Babies are magnets for crazy people

One Sunday, I took FunnyBoy for a drive in a desperate attempt to get him to nap. While he didn't fall asleep, he did calm down and we decided to do some shoe shopping. FunnyBoy loved shopping so much, he started cooing in his stroller as I pushed him around the store (or, at least, I like to think it was because he loved it so much). And his cooing attracted the attention of a seemingly-normal woman walking by.

She started off asking if she could look at FunnyBoy and was very nice about not touching him. Then she asked me his name (still very normal). Then she asked if he was my first and when I told her he is my second, she asked if I had a boy or girl at home. When I said "boy," that's when things started to get weird.

"Two boys. You keep working on that girl!" (I didn't respond and, although the comment kind of rubbed me the wrong way by how it implied that my beautiful boys weren't enough, my weirdo radar just barely went off).

Then, this. "Let me know when you need me to babysit!"

Ohhhhhhhh, yeahhhhhhh. Sure, stranger. I will be calling you annnnnnyyyyy day now. And then FunnyBoy and I made a hasty exit from the store before Ms. Too Close For Comfort decided we needed her to come home with us.

I love it when a plan comes together....

While life with FunnyKid is far from perfect (anyone with ANY advice about how to get this kid to take a freakin' bottle-- I beg you to leave a comment!), it does work out at times. Take two weeks ago. I spent two days and nights in a row feeding FunnyKid every hour and a half. Yes, I slept for 90 minutes at a time for two whole nights and was barely surviving.

When someone asked me how well FunnyKid was sleeping (for some reason, people love to hear about a baby's sleep habits), I confessed things were going poorly. "But he turns six weeks old on Thursday," I said. "I hear that's when everything gets better. I expect him to sleep through the night on Thursday night."

We both chuckled and moved on to other topics, but wouldn't you know it? FunnyKid slept for more than seven hours straight on Thursday night. I love this kid (but seriously, any advice about getting him to take a bottle?)

My weirdest pregnancy symptom...

I have no scientific backing for this statement, but multiple tests run by yours truly have proven it: pregnancy improves your aim. I can throw a piece of paper into a trash can from across the room. I have even tossed things over my shoulder without looking and made it in. I stunned the Pretend Husband the other day by lobbing something into the garbage from three-point range. I can't miss!

So, while my ankles are swollen to the point of non-existence and I can't remember my own name half the time, I have some mad basketball skills to fall back on. I'm thinking of creating a team of pregnant women and petitioning the WNBA for admission.

Husbands say the darndest things...

Laying in bed last night, I was reading a book about pregnancy. I got to a part about how quickly my uterus is growing and exclaimed to the Pretend Husband, "Holy cow, this says I will grow half an inch every week for the rest of my pregnancy! That's crazy!"

The PH, not really paying attention to exactly what I was saying, responded with, "You're going to get taller?!?"

Uh, yeah, PH. That makes sense. Especially seeing as how I have 13 weeks left to go. So, you can expect me to be topping out around 6 feet, 4 inches by the time the kid comes. And I'll be ready for the WNBA if we ever have a second child.

The PH is one of the most intelligent people I know and yet, he seriously thought pregnancy would make me taller?!? It's not like we don't have a whole bunch of friends who have been through pregnancy. Don't you think he would have noticed if all the women had ended up at over six feet tall, towering over their husbands? I'm questioning whether the PH should ever be left alone with our child.

Is it possible I'm not as awesome as I think I am?

I don't think I'm giving too much away to say SJ had it confirmed that she is definitely not carrying twin girls (as predicted by my recent dream). I'm not quite ready to give up my claim to have psychic abilities though (even if I have to convince the PH to name our kid "iPod" in order to preserve my credibility).

While it may be a relief to SJ to find out there's a single kiddo kicking around in her belly, I think it just means the rest of my friends should be very, very scared. I'm predicting twin girls for one of you and I'm still convinced my dreams are never wrong.

Please keep your salmon salad 5 miles away at all times.

So far, my favorite pregnancy-related symptom hasn't been the nausea. Nor the four times in one night up to pee. Nor has it been the bloat that comes before the belly. Or the break-outs that bring me back to high school.

No, no.

My all time favorite thing so far is my ability to sniff out every single scent, odor, fragrance, etc within a two mile radius.

It's kind of crazy. And generally, it's helpful. I can recognize ingredients before looking at a dish. I can tell when it's time to do the laundry well before my hamper is overflowing. And I know when my husband has eaten the last Oreo before I even come downstairs.

Unfortunately, I can no longer stand the smell of my own house. The combination of the leather couch, new carpet and J's abundant use of "Fantastik" has overwhelmed my senses. I'm fine with the upstairs. But the downstairs - where I spend all of my time - has got to go. I'm not sure if scented candles are the answer, or if I just need to spend the entire weekend with the windows open.

