Nonsense and More

Contrary to what most of you (and my family) may think, I'm not a complete crazy person. I'm not (too big of) a germaphobe, and I don't normally freak out about strange and unusual illnesses. If you have no idea what I'm talking about you're probably better off not knowing, but if you absolutely must know, you can read all about it in my last post.

Really, I blame the internets for all of my strange (and morbid) phobias. I mean if I didn't have access to such a plethora of knowledge, I wouldn't worry nearly as much. I also wouldn't know as many useless useful facts as I know. I mean anything you want to know is right at your fingertips. All you have to do is "google" it. And we know that everything we find on the internet is the bona fide truth. So anyway, it's all the fault of the internet. I bear no responsibility for my lack of sanity.

Not to completely change the subject, but do you buy gifts for your spouse for Christmas? I'm saying spouse because most boyfriends/girlfriends, engaged couples still buy gifts, but after you get married, especially after you have kids, you tend to buy less gifts for one another. I've bought a couple things that I know Patrick needs as Christmas gifts, but I'm not telling y'all what they are on the off chance that he might accidentally read this. But as far as what I want, I don't really care. Sometimes there is something I really want, like my Kindle or my grill, but if I don't have a particular request, then I don't really care. I'd almost rather just save the money and pay bills with it. Now isn't that romantic? I did buy myself a carpet shampooer the other day. I really wanted the carpet shampooer so I just went and bought it. No sense in waiting all the way until Christmas. Maybe that can be my Christmas gift . . . I know, pathetic!

I can't think of anymore nonsense to write about, and the kitchen (which was clean when I got home) is a mess, and I have Operation Christmas Boxes to pack so I guess I'll say goodbye for now.

Why I Should Be Banned From All Medical Websites

Let's see . . .

Not much going on here . . .

I made an appointment with an allergist on Thursday to try and figure out if I've developed a sudden allergy to shellfish or if it was something else. Let's all hope and pray it was something else. You can read all about it here, if you feel so inclined.

Sunday, I started pulling out my Christmas stuff (colossal effort). Last Spring, when we did our homestudy, I rearranged the garage and stored all my Christmas stuff in there. When I started pulling out the (dusty) boxes I noticed that there were a few mouse (?) or lizard (?) droppings underneath the stuff. Freak out!

We've had a little trouble with mice. They try to come in looking for food and water. Can anyone say drought? Anyway, for some reason, which is beyond me, after I had swept up what little bit was there, I googled "rodent borne illnesses". Freak out numero dos. I was thinking I would find Bubonic Plague which as scary as it is, can be treated with antibiotics, but then I stumbled upon Hantavirus. Then I spent the next three hours panicking that I may have inhaled it. Nevermind, that it is a rarity (although not unheard of) in Texas. Nevermind, that the majority of the cases reported in Texas are from the Panhandle area (a good 12 hours from where we live). I felt the need to panic. Patrick kept laughing at me (which was not helpful), and then felt the need to tell me that last year when he was renovating one of our new (to us) rental properties, he ripped out the old cabinets and found a full on mouse's nest (with all the benefits that come with mice). Did he wear a mask? Did he take any precautions? Nope he cleaned it all up with a shop vac and a broom. And then I realized that sometimes ignorance is bliss, and I have now vowed to remain as ignorant as possible.

But yeah, I did start pulling out all my Christmas decorations. The big tree will have to wait a little longer, but the snow villages are up, and the little trees are out. And the temperature is 80 degrees. Sigh . . . only in Texas.

So that's basically it. I'm a recovering hypochondriac that sometimes lapses into insanity. Also, I'm thinking about banning myself from any and all medical websites.

Hives Glorious Hives

Last night Patrick and I shipped the man-child (that would be Andrew) off to my sister's house, and we headed out to eat dinner and do a little Christmas shopping.

I had every intention of:
(1) enjoying a blissfully peaceful dinner.
(2) making a dent in the rest of my Christmas shopping.
(3) sleeping very well because Andrew was spending the night at Sarah's.

We went to dinner at Kobe Steakhouse. I love, love, love Japanese food. I also have a love for Italian, Chinese, Mexican, American . . . actually, I just love food. But in all seriousness, I am about as far from a picky eater as you'll find, and my love for seafood is rivaled by nothing else. Anyway, if you're not familiar with Japanese restaurants, you either sit at the sushi bar or you sit at the grill. We usually sit at the grill. Since there were only two of us, we were seated with a family of six. I spent half of the meal trying to figure out the dynamics of this family, but that's another (strange) story for another time.

