Here's to you, Mrs. Hannigan

I have the honor of sharing the same last name with the always-inebriated orphanage manager Mrs. Hannigan from "Annie." It wasn't until I was already pretty hooked on Scott that I realized this coincidence and how annoying it would be for me, a future teacher at the time, to have classrooms full of children whining at me, "We love you, Mrs. Hannigan," like the orphans in the movie.

When I was student-teaching, I was fairly confident that children born in the late 90s wouldn't be familiar with "Annie" or anything I might have ever watched on a VHS tape (let alone know what a VHS tape is), and, therefore, I was safe from having them repeat that line to me.

Lucky me, I ended up being placed at the school that had just performed "Annie" as their winter musical.

It's not that I don't love my new-ish last name (I mean, it makes my full name so symmetrical: Jennifer Hannigan), but after a semester of having those students say that to me, and even having it frosted onto my going-away cake, I was happy that I might never have to hear "Mrs. Hannigan" again.

Wrong times two.

This fall I will be an adjunct instructor in the Harding's English department, teaching one section of English 111, otherwise known as Composition 1, to 24 freshmen/sophomores/lazy senior who waited until the last minute to fulfill this gen ed requirement.

Honestly I never thought I'd teach again. Although I had a funky little double cross beside my name in the graduation program indicating that I received my teaching licensure, implementing the powers of the double cross was not in the cards.

A little clip from my program

That little symbol tacked on a bit of practicality to my slightly impractical major. I mean, what do you do with a degree in English? Unlike other most majors, there's not a clear direction for that degree. There's further schooling, unemployment, or teaching with some truly golden opportunities sprinkled in there, convincing you an English degree is the way to go.

When I got my current job, it was as if the great saints of literature had thrown me a bone, giving me one of the few gems of a job where you write and get paid! Brilliant. That little teaching license found its way into a folder, in a box, in a closet. Buh-bye, teaching career.

It wasn't that I didn't want to teach. There was a little part of my brain where the want lived. It was very rewarding, passing on my love of something to my students, even if they didn't necessarily love it in return. It was just that, at least on that grade level or at that time in my life, it wasn't the goal.

In the same folder where my three-year teaching certificate is waiting to expire sits a handful of cards from each of the different sections of English I student-taught. Inside are little statements of love and encouragement (and even one phone number from a very delusional seventh-grade boy), wishing me well on my teaching journey. Re-reading these a little while ago, I felt a little bad — as if I had lied to those classes. They were all wishing me bon voyage on a journey I had little drive on which to go.

So, after two years of early teaching retirement (sort of like how Amanda Bynes retired from acting... for three months), I've decided there's still some kick left in me yet. Maybe I'll try this teaching thing after all.

Wish me (and perhaps the students I'm going to teach) a little luck. I'll probably need it.

Not-so-Iron Chef

I don't cook.

Whenever I say that someone inevitably pipes up, "Aww, poor Scott. What does he do?" That's when I just smile and say, "He starves! Bwahahaha!" and stroke my evil minion cat, spinning around in my evil-ruler chair of evil.

No, that's not right. He gets a crust of bread and glass of water.

The truth is, he cooks — and very well, I might add. Some men don't even know their way around the kitchen or the ingredients that go into a grilled cheese ("Does it include heating up the grill?"), but my spectacular husband can whip up some pretty stellar dishes. See proof below.

Rice and asparagus frittata with biscuits

I know you've seen this before, but it was so good I had to show it again.

Try not to drool on the keyboard, OK?

Cooking stresses me out. There's a lot going on when it comes to pulling together a meal. Lots of directions, timing, keeping cool under pressure — all of which I'm terrible at. My mom always told me that she hoped that I would marry someone who could cook, otherwise I'd be stuck eating cereal and Lean Cuisines for the rest of my life. (Which is fine with me because I love pasta and can eat a spaghetti Lean Cuisine for 290 calories! Carbs and calorie-conscious? Sign me up!)

I'm the girl who thought that the water I'd just boiled was super-heated and deadly after watching a special on 20/20. While living in the dorm, I set an entire pan of brownies ablaze when the marshmallows I'd placed on top got too close to the broiler (as in touching the broiler). I've also burned scrambled eggs, Pop Tarts, toast, various bodily appendages, butter, and cheese. Me + kitchen - common cooking skills = fire.

