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.
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!
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?
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.
