luke with his lightsaber

~ Lego Millennium Falcon

~ Obi Wan with R4 Jedi Fighter

~ Lego Star Wars Wii game

~ Lego Star Wars General Grievous

Notice a theme? We’re really into Legos around here. My son, however, has no concept of how much this stuff costs and quite frankly, I didn’t either until I checked out the prices on Amazon. Do elves make Legos? Can you put the folks who sent a Lego catalog to our home on the Naughty List?

My son will learn what we all learn—it’s time to get a jobby job, kid! And that his life won’t be ruined if all of this stuff isn’t delivered to our living room Christmas morning. But you know what Santa? I don’t fault him for putting what he wants out there into the universe. I mean, have you seen my list?  It reads something like this: iPhone, iPad, MacBook, a convertible BMW 328i, and diamond earrings. Oh, and that fabulous Laura Mercier face cream that guy at Coz Bar let me sample.

My son is hoping that you will bring me a Roomba and a BMW that’s big enough to hold three children. I suggested a bungee cord to tie them all to the back of the convertible. What’s that? Bad idea? Yes, you may be right.

Since the Oprah show is over, my chance of getting on her “Favorite Things” show is shot. But wow, it was hard not to get ridiculously happy for those people when they realized they were about to get a sleigh full of over-the-top cool stuff. I literally cried each time I saw the close-ups of their freaking-out faces.

But Santa, this Christmas, we have a beautiful Christmas tree and soon, there will be presents. And we have more love than our hearts (and my growing belly) can handle. And we know that’s enough. But it never hurts to dream, and I’m not sure any of us will ever stop. Most of the blessings in our lives have been birthed from big dreams, so why would we?

Love,

Angie

Disclaimer to the reader: Don’t take 98% of this post seriously (except the sweet part at the end). Notice I filed it under “Just for Fun.” Instead, I invite you to play along. Feel free to use the comments section to write your own letter to Santa.

And if you’d like to subscribe to my blog, click here.

“Angie, will you pick up my dry cleaning?” Shawn asked a couple of weeks ago.

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” I replied, half-way listening.

“I mean, really, you can’t forget. If I don’t have those clothes I’m screwed.”

My husband is quite the liberated man. He doesn’t expect me to be his errand girl, but on this particular day, he couldn’t get to the cleaners before they closed, and he was headed to Los Angeles for 7 days. Being the fashionista that he is, Shawn can’t travel to the west coast on business without his LA-approved wardrobe. It’s against his religion.

“Okay,” I said snapping to attention and trying to funnel the request to the place in my brain that never forgets. “Well, you should tape the receipt to my steering wheel.”

He did it without question.

Right now, I have what a lot of people dismiss as baby brain. Meaning, all the blood is flowing to the baby instead of my head. And while I’m happy to use that as an excuse, forgetfulness is my general state of being. I can remember a million details about my childhood, but my short term memory? Not so much. But according to my husband, my brain’s tendency to short-circuit magnifies when I’m pregnant.

Take for example, the time I was pregnant with Dillon. After meeting a friend at Rue de Jean one afternoon, I walked back to King Street to get my car. And I arrived at the intersection of King and John just in time — to watch my black hatchback whizzing down the street.

On the back of a tow truck.

Two hours earlier, when I applauded myself for my amazing ability to score a parking spot on the street, I hadn’t realized I blocked a driveway. Thank goodness for the nice police officers who drove me to the city PD to pay my ticket. Dear Shawn was not so understanding. He was fuming when he arrived and almost blew his lid when we had to pay a hundred bucks to get my car out of the tow lot.

He didn’t understand. Now, he does.

Perhaps it clicked when I was pregnant with Blake. After a trip to Publix, I left groceries in the trunk until the following morning.  I completely forgot they were there. It was one of those small “in-between” trips to store, but everything I bought needed to be refrigerated or frozen: milk, popsicles, a bag of broccoli. Straight to the trash. I was sick over it.

But Shawn said, calmly, “Maybe next time you should put the groceries in the front seat?”

This time around, I’m doing much better. I’ve had my moments, but none as costly as the incidents I’ve confessed here today. And I’m happy to report I made it to the cleaners. In fact, I had a conversation with the receipt: “Don’t let me forget. Don’t let me forget.” The receipt rallied and supported me in my mission to remember. And Shawn got to rock LA in style. All is right with the world.

So glad I could be there for you, babe.

Do you have a good memory? Or are you a if-I-don’t-write-it-down-I-will-forget kind of person?

If you’d like to have my blog posts delivered to your reader or inbox, click here.

Dear Vicky,

You’re hot. Even if you did get a little, um, dirty in the mail.

I ain’t gonna lie, I own some of your stuff. But here’s a tip: Don’t send ads like this to a pregnant woman. Ever.

Not cool, my friend. Not cool.

xoxo,

Angie

To the rest of you (*she whispers so Vicky can’t hear*), you feel me? 

If you’d like to subscribe to my blog (I promise not to post any more photos of half naked women, unless there’s a majority vote) click here.