I kept a straight face, but I was laughing inside

Man, if it weren't for rude and/or dumb people, I wouldn't have anything to post about these days. Today, I stopped at the store with FunnyKid and was standing with the rear door of the car open so I could unbuckle him from his seat. As I was trying to get him out, a woman started to pull into the spot I (and the car door) was in. And even with me and part of my car in front of her, she didn't stop. She just kept slowly pulling at me.

I was kind of incredulous because there was an open spot RIGHT NEXT to the one she just had to pull into, but no, she wasn't going to have to walk any further than she had to, and she kept coming at me. I finally squished my nine-months-pregnant body as far into my backseat as I could and pulled the door against my back so she could park (which ended up being half in the spot and half in the empty spot next to it-- how's that for irony?).

As I did this, I glanced up just in time to watch her impatiently hit the gas a little... and drive straight into the little concrete bar on the ground that keeps a car from plowing into the building. She wasn't going fast enough to cause whiplash or anything, but I still found it to be poetic justice for being such a bee-yotch (seriously, parking one spot over would have added, what? An extra five feet to your journey?)

And another irony? This morning, I was the one in the car as a woman had the side door of her van open to get a bunch of boxes out at the post office (in this case, it really was the only spot that was open). And I stopped and waited patiently for her to stack all the boxes in her arms, get her door closed and move out of the way. If only everyone was as awesome as me... :)

Denying my kid chocolate is where I draw the line....

Last year, our town postponed Halloween amid the ruins that came about from the freak October nor'easter. It was originally postponed until a few days later then again postponed and turned into a "trunk or treat" where cars parked in the high school parking lot and the kids went from car to car to collect candy. Personally, I think that's kind of lame, but I went along with it because it made sense to not have kids trick-or-treating in neighborhoods that still didn't have power or were still unsafe because of the trees that were knocked down.

But this year? This year, I was a rebel. When the town decided to postpone Halloween to Saturday, I fought back. I refused to be held down by the restrictions of society. I looked "the man" in the eye and said, "no!" And then we broke all the rules and went trick-or-treating anyway.

Ok, I'm sure many of you have taken up pet causes that are a lot more worthy than Halloween, but I was looking forward to giving FunnyKid the experience and Saturday doesn't work for us. And our neighborhood has power and no downed trees so no one's safety was at risk.

We had friends over to go with us and I was bound and determined to give the kids a Halloween. My back-up plans included taking them over the town line to a neighborhood with an officially-sanctioned Halloween and having the kids parade around our house and collect candy from adults in different rooms.

Luckily, our neighborhood is full of rebels just like us and they turned their lights on. So we took our St. Bernard, our Tinkerbell(s) and our Peter Pan to about seven houses, made them walk the darkened streets and stuffed winter coats under their costumes-- just how Halloween is meant to be.

And now that everyone is begging for candy for breakfast, my work here is done. But if anyone tries to mess with Thanksgiving, I can promise I'll be leading the charge to keep the government out of our good time.

I know telemarketers are just doing their job... but I kind of hate their job.

We recently dropped caller ID (I know, how 1990s of us!) in order to save a few bucks. Which means I have to blindly answer our home phone. Which means I've had the, uh, pleasure of speaking with many telemarketers lately.

I immediately know I'm talking to a telemarketer when they butcher our last name. Which, to be fair, it's not the easiest name, BUT, they manage to make a very French-looking name sound Italian-- now that's talent. While that's not a big deal, not taking no for an answer and being snotty to me is what gets my goat.

Last week, we got a call from the cable company we already use. They were basically trying to upgrade our service (i.e. increase their revenue) and tried to make it sound like the deal of the century. In a bored voice, the guy described how he was calling to generously offer three free months of extra movie channels.

"No thanks," I said.

"But you get blah blah blah for only blah blah a month and at the end of three months, you get a rebate of blah blah," he said.

"No thank you, we don't want any more channels," I said.

"But these are basically free," he whined.

"No. No thank you. We're not interested," I said firmly.

And he had the guts to sound hurt. You make me say no three times before you'll give up and I'm supposed to feel bad about hurting your feelings? I don't think so.

