How I almost died doing a good deed... which explains why I may never do one again

I suspect I would rarely have anything to post about if I wasn't such a moron. Case in point, the bruises and scrapes on both my knees and the scratches on my elbow (I will spare you a photo but trust me that I look like a 10-year-old who fell down on the playground).

Last night, while driving home from work at midnight, I almost hit a huge garbage can that was laying in the middle of a very dark road. I didn't really want to get involved, but the thought that the can could really damage a vehicle that ran over it made me pull over, put on my hazard lights and go get it out of the road.

As I pulled the can onto someone's front lawn, I realized I was standing on the edge of the road with my driver's side door open in the opposite lane and was wearing dark clothing... while a vehicle approached. Wanting to hurry back to my car before the truck coming up behind my car hit either me or my car, I started to run back to my car... and tripped.

It was one of those full-out, arms-pinwheeling trips that propelled me across an entire lane and sent me sprawling in the middle of the street with the truck still coming at me (in the dark with me wearing black). At that point, I wasn't as worried about my car as I was about getting run over at night a mile from home without anyone having an explanation for why I was even out of my car.

Scrambling up, I dove into my car and-- obviously-- avoided being killed. I did not, however, avoid being injured and returned home with bleeding elbows and knees to a husband who was a bit incredulous about why I had put myself into the situation in the first place. And that explains why I probably will not be doing anything nice for anyone ever again... or at least until I heal.

How long do I have to do this before I'm no longer a rookie?

In the three months FunnyKid has been with us, I've had my share of days when I have rocked this mothering gig. Conversely, I've had those days where things... didn't go quite so well. The Pretend Husband and I refer to "rookie mistakes" whenever we mess up with FunnyKid when we should have known better. Examples include me getting pooped on after ignoring the warning signs and the time I went outside with FunnyKid in my arms to go for a walk with SJ without bringing the car seat the kiddo needed to be in.

Luckily, the PH makes enough rookie mistakes that I feel like we're pretty even and I'm not the most terrible parent in the world. The other night, I had given him two diapers to take up to the kiddo's room-- one for that night and the other for the morning. After the PH had changed FunnyKid's diaper, played with him for a bit and dressed him in a sleepsack, he gave him to me for a feeding.

A few minutes later, I noticed two diapers on the changing table and asked the PH, "Did you put a diaper on FunnyKid?" The PH's eyes grew wide as he said he didn't think so. Turns out FunnyKid was going commando in his sleepsack. Which would have been disastrous in ways I don't need to describe if it had gone unnoticed. And would not have been discovered if I hadn't happened to give the PH only two diapers and then notice those same two. Disaster averted (and a little satisfaction for Mama that she wasn't the one who made the mistake... this time)

We rocked that baby sign language class

FunnyKid and I attended a baby sign language class at our local library yesterday. And while it appeared to be a drop-in-anytime type of class, it was actually in the fifth of six weeks. They felt bad for me and figured I'd have a lot of catching up to do.

Uh, no. Actually, I took a couple of sign language classes in college and even considered continuing my education to become an interpreter. I wanted to go to the class at the library to see what signs people teach their kids and to socialize with the other moms and kids. Plus, I didn't think I would remember as much as I did.

So I became a complete brown noser. When members of the class couldn't get the (Deaf) instructor to understand what they were saying (she read lips), I fingerspelled for her a few times. Then came the moment that I'm sure made the other moms hate me (I hate myself a little for being such a kiss-ass without even meaning to be!)

The instructor wrote on the board that we should each sign a sentence and pointed at me to go first. Since we had just learned a bunch of Thanksgiving signs, I figured we were supposed to incorporate those, so I signed, "My family is going to eat turkey during Thanksgiving dinner at my dad's house." Then the next mom went and she signed, "I cook turkey." The next signed, "This is my son." Oh. Oops.

I think we all know who will be getting the "A" in sign language class!

This is also why the PH won't let me balance the checkbook...

In speaking with someone the other day, I mentioned my nephews and she asked how old they are. Forgetting that Peyton just celebrated his second birthday and trying to do the math in my head (carry the 1, divide by 16, add Pi...), I told her the boys are 18 and 10 months old. She looked surprised and said something about them being very close in age (and maybe something about kat's lil sis being a little nuts).

It wasn't until about three hours later that I realized the numbers I had given her-- numbers that are impossible unless Peyton was born a month early and my sister got pregnant, like, a week later (explaining why the lady looked surprised and thought kat's lil sis is a little bit nuts).

Explaining, also, why I now carry a calculator in my purse in case someone asks me pretty much anything involving numbers.

My parents should have named me Grace

Because being eight months pregnant isn't enough of a challenge, I went ahead and broke my toe last night. (Well, maybe. The Pretend Husband thinks it might just be badly sprained, but it's painful nonetheless). It wasn't even doing something acrobatic or daring-- I pulled open a door without getting my foot fully out of the way and smashed the littlest toe.

