My Sweet, Sweet Moves are Going Private; or, Loose Hips Sink Ships

I'm gonna tell you, with some immodesty, that I am pretty good at yoga for how much time I've spent actually doing yoga. Which is like none, compared to most middle class white ladies. (Or at least, that guy thinks so, and he put it in a book, which we have sitting by our toilet.)

Let me reiterate: I did not say that I was actually good at yoga.

You see, as Phoebe of yore, I'm very bendy. Extra flexible, for a no-spring-chicken-of-a-pear-shaped-white-lady-who-has-birthed-4-children. I'm NOT bendy like that guy in Oceans 11. So really, I'm more like medium bendy, if you are comparing mine with all the bendiness in the whole world.

How bendy am I? Well, even when I sit on the couch and eat Cheetos for like 6 months straight, I can get right up off the couch and do this:

And from there, I can lean forward, rest my chest on my feet, put my head on the floor, and cat nap, er, meditate (on world affairs, or whatever I'm supposed to be thinking about when really I'm just lying on the floor, wondering what sort of havoc Sam is wreaking in the gym's Kidszone), if I so desire. I can even put my legs behind my head (only one at a time, though, and it isn't as comfortable as it looks.) On the sit and reach test in my freshman aerobics class, I pretty much wiped the floor with all those Arizona Wildcat Cheerleaders. In full honesty, though, I might have been helped, in that case, by my creepily long, ape-like arms.

You see, I have some crazy loose hip joints. Among other things. I'm mildly surprised my legs don't fall right outta their sockets. I'm sort of lifted up in the pride of my heart over them, if you want the truth. (And that's not the righteous kind, you know.)

Actually, this whole post is really an excuse to let you all know how extra-bendy-awesome I am, but in a mildly self-deprecating, and thus potentially palatable, way.

Last night, though, in my Body Flow class, when the teacher told us we could move from bridge pose:

into this pose, apparently called chakrasana:

I realized something. (Maybe the meditation is paying off, cause I had a tiny little epiphany.)

I might be too old to try out potentially crazy stuff in public. You know how they warn you "don't try this at home"? Well, this is poor advice when it comes to crazy yoga poses. I totally should try them at home.

After all, I'm closer to 40 than 30, ever since last week.

Now don't get the wrong idea. I chakrasana-ed, alrighty. I held that pose a good long time, too. I pretty much dominated it.

Mostly because once I got up there, I was afraid to come down.

When I finally did, I bonked my head, right good, on the wood floor (that is covered in other people's sweat and shoe-bottom germs, and likely worse. If you just don't think about it, it should be easy to ignore things that are microscopic. It worked with the plague, small pox, and cholera. Oh, and ecoli. What? Okay, maybe it didn't work). I also pulled something out in my shoulder on the way down. Something, there in my shoulder, that is necessary for being able to lift my arm up and down. Which I enjoy doing, even more that I enjoy the chakrasana.

See, the thing is, I'm not especially bendy in my arms. And I guess moving the Cheetos from the bag to my mouth hasn't made them especially strong, neithuh.

I'm not giving up, though. I'm totally going to keep on keepin' on with the tough, contortionist-type poses. I'm just going temporarily private with any new, sweet yoga moves I want to try.

You know, like some of you people do. People that say you are my friends, but have private blogs that I cannot view. Curse you, private bloggers.

Okay, no curse you. Is sort of mean to curse you. Is not good for my chi.

Wait, that's not yoga...Anyhow...

what, you ask, sort of sweet move will I tackle next?

Yup.

I'm not really that far off, you know.

I'll let you know when it's ready for the public.

To reiterate: Only my crazy yoga moves are going private; as in, I'm no longer doing them in Body Flow class because I'm injuring myself. Blog is still 100% public, and will be, forevermore. I love your comments!

P.S. If you are visiting my blog because you are looking for new and bendy characters to cast in Oceans 14 (because you really need new characters. Everyone is so tired of looking at Matt, Brad and George all the time), call me. I'm interested.

Second Best Birthiversary EVER

I've got loads to say, but I didn't want to displace Tori Spelling from the top-o-the-blog until she'd had a good, long run. Those Digital Image Pro creations- er, I mean, real live paparazzi-like pictures- took me a long, long time. Like 10 minutes, maybe. If you haven't had the pleasure, please scroll down at your leisure and peruse them.

Anyway, our first full day in California was my birthiversary.