A few hours later, we got a call from a breast cancer organization (I had never heard of) asking for a donation. The woman not only called me by the Italian version of my name, but told me I sound beautiful (that's flattering, but doesn't work with me... plus, how does someone sound attractive?) As she went through her spiel and tried to get me to pledge a donation over the phone, I politely asked if she had any literature she could send me to look at.

"You're not going to send it back. Can you just make a pledge now?" she asked.

"Uh, no. I don't choose where I make donations over the phone. Do you have a Website?" I replied.

It took me asking twice more for her to give up getting my credit card info over the phone and actually give me the Website. Which, it turns out, didn't actually exist.

I might start letting FunnyKid answer the phone. He says "hi" and "no" perfectly and when dealing with telemarketers, that's pretty much all you need to know anyway.

Me and my third world problems...

We're all familiar with my love of couponing, my insistence I get the best deal and a sense of competition I don't necessarily leave on the soccer field when the game is over, right? Well, I would hereby like to welcome myself to the frenzy known as "Parents Go Insane Trying To Get The Most Popular Toys For Their Precious Wittle Wonderful Ones (2011)." And if you think having a 15-month-old means I'm not vying for the really serious electronic stuff, let me remind you that I am a very popular aunt and intend to remain that way.

Hence, there have been some late night eBay sessions in which I put all my super secret skills to work (if the bids are climbing by 25-cent increments, I'm not above having my high bid end in .34. Oh wait, everyone does that? It's a not-so-secret strategy? Nevermind then.) And while I haven't stooped so low that I've pulled the pepper spray out of my purse and gone crazy on my competitors (uh, I mean "fellow shoppers"), I'm not above whispered conversations on my cell phone to confirm I just spotted *the* hottest toy of the season ("there's four of them. Should I buy all four?") (I didn't buy all four-- I let some old guy who claimed it was for his grandkids get in on the action).

And this is just the beginning. I have a kid at the age where he would love climbing into the box the toy came in as much as playing with the toy itself (if not more-- boxes are a big draw around here). Can you imagine what I'll be like when I'm doing it for real and the stakes are having a disappointed child shouting that he hates me on Christmas Day because I didn't get him whatever toy he and every other child in the United States wanted? Yeah, I'm kind of scared of me too.

I'm extra hilarious at 2:30 in the morning

A few nights ago, I found myself tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep. Then, the Pretend Husband, who had way too much caffeine too late in the day, found himself with his eyes pinned open. So, like any loving couple with double insomnia, we began chatting.

I told the PH I had tried to fall asleep by running through potential baby names for our next child (this is not an announcement). After going through some of my ideas, we began thinking of names for future dogs (also not an announcement). After the usual Molly, Maggie, Max, Buster suggestions, we hit on another idea.

We thought it would be absolutely hilarious to give our next dog a name that is only usually given to people. Like Stanley. Or William. We lay in bed cracking ourselves up thinking about how people names would sound on a dog ("Jessica! Stop licking yourself!" "David! Drop that chipmunk and get in the house!") Then we wondered if the idea would seem as hilarious when we weren't exhausted.

The next day, we discovered that it is just hilarious as we had thought. I defy you to walk outside right now, yell "William, stop humping Jessica and get over here!" and not laugh. It's impossible.

All this and I'm still carrying baby weight?!?

While lots of people talk about recovering from childbirth and how physically demanding that is (and it is), there's a lot less chatter about the months and months that follow and what kind of aches and pains are associated with them. Which is where my million-dollar idea comes in: a workout based on what moms of babies and toddlers do every day.

The workout involves a lot of sitting on the floor (which isn't always as easy as it looks. As someone accustomed to sitting in a chair at work, I had to get used to the extra drop). Ok, sit on the floor with legs straight out or crossed or whatever is comfortable for you. Ok, sit, sit, sit. Now jump up and run!

Again. Sit, sit. Baby is going for the dog's water bowl! Get up and run!
Sit, sit. Baby is about to go head first down the stairs! Get up and sprint!

Are you feeling it? Are those thighs burning yet?

Oh, but we're not done yet. Back down on the floor. Ok, now get a 20-pound weight and get up off the floor without using your hands and without dropping the weight (the weight cries-- loudly-- if you do that). Do that about a million times.

