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).

Don't let SJ fool you. She didn't get pregnant for the blog-- she did it for me.

So, exciting times around here, huh? Although that's about all the excitement I can take until the funny kids arrive in the fall. So don't expect any more big announcements from us, unless SJ finds out she's having twins (ha! I love the look on her face when I say that!)

If you've come to know me at all through this blog, you know that I am not capable of-- say-- calling kat's lil sis and simply announcing, "SJ is pregnant too!" Nope. Instead, I called lil sis and said, "So I take it you're not going to be pregnant with me."

And she FREAKED OUT. "KAT, are you kidding? I had a baby three months ago!"

I replied, "I just thought it would be nice to be pregnant with someone."

She continued yelling, "Did you really think I was going to get pregnant so soon. Are you crazy?"

I think she would have kept going, but I interrupted and said, "I wanted someone to be pregnant with. Lucky for you, I convinced SJ to do it instead."

Silence. Then, "SJ is pregnant?" and all sorts of celebration on the other end of the phone (I'm guessing it was part excitement for SJ and part relief that I didn't seriously expect her to be pregnant again).

As I said in the comments (and have said to SJ in person a bunch of times), Congratulations! I'm excited to have someone to go through all of this pregnancy craziness with, I think it will be cool to have our kids so close in age (we joke that they are destined to be best friends or future spouses) and, on behalf of little sis, thanks for getting pregnant so she didn't have to.

Oh 47, you sly thing, you...

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

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

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

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

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

This is why I will not be moving until at least next year...

Dear SJ,

Selling a house S-U-C-K-S. I mean, I'm not going to blow smoke up your butt. It's terrible. I think the only reason I survived it was because a lot of our stuff was still packed in boxes from when we had moved in a year before.

Showings are a pain in the butt because it means having to get your dog out of the house, erase all indications a dog lives there, clean up anything that has accumulated since the last showing, turn on all the lights (that's a little hint from an old pro at this...) and find somewhere to go-- harder than it sounds because even if you have a million stops to make on your way home from work, inevitably, you will not have anything that needs to get done or any way to fill your time for the hour you need to stay away from home. Oh, and don't get me started on the phone call you will receive at work from someone in the realtor's office saying, "I know you indicated you need 24-hour notice, but these buyers are right around the corner and want to stop in at your house. Is that OK?"

But, you know what? It's worth it in the end. I guess it's like childbirth where you forget how painful it was just as soon as you lay eyes on the baby (or so I've heard...). Because the cleaning? The having to vacate your house for an hour at a time? The open houses? The last minute showings? Won't matter at all the day your offer on a new house is accepted.

So, I wish you an offer $30,000 over your asking price from the first people to walk through your house, an appropriate closing date and the current owners of the house of your dreams accepting your offer for $100,000 less than what the house is worth. And, short of that, I have a cabinet full of (your) liquor I'm willing to crack open at any hour, including the one you need to stay out of your house for while a buyer walks through.

Yours 'til the martinis run dry,

FunnyGal KAT

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

A true friend...

The Pretend Husband and I took a little detour after his softball game yesterday and ended up at the SJ manse. The one SJ and J have been furiously cleaning and touching up in preparation for putting it on the market. And while we did little more than admire their work and instill fear into them about how much it sucks to have your house on the market (you're welcome, SJ!), you know what they gave us? Alcohol.

There was some explanation about putting a piece of furniture into storage and having nowhere to keep the bottles, but my brain pretty much switched into alcohol beverage recipe mode and I missed the reasoning. Because when someone gives you free booze in a variety of flavors, you don't ask questions.

And when someone not only hands over a bunch of alcohol but then throws in some furniture for kat's lil bro's new house? You keep that friend for life.

(Hey SJ, martinis at my house anytime you need to vacate your house for a showing!)

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"

This may explain why I don't have many friends...

Sending an email to my college friend Tiffany the other day reminded me about one of my funniest stories-- and the best practical joke I ever pulled. Tiffany was the first person I met on our first day at college and was my roommate in our senior year. I should explain that Tiffany is from Great Britain and A LOT more reserved than I am (she's totally fun, but definitely more refined than yours truly). So she made a great target for my practical jokes just because it was so fun to shake her up a bit.

