Painting Walls vs. Painting Toenails

Given my current state (7 months pregnant and counting), I’ve reached the point where I can no longer contort my body into odd positions in order to paint my toenails. So you can imagine the predicament I found myself in this weekend when I realized that the pedicure I got for my birthday last month was looking a little shall we say, less than perfect. (SIDE NOTE: I don’t want to even go into details about how I was able to make this discovery. For now, I’ll simply say that I have a couple of pulled muscles, and a small bruise on my bum.)

Back to the problem at hand…My pedicure was wearing thin, and I couldn’t reach my own toes anymore to remedy the situation. What to do? What to do? I was pondering this very thought when my husband entered the TV room, paint brush and bucket in hand, ready to tackle the walls with a fresh coat of gray paint. (SIDE NOTE: My husband has taken the concept of “nesting” to a whole new level with his painting frenzy over the past few weeks, as he’s been busy painting every single room except for the baby’s. Seriously, our house has gone from boring old dingy-colored off-white dirty walls all throughout to various shades of cream, white, gray, black and brown.)

As my husband proceeded to spread out newspapers and dip his paint brush into the can, I remembered a conversation I had earlier with my co-workers regarding my funky-toe situation. Long story short, the consensus around the water cooler was that I should ask my husband to paint my toenails for me.

So I asked in my most sing-songy-I’m the sweetest-wife-that-ever-lived voice: “Hey honey…”

“Yes?” He said, raising an eyebrow and re-dipping his brush in the paint.

“Do you think, that is, could you do me a favor and maybe kinda sorta paint my toenails for me?” I rushed out in one fast breath because I thought for sure his answer would be ‘No.’

My husband dunked the brush back in the paint and proceeded to spread it across the wall. For a moment, I thought he didn’t hear my question, but then he finally shrugged and responded: “Well, I’ve been painting walls for the past few weeks…I think I can handle painting your toenails.”

Well, my husband was able to handle painting my toenails just fine. What he was not able to handle was my reaction to his “joke” that my feet smelled bad. For some reason (I blame pregnancy hormones), I burst into tears as soon as he made the comment that I needed to “wash my stinky feet before he would go anywhere near them.”

I’m not exaggerating in the least when I say that it took a full 10 minutes of my water works, followed by a good foot scrubbing in the tub and repeated apologies from my husband before I would let him touch my feet again.

And ya know what? He didn’t do half bad…Check it out:

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Baby Needs What?!

My husband and I spent the good part of Sunday afternoon “registering” for the baby yesterday.

I guess you could have looked at the fact that we couldn’t even FIND the registry desk as some sort of omen that we were two clueless first-time parents, but a nice Babies ‘R’ Us employee pointed out the massive sign that said “Register Here,” and my husband and I were ready to start scanning.

The woman at the desk was cheerful, and she handed us a questionnaire to complete. It was pretty basic stuff (names of the registrants, addresses, phone number, etc.) until we got to the Grandparents section. There was only enough room for two sets of grandparents. I know that most kids only have four grandparents, but our baby’s extra special cos she’s got SIX. (Think – Divorces and remarriages.) When my husband and I pointed this small fact out, the woman at the desk didn’t really know how to respond.

“Just pick out the best ones, and write those ones down!” She said cheerily.

Right. Ok….?

We scribbled down all of the grandparents names and handed over the form. The registration lady clicked on her keyboard a bit and then handed us a scanner.

“You’re all set. Here’s a list to get your started.”

I looked at the notebook, er “list,” and peered at my husband. “Well, let’s get scanning.” I said.

Naturally, the first item on the list was a crib. “Well, what’s the difference between this one and that one?” My husband asked me, pointing to two separate cribs.

I shrugged. “Well, a lot of things.” (NOTE: Truth be told, I didn’t have a clue what the differences between the two cribs were, other than the fact that one was white and one was cherry wood).

As we meandered around the store, stopping to investigate all of the so-called necessities our baby would need, I began to feel more and more overwhelmed. Everything on the list came with at least 10 different options. And all the while, my husband kept looking at me as if I was supposed to know why we needed one kind of stroller over another. (Although I’m pretty sure I convinced him that we needed the one we registered for because it had built in speakers for an MP3 player.)

Ironically, we did end up scanning quite a few items…Even if the best reason we could think of was that we liked the color.

