Ding Dong!

Maybe it's the 'roid rage from the fresh batch of sinus infection meds making me extra crabby but to me THIS:

is pretty self-explanatory.  You'd think the sign would be a dead give-away that solicitors aren't going to come face-to-face with a smiling sweetiepoo if they attempt to hawk their wares on my doorstep.  (Besides, I just blew all my extra pocket money on Disneyland churros last week so I can't afford your newspapers/candy bars/church views/magazines-for-recovering-teenage-alcoholics anyway!) Ya can't miss the sign. So don't look so shocked and offended, Baci Italian Bistro employee who solicits where there is very obviously NO SOLICITING ALLOWED, when I explain to you that the reason I don't want to buy gift cards for your restaurant (you asked why!) really IS that I have eaten there, and yes, your food and your service truly do both suck.

At least THAT got rid of her quick.

Given that this is the THIRD apparently illiterate person in the last two months to push that little button maybe it's time I pulled out my OLD sign.  It might be easier to comprehend:

Fine. I at least like SOME things about the holidays.

Behold, an agnostic's reason for the season!  And why I'll have to buy all new scrubs come January.

And our other holiday purchase:

I may just leave it up all year.

Blast this Christmas music. It's joyful and triumphant.

The garden is growing.  This is the point where I get really excited and post pictures of the cute little plants.  And then I lose interest as they get bigger and aren't as adorable (much like some people do with puppies and children) and I forget to weed and prune and our backyard ends up looking like an overgrown lot instead of a garden.  But for now here are the cute little plants.  Before they start talking smack, eating me out of house and home and demanding the latest iPod.

Lettuce.

Tomatoes. (Duh.)

Sunflowers.  (I think the one in the middle of the picture is on the 'roids.)

Strawberries are to the left, the only survivors from Garden Version 1.0

You know what's weird?  For the first time in forever I had no interest in Halloween.  Maybe it's a sign that I'm getting old and cranky and I should soon look into getting an AARP membership.  This year I just wanted to sit in my jammies and watch trash TV (the Kardashians!  Kim is getting divorced!  I KNEW IT!) instead of scraping stringy glop out of squash and throwing candy at children.  (Although actually throwing candy at children does sound kind of fun.) We did end up taking Emma out trick-or-treating with some friends and their kids but I'm glad it's over.  Not quite ready for Christmas either.  It seems like these holidays just keep coming and I haven't yet recovered from last year.  Didn't we JUST do this?  I don't want to get started on gift-buying expectation crap.  You know what I'm talking about.  A friend buys Emma something so I feel obligated to spend something on their kid, or the neighbors drop off homemade cinnamon rolls FROM SCRATCH so then I need to make something NOT out of a container that pops when you twist it open - which means I have to brave the grocery store, where the aisles are small and the holiday crowds make me even more homicidal than I normally am - and then deliver my burned treats and make small-talk with a bunch of neighbors I would rather just not deal with anyway. (I'm THAT neighbor.)  Holidays in Gilbert, Arizona are some kind of contest to see who can be the most AWESOME and Holly Homemaker at gift-giving.  I don't home-make anything normal (see previous post of Dudley the kidney pillow).  And the money spent.  UGH.  I had someone in the past call me up out of the blue and specifically request that I give them cash instead of giving them gifts that year.  Um.  Ok.  I do LOVE giving a good present to someone I think will appreciate it, I just don't think everyone need EXPECT one from me.  Nurses do not make big bucks people; we get pooped/vomited/bled/breastmilked on for the sheer fun of it, not for the money.  There need to be clear-cut rules on who you should have to get shit for and who you don't have to but there is no Minister of Christmas so this stuff is all up in the air AND IT MAKES ME ANXIOUS AND STABBY.  I'm getting worked up even typing this crap out.

Ok, so I just did a search and found something that I could maybe make homemade.  You know, to deliver my delicious blackened Christmas treats in.

http://www.coolest-homemade-costumes.com/coolest-grinch-costume.html

That will make my holidays decidedly better.

