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.

Alcohol, hors d'ouevres and me pulling my boobs out in the middle of the party (or: how my husband finally learned to deal with me)

If there is any area where the Pretend Husband deserves a "Most Improved" Award, it's in the "What To Do When Your Wife Cries" category. Seriously, the man used to be terrible. If I started crying about something, he would try to pretend I wasn't. He would look anywhere but at me and try to carry on a conversation as though I wasn't sobbing loudly with tears running down my face.

I have spent *years* training the guy to A) not ignore the fact that I'm crying and B) do or say something that makes me feel better. It took many, many times of me telling him to just sit next to me and hold my hand or rub my back. He doesn't have to even say anything-- just be there.

Well, the PH was tested last week and I'm proud to report he has finally learned the lesson I began teaching when we were dating. Last week, I abruptly stopped breastfeeding FunnyKid. It had been coming for awhile, he was down to just one feeding a day and I knew he was only doing it as a comfort thing before bed and no longer needed it for nutritional purposes. I knew we were going to stop soon.

But I wasn't prepared for the night we were putting FunnyKid to bed and everything fell perfectly into place for us to try putting him to bed without that last feeding. And-- this is the part that especially ripped my heart out-- he rolled right over and fell asleep without protest.

The PH and I walked downstairs and I just stared at him. "Are you going to cry?" he asked. "I don't know," I replied... and then I burst into tears. And-- shocker of all shockers-- the PH said he understood and rubbed my back as I let it all out. "I know this is for the best. I'm ready and he's ready," I said, "but I didn't realize last night would be the last time I ever breastfed him. He's growing up so fast."

Then, the guy who used to try to chat about football while I cried actually offered to throw a party to celebrate the end of breastfeeding. "And in the middle of it, you can have your one last time," he proposed. I'm still not sure if he was serious or just trying to make me laugh, but it was the perfect response to the situation. Ok, maybe not perfect. Bringing home some "end of breastfeeding" jewelry the next day would have been perfect. But it was close enough for me.

Oh, so calling yourself "Friendly's" is supposed to be ironic?

The FunnyGal KAT family has been on vacation, which has been a test of our parenting skills as we take FunnyKid out for adventures and sometimes push his good nature to the limits. We've had our share of having to get up from the table in a restaurant to walk around and give the people at the next table a break from the yelling. And I have admittedly thrown some extra snacks his way at times to keep him happy or quiet.

But this morning was a new one for me. The Pretend Husband and I took FunnyKid to Friendly's for breakfast. The PH and FunnyKid got inside before I did and were greeted by a waitress who not only didn't crack a smile, but kind of snarled, "I'll be right with you." "OK," the PH replied cheerily (because, heck, we're on vacation and he was in a good mood). "OK," she mimicked? Really, could she have been making fun of the PH? No, that's not possible.

But the rest of our experience made me suspect she really may have been mocking my husband. And what a bizarre experience it was. For one thing, I didn't see the woman crack a smile the entire time we were there. Which, everyone has bad days so that's almost excusable. But some of the other stuff wasn't.

When an order for the table next to us arrived, it turned out one of the kids was given the wrong kind of pancakes. When the mom pointed it out to the waitress, she insisted she had brought the ones the grandmother had pointed to on the menu. She went so far as to bring the menu over to show the grandmother which ones she had pointed to. When the grandmother politely said those weren't the ones she thought she ordered, the waitress snapped, "Well, what do you want me to do?" Then, as the mom was asking the little boy if he would eat the pancakes in front of him, Waitress Friendly McSunshine stood there with a hand on her hip. When the boy said he wanted a different type of pancakes, she picked up his plate and stomped off without another word.

But the bizarre part was how quickly she switched back and forth between being a complete grump and being a nice person. She dropped off our food, saying, "Here you go, my friends," then started muttering about customers at another table! I even overheard her telling one older lady that she had too much perfume on, then complimenting her jewelry in the next breath. So weird. And not at all how to earn tips.