So back to the food, I ordered the sea scallops because I love scallops and rarely get to eat them. They gave me a huge serving, and I devoured every bite. I mean, I tore it up. Toward the end of the meal, just as we were finishing up, my armpits started to itch. I know what you're thinking, "Wow, that's hot!" Y'all they weren't just itching a little. It was fierce. But I couldn't do a thing about it. And by the time we left the itching had spread across my chest. Nice huh?

So when we got into Patrick's truck, I commenced to scratching like crazy. And Patrick was not in the least bit disturbed by my incredibly sexy behavior. Then I decided to look in the mirror at my underarms, and what do I discover but big 'ole hives. So we hightailed it to the nearest pharmacy where I then bought $30 worth of antihistamines. This was turning into an extremely expensive meal.

By the time I got back in the truck, the hives were going down, so I decided not to take anything because everyone knows Benadryl makes you sleepy, and I still wanted to shop. I figured as long as my throat wasn't closing and my tongue wasn't swelling, I'd be okay.

So I shopped, came home, and went to bed. I didn't have any problems until 12:30 a.m. I woke up itching like nobody's business, and discovered that the hives were back with a vengeance. So much for a good night's sleep. I took two Benadryl and parked myself on the couch where I proceeded to chat with not one but two online pharmacists from a certain chain pharmacy (who shall remain nameless). Their advice? Take two Benadryl. Done. And if I stop breathing seek medical help immediately. Okay, first of all, that's reassuring. And secondly, duh! I'm not sure how much this online pharmacist gig pays, but I could totally do it in my pjs while eating cheeseballs. All I need is a pharmaceutical degree.

The hives, thank goodness, haven't returned (at least as of 1:30 p.m. CST). But seriously y'all, did I develop a sudden allergy to shellfish? Is it just the scallops or was it something else? Will it get worse, or can I like take two Benadryl and eat shellfish anyway? Because if I can't eat shrimp or crab or lobster anymore, I'm not sure I can exist in peace and harmony with the world. I need my seafood.

That's all.

Just Call Me Ellie Mae

As you may remember, last week we country folk headed to the big city of San Antonio (at this point it will be helpful for you to start humming "The Beverly Hillbillies" theme song). We got to the hotel Thursday afternoon, and to begin with, the valet guy apparently thought that we were all in military boot camp. He was snapping orders at hotel guests and bellboys alike. So, he asked me if we'd need a luggage cart and then in the same breath, informed me that if we wanted a cart we'd have to use a bellboy. So I answered "probably so" meaning "yes we'll need a bellboy". The guy looked at me and then told me to check with my husband and get back to him. Whoa! Excuse me? Anyway, I secured a bellboy, and we loaded up the cart. No thanks to you Mr. Valet.

Just as we were about ready to head up, the valet guy stopped Patrick, and said "Sir, you'll have to stay with me while we go over your vehicle. Ma'am, the bellboy will escort you to your room." Alrighty then. Then he saluted and marched off double time. Just kidding. But he did force Patrick to do a 100 point inspection of the car and spent five minutes informing him of the dangers of parking at Sea World. He followed that up by letting Patrick know that if he or one of the other valets damaged our car it would be in a big way. No small dents and dings for them. We were incredibly reassured.

So while Patrick was spending some quality time with Mr. Valet, Andrew, my new friend the bellboy, and I headed up to the room. Now, in my past experiences, the bellboy has brought our luggage up on a service elevator. But this guy was riding the elevator with us so, of course, I had to act like a complete idiot. Our room number was 1401, and for some reason, which is beyond me, when I saw that 14 I couldn't think clearly. I couldn't figure out what floor to push. In my mind I was thinking, "Obviously, it's not one. Maybe it's floor four? Oh my gosh, is it hot in here? I'm not sure if their air conditioners are working properly. I can't stay here if the air conditioners don't work!".

While I was having this conversation with myself (I have a lot of conversations with myself . . . it's rather concerning), another lady got on the elevator, and she and the bellboy both stared at me expectantly. Finally, I said, "Ummmm, 1401, that would be floor . . .?" The bellboy looked on me with pity, and answered, "Actually, that'll be floor 14." You know he wanted to add "you moron". I wanted to melt into the the floor. But no, I held my head high. Well that is, until Andrew started jumping up and down, and going "Whoa! Elevator! Whoa!". Then I began babbling, about how we live in a small town and don't get to ride elevators or go out in public very often.  Really Courtney? Just stop talking! Let me just say it was a long ride to floor fourteen.