An October post

Tonight Emma hopped (literally) into bed and as I was turning her lava lamp on and her ceiling fan light off she suddenly freaked out, punted her comforter across the room and began hyperventilating, flying around the room and shrieking that there was a SPIDER!  A SPIDER!  IT HAD SHINY LEGS AND AN EVIL GLINT IN ITS EYES AND IT JUMPED ON ME FROM MY WALL AND AAAARRRRGGGHHHH!!!!

I tried to recruit Army Man for the Great Spider Hunt of 2011 but he was not amused by the waves of female hysteria in there and quickly left after a quick once-over with the flashlight.  Instead Supermommy spent the next 45 minutes searching for any evidence of a man-eater in her room.  Not a small task since the child is a SLOB and there was crap everywhere. (I now understand why my mom made sure all of the kids' rooms were upstairs so that she could keep the downstairs clean and pretend that the upstairs didn't exist.)  I somehow got suckered into cleaning her whole damn room for her, moving her bed out of the way (there were entire bags of candy wrappers under there! no wonder the kid never eats dinner!) and vacuuming every inch of floor and along the baseboards just to make SURE that we Dysoned any eight-legged crawlies.  The whole time I was doing this she was perched on top of her desk and howling.  Missy was barking insanely outside the closed door because the vacuum is EVIL.  (I'm sure the neighbors loved that this late at night.)  And did I see a spider? 

No.

Being a parent is so fun sometimes.

I finally convinced her to get back into her bed because there was no way that Mr. Leggy survived all of that suckage.  I lay down beside her and was rubbing her back as she described it's EVIL legs, and how it was SNEAKING toward her just before it jumped on her when she got suddenly quiet. 

"What Emma?"

She began to laugh sheepishly. 

"Um, Mom?  I think it was a trick of the light.  I don't think it was a spider.  I just realized that the spider I imagined was exactly like one I saw on TV.  Oops!"

Let's just say that Mama wasn't laughing and we are now selling all of the TVs.

Now she's snoozing away peacefully in her room, which is free of imaginary spiders, and I'm all wired up from a ten o'clock overhaul of pre-teen slobsville.

These are the things that the parenting books can't prepare you for.
 
Since I am now so very PERKY here are some pictures of the crap we've been up to lately:

An updated picture of my lunch buddy Harrison.  My nephew is now almost nine months old and he is SO CUTE.

I tried to teach Bailey the sulcata to fetch.  FAIL.  He tried to eat the ball.  How these guys have survived for so long is beyond me.

Military Man built Bailey some new outdoor digs.

I started to document the building process for Bailey's posterity. 

 

Then I got bored.  Bailey and I got booted out of the Man Cave for being obnoxious.

Hey, it wasn't MY fault.  Bailey's the one who peed in there.

You can actually see the indignation in Chad's arms here.

So here is the finished result.  All it needs are window boxes and rain gutters!  And tiny Christmas lights for the holidays.  And maybe a mailbox for when Bailey's family sends correspondence.

A good friend had her kidney removed.  So that she wouldn't miss her kidney so much I made her another one to schnuggle with.  I called my friend Jessica, the scrap/craft queen and she helped me.  I'm sure this project is not one that will end up on one of her famous project blogs.  I don't understand WHY because this project was AWESOME.  Meet Dudley the kidney.  He has Fineas and Ferb hair and he is FILLED WITH LOVE.  Looks like all those years of Homemaking lessons at church finally paid off.  I can sew organs!

I finally replanted the garden since I'm mostly mobile after this summer's tendon debacle.  (A topic for another time.  Le sigh.)

I only planted ONE tomato plant, since tomato plants tend to be overachievers anyway.  The rest of the place is mostly flowers and herbs and some lettuce.  I've never done a winter garden so it's kind of an experiment.  I'll keep you posted!  Ok, I've promised that before and not followed through.  So I'll THINK about keeping you posted.

Death of a Garden

Check me out, my foot is feeling better and I'm getting back to my normal antics. Still no wild plans for running again (unless I'm being chased by a predator, and even then I'm kind of 'eh' about it) but I gardened today and the world did not end.  If you can call completely demolishing the backyard while belting out "Welcome to the Jungle" gardening. (My apologies to my neighbor - I was making her poodle bark with all my howling and thwacking.) Probably should have just lit the whole place on fire back there, since the five kajillion weeds have all gone to seed and next year is going to be a weeding NIGHTMARE but fire and HOAs usually don't get along so I was forced to yank out everything by hand. Until a scorpion ran out from under some dead leaves. Then the party was over. (Guess what? I can scream AND obliterate a scorpion at the same time.  Multitasker award!) Chad gets to finish the rest and we'll just blame it on the foot. You KNOW I'm going to milk that for as long as I can.