Whether it's sprained or broken, it really hurts. I have worn nothing but flip-flops for the last three months, but even those are bothering it. They are kicked off under my desk right now.

The PH has been semi-sympathetic to my pain. He has made all the right noises ("I'm sorry you're in pain) and he also suggested I give the breathing technique I plan on using during childbirth a try ("If it doesn't work for a little toe, you should probably be looking for something else to use for labor!") He has a point.

For some reason, the PH brings home a comedy every single time he rents a movie these days...

Remember when our family dog (well, she was until kat's lil sis stole her), Callie died? And I said I couldn't stop crying after lil sis called me at work to tell me? I wasn't kidding. I could not stop crying.

I cried for at least 30 minutes, including everything from quiet tears dripping onto my shirt to huge sobs. I went through the rest of the box of tissues on my desk and had to resort to using paper towels to soak up the tears (and I don't even want to admit to how many paper towels I used). I cried until I was dehydrated. I thought I was done crying and started doing some work, but had to stop because I couldn't see the computer screen through my tears.

I cried until I finally started laughing because I honestly didn't know how to stop crying. I thought I might not be able to stop until the baby was born. So, yeah, those hormones are nothing to be messed with if I, who rarely shows emotion, can't stop weeping. I think the Pretend Husband is a little scared by them. I have a feeling if the car died, our house went into foreclosure and he lost his job, he still wouldn't tell me out of fear of starting the waterworks no one knows how to turn off.

Note to self: Make sure this makes it into the baby book

The Pretend Husband and I were walking down an aisle in the supermarket the other night as we chatted and I rubbed my growing belly (Nice try, SJ, but I'm still not saying "uterus"!) He asked me why I was rubbing my belly and I told him it was because it was a bit sore. As I kept walking, I tossed out over my shoulder, "Get used to it. I'm going to be doing a lot more of it as this baby grows."

And then it hit me. There's a baby in there. Right there in the soup aisle was when I finally made the connection between "pregnant" and "baby." It didn't happen anytime earlier in the 15 weeks I've been pregnant. Not when I took a pregnancy test and it came up positive. Not in the 10 weeks since. Not as my clothes have gotten tighter or when I shopped in a maternity store for the first time. Not when I saw the little kid with the big head on the ultrasound. Not when I heard the kiddo's heartbeat for the first time. Not when the PH and I nicknamed the fetus "Herbie" and began talking to him or her through my belly.

Nope, it took the soup aisle and a half-sarcastic comment to get me there. I'm just grateful it happened before the baby actually arrived. What a surprise that would have been!

Forget Barney, we'll be rocking out to the Beatles

I'm big into the books and iPhone alerts that describe the development of the big-headed kid currently taking up residence in my belly (SJ: I refuse to talk about my uterus despite how often you bring it up!). This week, I learned that the kiddo has fully-formed ears and will be able to hear my voice. The book also said studies have shown that babies, once born, will recognize the lullabies their moms sang to them in the womb (SJ: are you happy? I said "womb." Still not talking about my uterus, though!)

The other night, I was on my way home from work and decided to sing to the baby. I started with a lullaby my mom used to sing me:

Go to sleep

Go to sleep

Go to sleep....

Uh

I couldn't remember the rest of that one so I broke into:

Jesus love me, this I know

For the Bible tells me so

Uh

Finally, I tried:

Hush little baby, don't say a word

Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird

And if that mockingbird don't sing

Momma's gonna buy you a diamond ring

And if that diamond ring don't shine

Uh

And that, my friends, is how my kid's first lullabies came to be "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" and Billy Joel's "Piano Man."

It seems I'm the one with the problem...

Last night, I was one of the adult leaders at a church group for middle school students. I've learned that I really have to be on my game with that group. Seventh and eighth graders are the type that will find a loophole in any instruction and will come up with the craziest things to say.

But I may have over-prepared myself last night. It began when the kids were supposed to label body parts with things those parts could be used for to help others. As one group wrote, "Give a hand to people who need one," I jumped in with, "Your answers need to be serious." They just looked at me because-- duh-- they didn't mean saw off a hand to give to someone who doesn't have one (like I was thinking). They meant give someone a hand, as in, help them out. Oops.

Then, as a different group of kids were trying to come up with something for the nose, I suggested they think about things they smell in church. Trying to get them to think of incense, I said, "Think about things you might smell during the holidays."

That's when one girl piped up with, "Semen." I just stared at her, not having a clue how to handle that one and wondering if she had meant something a lot more innocent (but, seriously, semen?) Before I could say anything, another girl jumped in and said, "Candles." And that's when I realized the first girl had actually said, "Cinnamon." Which, you know, is a perfectly acceptable answer to my question. Oops.