By the time we got to her floor, the poor, poor lady on the elevator with us was looking at me like I was about the closest thing to crazy she'd ever seen. She may not have been far off. I mean I've stayed in a hotel before. I've ridden an elevator or two in my day. I lived in a high rise during college. I haven't been locked in a closet my entire life. But people, the older I get, the more things like this happen. Oh the stories I could tell you if we had 150 years. Please tell me I'm not alone in this. I'd love to know that at least some of you are losing your minds right along with me.

That Woman

I never dreamed I would be "that" woman. You know, the one who holds up the grocery store line. What did you think I was talking about?

I should start with an explanation otherwise this will make zero sense. Andrew's preschool sells HEB gift cards as a fundraiser of sorts. They get a percentage of the proceeds, and the more they sell the more mulah they make. There's no catch. You buy the gift cards. You use the gift cards. So I signed up to buy two $100 gift cards each month. I knew that I would easily spend that in groceries. Not a problem.

So yesterday morning I headed to HEB to do some grocery shopping. I was in a hurry mostly because I was starving and didn't want to buy too much junk to feed my ravenous appetite. I may or may not have grabbed a bag of twizzlers, walked around with them, and then put them back on the shelf. I, also, may or may not have bought a box of chocolate covered ice cream cones, which I swore were for Patrick and Andrew but was forced to eat (not the whole box just one) after hearing the Casey Anthony verdict. But we won't go there.

Anway, I managed to make it through my grocery shopping experience with a minimum of dirty looks from people that seemed to think they owned the store (have I ever mentioned that I strongly dislike grocery shopping). I was pretty proud of myself because approximately 3/4 (okay maybe more like 1/2) of my basket was full of healthy items (dog food and 409 don't count either way). So I parked my happy self in line and proceeded to wait.

Once the lady started checking me out, I remembered my HEB gift cards. I knew I had put them in a "safe" place in my purse. Good luck remembering where that "safe" place might be. I started hunting for them. I opened every zipper, every pocket, every secret compartment. No HEB gift cards appeared. At this point, I'm starting to sweat . . . no literally, I was hot and starting to sweat. For one, they were bagging my groceries, and the lady behind me was staring at me none too kindly. And two, and may I add most importantly, I couldn't locate $200 worth of gift cards.

I decided that I would go ahead and use my debit card. I mean, I could use the gift cards in the next couple weeks. It's not like I never go grocery shopping . . . oh wait, it is like I never go grocery shopping . . . I digress (we'll discuss my grocery shopping issues at another time). So I swiped my debit card and went to put it back in my purse when I noticed my HEB cards (right in front of my eyes). Awesome, I figured I could just cancel my transaction and swipe them. Or not! I tried to cancel and couldn't do it. So I asked the checker to do it, and she couldn't either. I told her it was no big deal, but she says, "Oh no, it'll only take a minute. I'll just call the manager." At this point the lady behind me was shooting daggers, and I was apologizing profusely. You think I'm kidding . . . if looks could kill . . . The manager finally showed up and put all these codes into the computer. Apparently, you have to be a secret agent with top level security clearance to clear out someone's transaction. She took a few minutes to clear it out. Meanwhile the line was steadily growing. People were mumbling under their breath. I was hanging my head in shame. Needless to say, I paid and bolted.

While, I was loading my groceries into the car, the lady with the killer death stare walked by with her family, and her son (or grandson) took a moment to burn a hole straight through me. You know, Superman style. I pretended like I didn't see him all the while dripping sweat and turning beat red. I'm cool like that. Anyway, I learned my lesson. From now on, I will send my husband to do all the grocery shopping. I kid, I kid . . . I will never huff or puff, or whine or complain when some poor soul is taking a little longer than they should in the grocery store line. Believe me people, I didn't do it on purpose. And I still plan on sending Patrick to the grocery store.

This post brought to you by women everywhere whose purses are too big and memories are too short.

Also and more importantly: No grocery store checkers and/or baggers were harmed in the very slightly exaggerated writing of this post.

Wrestling a Water Hose

See this yellow water hose?

Let me tell you something. I. Hate. This. Stinkin'. Hose. Yep that's right I said hate. "But Courtney," you say, "hate is such a strong word. Words like hate should be reserved for things like brussel sprouts and parachute pants and 1980s hairstyles." Nope, I'm not backing down. I said hate, and I'm stickin' with it.