I’m not due for a few more months, so I’m asking YOU, CluelessMe Blog readers, for some advice. What the heck does a baby really need?

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Panty Raid

A funny thing happened last week…I came home to find my husband knee deep in a pile of my unmentionables with a confused look on his face.

“Um…What are you doing?” I asked.

“Do you know how many bras, underwears and pairs of socks you have?” He asked in a somewhat incredulous tone.

“Not exactly,” I hesitated. “A few.”

“A few?” He stood up and brushed a pair of underwear off his pant leg. “You have a lot more than just a few! In fact, you own 25 bras, 50 underwears and 50 pairs of socks!”

I stared down at the ground like a little kid being scolded, trying to come up with my defense.

“So…?” I said.

My husband when on: “So?! You realize that if we didn’t do the laundry, that means that you have enough bras to last you for a month, and enough underwear and socks to last you for two months!”

I looked at the pile of my intimates at his feet and shrugged casually, “Yeah, but you don’t understand…I’ve got different things for different occasions.” I explained. “For example, this (I picked up a lacy bra) is not for every day wear. Remember the lingerie debate we had a while back?”

My husband looked at me with a blank stare.

“And these socks (I pulled out a pair of grey hannukah socks) are usually worn around, well, Hannukah.” I said. “And these (I picked up a pair of underwear) I wear when I workout only because they’re the most comfortable.”

My husband shifted his weight, unconvinced that I needed each and every undergarment item lying in that pile.

“We’re trying to downsize to make room in our closet, hon.” He said. “Surely, you could choose some of these to give away to charity? I mean…Do you really need THAT many bras, panties and socks?!”

I was quiet for a moment before I answered, then I took a deep breath, stomped my foot down, and said: “YES!”

“No you don’t.” My husband disagreed.

Ladies, help me out here…Am I really bonkers for having so many unmentionables? Or do these items fall under the same category as shoes and handbags…In that, a woman can NEVER have too many of either of those.

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The Leaning Sukkah Of Flores

Today on I am going to walk you through what happens when the Flores Family attempts to make this for the first time:

Why did my husband and I decide to take it upon ourselves to build a wooden box big enough to fit a table and some chairs in it? You see…Every fall, Jews all over the world celebrate a little known holiday called Sukkot (pronounced “sue coat”). I’ll quickly breeze through the religious lesson and jump right into the chaos you might expect from a day in the life of Nikki Flores in a few moments…

To give those of you who aren’t familiar with this somewhat elusive holiday,  I’ll try my best to explain it. On this particular holiday, Jews have to literally construct temporary living quarters and proceed to live in them for a week (within reason). “Dwelling in the sukkah” usually boils down to inviting friends and family over for lunch or dinner. I know it sounds crazy, but we build these ‘tiki huts’ and live in them in an attempt re-enact what life was like for us when we wandered for 40 years in the desert during Biblical times.

Now that the brief history lesson is out of the way, I’ll proceed with the night’s events. Keep in mind, that we have never built one of these huts (sukkahs) before because prior to this year, we were living in rental property. And I’m pretty sure our neighbors wouldn’t have appreciated us building a hut on a shared driveway that blocked them from pulling their cars into the garage. But since we FINALLY have our own home, (and yes the house stories are coming,) we thought it was time to tackle a sukkah.

We started with a simple blue print (see below), and walked away with A LOT of general observations….

Observation #1: Building a sukkah is A LOT harder than it looks.
Googling “How to Build a Sukkah” and then scanning the above diagram for 10 minutes does NOT magically turn you into the Michelangelo of sukkah builders. Believe me, I know that now!

Observation #2: Don’t let your husband mix alcohol with power tools.
After peering at the above diagram for the prescribed 10 minutes, don’t simply believe your husband when he says: “Oh this will be easy!” while he pulls the trigger on a power tool in one hand and chugs a beer with the other. Trust me, he’s lying!

Observation #3: Brush up on your 1st grade math skills.
Simply put, 2 inches + 2 inches = 4 inches. Keeping this small fact in mind, attempting to attach two 2-inch boards together (that’s 4-inches thick, people) with a 1 & 5/8″ screw will not work. You can save yourself a lot of time if you figure this out before you screw in an entire wall just to have it fall apart as you lift it up. (Side note: I blame this minor setback on Observation #2.)

