What we've been up to

We're shrinking!  At the beginning of the year (hooray for New Year's resolutions and too-tight pants) we decided we've been feeling a little fluffy lately.  So Chad got a Paleo diet book and started that.  I joined Weight Watchers, determined to get rid of this "baby weight" since my kid is almost twelve years old.  Chad swore that he LOVED the Paleo diet!  So much meat!  Eight pounds down in a week!  And then he got tired of having to make himself special meals every night, since I, being the supportive diet wife that I am, adamantly refused to play Sous Chef for both my practically-vegan daughter and for him.  Now he is on Weight Watchers with me and we're both down ten pounds.  To celebrate we took a road trip to Tortilla Flats today and ate at a nasty hole-in-the-wall diner.  We enjoyed every minute of it.  We may have to rethink our reward system.

And now that I'm down a pant size I'm going to try to go up a few sizes.  Because the time has finally come, peoples. The thing we've been talking about forEVER is finally going to happen. 

Here's the deal.  I'll write this all down so you don't have to ask.  Because I know you're wondering, and I'm the sharing type.  Chad has a blockage that prevents his little swimmers from escaping.  They basically just swim around in little circles in there.  So they will surgically cut them out of him and individually inject each sperm into the eggs they will harvest from me, after I get done injecting myself with three different drugs two times a day for a few weeks.  They will put these "embryos" in a petri dish to grow for a few days and then transfer them into my uterus after I inject myself with a bunch of additional hormones so that my body will be tricked into accepting the embryos.  Will Chad kill me for telling this all to the Internet?  Maybe.  But it's not like it's his fault.  It's just something that happened when he was a kid and there's no amount of praying or hoping that will make us a baby.  Seriously, the next person who says, "Well, you never know!  Maybe you should just stop trying!  God works in mysterious ways.  We have this friend....."  is going to get a fundal punch.  We do know.  We have stopped trying for seven years.  You can't make a baby without sperm.  I understand that those people just don't know what to say and are just trying to make me feel better, but these kinds of things do not make me feel better.  They only frustrate me.  All I need is someone to cry to when I watch everyone around me have babies.  Or just a hug.  (Or hey, how about a few thousand dollars?)  I will even take the prayers (despite my atheist leanings) as long as they are for the in-vitro to work this time.  We're going to need every bit of positive vibe/prayer/voodoo magic we can get.  I won't be choosy, please send it our way.  As long as you aren't worried about a little Chad/Corinne cross loose in the world.  A klutzy, homicidal, mouthy little asshole that we can call our own.  Awwwww.

I know I've been talking about this for a few years, but we've had a few roadblocks.  A deployment to a war zone.  A running-binge-induced foot surgery for me.  A few moves.

But we're DOING IT.

I signed up for benefits at work because they cover $5000 toward the procedure.  We've finally been informed that the army has placed his reenlistment bonus for payment in the next month.  (We've been waiting for a YEAR for it, geeeeez.  And yes, he re-signed.  The guy is Army Man.  I've come to terms with it.)  We've talked to the new doctor's office about the costs.  (About $13,000 with meds.) I've decided that I will live with my busted foot for now because I am sick of this getting sidetracked.  (Limping is fun.)  So as soon as Chad is back home from his next army school (this month) we're giving it our last and final shot.  The last time we did this it was stressful and scary and expensive and I was in the middle of taking my nursing license exam and we didn't know what to expect.  And even though it will still be terrifying this time I feel like we have a better idea of what we are facing.  I've got a stable job, Chad has a stable job.  It will still be pricey and we are not rich, but if all the crackheads out there can have babies so can we.  We're good parents.  Emma is a happy kid, if a tad spoiled.  We deserve to have the chance to have a baby, just like everyone else.  So here we go again!

I'm planning on walking through this with you, Internet.  It might suck.  But it might be completely awesome in the end. 

Too. Much. Internal. Confusion.

I have a big long entry started about the complicated blob of conflicting feelings that I become around the holidays, but it needs some tweaking and I'm not quite ready to post it.  Too much swirling around in my head and I'm trying to sort it out well enough to post.  Maybe I'll get there, maybe I won't.  But I feel that I owe the blog SOMETHING so here are some photos of recent events.

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.