Almost there. Now stand up and put the 20-pound weight on the floor between your feet. Bend over from the waist and lift the 20-pound weight up over your head, hold and return the weight to the floor. The 20-pound weight thinks this is a great game and wants to do it again! And again! Repeat at least 35 more times and be prepared for the weight to be upset when you stop.

How do you feel? Good. Only eight more hours before Daddy gets home and you can take a break!

Tomorrow, we work on stretching your arms by reaching under the couch for a lost toy and will add some resistance by having the weight flail around while you try to lift it. Now hit the showers (but only if the 20-pound weight is napping and you've finished everything else you have to do today).

Catch me on an upcoming episode...

I was always one of those people who sometimes clipped coupons, sometimes remembered to take them to the store and sometimes found I had clipped a coupon for something I would actually use. Then I watched "Extreme Couponing." And I'm hooked.

I've only watched one or two episodes of "Extreme Couponing," but I've gone on-line to read blogs about how to best use coupons, I've signed up for different Websites that allow you to print out coupons and I've convinced family members to save their coupons for me. I'm on my way.

I'm never going to be one of those extreme coupon people who pay $1.03 for $10,000 worth of groceries, but I've had my victories. Last week, I got more than $80 worth of groceries for about $50, including seven bottles of marinade for 49 cents (total, not each) and four tubes of toothpaste for free. Perhaps not television-worthy, but I'll take every penny I can save.

I won't lie to you--it's a lot of work. I spent two hours last night clipping coupons and another hour going through store circulars and matching my coupons to the items on sale. But, other than raising FunnyKid, it's my job right now and I figure every dollar I save is a dollar I earned.

Still, I'm not going to make it my full-time job, I won't be stalking store managers for inside information about upcoming sales and I will never need to rent a truck to bring home my groceries. But maybe I will put some of that money I saved toward something fun for myself. After all, I did earn it.

Here's a tip: try smiling...

My unsolicited advice/vent for the day:
I've been a waitress and I know how tough it is to go into work happy each day and put up with all of the crap the entitled diners throw your way. And while I don't have personal experience with this, I can imagine your soul dies a little every time you have to put on a period uniform that includes shiny pantyhose and a weird little hat.

Still. If you're going to work in a restaurant that is attractive to families with kids (there's a train that runs along the ceiling for goodness sake!), you might want to show some sort of interest in kids-- parents love that sort of thing. And even if kids aren't your thing, try to put some pep in your step and even a small smile on your face. Immediately asking us what we want to drink without greeting us, answering our questions with the least enthusiasm you can muster without being downright rude and grudgingly wishing us a good day as you drop the check is not going to cut it.

We still tipped you, of course. Because I've been a waitress and I would never tip less than 15 percent. But since you did nothing to go above and beyond, neither did I. Seriously, try cracking a smile. Your job isn't that bad and smiling would do wonders for how you present yourself (and probably for your wallet, too).

Unless you're world-famous author JK Rowling, this just isn't OK

I was at a coffee shop the other day when a woman dressed pretty professionally walked in and sat a few tables away. I only noticed her because she was talking to FunnyKid and making faces at him. Otherwise she would have blended in with all the other professionally dressed people who have meetings or do work at coffee shops everywhere.

Anyway, the woman went to sit down and I noticed that in addition to her dress, Bluetooth in her ear and the laptop bag she was carrying, she was wearing a jean jacket. I thought that was a little odd because I didn't think jean jackets are in fashion anymore, but whatever. Then she turned around and I noticed the jacket had a huge crest embroidered on the back. Wondering what (jean jacket-wearing) club she belonged to, I looked a little closer and read the word "Hogwarts."

Oh yes, professionally dressed lady at Panera to work on her laptop, I don't care what kind of work you do, you will not be getting my business. Because you could be the best *insert job title here* in the world who makes millions of dollars a year and has a waiting list of people begging you to let them be your clients and I just can't get past the fact that you think you're an alum of an imaginary school in a young adult novel. Next time, Harriet Potter, a black blazer is a better choice.

My parenting advice? Just keep on keeping on...