Observation #4: Preparation is key.
Let me tell you…Two people (both of which are somewhat vertically challenged) trying to build an 8-foot-tall structure should really take the time to invest in a ladder before starting to build. If you don’t believe me, make sure to read the next three observations.

Observation #5: Flipping over an 8-foot sukkah is not easy.
It is not a brilliant idea to make up for the lack of a ladder by deciding to build the sukkah upside down and then just flipping it over when you are done. Why? Because the sukkah will inevitably begin to fold in on itself during the flipping process…Especially if you neglected to add those support beams the diagram initially said was so essential.

Observation #6: Use proper support.
Make sure to buy all of the lumber illustrated in the aforementioned blue print before trying to assemble everything. For example, never say you don’t really need the diagonal supports and then start to panic when you realize that you really did need those supports. Not buying all of the lumber (in addition to not paying attention to observation #2) will lead you to make rash decisions like kicking the rungs out of your back porch deck and using those to keep your sukkah from toppling over. Which leads me to my next point…

Observation #7: When your husband is impaired, so is his balance.
This means it is not a good idea to substitute a sturdy ladder with a dining room chair. This also means that it’s not wise to have your husband balance on the back of said dining room chair, while simultaneously drilling in the newly discovered ‘support beams.’ Believe me when I tell you that he will fall. And not just once, but your intoxicated husband will definitely fall all six times that he attempts the acrobatic feat.

Observation #8:  Build the sukkah on a flat surface.
Sure, my husband and I were finally able to get our sukkah to stand, albeit…It’s by no means straight, and I’m not entirely sure that it would stand up to the Big Bad Wolf should he decide to come huffing and puffing and try to blow the tiny crooked house in…But alas…It is what it is.

So without further ado, I introduce you to the Great Leaning Sukkah of Flores (Along with the drunken Jewish carpenter who assembled it a.k.a. my husband):

To quote my husband: "Mission accomplished."

Like I said, around this time every year, Jews recreate life in the desert to commemorate the festival of Sukkot. And this year I learned that had the Flores clan been wandering in the desert, we would not have survived.

NOTE: Hopefully, adding the walls won’t be as hard. They are just tarps. That should be easy! Right?

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What NOT to Do When Throwing a Surprise Party

As many of you may know, I decided to take it upon myself to throw my husband a surprise party for his 30th birthday two weeks ago. How did it go? Well, let’s just say that after the whole fiesta went down, I was able to come up with a list of what NOT to do when throwing a surprise party…

1) Whatever you do, don’t throw a surprise 30th birthday party in the middle of August at a house that doesn’t have central air conditioning. Two letters: B.O. Nuf said.

2) And don’t assume that everyone at the party will eat…Even if you’ve taken the liberty to explicitly write on the invite that the party will be a COOKOUT. Miraculously, all of the guests will either be “on a diet” the day of the surprise party or they “already ate” before coming. Trust me. Failing to listen to this one piece of advice will save you from having enough uncooked meat and potato salad to feed the population of a small country.

3) Do not, under any circumstances, decide to plan the surprise party with your in-laws. There are two more people who have input on the agenda, menu and guest list. That’s two more opinions to deal with on every. single. aspect. And you end up with ludicrous suggestions like: We don’t really need any alcohol at the party. *Shudders*
Let’s have the birthday boy register at Home Depot.
What?!? Who registers for a surprise birthday party?!?! Not to mention, if one were to register for a surprise birthday party, wouldn’t it, in effect, be no longer a surprise?!?

4) Repeat these words: I don’t know. Again. Good. Now again. And again. And again. I want you to be VERY familiar with this phrase because it’s all you’re going to be saying the day of the party.

Nikki, where is the bug spray? Nikki, where should I hang these decorations? Nikki, where are the coolers? Nikki, do you have sunscreen? Nikki, where is the bathroom? Nikki, where can I park? Nikki, who is this person? Nikki, how old is your husband turning?

All together now: I DON’T KNOW!

5) For the love of God, make sure you have a grill BEFORE you decide on a cookout for your  surprise birthday party. Because trying to convince your husband that he really should have the grill his parents are gifting him picked out and delivered to the house by his birthday for no better reason then “because you just should” won’t work. If you don’t get the grill beforehand, you’re going to wind up in tears, while nearly blowing the “surprise” in the process. Need I mention, having the grill in place well in advance would also help you avoid creatively transporting the grill two days prior to the party.