I will say that we left her a decent tip. I worked as a waitress for awhile and know how difficult a job it is-- so I have a standing rule never to stiff a server. But I will also say that woman-- if she truly is as grumpy as she came off today-- probably shouldn't be working at a family restaurant if she can't handle some of the silliness that accompanies children.

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.

If he wants to push the next kiddo out of his nether regions, I'm happy to listen to him complain. Until that happens, zip it.

FunnyKid is an Eater. With a capital E. We have yet to discover a food he won't eat (except for a three day period where he wouldn't eat-- of all things-- watermelon). And when he's in his high chair, in your lap or anywhere where there's food, he wants to eat and he wants to eat now.

Let me preface the next little story by saying the Pretend Husband is an awesome father. He has one evening a week alone with FunnyKid while I work, he rushes home at the end of a busy day to make sure he gets time with FunnyKid before bed and he's very hands-on with everything from playing to changing diapers.

However, if there is one thing the PH hates, it's being interrupted when he's eating. He will spoon veggies into FunnyKid's mouth before he sits down to eat so it doesn't interfere with his meal. So, if there's any additional cutting up of food or throwing Cheerios onto FunnyKid's tray, that has fallen to me.

I'm not sure the PH even realized how harried I was during meals as I tried to grab bites of my own meal in between cutting things into little chunks for FunnyKid and keeping him well-fed. Until a few weeks ago. FunnyKid and the PH had come to my soccer game, but the grass was too wet for them to sit and watch at first. So the PH loaded FunnyKid into the car and took him out to breakfast.

On the way home from the game, I was treated to a litany of complaints from the PH. "It was so hard to eat! He kept yelling when he ran out of food so I was constantly cutting stuff up for him. I had to choke down my food in, like, 30 seconds at the end."

I think he was looking for sympathy from me, but he was looking to the wrong person. "Really? That's what it's like to eat with FunnyKid? I wouldn't have realized that, being that I feed him three meals a day and all. Cry me a river, PH, I've been dealing with this for months."

The joys of homeownership...

The other day, it poured all day and well into the night. We made sure we checked our basement multiple times for flooding and were grateful to find it dry as a bone.

As I headed up to bed at 10:30 p.m., I checked it one last time and found nothing. When FunnyKid woke me at 3 a.m. to eat, I figured I was being overly cautious but I went downstairs to check and make sure the sump pump was still working properly. As soon as I opened the door to the basement, I knew something was wrong by the puddle at the bottom of the stairs. (One of the worst ways to wake up your husband in the middle of the night is to tip toe into the room and lovingly whisper in his ear, "Honey, the basement is flooded"-- but it does get him out of bed pretty quick).

While the sump pump and the back-up sump pump had done their jobs in keeping most of the basement from flooding, another part that wasn't protected (and had never had problems) had somehow collected a few inches of water throughout. Which is how the Pretend Husband and I found ourselves ankle deep in ice cold water and digging trenches in the snow in the pouring rain from 3-4:30 a.m.

We were fortunate that the only things that were damaged were some empty cardboard boxes (it's not our first time at the rodeo and we've become smart about how we store things in the basement). The worst part wasn't the flooding but the fact that FunnyKid didn't get the memo about Mom and Dad spending part of their night fighting back the flood waters and woke up for the day shortly after we fell back asleep. He's lucky he's cute even when I'm running on five and a half hours of sleep!

Working on the Wife of the Year Award

The Pretend Husband called me to ask me whether he could get together with some friends in another state the weekend after FunnyKid is due to arrive. My response was to say we would need to wait and see when the kiddo arrives and what kind of baby they are. I mean, if the baby is three weeks old and sleeps for up to three hours between feedings, then I would have no problem with the PH leaving for a day and a half. But if he or she is five days old and wakes up every hour, then no, the PH is not leaving me because I'm going to need the support.

The PH was shocked at my response because he thought he would get an immediate no, followed by "Are you nuts?!?" So he is happy to wait and see where we stand when that weekend rolls around.

Of course, I couldn't just let it go at that (as proud as I am with my status as the "coolest wife ever" right now). I called him a couple of hours later and said, "You know that weekend you want to go away? Well, SJ wants to have a girls' weekend in Boston the following weekend. You know, one last getaway before her baby is born. Is it OK if I go?"

