How to put together furniture on your own! by Army Wife.

The front room of this house is far too bare. And I have an abundance of trashy novels, errrr, I mean fine literature, that needs shelving. So away to Target I went! I managed to enlist the help of a Target employee to roll some humongous five thousand pound boxes to my car and then it got reeeeally fun. Here are some step-by-step instructions on how to assemble your *own* Target bookcase, should your husband be too busy plowing over all of Iraq's livestock in his MRAP to help you with such a task:

1. Park purple Ford Explorer carefully in garage, taking care not to hit the side of the garage (again) since you only have six inches of extra space to play with between your husband's vehicle/$547monthlyfinancialobligationthatyouaren'tusingfortwelvemonths and the other side of the garage.

2. Open back hatch of Explorer and realize that you may have had a burly Target-man to help you get these things *into* the truck but there is no possible way that you can muscle these things out on your own without dropping them.

3. Swear loudly, making sure that all impressionable neighbor children can hear.

4. Slide the boxes out and drop them. Curse again, using a new combination of words. (Variety is the key to properly using foul language.) With emphasis this time.

5. Prop front door open. Drag boxes by one end around the entire front of the house, through the door and into the living room. Thump your chest and grunt, asserting that you don't need a man!

6. Chase Boston Terrier for a block and a half screaming "SADIE DO YOU WANT A SNACKIE?!!" hoping that it will entice the little beast to just come back home. Shrug and trudge back home, shut the front door, and surmise that if someone else can catch her she's now *their* problem.

7. Open boxes with the exacto-knife that you stole from the shipping department at Mervyn's when you were eighteen.

8. Gather up the tools you will need, as illustrated:

9. Begin assembling. Put part ! into hole 95, place tray A near shelf 3.14. Lather, rinse, repeat.

10. Admire the pretty purple bruise that is forming on your forearm from when you slammed it in the car door earlier.

11. Take a macaroni and cheese/iCarly break, pausing to answer the door when the neighbor brings back your oh-so-loyal black and white dog. Make a mental note to make sure she's not wearing a collar with a return address the next time she makes a run for it.

12. Try to remember where you left off in the bookcase assemblage and realize that you put all the shelves in backwards and then punched screw-holes in the wrong side of the wood.

13. Hate on the Army for stealing your husband away for something as trivial as a war when OBVIOUSLY there are more important things he needs to be attending to at home.

14. Wait 5-7 business days for replacement wood shelves from Target customer service, who kindly Fedex you new ones for free when you innocently state that they were never included in the original box.

15. Try to remove screws from damaged shelving with manual screwdriver. Recall absence of functioning arm muscles, search through The Man Cave for power screwdriver, wait three days to hear from husband as to its whereabouts and when he finally tells you that the battery is dead anyway, purchase a brand-new PINK ONE. Post pictures of it on facebook and tag your husband in it, generously letting him know that he can borrow it when he gets home.

16. Finish bookcase. Admire your handiwork. Decide to ignore the small screw-hole that you accidentally made on the wrong side of the new replacement shelf.

17. Spend an inordinate amount of time blogging about the whole fiasco in lieu of making sure your kid has done her homework. Try to fix spacing between numbers and give up. The people who own and run blogspot's blogging websites must know something that you don't.

18. Come to the conclusion that you are going to order home delivery and setup of any and all furniture for the next seven months.

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.

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.