One time, as we were sitting on our beds studying, I offered her the last pierogi on my plate. She declined. "C'mon." "No, thanks." "I don't want to waste it. Please take it." "No thank you." "If I throw it at you, will you eat it?" "Well, OK." So I launched the pierogi across the room, it smacked the wall above Tiffany's head then fell onto her lap. And she ate it.

Anyway, as we approached graduation, I came up with the best practical joke ever. Tiffany and I were in the marching band at our school for our freshmen year before she quit. I stayed in another two years and, for some reason, had acquired some letterhead from the band director. Rather than letting it go to waste, I composed a letter to Tiffany saying that records showed she had never turned in the school's flute after she quit. The letter said she would have to pay $500 for the missing instrument and that the dean had been notified so she would not be allowed to graduate until she did.

Then, I put it among the other envelopes from our shared mailbox, gave her the stack and hung around to await her reaction. She.went.nuts. It was probably the most unrefined I'd ever seen her. She was ranting and swearing and saying, "They had three years to tell me. Why would they wait until right before graduation?!?" Keeping a straight face, I made things worse by saying things like, "Well, do you still have the flute? You should just give it back."

She got more and more angry until she decided to call the band director and give him a piece of her mind. I stopped her as she picked up the phone and let her in on the joke, which she took well. And, to be honest, after writing this out, I have to say I'm surprised she stayed friends with me. I like to think I made her life a little more exciting.

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.

Just think how excited I'll be when he starts walking...

The day the Pretend Husband and I flew into Georgia for our nephew Peyton's baptism was the day the little guy mastered the art of clapping (uh, perhaps I should clarify that Peyton is the little guy here, not the PH). So, as soon as he showed off his new talent, I cheered, "Yaaaaay, Peyton!" And, because I want to encourage this skill (let's face it, at eight months, he doesn't have many of them yet), I cheered each and every time he clapped.

Clap, clap.

"Yaaaaay, Peyton!"

Peyton giggles.

Clap, clap.

"Yaaaaay, Peyton!"

Peyton giggles.

Clap, clap.

"Yaaaaay, Peyton!"

Peyton giggles.

Clap, clap.

"Yaaaaay, Peyton!"

Peyton giggles.

Clap, clap.

"Yaaaaay, Peyton!"

Peyton giggles.

And on and on and on... I wish I had counted, but I seriously think I cheered, "Yaaaaay, Peyton!" about 500 times in the six days we were there. To the point where kat's lil sis thinks the first time he claps after we leave, he's going to look around like, "Uh, hello? I clapped! Where's that lady who cheers for me?"

Don't get me wrong, I would cheer for Peyton 500 more times if it meant getting to spend time with him. But I am going through some withdrawal from all that encouragement... and I think the PH is wondering why I stood outside the bathroom door this morning cheering him on.

Georgia on my mind...

Dear Peyton,

Thank you for the wonderful photos-- you are as cute as ever! I bet you are even cuter in person... and I would be able to verify that if only your Uncle [PH] would get his act together and order our plane tickets already! Please don't take it personally-- he's just very cheap and wants to make sure he gets the best deal. In fact, he was considering making us take the train down (20 hours on the train!) until he found out it was almost as expensive as a plane ticket (only four hours on the plane!) While most people would have rejected the train idea purely because of the time issue, I can assure you your Uncle PH still would have done it if it meant saving a couple more bucks.

I will keep telling your Uncle PH that a trip to Georgia means all those Wii games played late into the night with his brother-in-law get to be in person (perhaps you shouldn't listen to their language when that happens-- you don't need to know what "Suck it!" means just yet...)

I hope to see you very soon and will have plenty of kisses for you (and the loudest, flashiest, most inappropriate toy I can find... as long as I can sneak it past your mom).

Love, Aunt Busty

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'.

Oscar Night: Someone get the popcorn.

I don't usually do this kind of blog. And by usually, I mean ever.

I decided since my original Oscar night plans fell through, it doesn't mean the glamour has to be missed (was going to attend glamorous party in fantastic blue retro inspired dress, but j and I are having a rough weekend. and he's leaving for KC first thing in the a.m.). So because of this, I chose to bake and stay home and record my thoughts via text (to various friends, but notably, our blogger friends -- Poor, Pat. It must be annoying for someone who doesn't watch many movies but has much to say about people's outfits to randomly text you.) and Twitter, where I laughed out loud at our friend Andy.