Let me explain. In an effort to revive the Mojave Desert a.k.a. our backyard, I've been watering . . . a lot. First off, this is giving my non-yard loving husband a heart attack. He's not very passionate about mowing and yard work in general . . . even though he has the granddaddy of all lawn mowers. Secondly, he keeps saying, "Our water bill is going to be so high!". Sigh . . . from me. Grimace . . . from him. So I volunteered to pay the water bill next month. I'm not going to try to explain our bill paying system. Our finances are confusing and complicated. Nuff said.

Anyway, focus people, so I'm watering a lot, and I swear that that stupid water hose waits until I get clear on the other side of the yard to set the sprinkler or spray the dirt, and then ties itself in knots. I'm not kidding. It has a mind of its own. It's kind of scary. Like a horror movie . . . "The Yellow Water Hose that Attacked the Short Girl". So I walk ten miles back and just when I reach down to loosen the kink, it wraps itself around my legs and begins squeezing the life out of me . . . or I undo the kink and continue watering the barren wasteland (either way . . . whatever works for you). Just as I'm getting into the dirt watering groove, whaddaya (all one word) think happens? It kinks itself right back up. And once again I hike back to the source of the problem. By the time I reach the kink, I'm sweating profusely and in desperate need of water. No I don't drink water from the hose. I'm already crazy. I can't afford to get lead poisoning. I swear this happens about 50 more times before it's all said and done.

And that is why I hate the water hose. On the other hand, in spite of this ridiculous drought, the Mojave Desert is looking pretty good.

Welcome to the ER . . . Your Room is Down the Hall, On the Right

First, I am aware that my title on my last post was very much grammatically incorrect. It's bothering me too. I'm not changing it. That's all.

Last night, we decided to head to church with Patrick. We don't go during the school year, because it's just too hard to get fed and bathed and out the door on time. Plus it has us climbing into bed way past bedtime. But during the summer, we try to go with him as much as possible.

Anyway, last night we went, but before we left I mentioned to Patrick that I wanted to be home by 9:00. I was tired and didn't want to be up half the night. Uh, anyone remember Murphy's Law? Yeah, it didn't cross my mind either. So, we got to church, and made it through praise & worship without any major problems. Andrew was in a good mood, and was ready to go to "Sunday" School. After the music was finished, I dropped him off with his teachers and headed to help Patrick with the youth.

Youth was uneventful, and I didn't have to lay the smack down on anyone so that was good. Just as we were finishing up, one of the teachers from Andrew's class comes to get me and tells me that his ear is hurting really badly. Now, Andrew has had a lot of ear infections. He's had tubes three times. At one point he was on antibiotics for 40 days solid. Any time he says his ear hurts I take it seriously.

I went to check on him, and sure enough, there he sat with his hand over his left ear. He kept saying it was hurting "bad" so I decided to gather up his things. All the while, Andrew continued to complain, and I was about ready to hit the ER because the last time this happened (with tubes in his ears) the fluid couldn't drain and his ear drum burst. Before, we made a final decision on what to do, Patrick took Andrew to the bathroom, and that's when the wailing crying began. I couldn't figure out what was going on, but Andrew was coming apart at the seams, so I busted in the bathroom. That's when he said it, "Mommy, I put a pencil in my ear." Oh for the love of money . . . child, you have got to be kidding me! Nope, he wasn't kidding. He actually put a pencil in his ear. So we knew for sure that a trip to the ER was warranted.

When we got to the ER it was packed. I mean it was crawling with people. It was like "Hey let's all head to the ER and have a family reunion. Yay!" Very few people actually looked sick. That didn't matter. I went into full on germaphobe mode. Don't anyone dare touch anything, and keep your breathing shallow. You're less likely to inhale something that way. Sounds good anyway. Thank the good Lord above, we got called back relatively quickly, where we then waited for an eternity. I thought Andrew might be driving by the time we got out of there.

Like I said, we waited for an eternity, and I really didn't care if it was a senile patient from the psych ward (there is no psych ward in the hospital we were at), I just wanted someone to look in his ear. It was late, and you would think my child would be tired. Possibly falling asleep. Oh no, he was singing and dancing and repeatedly asking us to take his picture on our phones. It was becoming evident that his ear wasn't damaged, but darnit, I had already paid my copay, and somebody was looking in that ear. While we waited, I eavesdropped on the other patients through the curtains. The things people do and say amaze me. I mean the ER would be first rate entertainment if wasn't for all the bacteria, viruses, blood, and bodily fluids. Sorry. I shouldn't have said bodily fluids.

