Yerg!

Sometimes I read other peoples' blogs and think 'Aw, they are so positive and bubbly and sweet! What a nice blog! They must have such a perfect life!' And for about ten seconds I considered resetting my blog with a sweet! positive! tone! and my life is all rainbows and fairies!

Well this just isn't one of those blogs. And I'm just a crabby old miser.

I know I swore I wasn't going to trash talk the ex on here, but I will also swear that I won't allow Emma to read any of this. (She's over her "blog phase" anyway and never even looks on here or her own blog. Zoo Tycoon 2 is the new fad.) I just can't help myself. MUST! BLOG! ABOUT! IT!

I am one of the lucky ex-wives who actually receives child support. I have been getting it regularly for almost nine years now, but last month Donor Boy switched employers and *forgot* to tell me (at Christmas time, what nice timing to be shorted $1000 a month!) that his new employer isn't taking the dough out of his check. So did he send IN the money to the child support clearinghouse? Uh, no. Because that would be what you're SUPPOSED to do. Did he bother telling me any of this? Nope. He only mentioned it when I started asking after the money didn't show up.

Let me interject that I am not bitching that I am not getting money. I realize that there are millions of women who don't see a penny of support for their kids, and they never will. Their baby daddies don't CARE about their credit rating. (That IS the only reason I get regular support. He doesn't give a moose's ear about supporting one of the three kids that he's had with three different women; he just doesn't want his credit rating affected!) I am grouching because I JUST CAN'T DEAL WITH THE EX AND HIS LACK OF A BRAIN ANYMORE. A guy who recently got his masters degree (in something, I don't know what because I haven't really cared enough to find out) should have some functioning neurons in his thick skull. But the guy has NO COMMON SENSE. ZILCH. NADA. (I should also mention here that he has no balls. But I won't, because that would be immature of me.)

So today, a month later, I'm wondering what the Hades is going on with this whole saga. I text him and ask him what's up, you know, trying to be all nice and all even though I've had four hours of sleep after last night's shift from Hell. (Coded a baby for two hours, baby didn't make it.) He calls me up and tells me that his employer has told him that they know about the order, yet they don't know how much to take out of the check. They have some random number and he has no idea where they got it from.

"Soo....did you give them a copy of the order?"

"Well, no, because these people are so incompetent! I don't want them to have that information because I just don't know what they'll do with it."

"So you're saying that you haven't supplied your employer with the information they NEED to set up the child support payments, yet you're calling them idiots because YOU HAVE THE INFO BUT ARE LETTING THEM TRY TO FIND IT ALL OUT ON THEIR OWN?"

The conversation went downhill from there. I told him to quit being such a freakin' drama queen and making a federal case out of this when all he has to do is supply his employer's HR department with the info they need to do their job. I am not capable of hiding my irritation anymore. Just give them a copy of the order! How hard is that? You want them to try to find out from the STATE how much you pay and how to go about sending it in? Do you not remember how long that takes? And do you think that the state is actually going to do anything RIGHT?! Do you not remember what a train wreck it was when this whole thing was first set up and how the state screwed up at every turn? Just give your HR people the (insert vulgarity here) order already! OMG!

*headdesk*

I truly have no idea what I ever saw in this guy. Was I high? Had I suffered a stroke? Was I still coming off of the 90's brain fart that told me that crimping my hair made me look attractive to the opposite sex? To the dear (fat!) woman that married my ex: you can quit being rude to me and to my daughter because you have some strange idea that I am a threat to you and that I will steal your husband away from you.

HE IS ALL YOURS. HAVE FUN WITH THAT.

I'm sure Taylor's worried about that too, honey.

Today as we were driving to the post office to mail a ginormous box o' crap to Military Man Emma and I suddenly found ourselves talking about famous people. Emma's favorite flavor of the week is Taylor Swift, but apparently she doesn't approve of all of her activities: "Mom, the only thing about Taylor Swift's music videos is that she kisses a lot of different boys. She should really be worried about catching something. Like H1N1!"

Um.......

Eff you, 2009.