Let's just say the PH is not even in the running for Husband of the Year. He started to panic and said things like, "What about feeding the baby? Can you pump that early? Is SJ really going to be in the mood to walk around Boston all day? It's different from me going away. The baby doesn't rely on my body for its nutritional needs." I made him sweat for awhile ("Well, it's only fair if you get to go") before revealing that I had made the whole thing up.

I like to keep the guy on his toes.

(Make sure you check back tomorrow-- Wednesday-- for a special post. I won't give away the subject, but it's something I write about only once a year...)

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.

Getting us ready for parenthood... one puddle of vomit at a time.

Last night, Molly (the black dog) woke us up three times by vomiting in our bedroom. Each time, we got up and I comforted her and cleaned her face while the Pretend Husband wiped up the vomit (she had vomited a couple of times earlier in the day so we went to bed with the cleaning supplies within reach).

It's tough to get a good night's sleep when you're woken every few hours. But, we figured it is preparing us for a baby crying every few hours, and this sluggishness the PH and I feel today? Well, that's probably waiting for us this fall, too.

Last week was particularly hard. Casey (the white dog) woke us up at 4 a.m. by vomiting in our bedroom. While the PH cleaned up the four different spots (I'm not sure how he keeps getting clean-up duty, but let's not point that out to him, hmmm?) I took the dogs outside in case Casey wasn't finished. She wasn't.

Then, fearing that Casey might have a blockage in her intestine that was preventing food from getting through, I grabbed a flashlight and started following her around the yard to see if she was able to go to the bathroom (oh, the things we do for our furry children!) While this was happening (and presumably, one of my neighbors was calling the police to report a prowler in our yard), Molly decided to take off for a tour of the neighborhood.

So, 4:30 found the PH sitting on the front steps with Casey while I scoured the backyard with the flashlight, quietly calling for Molly. We finally all met up, trooped back upstairs and settled back down for a few more hours of sleep.

About 10 minutes later, Casey vomited again. This time, I cleaned and the PH took the dogs outside. I went back to bed but after about 20 minutes, I still wasn't asleep and felt bad that the PH was handling things alone outside. So, dressed in a pink bathroom, I trooped back outside and all the way out to the perimeter of our backyard to find the PH enjoying the sunrise while closely watching Casey for bathroom activity (she didn't go).

We finally made it back inside at 6 a.m.-- just enough time for all of us to pass out for an hour before the alarm went off. Then, to add insult to injury, Molly and Casey got to go spend the day with their grandparents (who promised to keep an eye on them) while the PH and I slogged into work, trying to function on about six hours of sleep.

Yes, I feel prepared for parenthood. But I'm also grateful we have 10 more weeks before the baby arrives. This mama likes her sleep.

I'm engaged to my husband!

Look what I got...

It's big, it's shiny and it's 100 percent fake. As the weather has heated up, my fingers have gotten a lot more swollen to the point where I can no longer wear my wedding and engagement rings.

I feel a little funny being knocked up and not wearing a ring so I had the idea to hit up Kohl's to buy the gaudiest rock I could. The Pretend Husband preferred I get something that could actually pass as a real engagement ring, which is how I ended up with this one. And it's weird not wearing my rings, but this one will do. After we paid $8 for it and were leaving the store, I said to the PH, "Why did you spend thousands of dollars on my ring? You could have saved so much money by buying it here!"

I may be fooling myself, but I think it looks pretty real (I realize the photo is a bit fuzzy). I also think I'm being a little silly by feeling like I need to wear a ring while pregnant. What do you think? Do people notice that kind of thing? Should I care?

Next option is a bikini-- and believe me, NO ONE wants that...

With the temperature soaring this weekend, the Pretend Husband and I decided to hit the beach. I had two options for maternity swim tops-- a black number my sister gave me and a black number I picked up somewhere. But, when I went to try them on, I found each of the tops had their own drawbacks.