Anyway, after approximately 15 years, the Doctor or P.A. or Janitor or whoever the nice man was, came and took about 2.3 seconds to look in Andrew's ear. Guess what? It was fine. Then they chatted about carnival rides. Strange? Yes, but then again my life is bizarre so nothing surprises me anymore. He told us to sit tight, and he would get us our discharge papers . . . cue Jeopardy theme song . . . now cue it 150 more times.

Finally after a decade or ten, this very nice, very clueless nurse brings us our discharge papers. She says, "I'm so glad there was nothing in his ear." I respond, "Oh we didn't think there was anything in there. We were just concerned because he shoved a pencil down it and wanted to be sure he didn't damage anything." She answers, "Oh yeah, I'm really glad that pencil wasn't still in there." I stare at her blankly and nod and then say, "Well he just poked it in. He didn't leave it there." Which she follows with, "I know, I know. I'm just really glad the doctor didn't find the object in there." It was 11:00 p.m. I was exhausted, and this nurse apparently thought that we wouldn't notice if a pencil was stuck in our child's ear. I mean, how small did she think this pencil was? I gave up. I wasn't explaining it again.

We left. So much for making it to bed early. We finally laid down a little before midnight.  

And that girls and boys is why you do not let your children use pencils and/or pens until they are 35.

The End

Approval Letters, Gangplanks, Bad Service, and Wrong Turns (all in one post)

First off, I have six notarized copies of the completed home study in my hot little hands along with an approval letter, and boy am I happy. Everything looks great and we are ready to get this wagon train a-movin. Tomorrow I will be sending off the I800A to NBC (along with some mula and some other other impt. docs). So here's a quick question for any of you international adoption folks (especially those living in the Central Texas area). Could someone please clarify the time frame on this? I mean if I overnight it tomorrow then about how long will it take to get our fingerprinting appointment? And then when we get the appointment time how much notice do they give you? A day? A week? A month? I'm a bit confused on this part, and I don't want to annoy my poor caseworker to death. You have no idea how many questions I have already asked her. Any anwers would be much appreciated . . . please and thank you.

So anyhow totally changing the subject, we just got back from the beach.

We had a blast. Yes Andrew is wearing pajamas in the above picture. We made the mistake of going out after his bath. Which led to another bath. Andrew was a complete fish, although he preferred the pool to the ocean. He's at the age where you can just put some floaties on him, throw him in the pool, and go grab a bite to eat. . . And that was a joke. You can put the phone away. You don't have to call Child Protective Services on me. But in all honesty he wore arm floaties, and "swam" all over the pool. I tried to keep up with him, but everytime I touched him, he had a complete break down. He apparently can "swim" all by himself. So Patrick and I spent a large amount of time chasing him around the ridiculously large pool.

We went with my sister and her family, and frankly, they wear me out. I mean their clocks run differently than ours. Andrew is of the early to bed and early to rise school. Her kids are not. The problem is, even when Andrew goes to bed late he still rises early. So yeah, we were already a little tired, but on the way home we decided to go through Corpus Christi and take the boys through the USS Lexington. Other than the fact that it was around 1 million degrees yesterday the boys had a lot of fun.

We saw a few of these. . .

And went up and down about 297 flights of these . . .

The boys also had an important conference on the state of affairs (whatever that means). It was all very serious. Well at least Nathan and Anthony thought it was serious (I think they were just starving). Brendon and Andrew not so much.

Before we hit the road we made my bro-in-law walk the gangplank. Hey don't mess with me or I'll lay the smack down on you. Yeah, but I'm not kidding when I say that thing was sc-ar-y. I mean one wrong move and your catapulted out to sea.

So funny story about the trip home. We left the Lexington at around 1:30 and we were all tired, hot, and hungry. Not the greatest combination, especially when you have 4 boys 12 and under involved. We drove down the road a ways trying to find somewhere decent to eat. We didn't really want to eat fast food so we decided to pull over at a chain restaurant that was just down the highway. (I won't mention the name but if your ever in Portland, Texas let me know, and I'll tell you where not to eat). Anyway we entered this fine establishment around 2:00 p.m. It wasn't crowded, and we figured we'd be in and out in under an hour. We were seated immediately, and our drink order was taken rather quickly. And that ladies and gents is where the quickly stopped. Our drinks came after about 15 minutes and we managed to hold down the waitress for a few minutes to take our food order. Seeing as how we were thirsty we sucked the drinks dry in about 2.5 seconds. And then we waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. We had ordered a couple appetizers (don't forget that we were on the brink of starvation at this point) which finally arrived, and we asked for refills on the drinks. Mine and Patrick's got refilled, but not my sister's or Hector's or any of the kids'. After another 15-20 minutes (we had been here almost an hour at this point) our waitress comes by and says "oh can I refill those drinks?". We were like "Sure, the ones you were gonna refill 26 hours ago?!?" Not to worry, we weren't that rude, but really people get it together.

