Spoiler Alert*

*If you want Oliver's "welcome to the world" gift to be a surprise, do not read any further.

About a month ago, I bragged about my mom on this blog. Afterward, she debated the size of her pants collection and claimed that her darts game was misrepresented. For this libel, I sincerely apologize.

I thought I would give it the ol' college try and attempt another blog of gushing admiration. This time – my Grandma Norris.**

**Now, it could get confusing because Mom is also Grandma Norris. However, this time we're going back a generation. It would be a lot easier if my brother would just give in and let his children refer to their grandparents with cutesy monikers.

Anywho.

It's difficult to put labels on a woman like my grandma. But, if I had to, I would say...

Grandma had a formidable gift for bringing people together. She was tough. She was generous and loyal and sentimental. She cried over beautiful things. She worked relentlessly.

Her kindness softened people (especially my grandpa). Her energy animated people. Her faith inspired people. Her quirks endeared her to others. Her snickerdoodles could cause riots.

When I was a kid, I was always having to share my grandma with my cousins, my uncles, her friends, the kitchen. When she neared the end of her life and moved in with my parents, I got a chance to spend more one-on-one time with her. During this period, I got to know my grandma as this honest, interesting, and always hungry (figuratively and literally) person.

Grandma proved her endless well of patience during this time when she taught me to crochet. She had tried to teach me before, but we had always gotten distracted. This time around, we had the time and quiet necessary for such an intricate task. Since then, it’s a skill that’s stuck with me and something that will always make me feel close to her.

It takes me FOREVER to finish a project, but Greg and Amanda gave me nearly 9 months notice for my latest crochet endeavor. I finished it on Saturday when I was waiting for Whitney in the hospital. I’m pretty proud of how it turned out, so therefore you must pretend to like it too. It's my blog -- I make the rules.

Here's your sneak peak:



And, because I can't resist, here's one of my favorite photos of all time (for non-Norris' -- Grandma's in the wedding dress):

Living the Dream

I don't work in a highly regarded profession. In fact, I read somewhere that advertising ranks just above used-car sales. But, frankly, we deserve the tomatoes. Most ads are condescending, unimaginative, or obnoxious.

The problem is that most ads reflect a make-believe client world where customers go crazy over everyday products like mascara and instant rice. It's just not true. Life is way too complicated and busy to care that much about every purchase. We (addies) also ignore the fact that consumers can sniff a fake a mile away. Nobody really believes that buying new-and-improved laundry detergent will change their life. We exaggerate, embelish, and fluff. We hide the truth in miniscule type and auctioneer voice overs. The worst (and most arrogant) part is that we think no one's noticing.

I think the reality is that people understand the necessary evil of advertising and in turn truly appreciate (shown through passionate brand loyalty and advocation) clever, well-placed ads.

In my short career, I've been a part of great campaigns...





...and not so great ones (no need to share). When the stars align and the client approves creative that is funny or ground breaking or moving, it makes me proud of what I do. I'm not so proud of the account I'm currently assigned to. I'm mostly disappointed with the agency process and values, although the ads are pretty lame too.

So, four paragraphs in (I clearly wasn't paying attention to my journalism professors' inverted triangle lectures), I'll break the happy news:

I've officially resigned from AndersonDDB and accepted a position with Saatchi & Saatchi. I'm escaping the tortuous world of pharma advertising and taking a stab at CPG (consumer packaged goods). My new assignment... Cheerios! -- specifically Yellow Box (the regular kind), Multi-Grain, and a new unnamed Cheerios product (be certain that as soon as I find out what it is I will tell everyone I know).

In case you don't feel like googling Saatchi, here are some of my favourite (it's a UK agency) ads they've recently produced:







Cheerios is why I wanted to work in advertising. Ok, that's not true. But, the idea of Cheerios is why I put up with getting yelled at and working like a dog. I can only hope that this move will open more doors for the future and maybe bring a little more sanity/happiness to the present.

Like Brother said, "living the dream."

Tales from the ER

There's nothing like a Saturday afternoon in the emergency room:

The quality television programming. Today's choices -- Groundhog's Day or The Backyardigans.

The cast of lovely individuals in the waiting room. The mother who used more four letter words with her child than a taxi driver in rush hour. (I'm adding her to my list that includes IKEA, Kathy, and that rude woman who cut in front of me in the grocery store the other morning.) The hipster that sliced his wrist with a cake knife on his birthday. (And, who proceeded to make out with his girlfriend while she kept his bloody hand elevated.) The Russian that almost started an ER brawl after making a derogatory comment to an elderly Jewish man in a wheel chair. The woman who in reaction to her son telling her she was going to be a grandmother threw her fists in the air and yelled "YESSSSSS!" (I kind of imagine Graham's reaction to be similar when Becca tells him the good news.)