I remember talking with my great-grandmother last year while she was still in the nursing home and listening to her tell me about how she would cook dinner every night for my great-grandfather from scratch.

There were no microwave dinners or "oh, we'll just order pizza" nights. And these weren't small dinners, either. There was a meat, veggies, bread of some form, and probably a dessert. She told me how, for her, the easiest bread option was biscuits. "Most people," she said, "would think that cornbread would be easier, but it was too much for me. I would just make biscuits every night. And your Daddy Bob liked biscuits better anyway. Can you make biscuits for Scott?"

Well, in her definition of the word "make," no. I can pop open a Pillsbury can, which is always momentarily heart stopping, and set out the preformed biscuit rounds on a cookie sheet and set the oven timer to 20 minutes. That's how I "make" them. But it's a secret recipe, so don't tell anyone.

I'm beyond thankful that I have a husband who is willing to cook dinner every night (even if it's just sandwiches — which are really his all-time favorite anyway) and who enjoys it.

And just so you don't think I sit around the house in my mu-mu, eating bon-bons while watching television (What am I? 80?), I do wash the dishes post-dinner and give Scott a "thank you" hug and kiss — and he thanks me for not setting the house on fire.

Lazy days of summer

Another weekend, come and gone. It can be pretty depressing.

Friday

Looked a lot like last Friday, but, instead of Brick Oven, Scott cooked some amazing breaded chicken with asparagus and sweet potato French fries.

Saturday

Scott spent the morning helping at the Day of Caring with the bank and handed out food to people in the community.
I gave the bushes in the front flower bed a much needed trim, despite the fact that my visit with the allergist on Thursday determined that I'm allergic to pretty much everything outside. Luckily, the sneezes didn't hit until I was mostly finished with the second one. And there were no dogs and cats in the area.

I learned that when the heat index for the day is going to be 110, there is no cool part of the day. I went out at 9 a.m., and it already felt like 100.

I'm no Edward Scissorhands, but I think my dad would be proud.

Once Scott got back, we went to spend the rest of the day in Little Rock.
Saw "Inception" and had our minds blown.
(I don't know if I'm still completely sure what happened in that movie, but I enjoyed it just the same! Besides, I love any movie where they have to assemble the gang at the beginning.)
Ate at the Red Door afterward and had lots of good food (plus the most delicious cheese dip in the history of the world).

Sunday

Went to church and thoroughly enjoyed Baby Sunday, where they present the new babies that have been born in the congregation throughout the year.

Lots of Baby Sunday/Lazy Sunday parodies occurred.

Might have teared up a few times.

Had a gloriously lazy afternoon.

Ate an amazing dinner (pork, mashed potatoes and asparagus) prepared by my wonderful husband.

I could write pages about how well he cooks/over feeds me.

Watched the season four premiere of "Mad Men."

Realized that an hour of that show is never, ever enough.

Remembered that tomorrow was Monday and became sad.

The bright side is we're only four days away from another weekend!

Mad Men: The Carousel

Mad Men returns Sunday night! I'm super excited to see what's going to happen with Sterling Cooper Draper Price.

In honor of this momentous event, please enjoy my favorite scene from Mad Men ever: The Carousel.

Click to watch since YouTube is dumb and wouldn't let me embed it.

(And if it doesn't get you a little choked up, then you're dead inside.)

Where I discover I'm turning into my father

Fact: My dad is cuter than your dad.

My dad asks lots of questions. My sister, Courtney, and I have joked that is brain can only process information if it's the result of a question he's asked.

For example, if I were to say, "Hey, Dad! Today at work I wrote an article for the magazine on what gets said on campus tour. Then I went to lunch with my coworker Heather, and Courtney called me on her way to physical therapy," Dad would reply, "So, what did you do today?" "Who did you go to lunch with?" "Did Courtney call you?"

Courtney and I blame it on his occupation. As an optometrist, all he does is ask questions: "Which is better — one or two? Three or four? Can you read that top line?" and so on. He also checks peoples' eyes and gets them glasses and stuff, but, mainly, it's questions.

When I got home from work the other night, I was asking Scott how his day was, what was for dinner, what was in the mail, did he get a text from Morris, where's Waldo, whose line is it anyway, whatdya want from me, what is this, what was that ... and then he stopped me mid-interrogation asking me to cool it with the questions.

(I was going to have a hilarious clip from Friends right here from when Monica and Chandler had just gotten back from their honeymoon and Chandler was telling Monica that the reason their new plane friends had fake-numbered them was because of all of the questions she asked. "Just the sheer volume of them. It was like flying with the Riddler!" But YouTube doesn't seem to care that I need that clip to illustrate my point and, therefore, doesn't have it. So insensitive.)

And then it hit me. I'm turning into my dad. 

(Thankfully, YouTube did have a clip of Rachel going through my same dilemma, complete with weird subtitles.)

This was completely unexpected for me. I mean, I know that I'm turning into my mom. Despite my best efforts, it is unavoidable. It's slowly started already with my penchant for necklaces and accessorizing. Soon I'll have the whole Chico's jewelry line overflowing in my dresser drawers, know the exact location of every T.J. Maxx in a 50 mile radius of my house, lure small children to sit with me at church with my bag of toys, and say "salmon" without the silent L. This is my lot in life. I have come to accept it.

I draw the line at brightly colored capri pants.

But, becoming Dad, too? I mean, that's Courtney's problem, right? She's the one with the extreme practicality, the over-concern for spending, need to succeed, etc. She is my dad's mini me.

I quickly shook off the initial shock and attributed it to my own occupation. When I interview people for a magazine story, I ask lots and lots of questions. I go into each interview with a list of questions, mapped out like a choose-your-own-adventure novel. Whether the question is yes or no, I have a corresponding follow-up question. Even while they're answering one of the 58 questions I've planned for them, my mind is constantly churning with more and more inquiries.

I comfort myself with the fact that maybe this characteristic will fill in the hole where my mom's T.J. Maxx honing beacon was going to be placed, thus sparing me from knowing every salesperson by name. I can take asking a high volume of questions if that is the case.

So, if you find yourself in a conversation with me and things start to get a little too much like the Spanish Inquisition, just pat me on the shoulder and tell me I'm my father's child. I'll get the message.

(Let me say that both of my parents have very admirable traits as well, like my mom's ability to make friends with complete strangers in five minutes flat, how she volunteers to help anyone with anything, her obvious pride in her children, fierce love of family, or dad's hard work ethic and "if you're going to do it, do it right" mentality, his tender heart and desire to help, and the way he wants nothing more to see his children happy. I can only hope that I'll one day realize I've been given these, too. Just not the capri pants, OK?)

Weekend List

Is is just me, or do the weekends fly by? It seems like they operate on a shorter clock than the weekdays. Fifteen minutes at work is like an hour weekend time. (I think that says what I want it to.) Anyway, here's a few things that Scott and I did over the weekend.

Friday

Came home to find Brick Oven's portabella mushroom pizza and spinach dip for dinner.

Enjoyed being homebodies and cleared the DVR of a week's worth of USA original series: "White Collar," "Covert Affairs," "Psych" and "Royal Pains." We've turned into huge USA Network nerds. If you don't watch any of those shows, you should because they're really entertaining. (I can't give my 100% stamp of approval on "Covert Affairs" yet since that was the series premiere. I don't have a good read on it yet.)

Just try to say no to that Frank Sinatra-style hat. I dare you.

Saturday

Cinnamon roll Saturday! (What we call our weekend tradition of cinnamon rolls and Food Network shows.)

Went to Morris and Brenda's house for lunch with Erica (it was her birthday!), Daniel and their friends from Memphis — Drew and Laura.
Played PacMan and did not get the high score (My mom would be so ashamed of me).

Went to Heber Springs and got to go tubing.
Laughed and had a great time with new and old friends.

Came home much sorer than I'd left it.

 I like big sunglasses, and I cannot lie.

Drew and Scott are obviously tubing enthusiasts.

Staying dry with Brenda and Laura

My number one goal: to remain on the tube.

Sunday

Went to church and thought about sharing and being thankful.

Ate enchiladas rancheras at Mi Ranchito.
Sunday afternoon napped.

Watched "The Lovely Bones" via Netflix.

Became emotionally wrecked thanks to "The Lovely Bones."

Ate at Chili's with Michael, McKenna and Hunter.

Played Wise or Otherwise at the Pruitt residence.
Celebrated Michael's first Wise or Otherwise win.

Returned home and realized I was much sorer than when I'd woken up that morning.

10 (of the million) things I love about Scott

I have to say that, although I might be a little biased, I’m pretty sure my husband is the best husband in the world. So, please excuse the sappiness, and allow me to brag on him for a little bit. (I feel like, on a blog called Jen Loves Scott, I'm alloted a sappy post or two.)

Are you tired of these pictures yet? Good, neither am I!

1. He loves God more than he loves me.

2. That he can make the nothingness in our fridge into dinner.

3. The random country songs he makes up while we're getting ready for work in the morning.

4. How he repeats what I just said when he thinks I'm cute.

5. That he lets me lay on his shoulder until long after his whole arm has fallen asleep.

6. When he goes to the grocery store after work so I don't have to.

7. The way he encourages me to do things I think are out of my reach.

8. How hard he works at a job he doesn't always love to provide for us.

9. That he tells me to be careful every morning when I leave for work, even though it's only seven minutes away.

10. He is my very best friend.

Off the wagon, off the treadmill

I never, ever look this happy while exercising.

A couple of months ago, Scott and I realized we were in need of a change. Turns out, the happier you are in a marriage, the fatter you get. And believe me, we're pretty happy. Our arteries, however, probably cry themselves to sleep on their little blood cell pillows. (Would it make more sense if the arteries slept on nerve ending pillows instead?)

So our master lifestyle overhaul began. The usual residents of our fridge like cheese, Tacquitos, ice cream and Vanilla Coke were replaced with lettuce, fish, carrots and low-fat mayo. It kind of looked like that commercial where the corndog parachutes out of the fridge with the lettuce leaf — except for more weeping on our end and less bossiness from a bottle of Ensure.

It was tough at first. We would a hallucinate about dancing bowls of macaroni and cheese or large pans of brownies, dream of the chocolate torte one chef prepared on Top Chef, linger too long on the cookie and chips aisle, break out into a cold sweat whenever anyone mentioned Nutella (OK, maybe that was just me). That was the withdrawal phase. It doesn't help that we watch a lot of food-centered TV, like Top Chef, Next Food Network Star, and several other Food Network shows — not to mention we get Food Network and Food & Wine magazines. (We're addicted!)

In addition to our diet remodel, we began to exercise — 30 minutes on the treadmill everyday. At first, I was less than a happy camper. Not only did this mean I had to give up 30 minutes of precious sleep, but it also meant I had to run — and there is a reason I have never been or ever claimed to be an athlete. Physical activity and I do not get along. I have no coordination, poor reflexes and low levels of team spirit. We just weren't meant to be. With each pounding of my (rarely-ever-worn-before) tennis shoes on the treadmill's ever-moving conveyor belt, I would think "I hate this. I hate this. I hate this."

Slowly but surely, we began to see results. No longer were we staring with mouths agape while watching the Barefoot Contessa whip up lobster mac and cheese. (That's a bold-faced lie, but anyone with eyes and taste buds would do the same.) Running became easier and more of a welcome addition to our routine and not a sleep thief. We were feeling healthier and lighter. Clothes fit better, and we felt less tired throughout the day. Our hard work was paying off.

And then it hit.

Vacation.

I know what you're thinking: "But, Jennifer, vacation is a good thing." Yes, vacation is a good thing — a good thing for lounging, eating, lounging while eating and eating while lounging. It's also a fantastic motivation thief. And that's just what it did. While we were in Panama City, we decided it was good for us to take a little vacation from our diet/exercise plan too. Nothing wrong with a week off, right?

Now, two and a half weeks on this side of vacation, we're still struggling to get back into our routine. We've fallen off the exercise wagon. (Is it on the wagon or off the wagon?) Or treadmill, in this case.