I didn't watch any of the red carpet stuff until we got home. I turned in at 8 p.m. Now, I love me some Oscar fashions. Mostly, I am jealous. Mostly, I envy their perfect size 2 figures.

However. That said, I also think that if I had their budgets and figures, I could do better.

See?

I figured, no sense letting this great outfit go to waste. So I'm dressed up, old Hollywood style. It seems only right.

My initial thoughts on fashion:
Someone has stolen the sleeves off of Kate Winslett and Marissa Tomei's dresses.
Daniel Craig has to stand 10 feet away from Carrie.. I mean SJP in order to give enough room to her dress.
Jessica Biel, fire your stylist.
Amy Adams - love that necklace.
Anne Hathaway. Meh. Looks like Xanadu - the ballet.
The girl from Mamma Mia looks awesome.
The girl from High School Musical looks like someone went a little crazy with the bows.
Tilda Swinton is really beautiful. Last year, she scared me a little.
Angelina Jolie could probably wear a bag and look awesome.
Mickey Rourke scares me this year.
The girl from Slumdog Millionaire looks gorgeous.
Reese also looks like her dress changed its mind. It was going to have wide straps. And then, no. Narrow straps.


Other Oscar moments:
I was so hoping for song and dance with Hugh Jackman. He didn't disappoint.
FTW: did SJP actually introduce Matthew Broderick to an interviewer? Say what?
I forgot Roy Scheider died.
And I also forgot about Richard Widmark.
And the girl from Gone With the Wind.
And Cid Charese!
I was wondering what happened to the Heath picture, and then I figured they must have done something last year, because he died in January 2008.
"Wow. Slumdog Millionaire won again."

And granted, they're not over yet. But I'm going to guess that Slumdog wins best picture, and go to bed. I am hoping that Kate Winslett wins. Because she's awesome.

Let me know if I was wrong about Slumdog. I'm heading to bed.

what I do when my husband isn't home part 2

i sent this pic to my husband who had to work on monday. i did not. i also informed him that i picked up the dog poop in the yard and reminded him we had plans for dinner with KAT and SRG and their hubbies.



he told me i was the best wife ever. i think, however, if he had other wives, i probably wouldn't retain that title. and we probably wouldn't be married.

as for dinner? such a great time. as always. i love SRG and KAT oodles, mostly because they are fun and don't pick on me for wearing renaissance outfits and singing to twos of people. oh wait. they *do* pick on me for that. but i love them anyway. silly bitches.

current itunes song: "all my friends" LCD Soundsystem featuring Franz Ferdinand

From SJ to SJ

Dear Ass,

I'm really sorry I fell on you today when attempting to walk down the stairs.

In my defense, you should be smaller, then you'd be easier to haul around.

Love,
SJ

***
Dear Feet,

WTF? Why must you always let me down? Do I not provide you with the finest in fashionable footwear? Do I not limit the amount of times I wear high heels out of respect for your feelings?
And this is how you repay me?

Not cool, feet.

Sincerely,
SJ

***
Dear Mind,

I don't know where you've gone to, but I wish you'd come back.

I'm lost without you.

Yours,
SJ

SJ's Adventures in Animal Husbandry

So I was in 4H as a child, as I've previously discussed. You'd think that would have prepared me for my afternoon adventures pimping out rabbits.

It didn't.

What's that, you ask? You want me to elaborate on pimping out rabbits?

You asked for it.

J and I stopped by to visit my parents, like we try to do every weekend. Only this time, on our way out to the little barn in back, dad asked us to "breed the bunnies."

me: "Wait, what?"
dad: "You were a 4H-er."

I was. But for the record, my trophies were in Wood Working and Flower Arranging.

Ergo, comedy ensues.

We figured really, how hard can it be? Put the male bunny into the female bunny's hutch, and let them have at it. We figured that can't be hard. So we take the black (male) bunny, and put it into the hutch of the white with black female lop bunny. My goal here was to try and get a black lop bunny out of the deal. I realize there's a science here, but, I was kind of more relying on the fact that there are only two colors at work here, and one black bunny plus one black and white bunny equals at least one black bunny.

J holds up on the hutch as I grab the black bunny and put him into the hutch of the shy black and white bunny. I felt badly. I mean. I should have at least given her some flowers? Maybe turn on some music? Within 10 seconds, the black bunny was. Um. "Finished."