The tiniest snail.  That is Emma's hand.

We didn't even know there were actual WATERMELONS growing in there.

Check this nasty thing out, it was hiding in the roots of the twelve-foot man-eating tomato plant.

Action shot of Emma SMASHING it.

Elephant in the room time.  YES, I drink the alkyhol.  Let's finally say it out loud since you've all seen my wine rack.

Some girlfriends and I attended a "Bottles and Paint" class last weekend.  The idea is to bring your own booze and the art gallery supplies the easel, paint, brushes, a HOT smock and a book on ideas of things to paint.  As the night went on I became more intoxicated and inevitably ended up painting my friend Jamie's face and arms instead of the approved surfaces.  I don't think the owner of the art gallery was amused.  *I* was amused, however, when a blond bouncy sorority girl came to survey my painting and brightly asked, "Oh, are you a Kappa?  Because owls are, like, our thing." *hair toss*  I just raised an eyebrow, retorted, "What?" and then responded with "NO, I went to community college".  Another silent stare from me and she just walked back to her group of friends and began to whisper with them.  Because anything with an owl on it automatically associates it with some Kappa sorority, like DUH.  That you got to join because Mommy and Daddy paid for you to get your drinking degree at a university.  While I worked my way through school as an army wife and mom and I earned my drinking degree at the college I could afford.  Suck it, sorority girl.

I can be a rude drinker.

My painting, titled "Are You a Kappa?"

Like, sorority girls!

Other random crap:

Winston got new jammies.  But he's not really a bad dog.  He's just a little stoooopid.

I risked my own life and swerved across four lanes of traffic to snap a picture of this with my phone.  Because crack is whack and I have the maturity level (and driving skills) of a teenager. 

Rock Star Emma!  (Rock wall climbing in flip flops not recommended.)

 THE END.

Meh.

Praise Jeebus, I'm finally able to log onto my blogger account.
About a month ago I enabled some ridiculous Windows Live family safety computer program because my child has been spending an inordinate amount of unsupervised time on YouTube.  I didn't want her accidentally clicking on any links that were going to show her videos on how to make her own a-bomb because you NEVER KNOW.  I quickly found out that not only does this program block dirty sites from your eleven year-old, but it will also render the 34 year-old college educated woman in the home completely unable to use her computer for anything other than checking her bank account balance.  And God help me, I can NOT figure out how to get my 'puter back to where it was before I installed the stupid thing.

I haven't told Chad yet.

Another reason it's been a while since I've been here is that my life is has become the most boring of lives you can imagine.  I wish someone had warned me before this tendon surgery that I would be unable to do anything useful for three to six months.  Because that's what my doctor and my physical therapist are telling me now that I'm already sliced and diced.  So even though it's been three months since my surgery and my scar looks beautiful and I even went out an got a pedicure I still can't do anything normal like I used to do without wearing out and needing drugs.  I can't walk long distances.  I can't run.  I can't walk my dog.  I can't garden.  I can't clean my house.  I can't leave on an anniversary vacation to Vegas because I can't walk the strip!  I can't walk around barefoot.  I barely make it to and from work and have to take long breaks between cares on my patients to make it through my twelve hour shift.  I've spent the entire summer on the couch and the last thing I want to do after I come home from work is SIT ON THE DAMN COUCH but it seems that's all I can do because I have to recover so that I can just GO BACK TO WORK.  I can't take any more TV.  I don't want to watch any more movies.  I don't want to sit in the heat anymore.  The fun of having a handicap parking sticker has worn off.

I.  Am.  Burned.  Out.

I desperately need a tropical vacation or I'm going to go completely postal.