Kat's lil sis is, uh, not as top-heavy as I am so the plunging V, which probably looked great on her and showed off a little cleavage, was more like the start of a strip show for me. And the other top fit well in front, but had one small tie across the back, essentially leaving my whole back (and large, pregnant butt) open to the elements (although I should clarify I had bottoms on so my wide butt was covered, but not at all camouflaged...)

Having to choose between an unflattering look I couldn't see (my butt) and one I could (my chest), I chose the one I could keep an eye on. The afternoon then consisted of my trying to keep from flashing the beach every time I moved, the PH throwing panicked looks my way when he thought something was about to happen and some weird placement of my arms in an effort to not teach sex education to the little kids in the area before they were ready for it.

Needless to say, I will be shopping for a new maternity swimsuit this week. Do you think they come in "turtleneck?"

La la la. If I can't see them, they must not exist. La la la.

Sorry for the silence lately. Work has been a bee-yotch, blah, blah, blah. And working too many hours has left less than the amount of time needed for my life to be funny.

Last night, while I was laying in bed reading, the Funny Kid in my belly decided to put on a circus act. I'm not sure what was going on in there, but there was all sorts of jabbing. Thinking the kicking, rolling and whatever else was pretty intense, I glanced at my stomach in time to see part of it pop out. So weird!

I immediately yelled for the Pretend Husband to come up and he was able to catch the tail-end of the act and thought it was neat. Then, in passing, he said something about stretch marks on my belly and I freaked out. I am proud to have avoided stretch marks this entire time, but apparently I was only avoiding them on the parts of my body I can actually see. The underside of my belly has a couple of good ones. I was able to contort myself enough to get a peek at them, but will be glad if I never have to see them again.

Needless to say, the PH and I now have a deal that he doesn't comment about any part of my body I can't see. It allows me to continue to go through this pregnancy blissfully unaware of my shortcomings. (Come to think of it, I need to figure out how to implement this policy in the rest of my life. I can't wait to tell my boss I'll no longer be accepting criticism of my work performance and that I prefer to remain blissfully unaware of my shortcomings!)

I was just... cleaning the bathroom? (Think he'd buy it?)

I don't mind the klutziness that has accompanied my pregnancy (in truth, I'm probably no klutzier than I was before I got knocked up so it's not like I've had to adapt to that...) But I can do without the pregnancy brain.

Never heard of it? It's the only explanation for why, after I finished brushing my teeth the other night, I picked up my glass of water, gave my hand an order to dump the water in it into the sink and place the glass on the counter next to it... then proceeded to pour the entire glass of water on the counter about six inches to the right of the sink.

I still haven't told the Pretend Husband about that stunt because I'm not sure I can stand to (again) see the look of incredulity on his face when I do things like this.

I didn't become an alcoholic until after I got pregnant

(I wrote this last week and left it laying around in the drafts folder. Right after I wrote it, kk asked about how hard it's been for me to give up alcohol. This, kk, is how hard it's been.)

A couple of weeks ago, we went out to dinner with kat's lil bro and his girlfriend, Miss B. The waiter came to take our order and described the drink special of the night, which was something like a "white chocolate raspberry martini with cocoa on the rim" but I was too busy wiping the drool off my chin to pay attention. I don't even like raspberry flavor, but it sounded so heavenly, I made Miss B promise that, if she ordered it, she would let me smell it. And she was nice enough to do just that. And nice enough to pretend not to notice when I grabbed it halfway through the meal and smelled it again.

When we went out to dinner last week, I pointed out a woman at a nearby table who had a huge margarita that looked like it was absolutely delicious. I asked the Pretend Husband if he thought she would let me smell it and he yelled at me. Apparently, people will think it's "weird" if I ask to smell their drinks and he wouldn't let me do it. Still, when his martini arrived, he slid it across the table for me to take a sniff. Now that's love.

Welcome to our home. Want to borrow a sweater?

The Pretend Husband and I are notoriously frugal people, especially when it comes to spending what seems like bajillions of dollars on heating oil. Basically, we don't like to do it. So we keep our house at a temperature that we seem to have gotten used to, but leaves our guests blowing into their hands and cutting short their visits. We generally keep our thermostat between 60 and 64 and only bump it above that if people are coming over (although sometimes we forget and have to amuse ourselves by watching everyone's breath until it warms up in the living room).