And it was a good one.

I can't, of course, say it was the best ever, because, obviously, the best ever would be the first one: July 19, 1996. My 23rd birthday, and the day I got married.

So go ahead and do the math. I'll wait. You can leave the 'no spring chicken/mind is going and memory fading/you are old enough to be a grandma if you and your daughter were both teen moms' jokes in the comments.

The day started with my official birthday cake: a delicious maple bar from Donuts #2 in Encinitas. And an apple fritter, if you are going to insist on full caloric disclosure.

I must say, every birthday should start with Donuts #2.

(I like to take every opportunity to say Donuts #2. Is like worst possible name for a donut shop. Donuts #1 nearly as bad, but Donuts #3 is not even funny, so possibly worse?)

Then, after I'd squeezed my sugar-bloated donut belly into my new skinny-lady jeans (that I bought at Hub in Scottsdale because I am getting skinny, or was getting skinny until I went on vacation and gained $%&@#! pounds), my Mom, Jen and I headed to Anthropologie, where we found some lovely tops (we knew we would. We always do). Jen said my birthday party had the best party favors ever (the tops), and she wants to be invited again next year. Yeah, me too. Thanks, Mom! Then we got some tasty green corn tamales at the Yellow Coyote. Pants were already stretched nearly to limit, but there was still more to come.

Meanwhile, Jake had taken all four children to the Swap Meet all the way down by Sea World. They came home with a trash bag full of Legos, some fancy in-line skates for Jake, some parasols, black market Pokemon cards, and flowers for me. They returned pretty exhausted by all dickering. (I never pass up any opportunity to use the word 'dickering'.) Then, they all went swimming while I arranged flowers and put on one of my new tops.

Mom came over to watch the kids, and Jake and I, (with Jen and Andrew) drove down the coast a few miles to Jake's Del Mar for an anniversary dinner. Jake had wrangled us a table overlooking the water, and as the sun set, we could see dozens of dolphins diving in and out of the waves, alongside the surfers. (At first, I thought they were sharks, became very agitated, and nearly called 911, but then I didn't.)

Here's the crew at Jake's. No, those are not bits of Stonehenge peeking out from behind Andrew's head (yes, they are). This is 100% kosher photo (is our actual table, is actually us, is actual dolphin, is digital creation). Maybe I should learn to take pictures at the scene of the crime? Is an interesting idea. Will mull it over.

I ordered artichoke fritters and calamari, apple and walnut salad, and some pecan-crusted halibut. Jen accused me of having a crush on the curly-headed waiter, and even when I pretended to a small one, Jake did not have the good manners to act the jealous cuckold. I forgot his rudeness when dessert arrived: a giant slice of hula pie. I keep coming back to Jake's Del Mar for this perfect confection of macadamia nut ice cream, chocolate cookie crust, fudge sauce and more macadamia nuts. Is a party on a plate.

Every day should end with a giant slice of hula pie.

Finally, as I unzipped my jeans and rode back to Carlsbad with the seat reclined, listening to Coldplay, I realized I had barely set eyes on my kids all the day whole day long. Not since the Donuts #2.

I've got to say, it was the second best birthiversary ever.

That's just how I roll (with my homey, Tori Spelling)

Yeah, yeah, yeah. More about vacation later. I know the real reason you all visit my blog:

KELLY'S CELEBRITY SITINGS!
(What? No, really, I did it once before. You don't remember? Click here to review.)

Anyway, there we (Mom and I) were on Thursday afternoon, celebrating Pioneer Day (24th of July) the only way we know how: hanging out with Tommy and Claire in the hallway outside the Moonbeams Boutique in the Four Seasons Aviara (in Carlsbad, CA) hotel, and minding our own beeswax.
We were supposed to be inside the boutique with Jen, perusing the $80 little girls' plastic flip flops, and frosting up the glass over those pretty jewels made by an Encinitas artist that we all love; but Tommy was not thrilled with the shopping, wasn't even mildly distracted by that ring pop I gave him as a sort of hyper-sticky 2-year-old pacifier.

While we stood there, becalming the toddlers, Tori and her entourage sidle past. First came The Husband and Small Boy (I googled them and found out their names are Dean and Liam), and maybe the dog, but I don't think so. Behind them was Tori, pushing a fancy hot pink pram, a bugaboo-like contraption containing new baby Stella, born last month) and next to Tori, a potentially nanny-like individual.

