When You Least Expect It

My least favorite color would have to be brown. It just feels so dull and lifeless to me, like an overcast day that never gets brighter. I tend to gravitate towards colors that inspire energy and happiness, but brown? Not so much. It always seems to blend into the background, rather than stand out and make a statement. A bit sad if you ask me.

I recently picked up 'What to Expect' in a cozy little bookstore, drawn in by its reputation as a staple for expecting parents. The book is structured in a month-by-month format, which makes it incredibly easy to follow along with the progression of pregnancy. Each section dives into the physical and emotional changes one might experience, offering practical advice on everything from nutrition to exercise. I found the tone to be reassuring without being overly sentimental, which is a rare balance in parenting literature. The authors manage to blend medical information with empathetic guidance, making it accessible even for those who might feel overwhelmed by the sheer volume of changes happening. One aspect that stood out to me was the inclusion of partner perspectives. It doesn’t just focus on the pregnant person but also acknowledges the role of partners, providing tips on how they can offer support. The book also addresses common anxieties, like what’s normal versus when to seek medical help, which I appreciated. It doesn’t shy away from tougher topics, such as miscarriage or complications, but handles them with sensitivity. The only critique I’d offer is that some sections feel a bit dated, especially when it comes to societal norms around parenting roles. Still, the core advice remains solid, and it’s a resource I’d recommend to anyone navigating pregnancy for the first time. A friend of mine who used this book during her pregnancy mentioned how it became her go-to reference, especially during moments of uncertainty. She loved the 'Q&A' sections, which tackled real questions from parents-to-be, making her feel less alone in her worries. The book’s emphasis on self-care and mental health was another highlight for her, as it validated the emotional rollercoaster of pregnancy. While no single book can cover every individual experience, 'What to Expect' does a commendable job of providing a comprehensive foundation. It’s the kind of book you can flip open at any stage and find something relevant, whether you’re in the early weeks or nearing delivery.

When I stumble on the phrase 'last but not the least' at the tail end of a novel, my brain does a tiny double-take — it's clearly riffing on the old idiom 'last but not least', and in fiction that tweak often signals something deliberate. Usually it means the final element — a character, a revelation, a scene — deserves as much weight as everything that came before. In practice that could be a final paragraph that reframes the whole book, an epilogue that hands a quiet consolation, or a sudden twist that slaps new meaning on earlier chapters. For me, this kind of ending works like the last chord in a song: it can be a satisfying resolution, a melancholic echo, or an open-ended beat that keeps ringing. I’ve seen it in moments where an apparently minor character gets the last word, or when the narrator drops a line that reframes the plot, like the final lines of 'The Great Gatsby' which turn the story into a meditation rather than just an event. It’s also common in translations or informal author notes where phrasing slips — so sometimes the phrasing is clunky but the intent is clear: don’t ignore this last bit. If you’re reading and you hit that phrase, linger. Reread the last paragraph, check for subtle callbacks, and consider whether the author wanted the final moment to sit alongside the climax instead of beneath it. Sometimes it’s the smallest detail that turns out to be the heart of the book, and that’s the exact feeling the phrase wants you to carry out the door.

I like to think of scripts as a kind of shorthand for conversation between filmmakers, so when you want to signal 'last but not the least' you usually pick a clear, performative marker rather than the literal phrase. In dialogue you might have a character actually say it for comedic or rhetorical effect — written as normal dialogue with a parenthetical like (beat) or (smiling) to land the tone. In stage directions and beat lists, writers often use words like FINALLY, LAST BEAT, or END MONTAGE in caps so the production team sees the structural cue immediately. For credits and cast listings the industry treats the final billing differently: you’ll often see an 'and' or 'with' credit before a name to give that last slot weight. I’ve scribbled scripts where I used a SUPER: FINALLY or a TITLE CARD that reads 'Last, but not least' to make a moment feel ceremonious — it’s less about the exact phrase and more about timing, camera hold, and the music swell. When in doubt, I prefer 'finally' or 'and finally' in the action lines; it’s clear, simple, and leaves room for the director to underline importance with a close-up or a sting of score.

It’s funny—I went down a little rabbit hole on this one because that exact line, 'last but not the least', is a slightly unusual phrasing (most people say 'last but not least'), and that makes tracking samples a bit messy. I couldn’t find a neat, definitive list of mainstream songs that explicitly sample that exact wording, but I did notice two useful things: producers often sample spoken-word lines from TV, radio, and old records, and the phrase commonly appears in skits or DJ drops rather than as a famous, credited sample. If you want to find concrete examples, I’d search both 'last but not least' and 'last but not the least' on WhoSampled, Genius, and Discogs, and try short audio searches with Shazam or SoundHound. Also check mixtape-era hip-hop skits and vinyl breaks—those are where tiny spoken phrases get recycled a lot. If you want, send me a clip or a timestamp from a song you have in mind and I’ll dig into liner notes and sample databases with you.

When I'm skimming critiques on my lunch break and I see reviewers drop 'last but not the least' before a point, it usually reads like a little flag saying, 'Pay attention here.' To me it's a rhetorical cue: after walking readers through several observations, the reviewer wants to make sure the final thought lands with the proper weight. Sometimes it's sincere—saving the most important praise or the sharpest criticism for the end. Other times it's stylistic, a habit carried over from formal writing or oral rhetoric that signals closure. I also notice context matters. In casual blogs it can soften a blow—keeping tone friendly when a reviewer calls out flaws. In translated pieces, it can be a literal carryover from another language where the phrase is more common. And yes, sometimes it's filler or an affectation, especially when used repeatedly. Still, when I read thoughtful critiques, that closing line often ties themes together, leaves me with a memorable angle, or nudges me toward trying whatever's being reviewed next.

Honestly, whenever I see merch labeled with a 'last but not the least' vibe, I think of pieces that celebrate the underdog or the final member of a group—those quirky, slightly niche designs that feel like a secret handshake for true fans. For me that usually shows up as enamel pins and keychains: tiny, affordable, and perfect for highlighting a less-popular character or an overlooked motif from a series. I’ve also seen it on postcard-sized art prints, sticker sheets, and limited-run zines that spotlight side characters. A lot of these are sold by indie artists at conventions or on Etsy, and they often come in small batches so they feel special. If you want to hunt them down, try scrolling convention artist alley listings, following comic artists on social media, or checking Kickstarter for mini-collections. I keep a corkboard next to my desk filled with those exact little pieces—every time I glance at it, that underdog energy makes the day better.

The main characters in 'What to Expect When You're Expecting' are a diverse group of expecting parents, each navigating the wild ride of pregnancy in their own way. There's Jules, a fitness guru who thinks she's got it all figured out until morning sickness hits like a freight train. Then there's Wendy, a control freak whose meticulously planned pregnancy turns into chaos when her husband's ex shows up pregnant too. You've also got Rosie, a photographer who never wanted kids but suddenly finds herself staring at a positive test, and Holly, a chef whose pregnancy cravings could fuel a sitcom. The men aren't just sidekicks either—Gary, Marco, and the others are fully realized characters dealing with their own fears and excitements. What makes this book special is how it balances humor with raw honesty. The characters feel like friends you'd grab coffee with to vent about swollen ankles or weird cravings. Jules' journey from know-it-all to humbled mom-to-be is particularly relatable. Wendy's struggle with perfectionism hits hard for anyone who's ever Googled 'is it normal to...' at 3 AM. The book doesn't shy away from messy emotions either—Rosie's ambivalence about motherhood and Holly's career vs. family dilemmas add depth beyond the typical pregnancy tropes. It's like someone took all the unspoken truths about expecting and turned them into characters you can't help but root for.