Anyway, I've been told having the temperature of our (large, inefficient, hard to heat) home kept in the low 60s is crazy. But we put on extra layers, always wear socks or slippers and deal with it.

Except when the PH and I got into bed to take a nap yesterday afternoon and I just.couldn't.warm.up. I had on extra layers and yet my feet were still ice-cold enough to wake the PH out of a deep sleep (he pretends to be angry when I do that, but I know he loves it). After 20 minutes of shivering and not being able to sleep, I decided our bedroom had probably gotten below 60 degrees and I would turn up the heat just a bit. That's when I glanced at the thermometer in our room and noticed it read: 56.

Fifty-six. Although the thermostat was set for 61, our room is far enough away from it that having it get that cold doesn't necessarily kick the heat on. So, I jumped out of bed, ran to the thermostat and, to make up for my misery, jacked it all the way up to 66.

My dreams are now sound tracked by the Super Mario Brothers music....

SJ and I consider ourselves to be fairly classy, mature women. Uproariously funny sometimes, but still, we try to stay classy. And mature. And I think we succeeded...

...until SJ and her husband, J, got a Wii for Christmas. On Sunday, after holiday festivities, too many work hours for yours truly and waaaaaaay too many Christmas cookies, the Pretend Husband and I decided the day was ours to do whatever we wanted. After breakfast with friends, it turned out we wanted to stop by SJ and J's house, rouse SJ out of bed, make fun of her bedhead and mock her as she played some game on Wii (I remember the phrase, "This is a game for 5-year-olds and you're losing" being uttered somewhere in there...)

Then, since we are the proud owners of two Wii controllers while SJ and J are still trying to find a second one, we invited them over to play Super Mario Brothers. Which, oddly enough, SJ and I started playing while the guys watched football in the other room. But the men (10-year-old boys at heart, those two) couldn't resist for long and our game turned into an eight-hour Super Mario Brothers marathon that included SJ's character going through 95 lives (she'll tell you the guys played her character part of the time...), me taking a break to bake cookies, the PH taking a break to make dinner and a short break for all of us to eat dinner before we played one last hour of the game.

We can make fun of the guys all we want for being immature, video game-addicted children, but it turns out that if you give us a chilly Sunday with nothing to do, you're likely to find these two classy, mature ladies right there on the couch next to them.

Because marriage is not all love and roses (sometimes it entails discussions of bathroom functions...)

My brother warned the Pretend Husband about the meat sauce. He told him that it was delicious, but he would be burping and-- ahem-- farting for quite a while after eating it. Which, as I can attest after getting into bed with the PH last night-- is entirely true.

Kat's lil bro text messaged the PH this morning to see if they were both experiencing the same symptoms and the answer was "yes." Which didn't stop the PH from having more of the meat sauce for lunch today. Which then led to the PH sending me this email:

Don't yell at me... By the time you see me tonight, there will be buffalo wings and meat sauce brewing. So, if it is an unpleasant evening, it is not my fault.

It so happens that someone gave me a box of chocolates today. And the chocolates were sugar-free (which I've heard can mess with one's gastrointestinal system) AND they seemed a bit old. So I sent an email back to the PH warning him my stomach might not be right either. (We are so romantic, aren't we?)

His response was: That's ok. I will shoot an email to the dogs and give them the heads up. It is only fair.

Breaking up is hard to do (or: Let me go, AT&T, you're causing a scene...)

Forget the reputation used car salesmen have; it's the AT&T salesmen you have to look out for. The Pretend Husband and I bought iPhones in June and, while I LOVE my phone and all it's spectacular features (it delivers my email, keeps my calendar, has tons of games, strokes my hair at night when I'm having trouble sleeping...) the sole company that provides service for it sucks.