Tori was sporting a sheer green and yellow shirt with no pants. I will give her benefit of doubt and call this a bathing suit cover up. I need to say that Tori is quite gutsy to be seen pantsless in five star hotel lobby just weeks after giving birth. I would never attempt such a feat, but I think she pulled it off. When she noticed me staring at her, I tried to look away and whistle, but I don't think it did any good. I'd totally been caught mid-90210 flashback.

I immediately texted Jake, who was out on golf course, and Shawna, my BFF since 4th grade, who was also staying there at the hotel.

As it turned out, though, nobody much seemed to care that Donna Martin was in the hallway with me.

But wait. That's not all. Yes, there is EVEN MORE Tori for your creepy stalking enjoyment!

Later that evening, my sister Jen was over to the spa. She hears a man's voice yelling "Tori, in here. There's got to be a bathroom in here! Do you have Stella?" And Jen's like, holy cow, get the man outta the women's locker room. There're nekked ladies in here!

Anyway, Jen hears Tori's voice urgently reply "Yeah, I've got her. But where's the bathroom?" Just then, the disembodied-man-voice comes around the corner in an enormous black lady's body. Is just an extremely manly-ish woman, not an actual man. Perhaps a bodyguard? Jen is mighty relieved.

But Tori is not relieved. She has some urgent needs. Tori REALLY needs to pee, or something. And she cannot find any toilets. And she is becoming frantic, pushing around her fancy stroller with Stella inside, in the relatively small space of the locker room, in chicken-with-its-head-cut-off-fashion.

(The scene looked exactly like the above photo, except the stroller was pink, they were indoors, Tori isn't pregnant anymore, she had crazy eyes, and she wasn't wearing any pants.)

So Jen, seeing the panic in Tori's eyes, tells her "the bathrooms are right over there," and Tori says "thanks," and makes a beeline in the direction of Jen's finger.

Then, Jen got her cameraphone, put it under the stall, and snapped a few candid shots.

No. Not really. But wasn't it a good thing Jen was there to help her? I mean, without Jen, Tori might have soiled herself! (Though, of course, she couldn't have wet her pants, cause she still wasn't wearing any.)

No, I didn't name my kids Nancy and Ned Beeswax...but maybe I shoulda

When I finally talked Jake into getting my huge box of Nancy Drew books down from the attic this week, and Ross and Jane got a gander at all 60 or so of them, and their eyes lit up, and they got all excited and started reading the titles to each other, I thought: this is a great moment. My kids love my Nancy Drews. They are fighting over The Password to Larkspur Lane. They want to know, what could be The Clue in the Old Diary? They have already read through about 10 of them so far, including the Mystery of the 99 steps, the Clue in the Crumbling Wall.

Maybe I should have stuck with my original plan (cooked up nearly thirty years ago), and named my first and second born children Ned and Nancy. Turns out, they would have liked it.

I know I learned in my children's literature class at BYU that "plot drives us, but we learn from character." I know that Nancy is perpetually 19 and cruising around in her hot convertible, and perhaps is sort of a tease because she's led Ned on for nearly 80 years, only calling him when she's in a tight scrape and needs help or brawn that Bess and George can't provide, and not because she's had an epiphany and realized she can't live without him, or his romantic pecks on the cheek. I also know Nancy doesn't teach us anything about the human experience, beyond the awesome human experience of solving mysteries with clues that seem to fall right into your lap.

I know that Carolyn Keene is just a pseudonym, not for just one prolific lady, but for many ghost writers who fleshed out stories outlined by the Stratemeyer Syndicate, who also came up with the Bobbsey Twins and the Hardy Boys, as well as dozens of other series. Nancy was first published in 1930, just weeks after big daddy Stratemeyer's demise. His daughter took over from there. And I also remember the way my professor scrunched up his face like he smelled something rotten, as he tried to tell us we should dissuade our future pupils (I was an elementary ed major for 2 years) from reading stacks of Nancy Drew books to the exclusion of better, finer, potentially life-changing literature. But I don't care. My parents liked them (my Dad was strictly Hardy Boys as the party line went, but when he'd read through his school library's holdings, he said he secretly snuck a little Nancy home in his backpack.) I liked them. Now, my kids like them.

