I was wearing slippers and I'm not pregnant, but I had the "toiling over a hot stove" part downpat

I am a lot of things, but I am not a cook. I've gotten better over the years (the Pretend Husband at least comes home to some chicken nuggets in the oven every once in awhile), but it's not my "thing."

Which is why it was huge that I made the PH not one, not two, but three meals (and three desserts) for his birthday last week. He put a moratorium on gifts for his birthday (that I am praying will be lifted by mine...) so it was the only way I could think of to make his birthday stand out.

I started the night before by getting home at 11 p.m. after dinner out with the Pretend In-Laws (and perhaps a spontaneous game of Setback with SJ and j) and immediately starting to bake potatoes. Which led to my getting up an hour early the next morning to finish breakfast, which was basically twice baked potatoes with bacon and a fried egg in the middle. They were good (but maybe a bit undercooked, which may have led to the PH's Birthday Morning O' Fun In The Bathroom, but it's the thought that counts, right?)

Then the PH went off to work with a bagged lunch of two angus roast beef sandwiches (the deli counter guy gave me the special angus roast beef at the price of the regular stuff... oh yeah, I've still got it!), his favorite Doritos and a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.

I spent the next eighty jillion hours cooking so when the PH arrived home from work (or, more accurately, about two hours after he arrived home from work...) he sat down to a dinner of turkey meatloaf and garlic mashed potatoes. Which was followed by peanut butter pie, two kinds of cupcakes and a chocolate and vanilla checkerboard cake.

Of course, he's been getting nothing but chicken nuggets and canned soup from me since, but at least he has the memory of the day KAT cooked her butt off to sustain him until his next birthday.

Five years! A list about my beloved, strange but not estranged spouse

Way back when KAT and her beloved were checking themselves for ticks (October 8), I hit a little milestone I like to call my fifth wedding anniversary.

I don't talk about him all that much on this here blog - but I thought I'd use this opportunity to pledge my undying love and affection.

Or you know, list some qualities about my crazy beloved and what makes him that way (my beloved, not necessarily the crazy part).

1) He hates having his picture taken, but believes that by closing his eyes, he's somehow hiding from the camera.
2) He takes a nap every day when he gets home from work. Which really just kind of makes me jealous.
3) He can do multiplication with two and three digit numbers AND long division in his head. It fascinates me, since I'm a word person and not a numbers person.
4) He reads books about our founding fathers. They are interspersed with his growing collection of sport magazines that have something to do with fishing.
5) He makes me grilled cheese sandwiches when I am sick.
6) He is a vicious card player but does not ALWAYS beat me in poker.
7) He is very witty and sarcastic, and can hold his own amidst any crowd - even though he hates meeting new people.
8) He has interesting taste in music which includes a lot of rap and hip hop, Johnny Cash - and the Dropkick Murphy's.
9) He is the worst speller/former of sentences ever. He was put in charge of one thing when we were planning our wedding: call the reception hall. The conversation began with him saying: "I'm thinking about having a wedding...?"
10) He has big plans to learn to build things with wood. He watches an awful lot of This Old House and buys a lot of wood. But so far, these are just plans.

Things have been a bit crazy for us lately as we are selling our house, and buying a new one (a process which hopefully wraps up in 18 days or so). But I didn't want the month to go by without a little shout out to that lucky man who I duped into marrying me so many years ago.

If he asks me how to spell it, we're going to have a problem...

Dear Pretend Husband,

I'm not sure how this is so confusing to you, but my maiden name is no longer my last name. Remember how we got married about two years ago? And I changed my last name? It shouldn't be that hard for you to remember. BECAUSE IT'S YOUR LAST NAME. That's right, exactly the same. Same spelling. Same pronunciation. Same name.

See, it's been two years since I made the change, which is why the receptionists get such a kick out of when you call and ask for me by my maiden name. And they laugh at you for doing it (and so do I). I've considered not taking your call unless you can get my name right, but that'd be mean.

And we also find it funny when you catch yourself. Say my maiden name was "Smith" and our last name is "Jones." They think it's hilarious when you ask to speak to "Kat Smi--- Jones." And you really have no excuse, because your name and mine? Are only one syllable apart. Just think of your own name (go ahead, I'll wait...) add one syllable and voila! That's who you should ask for.

I love you, hon, but I can't believe I just had to write all that. Maybe you'll finally know my name (our name!) by our third anniversary? Otherwise, I'm thinking of changing it back.

Love, your wife (you know, the one who shares your last name!)

Lesson learned: Any "experience" is made better by booze

The Pretend Husband had the opportunity to go to the New England Patriots game on Sunday with a friend. For some reason, the husbands decided that their wives had to go along for the "Patriots experience" (since when did my husband start talking like that?)

So, despite a day that included freezing temperatures, snow, sleet, rain, more sleet and more snow, the other wife and I agreed to go. We made the drive with the men and then lost them shortly after we got there as they headed into the game and we walked around the outdoor mall at the stadium.