Christmas is over and it's time for dreaded 2010 resolutions. Except that I don't care to make resolutions since I most likely won't follow through with them, so here's a list of GOALS for 2010:

1. Get myself knocked up. In-vitro. Just once more. If it doesn't work, I'm throwing in the towel and getting a fainting goat. Take that, uterus! I'll have to wait for Military Man to return from Iraq for this one. I'm not taking on a month of shots in the ass, pregnancy, a nine year-old, two surgeries, a full-time night job and a deployment all at once. I'm sure some woman even more insane than me out there has done it, but I'm saying no thanks, even though what I need from him *is* still frozen in Tucson.

2. Remove size 13 kids socks stuffed into jeans before chucking them in the wash. White socks + dark blue load of laundry = exceeded sock budget.

3. Learn to sew.

*snort* Yeah, right.

4. Find a new house. One where I can legally have livestock. (Aaaand we're back to the fainting goats.) I would also prefer one that isn't haunted. Taking out the Mag 44 (is that what it was? not entirely sure) and laying it on the nightstand may have made me *feel* safer a few nights ago, but I'm fairly certain it won't work on ghosts. Plus - minor detail - I'd have to know how to actually use it.

5. Stop yelling at people in traffic. I know they can't hear me. Yet I still do it. This has topped the resolution list for the past few years. (See blurb about how I never keep resolutions.)

6. Quit smoking. Of course this would mean that I had actually taken UP smoking at some point in my life.....but I wanted to put one thing on this list that is actually attainable. So yay me! Already accomplished one goal and it's only the first of the year.

7. Abstain from changing a certain Boston Terrier's name to various swearwords. This one is going to be difficult, since I'm positive that Sadie will do more than a few things this year to deserve it.

8. Exercise! Um, this may also deserve a "yeah right" but really! I'm going to try. Ok, I'm not. Let's just be honest. Putting it on my list is enough effort all by itself.

At the close of 2010 we'll go back to this list and see how many I've actually done. This year is going to be a good one, I can just feel it.

Merry freakin' Christmas

Tomorrow's Christmas Eve! To be honest, I'm just glad it's almost over. Trying not to be too whiny about the deployment but the truth? I really miss my soldier and his army haircut. I even miss his prickly five o'clock shadow kisses. Being alone has put me into "survival-only" mode this December and I really haven't been able to get into the holiday spirit. I've done my best to make it ok for Emma, taking her to friends' houses and having people over, and today we went to see The Nutcracker (AWE. SOME.) but there have been a few meltdowns on Emma's part. She had a hard time decorating the Christmas tree without Daddy, especially when it came to hanging the Heiko and army ornaments. She burst into tears and insisted that we "just can't do this without Dad". I gently reminded her that we did it alone for nearly four years before I married Chad - did she not remember? She didn't. She only remembers Christmases with Chad Dad. We miss you, Daddy. Stay safe. Only nine more months left.

A baby that I had taken care of a few times at work passed away recently, and though nurses usually build emotional walls for this type of thing, this little guy was really special and so was his family. He fought so hard and for so long. I can't keep his sweet mom out of my mind. I just hope she knows how many people in the NICU loved her little boy and will never forget him.

And as if I don't have enough DEPRESSING to dwell on right now, I've also been thinking about the in-vitro we did last year. It's so lonely around here without Fart Man that I can't help but wonder how it would be different if only we'd been successful. It would be a HELL of a lot harder with Chad gone and an infant (or two or three, since we put in three embryos), but maybe Emma wouldn't be so lonely if she had some siblings here. The infertility thing is really not something I dwell on normally, because with the job I have that would make me crrrrrazy, but it seems that everyone around me is either pregnant or just had a baby and it makes me a little sad. Sometimes I hate even talking about this because I'm afraid people will think I'm not happy for them or that they can't talk babies around me. But that's not the case. I simply need to feel sorry for myself every once in a while and then I get over it. I'm just no spring chicken anymore (it's amazing how fast your approved "child-bearing years" fly by!) so my stupid clock is ticking. And what can you do about that when your man is in Iraq? You think bitter, bitter thoughts about the army, that's what you do! We've talked about trying one more round of ICSI/in-vitro when he gets back home, but who even knows if my ovaries haven't shriveled into raisins what with all the CT scans I've had this year! Stupid sinuses. Stupid army. STUPID DECEMBER. I'm pretty sure I have an "I hate December" post every year. (I had an older, more rambunctious blog prior to this one.)