"Do you think they want to cuddle?" J asked.
The black bunny stomped his haunches. I scolded him. "That is *not* how you win her love and affection."

All in all, the first one went off without a hitch. I wasn't sure, however, if I should have put a curtain up so the other female couldn't see what was going on.

As it turns out, I probably should have.

Next we tried to mate the male grey bunny with the other lop - a pretty white with brown and grey spots. Let me just stipulate that my father swears that the lops were both female.

So imagine my surprise when I put the grey male in and the lop mounts him immediately. He didn't so much as put up a fight! We were floored. Not as floored, however, as when the male then mounted the female's head.

"They're doing it wrong!"
"What do we do?"
"Get him! I feel like I'm watching Oz!"

We let them go. um. after each other a few more times. And then the two of them laid down in the corner.

"OH MY GOD! They're cuddling!"
"He's gay."
"He's NOT GAY! He's sensitive."

Finally, without a small degree of scurrying, I managed to grab the grey one and put him back in his hutch.

And then we had to explain this to my parents. Which, honestly, can be a little awkward. Go ahead. I dare you. Try to explain the concept of the male mounting the female's head to your mother.

"I know what it's called when *humans* do it... but..."

All in all, I'm not sure I'm cut out to run a bunny brothel. I think maybe next time, I'll leave it to the experts.

If anyone from Child Protective Services is reading this, I swear it's not indicative of my ability to care for children...

I made chocolate chip cookies the other night and, of course, one of my favorite parts of the process is where I get to snack on the raw dough. As I did, I started thinking about other types of baked goods that are delicious even in raw form and thought about how fun it would be to let my kids lick the spoon while we baked together.

But then I remembered a blog I read where the writer posted a photo of her kid licking the batter off a spoon and people fah-reaked the heck out. OMG! Salmonella! Your child is going to die!

C'mon, really? Is this something we should be worrying ourselves silly about? You, how many times did you end up in the hospital near death as a child because your mom let you lick the spoon that may or may not had some raw egg residue on it? Oh, that many? Really? Wow.

OK, you're not a good example. Let's take me, for example. It never happened to me. I ate all sorts of things as a kid and did all sorts of things and got (mildly) injured in all sorts of manners (we joke that my parents could only afford to send two of their three kids to college, so it was survival of the fittest to see who survived childhood and got to go). And, eh. 

Let the kids have a little batter, I say. It's not like any of us know anyone who died from it. Oh wait, you do? Three people? Remind me never to use you as an example again.

Things Not to Do On a Date

First off, I know. I'm a serious blog slacker this week and last week. I'm really sorry. I'm making the rounds tonight, however, as I drink my third martini.

(Note from SJ: I started this Friday, but finishing Saturday. In the 24 hour period, I've had four martinis. I consider that a decent average. In fact, I should really make another one.)

My comments will likely get funnier, however -- so there's that.

But I was inspired by a friend of mine and a show that he saw that was seriously disturbing. Except that it wasn't the concert that was disturbing. It was in fact, the serious PDA issue going on.

So we had a discussion about the serious mistakes we've witnessed (or in my case, actually experienced) over the years. It brought me to this here list of skin crawling dating moments -- and just plain "you're doing it wrong" moments in my romantic life.

1) Your tongue is not a weapon.
I hope you've never experienced it -- but sadly, I bet a few of you may know what I'm talking about. Guys, when you stab your tongue so deeply and violently into our mouths that we can no longer breathe, it's not enjoyable. And that gagging noise is me begging for oxygen. Or trying to tell you something but can't form proper sounds because you have stifled me with TOO MUCH tongue. Incidentally, it is *never* okay to lick someone's face. Unless your name is Bailey and you're my springer spaniel.

2) DUDE. Get Your Hands... Off...
There are few things worse than being inappropriately groped in public -- particularly when you're, say, in line at the grocery store. There's a limit to my love. And that limit is in plain sight when I could run into my kindergarten teacher, or worse, my mom.

3) Ouch. Stop. Stabbing me with your chin.
Have you ever met the angry kisser? I have. He used to attack me. I'm not sure if he was so afraid of rejection that his method of attempting to kiss me was to do it machine gun style, but whatever the reason, it was a scary thing. I tended to dodge. I dodged once and nearly got a black eye, however. Note: This is far worse if the dude has sharp, pointy facial hair.