The thing about going onto the Internet for advice about raising children is that there is SO MUCH information out there. And it all contradicts itself (and always adamantly). Baby must have their own crib! Co-sleeping is best! Pacifiers work! Pacifiers will ruin them for life! Let them cry it out! Crying it out will traumatize the child and they'll never trust their parents and won't do well in school and will end up a college drop-out living in a van down by the river!

The second night FunnyKid was home, I caved in and gave him a pacifier someone had given us as a gift (despite my decision that he wouldn't be using them). Then I went on the Internet and found several sources that said pacifiers should no way, no how be given before the baby is three weeks old because it will cause nipple confusion and they will stop breastfeeding and what-were-you-thinking-you-must-be-a-first-time-mom-what-with-such-a-dumb-mistake! I cried.

But FunnyKid spit out the pacifier within minutes of falling peacefully asleep and then kat's lil sis told me her kids were given pacifiers in the hospital and then the pediatrician confirmed that we were not actually ruining the kiddo for life by giving him a pacifier to soothe him as long as he was weaned off it by nine months old (FunnyKid weaned himself off after using it four times so no worries there).

As the months have gone on (I can't believe FunnyKid is already six months old!), I've gotten a lot better about choosing what advice works for us-- and I avoid using Google to help me decide what's best for FunnyKid. But every once in awhile-- say, in the middle of the night when FunnyKid has been crying for awhile and we are trying to get him to go back to sleep without eating because we know he's waking up out of habit instead of hunger-- it's so tempting to search the Internet to see if we're doing the right thing.

And, not surprisingly, the advice ranges from Babies cry, let them cry! to Crying it out will scar your child! Because we are now somewhat experienced that this parenting gig, we did what worked for us (and I didn't even cry). And I'm 99% sure we haven't ruined FunnyKid for life (yet).

Reasons why I don't miss being pregnant

With SJ nearing the end of her pregnancy, she has had-- understandably-- more frequent complaints about how she feels. And while it might make most people think, "Thank goodness I'm past all that..." it actually makes me miss being pregnant (a little). But rather than wallow in reasons I wish I were still pregnant, I came up with some reasons to be happy I'm not.

-- When the Pretend Husband learned I was no longer allowed to sleep on my back, he appointed himself the Sleep Police. I was frequently woken up by him poking me and saying, "Roll over." And if that weren't bad enough, I sometimes woke up to find him groping me as he tried to determine whether I was lying on my back. I don't miss being woken up all the time.

-- By the end of my pregnancy, I was incredibly swollen, especially in my hands and feet. I couldn't fit into anything other than flip-flops and often woke up to find my hands frozen into claws because of the fluid in my joints. I had so much fluid that, a week after giving birth, I had already lost 20 pounds. I won't talk about how much sweating I had to do in that week to get rid of that much fluid...

-- Oh yeah, and the last reason to be glad I'm no longer pregnant is being able to see the little being who I knew only as the kicking, hiccuping thing in my belly. And what a cute little being he is:

Confirming what I already knew...

Remember that "Seinfeld" episode where the gang went to see friends who had an ugly baby and had to come up with compliments even though they could hardly look at the kid? The Pretend Husband and I are aware that all parents think their kids are the cutest things ever and took our own feelings that FunnyKid is the cutest kid ever with a grain of salt.

But then we got it confirmed by a panel of judges. I stopped by my hair salon last week to introduce the FunnyKid to my hairstylist, a nice, nice woman in her sixties. I failed to realize that we were stopping by on a Friday, which is old lady day at the salon as they all get fixed up to last through the weekend.

So, not only did FunnyKid get complimented by my stylist, we were asked to walk down the row of chairs as each person paid him a compliment. "He looks like a doll." "Oh, he's precious." "Bless you, you are just perfect." Then we paraded back up the row, collecting compliments on the way. It was like our own personal parade.

I'm telling you; if you ever start to feel bad about yourself, pick a hair salon that caters to older clientele and stop by on a Friday. You will be showered with compliments (either that, or FunnyKid truly is the cutest kid ever. Yes, let's go with that).

Everything you (n)ever wanted to know about the PH and I...

I found this while cleaning out my work computer before going on maternity leave. It's a questionnaire I filled out about the PH and I, and since it will give you a break from my all-pregnancy, all-the-time posts (and I think it's kind of funny), I thought I'd post it. Everything you ever wanted to know about the Pretend Husband and I, but I just know you were too shy to ask...

How long have you been together? It feels like forever… oh wait, it’s only been four years or so (honey, if you’re reading this, I meant four blissful years…)

How long did you know each other before you started dating?
It feels like forever, but that’s because it was. I estimate about three years of card games at SJ and J’s house, dinners at SJ and J’s house and complaints about how we were never going to find a spouse at SJ and J’s dining room table. You can see how right we were about that…

Who asked whom out?
Neither. It was fate… or rather, a large bottle of vodka, that finally brought us together. That’s the romantic tale I’ll be telling the grandkids someday.

How old are each of you?
I’m a year older than the PH, which makes me a cougar. We’re both in our early 30s.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
All the moving and renovating we’ve done since we began living together. We actually made a deal to not buy or sell a house in 2010 and shook on it.

Are you from the same home town?
Nope. Two towns apart… and we met in the middle at SJ and J’s house.

Who is smarter?
He is, fo’ sho. Which is why he is in charge of our finances.

Who is the most sensitive?
Um, that would be whomever cries more often, so definitely the PH. Just kidding— I’m definitely the crier in the relationship.

Who has the craziest exes?
It’s not even a contest… it’s me (*whispers shamefully*)

Who has the worst temper?
I hope he doesn’t yell at me for this, but it’s him

Who does the cooking?
Definitely not me. I’m in charge of baking in this relationship and he does the rest. We know what we’re good at, so why mess with it?

Who is the neat-freak?
Um, I’m not and he puts up with me. He’s neat—I wouldn’t call him a neat-freak, but he’s definitely neat freakier than me.

Who is more stubborn?
I still say he is, but he insists I am. I’ll let you know how that argument turns out.

Who hogs the bed?
I’ll admit I do. He often has to ask me to inch away from him before he falls off the edge of the bed.

Who wakes up earlier?
Him, and in a much better mood than me. One of the sweetest things he does is, on the weekends, he will get up early with the dogs to take them out and feed them so I can sleep in. And, to top it off, he even sometimes brings me coffee in bed. Yup, he’s a keeper.

How long did it take to get serious?
Let’s see… we moved in together about two months after we started dating, so I’ll say… 10 minutes. I think we both knew from the starting that we weren’t just fooling around. I mean, can you imagine how awkward it would have been at SJ’s and J’s if we had broken up?

Who does the laundry?
This one is kind of a toss-up. We both do it when it needs to be done. But I get to do it with no supervision and the PH gets a long list of requirements when he heads down to the basement (no bras in the dryer, please hang my sweater on the drying rack, etc.) He’s getting better at it.

Who's better with the computer?
I’m learning that it’s me (the PH doesn’t know the shortcuts for cutting and pasting in Word… who doesn’t know those?!?) I’m not super proficient or anything, but I’m definitely the computer expert in this relationship.

Who drives when you are together?
Definitely me. He thinks it’s because he spends so much time driving for work that he doesn’t want to do it in his free time. I KNOW it’s because I’m the better driver.

That eight minutes even included three questions asked and answered!

Dear Doctor,

I realize your time is valuable. Which is why I was not only on time for my appointment this morning, but I was even early. We have to see each other every two weeks now, so I figure it doesn't hurt to butter you up a bit.

But when I got to the window to sign in, the woman in front of me mentioned she was there to see you, too, leading me to believe your office double-books you. Which is fine with me, especially because my appointments these days never last more than 10 minutes.

But the question remains, why did they have you take the woman with the 45-minute appointment before the preggo with the 10-minute one? If you're going to leave a patient waiting, isn't it better to have her sitting there for 10 minutes rather than 45? And, by the way, you saw me for all of eight minutes, which would have meant even less time for Miss Full Examination And Then Some to wait.

Yes, you have a very important job that sometimes takes longer than the time allotted. But I consider my job to be pretty important too (especially because I'd like to keep it and not get fired for being gone half the morning). I hope you will take this into consideration for future appointments.

Regards,

Your Patient (although probably not your favorite)

No, I will not pay $4 for your slightly-used roll of paper towels

SJ and I hit up a bajillion consignment sales, tag sales and consignment shops this weekend in our quest to outfit both our pregnant selves and our future offspring in awesome clothes for cheap. I won't bore you with details, but it involved me finding the bouncy seat I registered for at half the price at a consignment shop and SJ hoping she really is having a girl because she bought some flowery GAP sweaters that were too cute to resist.

Going to so many places allowed us to kind of compare how people run their tag sales-- and just how much they value their possessions. For example, one tag sale had a Baby Bjorn infant carrier priced at $30 (they retail for $80). Another tag sale had the same one priced at $8. I found some really cute prints of frogs that would have gone well in our nursery-- until I noticed the woman wanted $50 for them. I'm not sure I spent $50 in the entire day, let alone on a single set of items.

On the flip side, we found a tag sale that wanted $1 apiece for maternity tops and 50 cents or a dollar per baby outfit. We like tag sales like that and left with huge piles of clothes.

Here's how I see it. Yes, you paid a lot for your stuff (especially baby stuff, which is not cheap!) Yes, it's in good shape. No, you're not going to get your money back. And let's be honest-- you were probably planning on giving it away anyway. Here's your chance to see it go to a good home and make a couple of bucks in the process. But don't expect to be able to re-do your kitchen on your tag sale proceeds. Because, being the seasoned tag sale veterans we are (OK, SJ more than me, but she's teaching me), we are going to sniff out whatever deals you have (hello, brand new Bundle Me for $10) and leave the expensive stuff for the suckers. Either that, or we will return at the end of the day and bargain with you until SJ pays $20 and walks off with more brand name baby outfits than she can carry.

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.

Mocking the mocktails

If there's one thing SJ and I are both big fans of, it's alcohol (OK, fine, we're fans of a lot of things, but if you've read this blog for longer than-- say-- since we got pregnant, you know we are fans of booze). And, because we are future mothers who don't want our kids to have more than one head each, we are abstaining from the nectar of the gods for the duration of our pregnancies.

And it's hard. So we've taken to drinking "mocktails" when we get together. We've tried the pineapple, orange, ginger ale, grenadine combo I concocted and I drink most beverages out of a martini glass or champagne flute these days to make myself feel like I'm partying like a rock star.

The other night, SJ came over with the ingredients for virgin pina coladas and proceeded to throw bananas, coconut extract, milk and pineapple into a blender with ice. We tried the concoction, threw a little more coconut extract into it and blended it again. Then we added some real coconut and blended it again. When we tried it, we knew something was missing and began to debate over what should be added. More milk? No. And definitely no more banana. It could use more pineapple, but we're out. What's not quite right? What's missing?

And then it hit us. It needed rum.

(Perhaps I should add a disclaimer that of course we didn't add rum to our drinks. We just sat sipping what was essentially a banana smoothie and tried to remember what rum tastes like. And we may have made a pact that each of us would bring the other a fancy drink in the hospital after we each give birth, but I'm not confirming anything.)

Graham Crackers and Milk.... I WOULD KILL FOR MILK.

I've had a few food aversions.

There are some foods that I used to love, that right now, oddly bother me. One of those things is good old fashioned homemade macaroni and cheese (though the boxed kind does not bother me). I also can't eat most pasta meals and maybe only one slice of pizza when I LOVE pizza.

I do, however, crave veggies and fruit. I eat a salad nearly every day and crave Granny Smith Apples like I love red wine. WHAT KIND OF STRANGE PREGNANT LADY AM I??

Of course, sometimes the mere thought of eating anything makes me quite queasy still (this is going away any time now, right?), but for the most part, I take all of that advice to eat small meals throughout the day. It hasn't really seem to make much of a difference, but it does keep the heartburn down. And because of this little meal heavy diet, I have an entire pantry stocked with organic animal crackers, dried fruit (but suddenly don't like raisins), granola, fig newtons and all kinds of nuts (that, incidentally, I no longer like).

Which is why, for my 3:30 meal, I had graham crackers and Nutella. But all I wanted was a glass of cold milk to go with my crackers -- not, as it happens, my 700 ml bottle of Poland Spring. I really, really wanted milk. But, I could not bring myself to pour a cup of milk from the office "coffee supply" milk jug. I felt that was cheating.

So instead, I made myself a hot chocolate with about a quarter of the packet, about a teaspoon of water.. and then topped it off with lovely, wonderful, cold milk.

I feel it's a good compromise. But just in case, I'm going to be bringing in my own milk for the office fridge.

Yes, you got it down. No, you did not do it intelligently.

One of the caveats that came with the house and property we bought from my dad is the large number of trees that my dad planted more than 30 years ago that have since taken over the yard. They are mostly huge, huge, huge evergreen trees (you know the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center each year? these are too big to qualify...)

While we're not huge fans of the trees that ring the property, there are two in particular that have been the bain of our existence because one is planted in the center of the front yard (blocking the house) and the other is planted in the center of the backyard (blocking the yard from the house). The Pretend Husband and I have always talked about getting them taken down in both a "wouldn't it be nice if we had some extra money and could hire a tree service?" kind of way (me) and a "I bet I could get a couple of buddies over here and take them down" kind of way (him).

While I tend to plot and plan, the PH can be a mite more impulsive, as evidenced by the phone call I got on a Friday afternoon announcing that he and kat's lil bro had been text messaging and decided they were going to take down the tree in the front yard. When I couldn't convince the PH it might not be a good idea to undertake such a big project without any idea how to even begin, I pulled lil bro aside and said, "I expect you to be the voice of reason. If you guys don't know how to do this without sending the tree into the house, don't go through with it." His response was, "How hard can it be?"

Which is how, within minutes, my brother was cutting a notch on one side of the tree while the PH stayed out of the way (I think he figured, if he didn't physically handle the chainsaw, he wouldn't be responsible for the tree crashing into the second floor of our house). So, the tree was notched on the side the guys wanted it to fall on, the wood was cleared out of the notch and... nothing happened. The tree didn't move.

My brother continued cutting until the chainsaw got stuck and turned off, which is when... we heard a crack... and the tree started moving... toward me, who was standing in front of our garage (so, it didn't fall directly toward the house at least, but still not in the direction it was supposed to go).

I ran, kat's lil bro ran from where he was at the base of the tree and the PH stood out of range staring in a horrified manner as the tree fell-- in the exact opposite direction from where the guys had planned for it to fall.

Luckily, it missed everything (our house, the garage, my dad's cannons, cars passing by the road, Molly and Casey) except two branches of another nearby tree. I spent the rest of the night saying to the PH, "You guys are soooo lucky. So lucky." And he responded, "It wasn't luck." To which I would reply, "It wasn't luck? Then what was it? Because it sure wasn't skill!"

Yes, I'm grateful for the new and improved view from our front door. No, I will not be letting the PH, kat's lil bro and their mighty chainsaw near the tree in the backyard. Some things-- like someone who knows how to send a tree in the direction it's intended-- are worth paying for.

Hmm, maybe I need to add a "large and lumpy" category...

It's easy to think that the categories get broken down into "pregnant" and "not pregnant." But my extensive research (i.e. getting knocked up) has shown otherwise. I now present to you "FunnyGal KAT's Pregnancy Phases" (by FunnyGal KAT) (also, copyright FunnyGal KAT 2010).

1. Oh my gosh, I'm pregnant! Yay! But I can't tell anyone! Boo! But still, I'm pregnant! Yay! (*please note that this phase may vary slightly for high school students who find themselves in the family way...)

2. Boy, she's packing on the pounds, huh? I don't want to say anything, but even her face looks like it's gained weight.

3. Could she be pregnant? It kind of looks like she's getting a belly. So, pregnant? Either that or it's been a long winter without a lot of exercise for her.

4. I really think she's pregnant. But there was that one time I asked someone when they were due and they looked ready to punch me, so I'm not going to ask.

5. You're pregnant? I thought so. (Ha! I totally guessed that one! So she's not "Fatty McGiantAss"-- she's just glowing from the pregnancy.)

6. Ooooh, yeah. She's pregnant. Like, really pregnant. I'd better get out of here before she asks me to catch the baby.

I'll let you decide where I fall on this spectrum...