The fresh scent of disinfectant and stale coffee.

The ample time to consider important life issues. Including, but not limited to my favorite type of cereal, the title of my first novel, how realistic Grey's Anatomy is and the weird scar I have on leg from an unfortunate flat iron incident a few weeks ago.

But, in all seriousness, Whitney is still alive. Her right kidney is being a big, fat jerk, but it's nothing a little time and some really strong pain meds won't fix. I'm not sure how much help I was today, but I was happy to be there for moral support. Plus, I'm pretty sure I earned some roommate karma. And, frankly, you can never have enough of that.

State of the Journey

This week marks half-a-year of surviving my crazy job (or at least the crazies that work there); learning to communicate with my Russian neighbors, my Hispanic landlord, the Slavakian cashier at the Lib, and alot of Middle Eastern taxi drivers; eating the same lunch five days out of the week; and blogging. Keeping up with this blog demands a certain self-awareness that I didn't always have before. It's like looking through a hole in a saltine cracker. I'm always surprised how much you can actually see.

The following aren't quite as deep as the preceding thought, but here are a few life lessons I've learned along the way:

-I don't need that much stuff. My previous life was packed with stuff -- excessive kitchen utensils, holiday decorations, crock pots. In fact, I had four trash cans in my apartment -- a sure sign of waste or maybe just one of laziness. Now, don't get me wrong. Down the road when I'm unpacking my boxes in my new Texas home, it will be like Christmas. But, I have to admit, it's nice to live a bit simpler/greener for the time being.

-I don't need a car. I don't even need the security of knowing that I have a car sitting in my parents driveway. (If I say this enough, I'm hoping to be OK with the thought of some Sidekick-toting, skinny jeans-wearing, wasn't-born-until-the-90's kid buying my Corolla.) *This is kind of a sub-bullet of the above, but just go with it.

-The grass is always greener. New York has always been on my list. Now that I'm here, I've realized that most days are pretty much the same as my life before -- a mindless commute, lots of work, a little bit of running, never enough sleep. I suppose it's the opportunity that makes this city so great. And, that's why, despite the weekly pleas from Becca, I can't leave here just yet.

-The first mile is never fun. My legs are always stiff, I haven't found my focus, and my stupid bangs are always in my eyes. Then, I hit mile two and it's like I can take on communism and terrorism and world hunger and artificial sweeteners. I'm not sure what's happened over the last few months, but I've become addicted to this feeling. The more I run, the less scary the 13 mile race is. Maybe I'll take on 26. Who knows?

-My family means the world to me. There's nothing like a little distance to make the heart grow fonder.

-IKEA is the devil in a blue and yellow dress. If the intended lesson in this entire experience is to learn how to deal with difficult people, then mission accomplished. P.S. A second shipment of BROWN drawer pieces arrived at my office today. Unbelievable.

A Mad P Photo Collage

In honor of the fact that Maddie is only a month from having to share the Norris family spotlight, I thought I would dedicate a post to my favorite 2-year-old on the planet. She has my sister-in-law’s good looks and my brother’s vivid imagination (see NSFAQs comments). She may even be the happiest human being I know. Let’s hope she stays that way after the arrival of her annoying little brother. ;-)

There are so many good photos, but here a few of my all-time favorites:

NSFAQs

Time for some imaginary questions from nonexistent readers. NSFAQs (not-so-frequently-asked questions), if you will.

Who's your pick to win Top Chef this season?
Well, now that the apartment-fave Jen is out, the TC excitement has waned a bit. Antonia made herself a lot more likable when she cried over her kid-friendly stir-fry. Stephanie's good, but she has a bad habit of choking (no pun intended) during tough challenges. If Andrew or Lisa make it to the finals, I think I may barf. I would put my money on Richard and his mini-Mohawk.

You haven't used barf in a blog entry in a while. Running out of threats, eh?
I suppose. Barfing just seemed an appropriate reaction to an annoying chef.

Speaking of world class cuisine, why is Crystal Light Classic Orange so good?
I suspect that it's because it’s Tang for grown-ups. And, if Tang is good enough for astronauts, it’s good enough for me.

Tang is the best when it’s hot outside. Too bad it was 45 degrees when you woke up this morning.
That's not a question.

You know where it’s hot? Dallas. Tell me this -- why is it that your brother is such a Dallas-hater?
I like to think of him more of an Austin-lover. Please disregard his anti-Dallas blog comments. He can’t control his appreciation of Central Texas.

Why is that SNL MacGruber song so darn catchy?
Because the guy’s a freakin’ genius.

Huh?
Never mind.