Of course the drinks never made it back to our table and then our waitress disappears. Like I Dream of Jeannie style. Finally after another 15 minutes some guy brings most of the food except for Patrick's and Hector's. We tried to ask about their food, but you had to dive on the ground and grab someone by the ankles to get them to stop long enough to listen to you. I sent up a smoke signal, and got someone to our table to ask about the rest of our order, and the waitress (different one this time) was like "Oh yeah, your waitress got sick and left. Let me see if she put that in or not." What? For Pete's Parker people you have got to be kidding me. I mean I'm sorry the poor girl got sick, but does that mean you just leave us to slowly starve to death here? About five minutes later a different waiter brings their food out freshly nuked. They ate it in less than 10 minutes, which is a miracle for my husband because he eats slower than molasses in January, and we were ready to be on our way.

Everyone went to the restroom, and Sarah and I waited for the ticket. We waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. Beginning to see a pattern? The men went to load up the boys. And I sent up another smoke signal. Finally after another 10-15 minutes, some man brings our ticket and says "Yeah that power surge really messed things up." Um, what? Did our waitress get shocked instead of sick? It was like a bad episode of the Twilight Zone. Sarah begins reading the ticket like it's a romance novel, and I was so not caring at this point. I grabbed it from her, and immediately noticed that they actually had the gall to add in the tip. Now I'm normally a good tipper, but if they thought I was leaving a tip when no one had the decency to apologize or check on us or give me a free dessert they had lost their bloomin' minds. Who exactly were we leaving the tip for? So we left our cash sans tip and headed out. Now if you are are a waiter or waitress I know it's a tough job. I am in no way denying that, but this was hands down the worst service I have ever had anywhere. And I've eaten out at a lot of different places, but this was the first time I have not left a tip.

So two hours later, we booked it out of there caravan style with me leading the pack (okay my sister's truck was the only other vehicle but work with me here). Two things are important to note (1) I've been to the beach a million times (2) I always take a wrong turn and go the long way (not the wrong way, just the long way). This time I had my handy dandy navigation system to work with (it's never failed me), but lo and behold when it came time to make the turn in the correct direction it told me to turn right . . . into a pasture. Hello? So I got all flustered (imagine that) and ended up turning at the wrong turn. Then the navigation system started to freak out and kept screaming "turn left then turn left" in a robotic voice. At which point I threatened to destroy it, and anyway, there was no way to turn around even if I wanted to (which I didn't . . . see bold above). Needless to say, we may have seen miles and miles of Texas that we didn't want to see yesterday. That's what happens when you let someone with no sense of direction lead the pack. Oops! Sorry!

Insanity Defined

Tomorrow morning we are headed to the beach along with my sister and her family. Her three boys plus my one boy equals four boys ages 3 to 12. That ladies and gentlemen is insanity.


So, in anticipation of this big trip I started making lists about a week and a half ago. My first list was made sitting at the bar in my Mom's kitchen on Memorial Day. This of course was a preliminary list, which I had the best intentions of reorganizing. My bratty little brother tore it in half. Why? Because he's annoying. Like I don't know how to use tape.


Anyway, this past Monday, I loaded Andrew up and we headed to a nearby town that actually has stores other than an original Wal Mart (I kid you not . . . old school Wal Mart here) and an overcrowded HEB. I hate going to HEB! I we decided to eat lunch at Chik-fil-A. Two things (1) I eat there because I'm madly in love with their lemonade (I may propose next time I'm there) and (2) I rarely let Andrew play on the playground, because I'm crazy and have to bathe him in Wet Wipes when he's done. Okay, now that all that's out in the open . . . We sat down with our food, and I pulled out my phone so I could rewrite and organize my preliminary list, but when I went to get the list out of it's designated pocket in my purse it. was. gone. I mean like disappeared, vanished into thin air! I promptly asked for a paper bag to breathe into. After my panic attack subsided, I began racking my brain trying to remember everything that was on the list. I punched two lists into my phone (it took for-ev-er . . . you remember how they said for-ev-er on "The Sandlot" . . . say it like that). One I sent to Sarah, my organizationally challenged sister (and she didn't even have the decency to respond to my message), and one for myself. I'm not sure what Andrew was doing while I was working on these lists . . . probably stealing my french fries since I got him fruit with his meal. Yes, I'm that mother.