So here's a dose of comfort for those who have lost loved ones recently. Here's to all of us infertile peeps, and here's to Military Man's army unit and their safety. And here's a gigantic toast to a new year and the return of my sanity!

An update!

Insano Stalker Neighbor chased me into my house with a Christmas card today and a whiny story about how the other neighbors have sort of told him to LEAVE THEIR WIVES ALONE.

I now know his last name. (Christmas card return address!)

Who wants to run me a background check?

Today's list of random

1. Went to Arizona Mills Mall today.

Wait, that's not the end.....

They were playing Christmas music in SPANISH all over the place. In every store. Everyone around me was speaking SPANISH. Something is wrong with this American picture. (I realize I'm not being PC here but ask me if I care!) THEN some chick teenager hawking wares at a kiosk called out, "Hey princess, come on over here and try this!" at me. DUDE. Did you really just call me princess? Really? Because 1.) I could probably be your mom and b.) I poke babies with needles for a living and LIKE it. I am NOT a princess. Unless princesses end up with blood and vomit all over by the end of the day and use profanity liberally.

I remember when Arizona Mills Mall was so cool. *sigh*

2. I get to have surgery again. That's right, lucky Internet, you get to listen to me whine about my nasal passages again. Except that this time you get the added bonus of hearing about an infected bone in my skull too. To the nurse at my primary care doc's office who refused to believe that my headaches were real and severe and even felt the need to share that YOUR nasal surgery took a while to feel better from but that I really shouldn't be feeling so much pain anymore: I hope you enjoyed your steaming slice of humble pie. I must admit to a certain amount of satisfaction in your phone call after your office got the MRI results. Yes, I WOULD like some vicodin, thank you. And yes, I will see a new ENT immediately, and YES, you may call around and get me into one today because apparently the results were not pretty and quite frankly, alarming.

(Turns out I've lost 10% of my hearing already, according to my new ENT! YAY!)

Anyway.

3. I am a nurse and know this a thousand times over but it bears repeating: DO NOT GOOGLE YOUR DIAGNOSIS UNLESS YOU WANT TO START HYPERVENTILATING. If you choose to google your diagnosis of mastoiditis, make sure you have plenty of Xanax on hand, because you won't be able to drink with all of the Flagyl that will soon be coursing through your system.

4. Chad is safe in Iraq, in case you were wondering. And even if you weren't wondering, you now know. He's thrilled because he found a Cinnabon on the base he is staying at.

5. NEVER NEVER NEVER google the city in Iraq that your soldier is staying in. (Especially right after you just googled your diagnosis and learned that you were either going to DIE and/or go DEAF.) Unless you really don't like your soldier. Or your sanity.

6. Emma, it turns out, is violently opposed to The Chipmunks Christmas music. She likes it "even less than Aerosmith". (What child of mine doesn't like Aerosmith?!) I admit to being largely relieved by the Chipmunk dislike - now I can delete it from my playlist. Their voices make my skull hurt even more.

7. My *squeak* keyboard *squeak* squeaks *squeak* every *squeak* time *squeak* I *squeak* hit *squeak* the *squeak* space *squeak* bar. Santa, I would like some WD-40 for Christmas, please.

8. My new neighbor. At first I thought he was just overly friendly but after today I know he's just insane. I was outside attempting to put up Christmas lights when he asked me what size shoe I wore (!!) and then when I told him, he disappeared into his house and came back out with like three pairs of shoes in my size. Turns out he bought them at thrift stores! (Ew.) And they're barely used! (Ew.) And here, try them on! Ummm...... I waffled between blatantly telling him that he was really creepy or just trying the things on to appease him, and finally went with the latter. The shoes are now in my garage (where they will STAY) because he deemed them a "perfect fit!" I'm sorry Crazy Neighbor, I just have a thing against wearing shoes that have been on other peoples' smelly, yeasty feet. I'm not a Duggar. I don't typically buy my shoes used. If he starts asking what size pants I wear I think I'm just going to go ahead and call the police.