Wow. Speaking of genius, how much longer do we have to wait for Oliver's arrival?
Only about a month left! My vacation request was approved and plane tickets were officially purchased this week. Texas, here I come!

Adventures In Dating

I’m not sure why I torture myself with the highly awkward, sometimes nerve-wracking, very time consuming social ritual of dating. If the purpose is to find a mate, count me out. An occasional free meal and movie? Well, I suppose.

A majority of my girlfriends in New York are mooching occasional Saturday night meals as well. This guarantees at least a few entertaining IM’s on Monday morning that begin with “L, you’re not going to believe this.”

For all the eligible bachelors that read this blog (ha) or those that are considering playing matchmaker, I’ve put together a list of 10 rules for dating my friends and I:

1. Don’t brag about having a car. We live in New York City. The fact that you have a car only makes me think you’re frivolous and dumb.

2. Don’t use a Q-tip accident as an excuse to cancel a date. (I wish I were joking. The guy should have just lied because now every time I see him in the elevator at work I can't help but giggle.)

3. Don’t use pick up lines. And, yes, asking what the worst pick up line I've heard counts as a pick-up line.

4. Don’t try to out-vocabulary me. I don’t mean to brag, but I was reared by Ruby “the vocabular-ian” Norris. I’m going to win every time (see next rule).

5. Don’t expect me to play games or pretend to be damsel-like or let you win just because you have a Y chromosome.

6. Don’t hog my text messages. My text quotient needs to be rationed each month for Becks and Dad. And frankly, I like them better than you.

7. Don’t tell me you’ve “prematurely retired.” I know what that means. I’ve tried the unemployed partner thing in the past and it didn’t quite work out.

8. Don’t ask me out if you’re old enough to remember Vietnam or too young to remember the Gulf War.

9. Don’t pretend to speak Spanish when you don’t. I studied the language for 10 semesters. I can tell when you’re speaking nonsense.

10. Don’t insult my apartment. You grew up 50 miles away in New Jersey. When you pack up your entire life and move across the country with two suitcases, then you can judge my shortage of grown-up furniture.

I think this post officially guarantees my status as the eternal third wheel, old cat lady.

-L :)

Getting My Skaaagenflagen Curtains All In A Bunch

I'm considering picketing the Swedish consulate, vandalizing the clog row at DSW, and spitting in a plate of surstromming. I'm SO mad I may even kick the first blonde person I see in the knee.

Why?

Because the incompetent IKEA customer service reps have failed for the FIFTH time in mailing me a replacement drawer piece for the cheap, piece of crap chest of drawers that was bought with the sole intention of being an inexpensive option to store my clothes over the next few years before I can return to Texas where I own furniture that didn't require self-assembly.

Exhale.

Now, if you aren't up to speed with the 3-month drawer drama, here's the short version:





The first pic is the sad state of my dresser as it awaits fully-functioning status. The second is of the SEVEN extra, unusable replacement pieces that IKEA has FedEx'ed me.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that a retailer with stores big enough to be the Stockholm air terminal would have lousy customer service. But, when you mosey through its maze of sparkling showrooms filled with uber-hip, yuppie furniture, you really start to believe them when they say, "Need help? Just ask!"

Don't be fooled. It's all a minimalist, particleboard and laminate facade. It turns out, in fact, that not hiring enough help, not assembling anything and providing no service of any kind really cuts the prices of things.

It's been three months of making due with a half-assembled dresser and I'm nearing to point of offering my fully-assembled firstborn child in exchange for never having to deal with IKEA customer service ever again. The "manager" that I was forwarded today after throwing a genuine hissy fit had the nerve to wish me luck on finally receiving the correct piece.

Luck?!

She can take her luck, her absurd Swedish names, her mass produced meatballs, and warehouse full of plastic cookware and shove it!

Dear IKEA,

I hate you. You stink.

Looovvve,
Leslie

Dear Corolla

Dear Corolla,

I don’t quite know how to tell you this, but I think it’s time we parted ways. I will always cherish the memory of how we met in the parking lot of the North Austin Embassy Suites and how nice you looked when Dad replaced your tires for Christmas. I will remember with fondness your powerful A/C, classy fake wood grain, stain-resistant upholstery, and unbeatable gas mileage. Of course, there were a few door dings, bad parking attempts, muddy paw prints, and a spilled Coke or two along the way. But, overall, knowing you was simply lovely.

For six months, you’ve waited patiently in my parents’ driveway for my return. However, my homecoming is not imminent and I think it is time we call it quits. I want you to know that every Toyota rental car will remind me of the years we spent together. You have certainly set the bar high for all my future mid-priced, compact cars.

Forever Yours,
Leslie