So we're in need of some motivation, some spurring on. We felt so much better while we were sticking to it, but now my mindset is that, we've undone it this much, why start up again? I'm open to any suggestions you might have, especially if it includes large plates of pasta and a DVR-emptying TV marathon.

Lucky streak

I've always fallen into the "I never win anything" category. Until lately, the best prize I'd ever won was a beach towel featuring a cartoon duck named Quacker who had a very short-lived children's book series. I did a killer duck impression. (I know it's hard to imagine, but I was a pretty big attention hog as a kid.)

However, thanks to my avid blog reading, I've won a couple of good prizes lately. (I'm proudest of my $50 JCrew gift card and $75 DSW gift card. Scott likes that I got a cardigan and two pairs of shoes for $10 total.) Scott and I were able to take advantage of another one of my winnings on Saturday — a free photo session with Cassie Jones Photography. I'm always giving Scott a hard time, saying we never get our picture taken, so I was very excited to toss every excuse he could come up with out the window. After all, you can't turn down free, right? (It was here that I was going to say how long it had been since we'd actually had our pictures taken professionally, but it wasn't a staggering amount of time and made my argument look weak, so we're going to leave that out.)

We had a great time with Cassie. It's great when your photographer is also a friend. It takes away the slight awkwardness that comes with lurking around downtown, PDA-ing* with your husband, and having someone staring at you from behind a camera. Because, honestly, what could be awkward about that?

Want to see more pictures of Scott and me looking unbearably adorable? Click here!

*"Public display of affection" for those who a) never went to church camp or b) never attended middle school.

Relax and enjoy

That's what Frankie says...

I think I might be a bit of a hypochondriac. The imaginary sickness I've been battling lately is baby fever. It seems like everyone I know is pregnant or just had a baby, except me — a fact I'm all too quick to remind Scott. I'm ready to be a mom, and I push Scott to be as ready to be a dad, but he's not. In our young marrieds class at church yesterday, it was brought up how sometimes you just have to stop worrying, stop dwelling on the past or worrying about the future and relax and enjoy this moment, because, thankfully, we have it so good — right now.

I let a lot of this present good go to waste pining for the future to hurry up and be here. I had a middle school teacher who would say "You're wishing your life away" whenever we'd whine that we were ready for that afternoon, ready for the weekend, ready for summer... there's a lot of wonderful that happens in those times we wish would hurry up and pass us by.

My new mantra is to relax and enjoy. There is a time for everything, after all, and I will not only accept but rejoice that this is my time to be wife, to have Scott all to myself, to get eight full hours of sleep. And when the next chapter comes, I won't regret that I missed a lot of good rushing to get somewhere else.

Meet Elizabeth Hunter

This precious little ball of pink is Miss Elizabeth Hunter, the newest member of the Pruitt family. Hunter's mommy and daddy, McKenna and Michael, are our dearest couple friends ("couple friends": defined as those who are willing to spend most Sunday nights dining out and playing Friends Scene It!, who cause much laughter and happiness, and who share in the common joys and occasional difficulties in the blessed union of marriage, letting you know that most marriages don't look like those in the movies). Scott and I are so blessed to have them as our friends. After all, a couple who can recite an appropriate "Friends" quote for any situation is hard to find.

I know it's easy for me to say, seeing as I haven't been toting an ever-growing human inside of my body, but it seems like just yesterday that Michael and McKenna told us they were expecting and that Hunter was no bigger than a hockey puck (according to Tarzan’s Ultimate Guide To Baby Sizes Week-By-Week For Soon-To-Be Fathers). And now, here she is. Much cuter than a hockey puck.

Obviously, pregnancy usually ends in a baby and is not a permanent state (for which I'm sure McKenna is grateful), but it amazes me that yesterday there was no baby and today there is.

Hunter, I want you to know that, if you promise to hug me when you see me and make "Jennifer," "Jen" or any variation of my name at least your fifth word (I'll take "blsstt..." if that's the best you can manage), I will always have candy for you. And, if you bat your eyes just right and wrap your little hand around Scott's finger, I'm sure you and your magical baby ways could convince him to say "OK" to getting you a playmate sometime soon. Just saying.

Happy birthday, Hunter. Your mommy and daddy are pretty spectacular!