I ask, what exactly is wrong with literature that doesn't change your life? We don't expect so much of our television programming. I've got me a Stephanie Plum mystery (first try for me) for the beach this week, or there's Mary Higgins Clark, or I'm sure lots of others, that are Nancy for grown ladies. I also like me a little Dirk Pitt, occasionally, even though he's definitely aimed at the Hardy Boys demographic. Dirk's been macho and chauvinistic since the 70s, and who wants him to become a women's-libbing modern man? Besides N.O.W., of course. And probably all the ladies on The View, if they took a vote. Who else, but virile Dirk, is still in the mood for a little hanky-panky, in one of the water-logged staterooms on the just-raised Titanic, even with a fresh bullet wound? Nobody. Well, perhaps James Bond.

I'm certain, even if my Professor Sourpuss was not, that there's room for all sorts of books in this world. You might never win a Pulitzer, Dirk and Nancy, but we still love you. We like to take you to the beach, or on airplanes. We like to take you to bed with 2 pounds of See's chocolate when we've had a long, long day. Anyway, not that it is likely you ever would, since you haven't, yet: but, don't ever change.

Do you have a favorite Nancy Drew mystery? Or a good series in the same vein for grown ladies or gentlemen? Please share!

P.S. Sue, from navel gazing at its finest, started a Mormon Mommy Blog list, and she put me on it! You can be part of it, too. Go see it!

So, Tom thinks he can dance.

But he can't.

I'll explain.

When I got up Wednesday morning about 7:30, I poured myself some Grape Nuts, and settled my rear deep into the leather cushions of the family room sofa. I was planning to be there awhile. I had two weeks of So You Think You Can Dance to watch. I don't know how I let myself get so far in arrears. It is the only show I Tivo this summer. I mean, besides the House Hunters International re-runs, of course. And I don't even re-watch those, unless the potential buyers are looking to renovate a ruin, and then I'm glued to the couch. I'm a total sucker for a ruin. Or France. I'm also a sucker for France. Have you seen the one where the American woman and her German lover are looking for a 3 bedroom flat in Paris' 6th Arrondissement? No, no, sorry, I've gotten sidetracked again.

When I watch SYTYCD, my kids get wild looks in their eyes and start moving. They can't help themselves, they can't keep still. They usually start out dancing, but it quickly degrades into yelling and wrestling and somersaults and such. About 1 week into the dance marathon (i.e. 9:20 am), Tommy starts body slamming Ross. Repeatedly, but in a friendly, inviting sort of way. Ross is playing legos and mostly ignores Tommy's overtures. So I pipe up: "Ross, why don't you put away the legos and cavort with Tommy?" Tommy can't wait, though. While Ross is on his way to put the legos up on the shelf above the TV, Tom lunges at him again. Sadly, he misses Ross, and ends up throwing himself headlong into the corner of the rocking chair.

And thus began our troubles.

But before I get into all that: Let's talk about the rocking chair. Is this the same rocking chair corner with which I collided as a ten-month-old baby, (who had no business walking, much less running, about the house and crashing into furniture), leaving a small pock-like scarred indentation in the center of my forehead, still visible today if I hold my head just so in noon-day sunlight? Yes. The very same chair.

But wait. I'll bet you don't know this chair's provenance. While I was still a babe in utero, my Father found the rocking chair on the curb one day in East Lansing, Michigan. It was painted green, and not in good shape. It had been left out for trash collection. Dad took it home, worked some magic on it (took off green paint, tightened up the joints, etc.), and gave it to my Mom for to rock me in. It was only one year later that the chair nearly brained me. Somebody, who knew these things, told my parents the rocking chair is well over 100 years old. So now we know, the ancient chair (given to me to rock my own offspring) is haunted and attacks babies. No wonder it was left on the curb. How many other young victims of its sharp corners have there been over the past 1.5 centuries?

So, Tommy is gushing blood. From his head. From his nose. The kids are fuh-reaking out. I get everyone presentable, drop the elder three at my parents', and head to the ER. They get us in fairly quickly, put four stitches in his head, send us on our way.

In the meantime, my sister Jen's foot went gimpy, and she was hobbling around her house with a pogo stick for a crutch. (Which isn't ideal, because unlike regular crutches, it has a spring in it, which moves up and down depending on pressure applied). So Mom picked up Jen's oldest two, and takes the whole lot of them to Chuck E. Cheese for like 3 hours. Jen's foot is much better, now. Don't feel any obligation to send her any "so sorry you're a gimp" cards. If you are really itching to send a card to someone, send me one that says "So sorry you aren't going to Cabo again tomorrow instead of your sister Jen, who's foot is miraculously healed."