I know that I should be grateful that I have my legs.  That they function.  But I am so angry at my traitorous body that I am slipping into that grey area before depression.  I am hurting all the time and it is seriously draining me of my happiness.  I completely broke down at my physical therapist last week and insisted that it was all JUST TOO MUCH and that I needed to slow down on my PT.  (We're moving it from three times a week to once.)  My doc even lectured me about having gone back to work too soon and ended up giving me a cortisone shot two days ago.  But it's been THREE EFFING MONTHS.  Come ON foot.  The last thing I want to do is slow down but it appears that that's all I can still do.  And I know that my husband (and most likely everyone else in my life) is sick of my whining so I try to just keep moving.  But I feel like I'm just sliming along at a slug crawl and barely arriving to the next day.

So there you are, I have officially dumped on you, Internet.

More random:

Emma started sixth grade.  I caught her texting a boy and put the squash on that quickly.  I have a feeling the teenage years are going to be interesting.

The foot today: 

Mommy and Emma pedicures:

Emma fishing with Daddy:

A Friday night impromptu piano recital.

(What a rude audience.)

I'm sure I'll be out of this funk soon, since truthfully I get 1% better every day, but let's hope that by the next time I get on here I won't be so damn depressed.  And that I'll back off on the profanity a tad.

Week three! Peroneal tendon surgery recovery.

So.

Turns out there was no "freak bone" in my foot once the doc got in there.  But the tears in my brevis and longus tendons?  Much more considerable than the MRI let on.  Let this be a lesson to all of you:  MRI machines are dirty liars.

Even though every meth head in the world might disagree with this sentence I'm saying it anyway.  Devouring strawberry Hostess cupcakes while downing Tylenol with cocaine every four hours (ok, it's Percocet, but it's in the same drug class as crack!) does actually get old after three weeks.  (It is interesting to note that it's the inhalation of strawberry Hostess cupcakes that go me into this pickle in the first place.  The cupcakes made me fat, which made me run, which tore my stupid tendons.)  

I spent the first two weeks in THIS:

And then last week graduated to this:

I was excited to get the Neato Blue Cast before I had it but now I can't wait to get the Stupid Ten Ton Brick off on Monday as planned.  It's coming off if my doctor knows what's good for him.  Every time I get up on my crutches the weight of the thing seems to slam down on my incision.  It does NOT feel good and makes me say naughty words in front of my daughter.  I'm having these sharp stabbing pains along where my incision presumably is that makes me worry it's dehiscing.  I don't have access to it to do a proper nursing assessment so I'm freaking out even more.  I've made a few calls to my doctor's office about my cast being too loose but the nurse there was obviously annoyed with me and told in few words to DEAL WITH IT.  I have now gone five days without calling them.  I deserve a medal.  It bears repeating: nurses make terrible patients. 

So here are before and after pics of my actual foot.  They're gross!  You've been warned!

The yellow is betadine, not a horrible toenail fungus.  (And NICU nurses reading this, please stop checking out the veins on my foot.)

(At one week post-op.)

So to bleach your brain after seeing that, here is a picture of my adorable nephew.

And the cake pops that his mama and I made together.

And the zucchini from the garden that were harvested JUST before they invaded Spain.

(With - what else? - a bottle of narcotics for reference.)

Emma has really stepped up and turned into quite the little nursey.  She can now clean bathrooms, do dishes, vacuum, dust and clean up dog vomit.  (Two dogs in one day.  Joy.) 

And Chad?
The.  Man.  Is.  Amazing. 

(Breep!  Breep!  Sap alert!)

I am so smart to have married this guy!  I know so many other wives who would KILL to have a guy that works all day and then comes home and makes dinner, cleans the house, goes grocery shopping, carts his wife's crap from room to room without even being asked, helps her get dressed and showered and obsesses that she's comfortable/fed/loved/has easy access to chocolate.  Truly.  I don't know how we went an entire year without him.  Dude, I LOVE YOU.  Now there are those reading this blog who have actually MET Chad and observed him fart, belch and make fun of.....well, pretty much everything.  You might not believe me as I gush about him.  But really!  I'm not lying here:  my husband is more awesome than any other husband out there.  We will have a contest.  And Chad will dab at this tears as they place a twinkly crown on top of his military haircut and name him Mr. Awesome Husband 2011.

Ok, maybe he won't cry.  But he will win.

And here are more end-of-post photos in lieu of any kind of real conclusion: