Last night, for the first time in my life, I watched the Miss America Pageant.  It was TK’s idea.  I never expected her to be the Miss America watching type, so I agreed to watch with her because I was completely blindsided by the suggestion.  (Okay – I admit it; I’ve been watching way too much TV lately as I try to keep off my feet, and had seen enough commercials on TLC for the pageant to be just the teensiest bit curious about it.)  As it turns out, not only does TK watch the pageant, she does her homework and researches the contestants.  I plopped down beside her on the big leather sofa in her living room and she showed me the Word document where she’d ranked her top fifteen contestants to compare with the judges’ semifinalist picks.  (If she were a true fan, she’d have made an Excel spreadsheet.)

Before the show started, while we were waiting for our husbands to bring back pizza, we were checking out the contestant profiles online. Amusingly, their profiles included a favorite recipe, thus disabusing pageant skeptics of the notion that Miss America contestants are averse to eating.  Most chose something unique to her state — Miss Ohio’s was Buckeyes (or at least a recipe called Buckeyes, if not actual buckeyes),  Miss New Mexico (unfortunately named Nicole Miner — just say that aloud) chose Green Chili Chicken Enchiladas, Miss Mississippi chose Fried Catfish. (Miss Minnesota, wisely, avoided Lutefisk.)

Miss North Dakota’s recipe?

Baked Potatoes.

Incredulous, we clicked the link, thinking it must be something fancier than “poke holes in potato, throw in oven, leave for an hour, then serve with butter, cheese, and sour cream.” Alas, that was pretty much exactly what her recipe said.

I have to believe this recipe had an impact on the fact that Miss North Dakota was not among the final fifteen semifinalists. If only she’d been Miss Idaho — then a baked potato recipe would have at least been funny (in the way a Miss America contestant wants to be funny).

One of the things I’ve discovered about being pregnant is that everyone likes to make small talk with you.  (Once it’s obvious that you are, indeed, sporting a baby belly and not a spare tire.)  I think it’s one of those things in life that’s common to just about everyone:  either they, personally, have had a baby, or are in the process of having one, or they know someone who has had/is having a baby.  Also, I think people just like babies and pregnant women!

Sunday night, Mr. Burt and I went to dinner at Sweet Tomatoes (which is, by the way, a fantastic salad bar/buffet that caters to a younger, more health-conscious crowd than Golden Corral or Sirloin Stockade) because I was too tired to cook after a long previous day of shopping and decorating, a largely sleepless night, and a baby shower that afternoon.  As we were carrying our trays of salad to a table, one of the guys busing tables interrupted an animated conversation he was having with a table of ladies to shout to me, “Hey!  How many months are you?  Eight?”

“Just about,” I replied.

He threw his hands up in the air like he’d just scored a touchdown.  “I knew it!”

“You’re having a boy,” chimed in one of the women, pointing at my belly.  “I can tell from how you’re carrying.”

“Oh yeah,” agreed the busboy.  “You’re totally having a boy.”

“It is a little boy,” I said.

Another victory dance.  I wondered how excited this guy would get if his own wife told him he was having a boy.  “Is he going to be a junior?” he asked Mr. Burt.

“Nah,” Mr. Burt answered.  “He’s my little dude, but we’re not naming him after me.”

The busboy’s jaw dropped.  “You have to name him after you!  Carry on the family name — all the kings did.  You know, like Henry VIII.”

Apparently the busboy missed the part where Henry VIII kept divorcing and beheading his wives because they weren’t having boys… (Though, to be fair, Henry VIII’s illegitimate son was a junior.)

“You should name him Kingston!” suggested the woman subscribing to the old wives’ tale that carrying low means a boy.

“As in, the capital of Jamaica?” I whispered to Mr. Burt as we left the busboy and the customer to continue their discussion about what to name baby boys.  Who knows?  Maybe a romance blossomed that night, and nine months from now the busboy will be the proud papa of Busboy, Jr.

Thankfully, the nurse who took my blood pressure yesterday at my OB appointment thinks Liam Alexander is a great name.  We concur.