Yesterday, Tommy's stitches came out. On their own, or Tom picked at them. Can't know which. There is a curly blue string hanging out of Tom's forehead which he won't leave alone (could you? I couldn't). I didn't want to go back to the ER, because I found out it cost me $500 bucks (ER is a deductible, not co-pay, dangit). So this morning I saw the PA at the pediatrician's office who said, "no, so sorry; it is too late to restitch. I'm not sure why the ER didn't make knots at every stitch. Or glue it. And Tommy has really dark skin, so the scar could be pretty gnarly (okay, he didn't say gnarly. I just wanted to say gnarly). If it were my kid, I'd take him down to see Dr. Goldstein, the pediatric plastic surgeon."

Went home by way of Taco Bell to collect my kids from my parents, again. A woman in line with them told Sam he had the best hair she'd ever seen (and this is with full bedhead, cause I hadn't brushed it today), and gave him a buck, just for growing it out of his head. Then she realized he had two siblings with him, and they got paid, too. For being related to that head of hair, I guess.

I'm feeling kind of stressed out by all the medical drama, and the fact that after all this his head wound is still gaping wide open. So I honked at an ambulance for cutting me off (it had no lights or sirens, though), and guess what? It didn't make me feel better, not one whit.

When I got home, I went in to use the W.C., and sat down in Sam's pee, because Sam won't lift the toilet lid. EVER. So while I sat there, in the pee, I thought about teaching him an object lesson where I get Ross to pee on the seat, then have Sam sit in it. But then I realized he'd probably remember it when he was grown, and need therapy. Plus, it just isn't nice, making people sit in pee. I should know.

Tommy also re-learned to climb out of his crib this yesterday. He's known how for ages, but he finally put it together that the ability to shimmy up and over crib sides equals potentially no naps, ever again. EVER. So then I had to go buy a baby jail (crib tent); but the one I bought and brought home from Babies r Us, for the low, low price of $75, had been used by someone to house a Siberian Tiger for approximately 3 years. Or a filthy baby with long, sharp fingernails. It had 6 inch holes in the netting, rips, tears, broken poles, and was covered in hair and dirt. So then I had to pack it and everybody up and go back for another one. Which finally worked. And Tommy is taking a nap in it. Right this second. And no, I'm not embarrassed that I lock up my baby. He's obviously a danger to himself: Look at his forehead for proof.

I love nap time. Maybe I'll go finish watching So You Think You Can Dance. Since it got preempted Wednesday, by all the blood. Then I'll call the plastic surgeon. Who maybe I should have called first thing. Live and learn, eh?

Free books, cheap wheat

Just a few deals for you:

I just got Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist (I've been wanting to read this) FREE on Itunes! You can get the audiobook through July 14. I'm going to try to listen to it on the way to California next week, even though I HATE being read aloud to, even by Jeremy Irons. I mean, hey, it's FREE.

Costco (at least the new one on Sossaman) has 45 pound buckets of Red Wheat for $27. That's not a bad price, and it is a REALLY easy way to stock up on on wheat. I usually make my bread from Hard White, but that is much more expensive and harder to get these days. I am tempted, even though my whole closet is already full of wheat. There isn't room for my Imelda-like shoe collection.

Now, is anyone out there willing to lend me Counting Stars by Michelle Paige Holmes? I need it for book club next week and I don't feel like going to the bookstore. 

How my Pringles and I celebrate the 5th of July

As you probably already know, it is bad manners to not eat anything on major holidays. Especially if you talk about not eating anything, or give eaters the hairy eyeball for their caloric intake. People will notice you are not eating, and it might make them a little uncomfortable as they stuff their faces in celebration. You do not want to cause anyone discomfort. It is not genteel. So, if it's Christmas, drink your egg nog. Eat a little fudge. If it is Thanksgiving, do not ask your Grandma to make you your very own green beans without the crunchy onions on top. She is old, and doesn't have time for that. Oh! And eat your pie. The crust, too. And don't whine that there isn't any diet cool whip. Only ask for a recipe if you really want to duplicate it at home, and not because you are searching for hidden fat deposits.

