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Baby Giveaway. Not of Mine. Not a Giveaway of a Baby, Period–We’re Not That Tool in India. A Giveaway for Babies That’s Not Even My Giveaway. There, That’s It.

Baby Giveaway. Not of Mine. Not a Giveaway of a Baby, Period--We're Not That Tool in India. A Giveaway for Babies That's Not Even My Giveaway. There, That's It.

baby hatThis is my baby. My baby is cute. My baby is cuteness capped off in cuteness courtesy of NapTimeCreationsMO.

I’m not hosting a giveaway of such epic cuteness, but I will direct you to the one being conducted by a friend of my friend once I ramble about pancakes and body crevices and the marriage of the two after this little introduction:

NapTimeCreationsMO is a creation highlighting my friend’s creations for your little creations. Isn’t she crazy talented? She’s crazy smart, too, the 4.0-will-edit-the-heck-out-of-you type. She’s also giving (obvious). Kind (fellow adopter of three-legged pooches). Patient (taught me how to wait tables. It doesn’t get any more patient than that, people).

And I’ll stop there before I sound like less of a friend and more of a creeper, but I could go on and on.

Friend and I, along with Zeke, will forever cherish memories of our high school selves learning that there are, in fact, at least 393 ways to tell a high school waitress who’s trying to pay for her latest totaled Camaro and upcoming college soul-sucking debt to the Big Man that you’d like pancakes:

ALL RIGHT: “I’ll take your [Diabetic Darling Delight/Pancake Paradise for Non-Pussies/Chocolate Mountainous Bliss Because I'm on Lipitor], please, thanks.”

EHH: “I’d like your hotcakes but without butter and instead a teaspoon of peanut butter dolloped on the side of the plate, not touching the hotcakes. Isn’t it great/funny/rare that I like peanut butter on my hotcakes? Gosh, I’m special, really one-of-a-kind. And blueberry syrup, not regular. Please make sure the bottle isn’t sticky. Also a refill of coffee would be great because I’m sure you weren’t already planning on refilling my coffee once you tend to your other 15 demanding tables and the child drawing a giant purple duck on the wall.”

BLEH: “Pancakes and your digits.” . . . “Hotcakes from the kitchen and the ones on you, suga.” . . . “Oh, hey, lookie there. I dropped a packet of butter. Way over there. So sorry, missy. I got me a bad back. That means you gots to pick up the packet of butter I dropped way over there. So sorry to make you bend over like that, missy, so sorry . . .”

SERIOUSLY: “Pancakes.”

To this we’d all sweetly be, “What kind?”

“Pancakes.”

“Excellent. We registered that. But we have a variety of pan–”

“Pancakes. I want pancakes, dammit!”

What’s that movie where the skinny dude requests something in regard to his French toast and the cook, like, spits on it or wipes his pits/and or region of supreme inappropriateness (crack–butt crack–hairy, sweaty butt crack) with it, then the skinny dude unknowingly devours the revised meal with a big ol’ grin?

A lot of people left the kitchen in our slice of country happy, quite happy. Just sayin’.

Anywho.

I’m pretty sure the conductor of this giveaway, the friend of my friend, is somebody I shared a college bio table with. In the summer. In the morning in the summer. In the morning in the summer when we were teens. Imagine how excited we were to talk Punnett Squares and hissing cockroaches. I stumbled onto her blog and thought she looked familiar, but it took me a while to pin the recognition. I’d thought, “Nah, she and I weren’t the ones grabbing the hissing roaches for the big bad Big 12 football players; this gal has a couple kids and she wasn’t a mom and that was just a little while ago so.”

But then I stopped thinking that thought right there mid-sentence. I signed up for that college bio class in order to graduate college in two years (took two and a half. Fail, I know.) . . . and that was five yeas ago.

CRAP.

So, yeah, makes complete sense that she’s had a couple cuties and runs a cute little family blog that I can piggyback off of in order to promote my friend’s cuteness for your cuties. Check Bio Buddy’s blog out and enter the giveaway, yo! Then, because I undoubtedly set you salivating, go get yourself some pancakes, and let me state this very politely and subtly:

TIPS, EVEN FOR SHODDY SERVICE, ARE TO BE 18 PERCENT, MINIMUM, OF THE TOTAL BILL, DAMMIT. CERTAINLY NOT TEN. TWENTY IS NICE. FIFTEEN NO LONGER. EIGHTEEN. EIGHTEEN. EIGHTEEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Comments

  1. Love love love her hats! And booties. Your post had me cracking up. I totally agree about the tip – if you can’t afford to tip, then you shouldn’t be eating out :)

  2. Cute hats and cute baby! I hadn’t read about the man in India until I saw your title. That’s CRAZY. People can be CRAZY.

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