But something has got to give. Either I need to have an army of Keebler elves start baking away, or I need an unscented febreeze kind of fix.

So I beg you, Internet. Please help.

Where the wild things are...

The Pretend Husband grew up in a town that is a lot more developed than the boondocks we currently live in. So he really thinks this is country living and, because of his lack of experience in the country, sometimes isn't prepared for what goes on around here.

The other night, he spent the evening on the deck that overlooks the pond, grilling a steak, smoking a cigar and drinking a beer (I was working late and he turns into a swinging bachelor when that happens...) He had been staring out at the pond watching the bubbles as the fish popped up to the surface to eat bugs.

As he turned away to check the grill, the PH heard two huge splashes from the pond. Knowing they were too big to have been made by a fish, his first thought was, "There's an alligator in the pond!"

It turns out it was two ducks landing in the water, but I'm still teasing him about those New England freshwater alligators we have living in our pond.

He tried to make it sound like I'm the crazy one...

I called the Pretend Husband after he left for work this morning and had this conversation:

Me: Did you take your lunch to work with you today?

Him: Yes.

Me: Did you notice anything strange about the fridge?

Him: No. What was strange?

Me: Oh, the half-gallon of ice cream sitting in the refrigerator, for example.

Him: I thought I put it back in the freezer.

Me: Were you drunk last night?

Him: No. And I don't know why I'm expected to notice that. It's not like I did a "Where's Waldo?" search of the fridge where I looked through to see what didn't belong. I grabbed my lunch and left.

Me: I didn't do a search. I opened the fridge and a big container of ice cream was sitting right in front of me. Are you sure you weren't drunk?

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.

He's lucky he's cute...

This morning, I was talking about a piece of mail that was delivered to our house by mistake and noticed it had one of those return address labels with the stick figures of the family and their names. I read them out loud to the Pretend Husband, telling him the Jones family included Dad John, Mom Laurie and Timmy, Leroy and El Gato.

Not realizing those last two names belonged to the family's dog and cat, the PH responded, "I bet I can guess which one is adopted."

Behold, the power of the magic blog!

I knew this blog was awesome, but even I didn't realize the full extent of its power. It grants wishes! It's true.

A little while ago, I mentioned my dilemma of having to choose between a purse and an electric toothbrush for my upcoming birthday. After mentioning it on the blog, I went out to choose my birthday purse (because there's *no way* the Pretend Husband would ever try to choose one for me) and figured maybe I'd buy an electric toothbrush later.

But, then, a package arrived in the mail from Kat's lil sis yesterday, bestowing upon me an electric toothbrush for my birthday! A purse and an electric toothbrush! I'm living large this year!

So, given that I now realize the power of the blog, I think I would be remiss if I didn't remind the blog about my birthday and just mention that I have a pair of heels I have an eye on and could use some new drapes for the family room (you know, just in case it works...)

Because a true friend turns the attention on herself when you're having medical issues...

My best friend in high school, "Bertha," was put on modified bed rest this weekend, meaning she can't leave her house for the next two weeks and can only get up from the couch to use the bathroom or sit at the dinner table, but no cooking or setting up the nursery or being on her feet. She has 10 weeks left in her pregnancy and is hoping the bed rest will not be continued through all of them since she has a lot of work left to do to prepare for this baby.

While I was on the phone with her yesterday hearing about her predicament, I tried to come up with some things she could do from the couch. I suggested she have her husband wash all of the new baby clothes and then bring her the basket so she can fold them on the couch. Then I asked her to watch "Oprah" for me today and be ready to summarize it when I call (I also vowed to call a lot more now that I have a captive audience. She can't avoid my calls now!)

Last night, I came up with a few more ideas, so I emailed her to suggest she read through the entire archive of this blog and send me an email detailing how funny she thinks I am. And, if that task gets done fast enough, how about I send her some beads and she can spend some time making crafts that I can then sell as my own? I'm still coming up with some more ideas for her and am open to suggestions.

But, please, let's make sure they benefit me in some way. Because although this concerns Bertha and whatever precautions need to be taken to keep her son healthy and safe, I've managed to make it all about me. That takes talent.

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!)

The thing about tag sales...

Time spent gathering items around the house and tagging them= 1.5 hours

Time we awoke on Saturday in order to haul our stuff to SJ's house= 6:30 a.m.

Number of times I wished I had never met SJ so I wouldn't have to be awake so early= 27

Pounds I had to lift onto the back of a truck at 6:30 a.m.= don't know, but it felt like 180

Number of times I had to lift what felt like a 180-pound desk on Saturday= 6

Hours I spent sitting in the sun, chatting with three funny sisters and bargaining with tag sale shoppers= 4.5

Money I made for my 8 hours of work and 6 desk moving experiences= $21.75

Money I spent on an item one of the funny sisters was selling= $45

What participating in SJ's tag sale cost me= $23.25

Do you think I'll have to list "Insulated in Porn" on the disclosure form?

Well, we here at Funny Gals wouldn't dare let six months go buy without someone buying real estate, and so to ease the burden of KAT and the PH, who like to buy a new house once a year, we've decided to bite the bullet and buy a new house.

Really, this is mostly because my shoe collection has outgrown two closets and threatens to take over my life. And because more than half of my beloved bakeware lives in Rubbermaid because I don't have enough storage space in my tiny, though beautiful kitchen.

Which means, in short: we're moving.

As everyone knows, with moving comes a good deal of cleaning, house hunting, staging and the whole nine, since we will of course have to sell our house in order to move into a great big one. (Or, a slightly bigger than the current one and by that I really mean twice the size because let's face it, I am NOT going through this again.)

And with the selling comes a question: Do we have to disclose that our house is insulated in porn?

Oh? You mean I haven't shared that story before?

Well, yes. As it happens, our house is insulated in pornography. We discovered this five years ago when we bought the house and were putting in heat on the second floor. Just me (the youngest of three girls), my fiance at the time and my father - who, for the record, looks alarmingly like John Wayne, sitting around doing home improvements when lo and behold, my father discovered a stash of porn that could rival the archive of Playboy under the floorboards.

And with publications much, much more foul than Playboy. And when I say publications, really, I mean we found pornography in every medium possible and not limited to slides, photos, magazines, newspapers and soft cover (no hard cover. make your jokes now...) books.

As you can imagine, this is a story that often gets repeated when I'm sitting around having some beers with friends. Which is why, when I recently told one of my bloggy buddies that I was moving his reaction was: what are you going to do with all of your porn?

Another very good friend of mine suggested that the porn may in fact be a selling point.

I'm not so sure. In fact, I'm starting to worry that the next owners may discover the porn on their own and think me much more... interesting.... than I really am. I almost want to bury a little Vera Bradley note card under the floor boards that says:

"Hi there!
Just so you know, this wasn't my porn. It was here when we moved in. And the color in the living room is caled "Irish Paddock" - I've left you the curtains because they match perfectly. Enjoy! And by that I mean the color of the walls. Dirty bird.
Love, SJ"

Rhetorical questions (but feel free to answer...)

While I was walking the dogs this morning, one of them paused halfway through to vomit in the middle of the road three times. I may have made her finish the rest of the walk. Does that make me a bad mother?

The Pretend Husband just quit his job and is planning to open his own business. Despite all of the work I'm doing for it, he would agree only to name me "Director of Marketing." I may have traded in some sexual favors in order to be promoted to "Vice President." Does that make me a bad person?

One of the people who works for me, an older man, cannot ever say my name correctly (seriously, he's gotten it correct once in the five years he's worked for me). Let's say my name is KAT [Married Name]-- well, this guy introduced me to a group of high school students this morning as "Chat" [Maiden Name]. I may have interrupted to give my real name and followed up with, "so you're wrong on both counts." Does that make me a bad boss?

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.

Just substitute "soda" for "margaritas" and "spaghetti sauce" for "guacamole"-- being practical can be no fun

I'm becoming an expert on aging. I feel like getting old is becoming something of a theme for me around here. And this post is not going to help dispel that.

Yesterday was Cinco de Mayo. Ole! The traditional Mexican celebration of... "I'm not sure, but bring on the Coronas and margaritas." We got together with the BAC family, as we do once a week during the "American Idol" season (before you judge, you should know that only Mrs. BAC and the Pretend Husband actually watch the show-- BAC and I are just there to get yelled at for making comments and talking while people are singing).

Anyway, we commented about how it was Cinco de Mayo and we should definitely order out for Mexican food and the guys would go to pick it up and stay for a margarita or two while the food was being prepared. And then we got all logical (this is where being old comes in) and thought, "But the Mexican restaurant is going to be so busy on Cinco de Mayo. But you know what won't be? The Italian place. Let's go there!"

So we celebrated the old Mexican holiday of Cinco de Mayo... with linguine in clam sauce and eggplant parmesan. But the PH did put a lime in his beer-- does that count for anything?

Just in case you thought I was perfect...

My boneheaded move o' the weekend came at a vineyard the Pretend Husband and I visited yesterday. As he was sampling different wines and the woman serving us was describing the "notes of butternut and apricot," I asked, "How do they get those flavors into the wine?"

She started to explain that different varieties of grapes produce different flavors, which I hope means she didn't catch on to the fact that, for a minute, I thought they perhaps crushed up butternut squash and put it in the wine.

A Day Late, but Happy St. Patrick's Day from Heidi.. er... SJ

what. like you don't dress up in your kitchen like this?

come on. quit lyin'.