I then shoved my food down my throat and we headed for Sam's. As much as I hate going to HEB, I love going to Sam's. There is so much stuff you don't need there. It's like a glimpse into Heaven. That was a joke . . . laugh. So, everytime I put  something in my basket I sent Sarah a text telling her what I was getting. I also called her like 12 times. I don't trust her to follow my lists. Who knows what she would actually buy if left to her own devices? Would you believe that she neither responded to my texts or answered my calls? If you know her, you will believe it. She's wildly irresponsible and rebellious that way. I'm wildly annoying by calling people every ten seconds. I finally called my grandmother's phone to get Sarah on the phone (she was with my sister otherwise that would be pointless). When I finally got her on the phone, she said two things, "I've been ignoring you" and "I'm out in the parking lot". Really Sarah? Thanks.

As punishment I followed her around Sam's for a while and instructed her on what to buy. Andrew really wanted to go with her. Apparently she's more fun than me. She lets him eat junk and play on germ infested playgrounds. Whatever! After a while, I got tired of pushing the full basket around and chasing Andrew at the same time so we left. The End.

What's the point to this whole story? There isn't one except to point out that I may be a little on the bossy side. It's okay, I admit it. Anyway, you won't hear from me for a few days. I'm not taking my computer to the beach, and I don't blog from my phone. Finger cramps and all. Also, and completely random, I changed the settings to have a mobile page when you are viewing this on your phone. If anyone uses their phone to read these, and you absolutely hate it let me know and I'll change it back. Talk to ya'll next week!

Beware of Grumpy (almost) 30 Year Olds

Edit: If you didn't know I was loony before, you know it now. I just realized I put 2010 instead of 2011 for the current year. Loopy!

So I got a cute dress at Target the other day. It's high waisted and purple and flowy, and though I rarely buy clothes from Target (I'm short and they don't fit me right), it fit and I bought it. I wore said cute dress to church last night, and while wearing what I thought was my new, cute, summer dress, someone asked me if I was pregnant. Actually I believe the words this person used were "with child". Say what?!? Excuse me??? First of all, no not in the physical sense! And second of all what century are we living in? It's okay to say pregnant and breast feeding (ahhh - my ears, my ears) and all that stuff. The thing is, while this made me, well, extremely uncomfortable (for her not so much for myself), it did not faze this person in the least bit. I would've dropped dead from embarrassment if I'd made that kind of mistake. But she just kept truckin' on as if it were no big deal. Yikes! You just asked me if I was pregnant. Have the decency to hang your head in shame. I kid, I kid! But in all honesty, here's a word of advice . . . never, I mean never, ask a woman if she is pregnant unless she is about to pop! And even then, you are treading on thin ice. Anyone in the market for a non-maternity dress that makes you look pregnant? Because it sure ain't me!

My husband asked me if I told her we were adopting, and I said "no, I was too busy sucking in my stomach". That's a joke (sort-of). Feel free to laugh (or not). I certainly don't mind telling people we're adopting, but it seems like once I tell someone, I keep telling them over and over again that this is a long process. As in 2-3 years long. As in we won't know anything about her until 18 months to 2.5 years for now. As in I'm going to start wearing a sign around my neck.

Yes, we are adopting!

The whole process takes 2-3 years . . . we started in February 2011.

2011 + 3 = 2014

Thank you and have a nice day!

I'm not trying to sound sarcastic (okay maybe a little) and ungrateful (because I really am grateful for all of your prayers and support), but in all seriousness, we are still working on paperwork, which is a long tedious process. And that long tedious process is followed by an even longer wait, when we most likely won't hear a thing from anyone but our adoption caseworker once a month. I'm very glad that people are interested, but please don't ask me if we've heard anything about our baby. Believe me if we hear about her and are free to share, I'll shout it from the mountaintops. Have no doubt about that. Please feel free to ask me where we are in the process or to explain how all this craziness works or what's next. If I have the answer, and understand what I'm talking about (hey, even if I don't know what I'm talking about), I'll be happy to tell you.  

And that's a post from a grumpy woman. Between being asked if I'm pregnant (which I live in mortal fear of everyday - I did not enjoy pregnancy - sorry if you loved it - and I'm halfway kidding here), and having a sunburn that is somewhere between stinging and itching like crazy, I'm a little on the grumpy side. Excuses, excuses. Can I get some sympathy people?