I will be sending out resumes to Internet companies this afternoon...

I had a work meeting this morning in which the topic of whether my company should develop more of a presence on the Internet came up. A lot of the people at the meeting are-- ahem-- quite a bit older than I am and don't really "get" the Internet. They use it rarely, if ever, and don't understand how it's used and why people prefer it over, say, a newspaper.

That's when I chimed in, giving examples of a search I did for a piano tuner, how I read the news not only on my computer, but on my phone, and how it's an easy way to look up local businesses. Then I said, "I never pick up a newspaper. I do everything on-line. I can't remember the last time I read an actual newspaper."

That's when I remembered I work for a newspaper. "Uh," I stammered. "I mean, a newspaper other than ours, of course." We'll see if I still have a job tomorrow.

This is why I'm not a receptionist...

Since we were short-staffed at work today, I helped out by answering the phone. About my third call in, I got a call from a guy who, as soon as I answered with the name of my company, told me his name was Jim, said where he was calling from and added that someone had requested some information about debt consolidation.

I began to ask him for the name of who called his company so I could direct his call accordingly, but he started talking again. So I waited patiently but realized he was giving me the sales spiel intended for someone else. So I politely tried to interject. And he kept talking.

So I waited, figuring perhaps he was required to give a short speech at the beginning of the call. And when he paused, I again started to interject to tell him he was calling a business and I wasn’t the correct person to speak to. And he started talking over me!

So then I was angry. “Sir? Sir? This is a business. Sir? Sir!”

I paused, thinking perhaps the phone had cut out and he couldn’t hear me despite me still being able to hear him. When he paused again, I shouted, “Sir!” And that’s when he continued with, “To speak to someone about his offer, press 1.”

Well played, robot, well played. You got me this time. Damn those companies with their recorded phone calls!

Stupidest argument ever...

So, I don't normally talk about my dreams-- vivid as they all are-- because I usually consider posts about dreams to be boring. You ran from a murderer?!? Then you had a shoot-out with the police?!? Oh my gosh! Oh, it was just a dream? Yeah, not half as interesting as it would be if it were true.

But I'm breaking my own rule because of how this dream turned into a serious discussion for the Pretend Husband and I. Last night, I dreamt the Pretend Sister-in-Law set me up on a blind date. I was at a restaurant, talking to my date, getting to know him, when he asked if I was going on the [My Last Name] Family Vacation. I said, of course and somehow the PH's name came up.

"I live with him," I said (just realizing it myself).

"I bet someday you're going to marry him!" said my blind date.

"Oh, I'm already married to him!" I said (again, not realizing it until that moment). Then I tried to come up with reasons why I was on a blind date while already married, but they all sounded lame even to me ("I was looking to make a new friend.")

The date got mad and left, calling me names under his breath.

So I told the PH about my dream after I woke up this morning and still tried to come out of it looking good.

"I can't believe your sister would set me up on a blind date when I'm already married to you!" I said indignantly.

The PH replied, "Uh, how about the fact that you're married and you went?"

"But I didn't know I was married until I said it," I replied, sounding lame even to my own ears.

And that, my friends, is how the PH and FunnyGal KAT came to agree that neither one of us is allowed to go on blind dates while we are married. The end.

If you see my brain, please send it my way. I need it for work.

I've had some forgetful and less-than-graceful moments lately. Nothing big enough to be blog-worthy, but they have been adding up. And then last night happened. The blog-worthy brain fart!

Yesterday was a hot and beautiful day, the kind of day that prompted me to open all my car windows, including the sun roof, on the way home from my soccer game. And I left them all open when I got home because I thought I'd be going out again. And later, when the Pretend Husband and I got home from a walk with the dogs, I had it in the back of my head to close the car windows, but I got distracted by the arrival of kat's lil bro (you can see how I'm setting this all up to be "not my fault," right?)

So, anyway, I was working on my laptop last night shortly after the PH headed to bed with the same illness I had last week when it started raining. Like, really raining. Thunder, lightning and that special kind of pounding rain that is so awesome to listen to from a comfortable chair. I yelled up to the PH to close the windows in our bedroom and then went back to work. About half an hour later, the PH yelled down to ask me if I had closed my car windows earlier (the guy's sick and half asleep and still has a better memory than me!)

Curse words trailing behind me, I ran out into the pouring rain in a T-shirt and shorts, armed with a towel, and managed to get into my car and close the windows... just in time to prevent more than an inch of water to accumulate in the cup holder. I am such an idiot.

(I dried everything off before I went back into the house and the car seems fine. My husband on the other hand? I think he's a little worried about me. And he didn't buy it when I tried to convince him leaving his sneakers out on the front steps was way worse than my leaving the windows open. He mumbled something about a $20 pair of sneakers versus a $20,000 car and went to bed.)