I admit it looks really silly to have both a sleek, modern phone and a circa 2002 clunker.  But it was all because of my parents (also known as “Sarah’s Mo” and “RWFOTB”)!!

Well, that’s not exactly true… what is true is that the ancient cell phone was like the Batphone to me.  My folks were pretty much the only ones who called it, so it was like their exclusive way to reach me (not to mention a local number for them).  It was my tie to my younger years, my link to a simpler time when phones just rang – no games, no interwebs, no email, just good old-fashioned talking (and a small amount of texting). It is also the most reliable piece of technology I’ve ever owned.  After 10 years, it still works like a charm (and has better reception than my droid, just saying).

But it also made me feel foolish.  Why waste money on a second cell phone, especially one that’s so outdated it’s almost cool again (give it another 20 years and it’ll be a collector’s item; until then it will live in my basement)?  And why carry that thing around and look like I’m the kind of person who still calls it the “world wide web” or the “information superhighway” when I’m really a super hip technology geek?

The answer is clear: it’s time to say goodbye to my soon-to-be-vintage flip phone.  It has been decommissioned, made redundant and disconnected.  I am now a one phone gal.  And I imagine this is kind of what Bruce Wayne felt like when he finally hung up the Batsuit.

I feel ya, Batman!

Enter my gal pal and colleague, Dipika, and our brand new initiative: The Great HindJew Pact of 2012. Together Dipika and I are vowing to battle the bulge, to rediscover our skinny jeans and, most importantly, to feel better about ourselves. How? By making smarter food choices (cough cough portion size cough cough) and committing to a torture regular exercise routine.

Why am I telling you this? Well, we read somewhere that “publicly declaring your goals significantly enhances your chance of success.” So yeah, we’re using you. Thanks for your inadvertent assistance!

And if you’d like to join us in The Great HindJew Pact of 2012, we will welcome you with soon-to-be-unflabby arms!

What’s got my knickers in a twist lately?  Pregnancy!

Or rather, the overzealous, overwhelming, overabundant questions regarding my hypothetical (and at this point, purely fictional!) pregnancy. Friends, family, colleagues, frenemies, even random baristas, stylists, salespeople and hobos (true story) are prying into my obstetric beeswax!

I know I’m not alone in this. It seems like the questions start the second you get hitched. But now that the hubs and I have been married for over a year, the frequency and intensity of questions has become more like an Inquisition.

My question is: how do you deflect these questions?

While I usually answer: “I’m birthing a house!” because, as you know, dealing with our little fixer-upper has been akin to creating new life (and going through a really, really, really long labor), there must be a better way to do it.

Most people ask out of love (or what I assume is love).  People seem to think an Andrew + Sarah combination is just what the world needs, so I don’t want to be insulting – because that is actually very flattering.

But at the same time, it’s a LOT of pressure and, quite frankly, nobody’s business!  So how, dear reader(s), do I handle this?

P.S. I am also aware that some folks are assuming that my “winter padding” is actually a bun in the oven.  Frankly, I’ve been so stressed over the past eight months, that if there was an actual bun in my actual stainless steel oven in my actual kitchen, it wouldn’t last long.  Eating one’s feelings isn’t the same as eating for two.  But here we are.

Being a fairly experienced yid, I thought I was familiar with almost every heeb delicacy, but apparently I was wrong.  I have never, in my thirty-something years on G-d’s green Earth, seen, tasted or heard tell of “Broccoli Rabbi.”  But apparently I’ve been missing out.  Witness:

I prefer Carrot Rabbi!

Sounds… umm… tasty?

P.S. Apparently another Jewish delicacy is also on this odd menu – sort of.  Pastromi?  Really?
It’s pastrami, fools.
Amen!

I had high hopes for 2012, I really did.  This was gonna be my year!  The year when my house became a home, when my job became less “OMG!” and turned into more “FTW,” the year when I finally became a grown-up and stopped making ridiculous mistakes.

It’s January 3 and I’ve already disappointed myself by doing something dumb.  I was in a meeting in Dark Water Fowl’s legal eagle’s office this afternoon and took a sip of water.  From his water glass.  I didn’t realize what I was doing until I finished about half the cup!  And then it hit me, and I didn’t know what to do.

Try as I might, I could barely focus on the “Ts and Cs,” as lawyer-types refer to them, we were discussing.  Instead, I was trying to figure out what to do: admit that I had inadvertently hydrated myself on his water?  Or pretend I didn’t notice and everything was normal and fine and that I hadn’t just co-mingled cooties?  What would a grown-up do?!?!

I left the meeting without acknowledging my faux pas, and I left his half-drunk cup of water on his desk, complete with my Chapstick lip imprint.

When I returned to my desk, I told my colleagues what I had done, and they couldn’t help but tease me.  “It’s like you kissed!” cried one; “That was CLASSIC!” chortled the other.  I was mortified.  But I figured that grown-ups always admit their mistakes, so I had to march back into his office and fess up.