6)Finally, when your in-laws tell you they’re going to come down a day early and stay in a hotel, make sure that they truly understand the meaning of the words: STAY IN THE HOTEL. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself struggling to form sentences when your husband asks the night before the party: “Hey hon…Why is there a car that looks exactly like my parents car parked across the street from our house with its hazards on?”

    Heed my advice you future surprise party planners, and you just might be able to pull off a better one than I did!

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    From Grill Walk to Freeway Grilling

    It’s been almost three years since we got hitched, and thus, the Clueless Newlywed part of my life is long since gone.  That being said, last week’s mayhem made me realize that I may not be a newlywed any longer but Nikki Flores is still very much clueless and very much married to an even far more clueless husband.  So what inspired me to sit down, begin writing and launch  A near déjà vu moment in which my husband managed to out-do one of his crazy ideas.

    It’s been what…Eight months since my last post as a newlywed, in which I shared the joys of pushing a grill for a good mile from our old place to our new one? You remember now, right?

    Alas…Tonight’s topic is a similar one–In that it involves moving a grill from point A to point B. However, the method of accomplishing such a feat changed a bit. In fact, you might even say that my husband matured a little in these last 8 months. (Shocking, I know!) This time around, he actually came up with the idea to rent a truck from Lowe’s to aid us in transporting our new grill from the store to our NEW house.

    So…Picture it.

    It’s 7:45pm, and two Lowe’s store associates lifted this massive grill up onto the truck’s bed and proceeded to  “securely attach” it to the vehicle.

    “So, uh…We’re cool to go on the freeway, right?” My husband asked, as the store associates wrapped what looked like the thinnest piece of white fishing line I’ve ever seen around the grill.

    “Oh yeah!” One of the associates replied a little too confidently as he tied a knot with the fishing line from the grill to the truck. “This rope is sturdy. As long as it’s not too windy, and you don’t take any sharp turns…Oh yeah, and be careful accelerating, and make sure that you don’t break too fast.” He tied one last knot and finished with: “And just ignore the warning lights in the vehicle.  It’s been like that for months.”

    My husband threw me the keys and said. “You’re driving!”

    Now I hate trucks. I absolutely despise them! Why?  Because I am a mere 4 feet 11 inches tall, so I literally need a running start and small pole jump just to get up into the driver’s seat!  And if that weren’t enough, even after scooting my chair up the inch those trucks allow, I still can’t reach the pedals.  I literally have to drive with my tip toes while barely being able to see over the steering wheel.  I look like an 80 year old bubbie in a Cadillac.  Think I’m kidding?

    See what I mean? I can't reach the pedals and see over the steering wheel at the same time!

    But wait…There’s more.

    So we are leaving Lowe’s as my husband laughs at my attempt to maneuver this tank of a truck, while keeping one eye on the grill to make sure it stayed put. And it did.

    That is…Until I turned onto the entrance ramp of the freeway and the “rope” broke.We hadn’t even driven a mile, hadn’t even hit 45 mph before the grill decided to make a break for freedom.

    I began to pull over to the side of the entrance ramp, and before I could even come to a complete stop, my husband jumps out the door and swings onto the back of the truck.  I swear it was like some hillbilly version of a Tom Cruise action flick (only my hubby’s not nearly as cute as him and instead of saving a girl, he was saving a grill).

    “Go just go!” I heard him scream. I stomped on the gas and barely squeezed in front of a semi onto the highway.

    With my husband now anchored somewhere behind the grill, I attempted to drive the truck I so affectionately nick-named ‘The Beast.’ Again, because of my height, driving ‘The Beast’ was one hell of a challenge.

    Eventually, I got the hang of it…Driving turned into a carefully balanced juggling act of positioning myself high enough to see over the steering wheel for about 30 seconds, only to lose my footing on the gas pedal and have to slouch down again. I suppose you could describe my impeccable driving skills as a 20-minute rendition of a human body mimicking an accordion.  Stretch, squeeze, stretch, squeeze. Make sure the road’s clear. Use the gas, make sure the road’s clear, use even more gas. Not to mention, when I exited the freeway, I had to drive on one of the bumpiest roads ever in order to get to my house.

    As I pulled into our driveway and stopped abruptly, I rolled down my window and yelled back to my husband, “Hey hon! You alright?”

    After a long pause, I heard a meager whimper of a response. “Yes.”