I'm at my wit's end after six months of fighting with this stupid company. The PH was on the phone with its customer service people for over an hour last night and very little has been accomplished. Basically, we were promised a bunch of discounts and special plans and a monthly charge that would have been only slightly higher than what we were paying for our still-in-the-dark-ages-doesn't-access-the-Internet phones from another provider when we bought the phones and switched our service. And after six months of various store managers and customer service reps crediting our account and promising us the discount would surely kick in on the very next bill, we were told last night we don't actually qualify for that discount. And, oh sorry, I'm sure it's frustrating but there's nothing we can do except give you the discount for a few more months to shut you up and then make sure you spend the rest of your contract spending twice what you did with your previous provider.

The PH then tried to break up with AT&T, telling them they were not honest with us about the terms of our contract and the fees we would be charged, but they are trying to get us to cough up more than $400 for the privilege. Why won't you let us go, AT&T? It's not you, it's me. I've changed and I realize I need to look out for my own needs. I'm sure you'll find someone (to sucker into an expensive cell phone plan).

I hate to badmouth a company, especially one that I realize has had to downsize recently and has probably lost a lot of good employees (apparently, the ones who actually knew what was going on and how to help their customers...) But I figured it's my duty. It's like if I saw you walking down the street with my ex-boyfriend who was a real jerk and I pulled you into the women's room to warn you about him.

So, you can date AT&T if you want to. But you should know that when I began my relationship with them, they made all sorts of promises. We were happy for awhile but then I got sick of AT&T not being there for me when I needed them (to apply the discount they promised). After many late-night phone calls and tears from me, I've decided it's time to end our relationship. No, AT&T, don't make this harder than it needs to be. Don't worry about bringing me a box of the things I left at your house and I won't worry about paying the ridiculous fees you're asking for.

And I would say we could still be friends, but I don't think that's going to go over too well with the new love in my life-- Verizon.

Forget matching hand towels-- I'm happy when there's no hair in the sink!

I figured it was time to move the post about asking my mother-in-law to share her prescription drugs from the top of the page. But I don't have too much to write about because my life lately has been a whirlwind of cleaning and finishing up tasks around our house in preparation for guests.

Growing up, kat's lil sis and I shared a bedroom. And not peacefully. Kat's lil sis is a perfectionist of sorts and likes everything to be organized and kept in its proper place. And me? I'm not. At all. Our room didn't quite have a line drawn down the middle, but it was easy to see which half belonged to whom. Mine was the one that looked like a tornado had recently blown through, tearing all my clothes out of my dresser drawers and leaving them scattered on the bed, the desk, the floor, etc.

And, while I've gotten better about it over the years, I'm still not the perfectionist my sister is. Yes, I like things to be organized. Yes, I love how rooms look when they're neat and clean. No, I don't want to be the one responsible for keeping them that way. So I've spent the last couple days cleaning, organizing and de-cluttering (and even unpacking some of the boxes that sit in the corner 10 months after we moved into the house). Which is something I would do for anyone who was coming to stay with us.

But it's especially important this time because kat's lil sis (and the greatest nephew in the world!) is the one coming to visit. And I'll be darned if I'm going to give her and the Pretend Husband any more ammunition than they already have ("KAT used to make me angry by keeping the light on to read when I was trying to sleep." "She still does that! I hate it!") I may still annoy people by reading when they're trying to sleep and not all my clothes make it back into the closet the second I take them off (or, sometimes, for a few days after I take them off...) but my house will be neat when lil sis arrives.

Between the dogs, my on-the-verge-of-walking nephew and my own bad habits, I give it about 10 minutes before all my hard work gets undone.

I think I'm hilarious. The PH? Not so much.

The Pretend Husband called me at work yesterday and asked me to fax something-- anything-- to him so he could test his fax machine. I hurriedly wrote up a letter to my "lover" and faxed it over. The fax said:

Dear Mark,

Regrettably, I must end our torrid love affair. I think my husband is starting to suspect something. Also, now that he has his own office, he's home in the evenings so you can't come over. I'll never forget you. Love, Your Pooky Bear

After I faxed it to the PH, I called him and said, "I'll fax you something in a minute. I just had to fax something to someone else."

"Very funny," he said.

I thought so.