I'm not saying you need to stuff you face for Arbor Day; that is totally unnecessary. Don't even try to make a case for it, unless your dad is Johnny Appleseed or Al Gore or something. And it shouldn't really have to be said, but Canadian Thanksgiving only counts if you are Canadian. If your passport says USA, politeness cannot be your excuse for going to the Canadian Super Buffet on the second Monday in October. If such a place exists. Is just run-of-the-mill gorging, and not the mannerly gorging of the well-bred. And of course, if you are abstaining due to diabetes, lactose intolerance, or being a Jehovah's Witness who cannot celebrate these holidays, you have a valid out.

So, in an effort to be courteous and polite to my co-celebrants, I had myself an Independence Day feast. Those Declaration signers deserve this much, at least. I mean, once the ink was dry on that auspicious document, those guys were pretty much toast if they lost the war. Before that, they were disgruntled, skirmishing colonists, who might not have known better. But a new country? Treason. They'd be strung up for sure, once they lost the war. And it totally looked like they would, obviously. And then, I don't want to spoil the ending for anyone who hasn't seen the movie, but they WON! That sort of bravery and great good luck, coupled with divine intervention, deserves a celebratory hamburger with all the trimmings, in my book. I even bought myself a can of Pringles to go along.

Instead of regular Pringles, though, I bought the NO FAT ones. Then, on the 5th of July, when I have no excuse at all for indulgence (not being sociable, not a real holiday) I ate the whole can. Then I read the fine print. There is FAKE FAT in there. OLEAN. Which can cause some fearful intestinal difficulties. I won't go into this further, because not one of you commented on my circumcision joke last week, so I only can deduce that you all must be a bit prudy. Which is cool. I don't want to offend your delicate lady-like sensibilities with potentially leaking diarrhea.

Sorry. I did it, anyway. I really felt like saying leaking diarrhea. Which sounds much worse than the regular kind, you know? But luck was with me. I won the olean lottery! I didn't get any LD. I mean, seriously, who else would get the LD, except the girl who eats the whole can while reading her mediocre novel, Double Bind? I will not push my luck, though. I should have bought the regular chips in the first place, in celebration of my freedom. I was breaking my own rules. No more Olean for me.

Still, I refuse to feel bad about my little Pringles slip-up. The 5th of July must be an important holiday, too, right? Those Declaration signers probably took all their wives out to Sizzler or somewhere good that day to celebrate their likely impending demise, with gift cards courtesy of the Continental Congress (who had voted for independence on the 2nd of July, but asked Thomas Jefferson to make it official with a fancy document. That took a couple of days, even for TJ.) Maybe they all sat in an enormous booth, that first 5th, sipping cokes and brainstorming the preamble to the Constitution.

No, that can't be right. Gouverneur Morris wrote the preamble, and he didn't sign the Declaration, so he wouldn't have been invited to the Sizzler party.

His brother, Lewis, was there. Maybe he took notes.

The primary sources are unclear on food and beverage preferences of the founding fathers, but I think they were a well-mannered crowd, and celebrating a major event, so they probably splurged that night and ate the real Pringles with their burgers.

'Cause Sizzler probably served Pringles in 1776.

Gentile hot dogs, Krispy Kreme Sundaes, and Sam's doppelganger

I have to put something up to displace Guns n Roses from the top-o-the-blog before we leave for our 4th of July festivities at the cabin. Axel's mug, coupled with all the meat talk, was making me mildly nauseous. I can only imagine you felt the same...

Last night at cousin Isabella's party, there was a crock pot of assorted hot dogs: cheese filled, general beef and Hebrew National. I asked Jake's brother Brigham, "How can you tell the Hebrew Nationals from the other weinies?"

He didn't get the joke. It was probably the crummy delivery.

No matter, because soon we had KRISPY KREME SUNDAES: raised doughnut, scoop of vanilla ice cream, sprinkles, and a cherry. I shared Sammy's, so I wouldn't regain any of my NINE lost pounds, but it was GOOD. Otherwise, I would have put away three of those, no trouble. Thanks, Gini, Sam and Janae!

Jake's Mom found these pictures on Rubberball.com, a stock photography website. Do you think this kid looks like Sammy?

Here is Sam, 2 years ago, just after he cut his own hair and made me cry:

Then his hair grew back, so he looks a little like the shaving kid's fro'd twinner, maybe:

So, is this kid Sam's brother-from-another-mother? His alter ego?

Did someone clone Sam, like they did Dolly the Sheep?