    I jumped out of the truck, walked around to the back and saw this:

    “Can we never do that again?” he said, trembling a bit as a he climbed out of the back of the truck.

    Now the real question is……..In the middle of this story I said NEW house!  So what happened between grill story number 1 and grill story number 2?  That’s what I can’t wait to tell you about next.  Stay tuned and welcome to the new!

    NOTE: The site may be up-and-running, but it’s a work-in-progress, so bare with me as I perfect it. And if you’ve been wondering what I’ve been up to in the past 8 months, stay tuned cos I’m going to catch you up!

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    CluelessMe’s Grill Walk

    “Honey, do you want to go for a walk over to our new house?”

    I knew something was up from the very moment my husband posed this question to me the other day, but I went along with it because I was curious.

    You see…Getting my husband to agree to walk the dogs with me is about as difficult as getting my husband to throw an empty milk carton into the trash…It’s damn near impossible!

    “Really?” I responded. “You want to take a walk with the dogs and me?”

    He smiled wryly. “Sure…It’s a nice day. Why don’t you put the leashes on the dogs and meet me out front?”

    “OK,” I said hesitantly. My husband went outside as I pulled on my boots and leashed up the pups.

    This can’t be good. I thought to myself as I turned the knob to open the front door. I took a deep breath and stepped outside.

    “Hi hon!” My husband said cheerily from the top of the driveway.

    I opened my mouth to speak, but the ruckus that came from behind my husband was so loud that it drowned out my expletives. I blinked and stared for a second, then blinked again, watching my husband trail a massive black blob on wheels all the way down our driveway.

    “Ready?!” He asked when he reached the curb.

    I looked to the heavens and silently asked ‘Why me?” before opening my mouth to respond to him:

    “Hon…Why are we walking the grill?” I asked, as if walking a grill is something that people do every day.

    I’m sure my husband rattled off some random reason about the grill being too dirty to go in our car, and how it was only a mile walk to our new place…But I couldn’t hear him over the loud rattling that came up from the wheels of the grill each time it hit a small imperfection on the street pavement.

    So I did what any gal in my position could do…I proceeded to follow my husband for the mile-long trek to our new house, with two dogs and a grill in tow, trying desperately to bury my face in my hood while ignoring the beeping cars and blocking out inappropriate comments people were yelling as we marched on down the road.

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    Bugged Out

    Are you afraid of bugs? Being that I’m a girl, I can answer this question honestly without having to feel embarrassed. YES.

    If you ask my husband this question though, he’d probably answer ‘NO!’ and puff out his chest a little further to prove that his masculinity is, indeed, in tact. Most people would assume that he was telling the truth. In reality though…My husband is very much afraid of all things creepy-crawly.

    How did I come to this conclusion, you ask? Two words…Sleep deprivation.

    You see, the whole thing started back in August when I first shared with the Clueless Newlywed Blog readers how my husband and I couldn’t sleep on account of our loud neighbors. After trying everything we could possibly think of to remain sleeping in our own bedroom, my hubby and I decided to literally move our bed into the basement (part of which we share with our neighbors,) in order to get some much needed sleep.

    At long last, we were finally able to catch up on some Zzzz’s. Life was good again. Until…We had an incident with an uninvited visitor one night…

    My husband and I were ready to turn in for the night…I knelt down to set the alarm clock when I hear a high-pitched scream coming from behind me. I turned around to see my husband standing on top of the bed, grasping the covers in his hands and peering cautiously down at the floor.

    “Uhhh…What’s going on?” I asked.

    “There’s a giant bug,” my husband gulped, “And it just scurried under the bed.”

    Feeling a little squeamish, I responded, “So kill it!”

    “No way!” My hubby was up on his tip toes now. “That thing was this big!”

    He made a gesture that insinuated that the bug in question was bigger than his index finger. Entirely grossed out at this point because I was envisioning a cockroach (or worse), I joined my husband and hopped up on top of the bed.

    We both stood there, trembling, and not wanting to move.

    After about five minutes of watching and waiting in silence, I convinced my husband that if he moved the bed, I could muster up the strength to squash the critter with my shoe.

    “Alright,” I said to him. “On the count of three…One…Two…Three!”

    I braced myself and prepared to pounce on the most hideous, slimy creature ever to go scurrying out from under the bed.

    What I saw curled in a small ball made me yelp in disbelief.