4) The neck grab.
Okay - now, I admit, that I do sometimes like a little -- minor -- forcefulness. Like for instance, we're in a heated debate over the election of 1912 (which, is highly possible. Have you met my husband? History geek. And I love him for it), and in order to shut me up, he decides to kiss me. Okay, so my husband doesn't do this - but I wouldn't mind if he did. However -- what is *not* okay is when the dude wrestles you from behind and puts you in a chokehold. This is least effective when the guy is your height or shorter than you. I'm not sure why they think the Vulcan neck pinch is acceptable and necessary to kiss you.

5) The Stone Lipped Man.
Have you met him? He's a really super awesomely nice guy. But somehow, he managed to turn 26 without ever learning how to kiss. I was about 22. We dated a few times, and he refused to make a move. Finally, one night after cooking me dinner, he attempted to kiss me. Only he somehow replaced his lips when I wasn't looking with cold, hard marble. It was just. I mean. No. Not good.

6) Sand paper face.
Before every date, I make a point to shave my legs. Even now, when my dates are going to Home Depot with my husband -- still I shave my legs. But goodness. Those make out sessions with guys who don't shave -- OUCH. I like having skin on my face. And I like kissing you. Don't make me choose.

7) The questionable move.
Maybe I don't speak for all women, but I know I speak for most of the ones I know: don't make us make the first move. It can be subtle. We don't need a hollywood kiss. Just maybe -- the brush of your lips across the cheek. A forehead kiss. Something sweet, romantic and subtle enough to let us know that you're into us. There's nothing worse than those limbo dates. And trust me - we do analyze these moments for hours on end. No pressure.

I'm sure I missed some things... and I would be willing to bet that our reading public has some good stories. So, let's hear them. Worse dating faux pas? Anybody? Is this thing on?

I'd like to thank the Academy... and Sam

I won an award! I'm so honored... although I suspect that this one will be a particular challenge.

I won this:



Which is totally awesome. Thank you, Sam! I heart you and your awesome blog...

But there are rules to follow, kids, so I can't get ahead of myself. I have to do these things:

A) first list 10 honest things about yourself - and make it interesting, even if you have to dig deep!
B) pass the award on to 7 bloggers that you feel embody the spirit of the Honest Scrap."

This is going to be tricky, because I have been telling you all too much about myself for a long time now. What could you *possibly* not know?

well, let's give it a whirl, shall we?

SJ's 10 Honest Confessions
1) I am a nester, a packrat and a mess. I accumulate crap so much - I have no idea where it all comes from. But I collect things in piles, and when I clean, I tend to go in the opposite direction and trash large amounts of things (though not blindly, because I also tend to take DAYS to fill two garbage bags).

2) I am terrified of being alone at night -- and being alone in general. When j is traveling, I keep the light on downstairs, and usually can't fall asleep without a few glasses of wine. While I would never remarry, I would likely have a string of bad relationships. I say this based on previous experience.

3) I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. I don't plan to stay in my current field beyond the next two years. I'm hoping my next job allows me to work in sweat pants and on my couch.

4) I am a fairly private person -- well, you know... except for all of the crap I spill on the blog. But I can count on one hand the people that know my deepest, darkest thoughts and secrets. I am afraid of any one person knowing me too well, so I tend to share only small pieces of things to those five.

5) If a can of frosting is left in the fridge, I will eat it. Ergo, I only make homemade frosting.

6) I have a deep and passionate lust for DVF clothing, though my closet is limited to just one dress and one skirt. But my closet bursts forth with another 12 black dresses, 4 black skirts, and another half dozen shirt dresses of varying color and pattern.

7) I have used the power of my cleavage to my advantage, and I likely will again.

8) I am easily grated by people who claim to be addicted to exercise. In fact, I can't stand those people.

9) I hate meeting new people, and have intense anxiety about going to new places and being forced to mingle. I'd prefer to pluck out every single one of my eyelashes.

10) I cannot drink out of a bottle that someone else is drinking out of -- no matter who it is. The idea of drinking someone's backwash is enough to turn my stomach.

And now I must tag and offer this award up to 7 deserving bloggy buddies... which is tricky. Because some of my favorite people to tag have already been tagged a million times. So, I'm going to emphasize new and old favorite bloggers worthy of such an award:

srg
TishTash
Muffy
Stephanie
Geiger Girl
KAT (is it cheating if I tag my co-blogger? I submit not.)
Chris