Ugh. The snowbirds are back.

I need to preface this post with this: Emma is a *good* kid. She'll run her mouth off occasionally and it takes AGES to get her to pick up even a sock off the floor, and she did display a bit (ok, a LOT) of poorly disguised glee when she discovered that her school had asked me for an address to write to Chad in Iraq and it turned out that her STEPSISTER'S CLASS would be writing to HER stepdad, but who doesn't have moments like that? I know that *I* can appreciate the irony in the stepsister thing. The donor and the stepmom are going to LOVE that one!

But of course I'm being nothing but an adult about the whole thing.

*snicker*

Ahem.

But as I was saying, my little spawn is usually a *good* kid. We are enjoying being back in a civilized town, with things like libraries, neighbors that aren't running drug businesses out of their garages, parks and paved roads with more than one lane. Last night we made our way over to a neighborhood park we've been wanting to check out for a while. It's some kind of bird reserve but it seems that a bunch of idiots have released their unwanted cats into the place. Let's think about it. A bird reserve. Add a bunch of feral, starving cats. Yeeeeeah. At this point, it's basically a cat reserve with only the really BIG birds left over. The nature trails are cool, though, so we put Sadie and Winston in the car and headed over.

We're walking through the place when we come across a gaggle of geese. BIG geese. Honky geese. Curious geese who waddle closer to see what we are about. I'm no dummy. I have seen my share of America's Funniest Home Videos and know that big geese like this can have a bit of a 'tude so we just stayed back a few feet and waited for them to cross the path. Sadie is all ears and eyes, and suddenly goes BERSERK, barking and lunging. (Yes, yes, Sadie, you are very intimidating, in all your fifteen-pound glory.) My perfectly well-behaved, dainty little princess of a daughter howls a war whoop, "GET 'EM SADIE!" and goes galloping toward the army of geese, who have now decided to cross the path a little more quickly, and in the opposite direction. I throw a half-hearted "don't chase the geese, Emma" toward their retreating figures but in the throes of battle these things can get ignored. And I'm tired and know that they're not going to catch the birds anyway. We round the little bend in the path and what do we come across? An old guy. With no teeth. An old, ugly fat guy with no top teeth who is FEEDING THE CATS. Who decides that he is full of infinite wisdom for the horrible woman who doesn't discipline her child.

"I don't know if that's a bad way to train your dog, or a bad way to train your kid." he drawls.

Oh really?

I give him a sweet smile and sidle up to him, dragging poor Winston along.

"You feeding the poor little cats?"

He changes his tune and smiles, probably figuring that his words have gone straight to my sweet little feminine heart and that I am trying to rid myself of guilt by being nice. "Yep, if I feed them they won't try and eat the birds anymore."

"Um, are you sure the cats read that memo?"

A look of surprise crosses his face. "Wow, not used to a woman being a smartass." (Really? What age is he living in? He wasn't even being sarcastic! He was genuinely surprised! Well BEHOLD CORINNE. My husband just landed in a war zone today so you may have picked the wrong person to try to share your child-rearing advice with.)

"Yeah, well, it seems a little irresponsible to me, encouraging the cat population out here. Of course, I'm just a woman who lets her kid and dog chase geese, so what do I know?"

I walk away with my trained goose-dog and my rebellious, hellion child in tow and leave the guy standing there holding his cat treats with his mouth hanging open.

Hey, stupid meddling man. I don't need your helpful little hints about kids or dogs. Especially since you probably live in a trailer with your five million cats and have never actually raised a kid yourself. So shut your wrinkly pie-hole and stop trying to tell me how to raise my kid. You decide to be snotty? I'm going to give it right back.

DON'T MESS WITH ARMY WIFE.