    Folks…This alleged behemoth of a bug was nothing more than a teeny, tiny house centipede…Seriously, this measly excuse for an insect was no bigger than a centimeter.

    The allegded big, bad, scary bug.

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    CluelessMe’s Husband-Less Weekend

    A funny thing happened this past weekend. My husband had to take a trip to Michigan to meet up with some old friends and music contacts, and I elected not to go. Well, let me back up a moment…

    When my husband first told me that he was going to take a trip to Michigan to meet up with some old friends (and by “friends,” I mean good-looking single women), I insisted that I join him on his little rendez-vous down memory lane.

    Of course, we argued about whether or not it was pertinent that I tag along for this excursion.

    His take: He was meeting up with friends from his old neighborhood, and if I came, I would just feel like a third wheel when they shared memories of times past.

    My take: You’re meeting with hot, single women…I’m coming.

    After we had some time to cool off, my husband talked the idea over with some of our mutual female friends, and they all agreed that if there was going to be attractive women involved with this trip, I had every right to be there.

    So…He approached me to apologize and re-invite me.

    Ironically, I had also done some soul-searching. I got to thinking about the last time my husband asked me to meet up with friends from his past. I had a scary flashback of the disastrous encounter I had with my husband’s ex a couple of months ago, and I decided that it would be better for me to stay at home this time.

    Of course, we ended up fighting again–This time, my husband insisted that I go, and I insisted that I stay.

    Besides, I had already planned out the perfect husband-less weekend…Have a friend over for wine on Friday night, lunch with friends on Saturday then off to a party that night and finish off Sunday with a mani-pedi and a big bowl of ice cream. It would be the ultimate bliss.

    Only…Friday night, after my friend went home, I realized that I missed my hubby. And the party wasn’t as fun as it would have been had my hubby been there with me. Oh, and Sunday…I had a blast with the mani-pedi, and I was  happy that I didn’t have to share my ice cream with my hubby, but all the same, I still missed him…A lot…

    I was dumbfounded. I was so looking forward to a weekend alone, but all I wanted was to be with my husband again.

    And ya know what? I wasn’t the only one.

    When my husband got home late Sunday night, he confessed that while he was chatting it up with the “hot women,” all he could talk about was me and how he couldn’t wait to get home.

    I suppose absence really does make the heart grow fonder, huh?


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    Baby Steps

    Seeing how my husband and I will be moving into our brand new house pretty soon, we’ve been asking around to see if anyone we know might have something that they can contribute. Seeing as how we’re moving from a two-bedroom duplex into a four-bedroom brick colonial…We’re in need of a few minor things here and there to make our house a “home.”

    You know…We need things like…A welcome mat, a mailbox, and oh yeah…all major appliances. I mean it would be difficult to prepare a homecooked meal when you have no fridge and no stove/oven. And I think it would be hard for my husband and I to appear professional at work if we showed up in dirty clothes. Yep, you guessed it…We don’t have a washer or dryer either.  It’s funny how those little house additions can really make a difference in your home, huh?

    At any rate, someone recently answered our furniture prayers…Granted, they couldn’t really offer us any appliances, but they did literally give away some key items that we’re sure to use in our new home…Like a gas grill, a desk and matching chairs, some end tables and a whole lot of baby stuff. That’s right, folks…I’m talking a crib (complete with two sets of crib sheets and two bumper pads), a mobile, a changing table and an infant swing.

    Now before you go making your assumptions, let’s get one thing straight…I am neither pregnant or am I in the “trying” phase, but I am a savvy gal, and I know a good deal when I see one. (Just so we’re clear…In my book, anything free is a good deal.) We’re going to need all that baby stuff eventually, right?

    As my husband and I were transporting the baby things from the back of the U-Haul truck down into our basement, a strange feeling came over us. One of us started smiling and getting all googley-eyed, while the other one started getting flustered, trying to figure out what piece belonged where in the massive jumble of baby furniture. One of us kept sighing and mentioning how it they couldn’t wait to use all of it, while the other one had a mini-panic attack. It was clear that one of us was definitely ready to become a parent, while the other one was…Well, not so much.

    “Honey, is it bad that seeing all this baby stuff makes me excited to be a parent?” My husband asked me, smiling at the tiny teddy bears on the mobile.

    I hesitated…”Uh, is it bad that seeing all this baby stuff makes me nervous about becoming a parent?”

    I bet you all thought that my husband was the one panicking, huh?

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