Then, just as the guys were starting to really feel how cold and wet their feet (and hands and legs and faces) were, we found an awesome bar that featured soft couches and big screen televisions to watch the game on. And that's where the guys found us three quarters, four glasses of wine and two bowls of clam chowder later. I kind of like football now.

Four weeks in the Renaissance will give you such a crick in the neck...

I totally stole that from Alladin. You caught me. But in truth, I have a headache, caused by a neck crick.

So, I'm a little swamped playing catch up with life since I've spent the past four weekends singing sea shanties while dressed in period appropriate clothing and working like a dog during the week.

As you would have guessed by KAT's post, it's been FREAKING COLD. So this past weekend, that meant wearing all three of my costumes at ONCE to keep warm in the 40 degree (and 38 degree) weather.

There's also the whole me moving into a new house in three and a half weeks thing that's probably causing my neck to crick. I should probably start packing in earnest. But frankly, I have not been motivated. I feel like to pack is to jinx my closing date.

But, in keeping with the pictures of me in costume, I'm including my absolute favorite picture taken of me and my very dear friend the Pope (Not really, guys. He only *plays* the Pope. I feel I had to qualify).

Huzzah! I'll be back to give you the trials of home buying/selling shortly. And by shortly I mean, you know. Within a week.

Uh, Mother Nature? We need to talk...

We need to talk about why, when I woke up this morning-- Oct. 16-- my yard looked like this:

I'm not trying to be a pain, but... well, it's a little early for me. Perhaps we could hold off at least until the outdoor soccer season is done? I mean, don't get me wrong, I love the snow. Love it. When I was a kid, I used to hope it would snow on my birthday. But that's the thing... my birthday is in early December. So, I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job or anything, but maybe you could save the white stuff for a little later in the year? I mean, I wouldn't want you to run out. And, you know, all my soccer leagues will have moved indoors by then.

This will teach me to be so productive!

Last night was a productive night around Casa de la KAT. I took the dogs for a walk, made dinner, the Pretend Husband got some work done, I baked a cake, I did some laundry, I loaded the dishwasher and then we had a bit of time together on the couch watching mindless television.

Around 10:30, we were ready to haul our weary selves off to bed... just as soon as I put the load of laundry in the washing machine into the dryer. But when I went downstairs, the washer was making a funny noise (why can't washing machines make funny noises at 10 a.m. instead of 10 p.m.?!?) And it seems our old washer has kicked it.

The fun part was the fact that it had filled up with water before dying its quick death. So we had a machine full of clothes sitting in a pool of water. Which led to the fun of us throwing all the sopping wet laundry into a plastic bin, taking it upstairs, rinsing it, wringing it out in the bathtub and hauling it back downstairs in the hopes the dryer could handle it. And the night wouldn't have been complete without the PH and I trying to lay blame (him: "If only you hadn't told me to put a load in..." me: "If only you had done it without breaking the washer...")

So we figured out what to do with the wet laundry, but it still leaves the question of what we're going to do about the laundry situation in general. Stay tuned for my next post: "If KAT lived in olden times" accompanied by photos of me beating a pair of jeans against a rock out by our pond.

I'm participating in Rant & Rave Wednesday before my head explodes...

I've never done this before, but the idea popped up over at Little Ms. Blogger's place and I jumped on it because...

Rant: One of my employees is driving me insane. He's a pain in the butt on a good day, but has been extra annoying this week. I've spent more time on the the phone with him than all my other employees and my husband combined! I don't know if this guy's mom didn't give him enough attention growing up or what, but he feels the need to pass every little thing by me (in excruciating detail...) and then acts all hurt if I imply I don't need to hold his hand. Dude, just do your job, call me if there's a problem and leave me the heck alone if there isn't.

Rave: Dinner last night. I'm known for not being the greatest cook and especially for not being able to decide what to make without the Pretend Husband making suggestions. Yesterday, he asked me to take some sausage out of the freezer and mix it with spaghetti sauce in the Crockpot. Which I kept putting off doing until he called to say he was halfway home. So I quickly looked through the fridge and concocted an amazing omelet for him. I had never actually made an omelet before, but it turned out awesome.

Rant: Why did I blow that surprise on a random Tuesday when the PH's birthday is coming up and I've been forbidden to buy him anything and all I really have to surprise him with is a nice meal? Perhaps lightning will strike twice and I'll be able to come up with another new dish (and happen to have all the right ingredients laying around) again?

Rave: This weekend, I reconnected with someone I haven't talked to in a long time. And she and her husband (a big sports fan like the PH) live in our town, so she suggested we all get together. Not only that, but a good friend is moving only a few miles away from us next month. And has suggested we have regular dinner nights. I'm no longer feeling so isolated living in a town at least 20 minutes from anywhere I need to go.

Hey, this thing works! I was spitting mad when I started and feel much better already! Now if I can just figure out that birthday meal for the PH...