As I shared my little blunder, I noticed he was making a disgusted face.  Great, I thought, he’s totally grossed out!  He probably thinks I have some horrific communicable disease.

But I was wrong.

“You drank that?!” he exclaimed.  “That cup of water has been sitting on my desk since before Christmas!  That’s disgusting!”

Cheers, dear reader(s).

And Happy New Year!

What's in YOUR package?

A few weeks ago my colleagues at Dark Water Fowl and I received a notification that a package we shipped across the pond (that’s England, y’all) had been held by the Fish and Wildlife Agency for further investigation.

As employees of a wicked nerdy software company, it took us a moment to figure out why the Fish and Wildlife Agency would have anything to do with our package.  We hadn’t sent anything inappropriate, illegal, or otherwise suspicious.  We deal in the world of software, not creatures! What was the hold up?

Glad you asked.  The box we sent to jolly old England contained a few hundred of Dark Water Fowl’s mascots: adorable little rubber duckies.  The packing slip said “rubber ducks” – hence the government intervention.  Those fellas are on their game!  (And maybe a little bored…)

Hide your children – plastic toys are migrating!

Dear reader(s), it isn’t easy for a heb like me.

But I’m always searching for silver linings.  On the plus side, I never had to sit on the lap of a beef and cheese smelling, pajama-clad old man in a department store; until I met my husband, I never had to fight the mall marauders for gifts; and I can fully enjoy holiday decorations without having to go through the trouble and expense of decking my halls… or roof… or yard.  Because let’s be honest: I love (looking at) outdoor Christmas decorations – and the tackier, the better!

I’m pretty sure the tackiest décor can be found in my old haunt, Somerville, Mass., where they make gaudy ornamentation an art!  Take, for example, this over-the-top home:

Now THAT'S how decorating is done!

Isn’t it magnificent?!?  I’m pretty sure you can see this house from space!

I’m on the hunt for additional spotlightable homes!  If you happen to stumble upon similarly tacky décor, send it my way (tweet photos to @PR_SarahG) and I’ll share it on Factinis.

Happy December, dear reader(s)!

Are you Jerseylicious? How about crazylicious?

If caught watching Jerseylicious, many men would feign ignorance of what was on the screen, or quickly change the channel to ESPN, or even make a lewd comment about only watching the show to gawk at the skanky outfits (of which there are plenty).  Not Andrew.  As soon as he saw me gaping at him (wondering what the h-e-double-hockey-sticks he was watching), he patted the couch cushion next to him and said: “Hon, you gotta watch this!  It’s really dramatic!”

And then he DVR’d the entire series.

Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how deep his love of reality TV ran.  And when I watched the entire series with him, I realized how deep my love runs for him.  Let’s face it: the show is pretty crappy, and obviously scripted.  But there I sat, snuggled next to my husband for hours on end, simply wanting to bask in the glow of his enjoyment.

So I guess this post is a kind of love letter to Andrew, because not only is he giving me blog fodder (which, admittedly, has been quieter than I would like lately), but he’s also shown me what an amazing man he is.  He isn’t ashamed of who he is, he doesn’t bow to peer pressure.  He is passionate and silly and has the courage of his convictions, even if those convictions revolve around bad TV, weird taste in movies, and his pledge of allegiance to the WRONG baseball team.  He is kind and funny and brilliant… except when it comes to the idiot box.

The hours (and hours) I’ve spent watching the show haven’t been squandered; as my husband watches the drama unfold, I get to watch him relax, let go of our “real” concerns and simply enjoy a little brain candy.

And who knows, maybe I will pick up the skills to do a killer smoky eye!

We were walking back to our cars when a man carrying a chicken suit darted in front of us!  I’m not kidding.  A man carrying a chicken suit was hurrying around like someone was in hot pursuit!  It was so strange that I had to snap a picture to share with you, dear reader(s).  So I followed him (for a few blocks – I’m that dedicated to bringing you news of the world) trying to document my encounter with the chicken man.  Here’s the photographic evidence:

Don't count your chicken suits before you wear them?

Admittedly I’m baffled by the chicken suit, so I’m turning to you, dear reader(s), for an explanation: what would a man be doing with a chicken suit in November?  Will we ever discover the reason why the (man holding a) chicken (costume) crossed the road?  What’s YOUR explanation?

Punny answers always welcome.

You may wish to curtsey when you see me!

What’s all the fuss about?

Well, I’m running this show solo from now on, so my rants will no longer be tempered by anyone else.  For better or for worse, I’ve become The Blogtator!*

(dun dun dunnnn!)

It’s all me, all the time, baby!

Watch for some exciting changes to Factinis, and thanks, as always, for your loyalty and support.

~Sarah
But my friends call me Your Royal Blogness

* Yes, I AM gonna register that term, so don’t even try to steal it!