Just in time for Halloween, a tale of blood and (a lack of) guts

You know those people who can give blood regularly, stopping in at a blood drive on their way to work and then spending the rest of the day in the office without fainting or otherwise embarrassing themselves? Yeah, that's so not me.

In high school, I was that peppy go-getter that was in a bunch of clubs, including the Student Council. And, as part of the Student Council, I was in charge of organizing the blood drive. So we got it all set up and, after doing whatever it is that made me in charge, I hopped up on the table to make my donation. And, although it's not the most pleasant thing to have a needle in your arm, I did fine.

Until I stood up. I took two steps and said, "I can't see anything." Although I was still conscious and could hear everything, I had blacked out. Which led to a red alert that involved throwing me onto a stretcher, force feeding me cups of orange juice and making me lay still for an hour before I was allowed to stand up only with an American Red Cross worker on either side of me.

That led to years of feeling dizzy and lightheaded in doctor's offices, and the realization that I will never be a blood donor. Seriously. I tried. I even got as far as going into a blood drive once before the smell alone made me lightheaded. Also, my poor brother, laying in the chair after waking up from wisdom teeth surgery, once had to tell me to put my head between my knees and breathe deep to keep me from passing out (and that was from the nurse just talking about blood!)

My history of being a total wimp when it comes to needles was brought back to me this morning when the Pretend Husband and I had blood work done in order to get life insurance. The nurse made me lie on the couch to have the blood drawn and took all sorts of extra precautions.

So I'm thinking the only way I'm going through childbirth is if they can pump me full of drugs without using a needle. Is that asking too much?

Try really hard not to be jealous of me

Two nights ago, the Pretend Husband and I went upstairs, took our clothes off, got into bed, gazed into one another's eyes, slowly reached toward each other... and checked for ticks. Sadly, that's not a euphemism. It seemed like the right thing to do after finding three ticks on the dogs.

Oh, and that fun came after Molly suffered what we think was a seizure, which had us scared to death and moments from running out the door to the emergency vet. (She has since had blood work done and it wasn't caused by toxins, but could be the onset of epilepsy. Fun times.)

Don't be jealous. Not everyone can have as fabulous a life as I have!

Oh 47, you sly thing, you...

When that whole Blogger Follower thing was created, we got a bunch of our faithful readers signed up right quick. Then the numbers eased up to the 26-ish mark and remained steady for awhile. The next 20 of you seemed to sneak in and grab a seat some time when I wasn't looking, but it's good to have you here all the same.

But 47? You, my friend, are driving me a little crazy. You come, you go, you drop back for a visit and make my heart soar by becoming a follower... and then you leave again. Just like that. With no explanation. I'm going to assume you would have said, "It's not you, it's me. I just can't handle being in a relationship with two people so much funnier than me. Perhaps I'll be back when I come to terms with never being able to outwit you."

But seriously. Quit jerking us around and just make up your mind already. Stay or go. I don't care.

Ok, I do care. That was my anger talking. Anger that we can't make this work. But here's the thing. I check this blog many, many times a day to see what people are saying about me (yoo hoo, confirmed attention whore over here!). And literally, you've been here one minute and gone 10 minutes later when I check back in. And then I waste part of my day reading over my last post and trying to figure out which part scared you off our Followers list and wondering what I could have done to make this work.

So, please, 47, won't you give us a chance?

They're breaking us in for when our kids are of the two-legged variety...

Because of a late soccer game, a long drive home and an even later shower, I didn't get into bed until about midnight. Sometime in the 1 a.m. hour, Molly woke me up by whining and trying to get up on the bed. Sometime in the 2 a.m. hour, Molly woke me again with the same trick. Again in the 3 a.m. hour, punctuated by me hissing, "You are not coming up here. Go to sleep!"

When I was again woken in the 4 a.m. hour, I didn't really want to give her her way, but I wanted to sleep for more than an hour at a time. But the Pretend Husband nixed me just putting her (and her sister, I'm sure) on the bed. So I hissed at her some more then lay there for about half an hour listening to her nails click around the bed, her whimper from the PH's side, then click back around to my side and commence whimpering.

"Maybe she's mad Casey's in her bed," the PH joked. Hmm, Casey was on the bed Molly usually called dibs on. But there are two dog beds in our room, not to mention the couches downstairs Molly was welcome to sleep on.

When the PH couldn't take it any longer, he tried to lure Molly into the hall outside our room, planning on shutting her out there. She didn't buy it and hid under the bed until he gave up. When I couldn't take it any longer, and not knowing what else to do (short of giving in and just putting her on the bed already), I went downstairs, got yet another dog bed, brought it up to our room, pulled Casey off the bed she was sleeping on and put her on the bed from downstairs, deposited Molly onto the bed Casey had claimed and told everyone to go to sleep.

And you know what? They did. If only I had thought of that at 1 a.m.