Don't worry I'll get over it! Have a great evening everyone.

We're Still Alive

Well folks, we're as prepared as we're ever gonna be for this adoption home visit. We've been working our tail ends off trying to get everything done around here. And of course we had to have a little drama thrown in for the heck of it. I can't live without at least a little drama. It's who I am.

Saturday, in the midst of doing 8.9 million loads of laundry (at least it feels like 8.9 million), vacuuming the couch, remopping and redusting (see my profile if you need an explanation of this), wiping down the baseboards (which I do at least 6 times a year - again see my profile), and cleaning out the fridge (that's a weekly thing), I decided to sync my iPhone. Now let me share a little bit about me and the iPhone. I really don't know a darn thing about it. I keep it because it's cool and then everyone else will think I'm cool. Some of you are trying to figure out if that's true or not. I'm not telling. Anyway in the middle of all this syncing business, the phone or computer or whatever asks me if I want to download the newest version of iTunes. And because I never ever ever use iTunes I thought this was a good idea. Not so much. My phone then completely froze and stopped working and then the computer keeps telling me to reset it. Of course when I try to reset it, I get a stinkin error message. So a trip to the Apple store had to be made Saturday evening. Now let me tell you something, the Apple store scares me. That place is like eat or be eaten, kill or be killed, you are either predator or prey (and besides my sister thinks it stinks in there). So I knocked down three old ladies to get to the one guy who was free. Thankfully, they were able to fix my phone no problemo, but I lost all of my information (including my pics). Either way, I'm just glad I got my phone fixed . . . and I'm just kidding about the old ladies ;)

Sunday morning came with its own drama. Remember way back to the last post when I said a certain someone likes to leave all of his food and wrappers on the end table each night? Yeah well, he did it again, and while I was getting Andrew's breakfast I hear "No dogs" and "I wanted to eat those for breakfast". So I meander into the living room to see what's going on, and there on my living room floor was an entire box of crackers that a certain someone had left out the night before. And sitting in the middle of this pile is my three year old holding a torn, empty cracker bag, while he shoves as many crackers as he can into his mouth before the dogs got to them. Needless to say, the vacuum cleaner came out yet another time and we were a wee bit late getting to church.

In spite of this craziness, we got pretty much everything done that needs to be done. And if you're not too busy tomorrow afternoon around 4:30 (Central Time - just in case, you never know who's reading), can you please say a prayer for us? We would appreciate it.

Oh and my husband was just going through a box that has been in the closet for about 4 years, which I was not allowed to touch by the way, and he found a ziploc bag full of pretzels. Nice dear . . . petrified pretzels in the closet.

Can you say "hoarder"?

Okay, so yesterday while Andrew was grouchy and sick and basically not doing anything but laying around and watching movies, Patrick and I started cleaning "stuff" out. We have two major areas that have to be cleaned up. Our spare bedroom and the garage. First of all, our back bedroom, soon to be the baby's room, is full of junk. The closet was/is crammed full. I should've taken real before pictures, but as Andrew and Anthony (my nephew) say "you get what you get and you don't throw a fit". Then Andrew usually proceeds to throw a fit. So here are your sort of before pictures (no fits please):

The toys on that bed I'm going to keep. The clothes are getting donated. Anyone want any little boys clothes? Now you see that massive blow up thing in the background? My sister-in-law, Sally, got that for Andrew for Christmas. It's a Buzz Lightyear blow up spaceship. It's BIG and takes up a lot of space. She thought it was funny. Don't worry I got her back. I bought my niece Chloe an instrument set, with cymbals, for her birthday.

Please ignore my finger in some of the pictures, I was using my iPhone and apparently don't know how to take pictures with it. When looking at the pictures of the top shelves in the closet, imagine them filled to the ceiling with boxes. Patrick, my wonderful husband, does not like to get rid of anything. At points yesterday, I thought I might choke him. I'm pretty sure he read every single piece of paper that I made him throw away that he willingly and with great pleasure threw away. His backpack from college was stuffed up in the top of the closet still packed from his last day of college. He didn't want to throw it away . . . he graduated from college in December of 2004. Let! It! Go!

More importantly, if you didn't notice, my wedding dress is hanging in that closet. I'm not sure what to do with it, so I'm thinking about wearing it around the house. I'll probably wear my old Letter Jacket(s) from High School over it. You think I'm kidding . . .  you'll never know. 

I'm sure you did notice all the boxes and Christmas trees in the bottom of the closet. Those are a few of my Christmas decorations. I will not let them go. (Hello, my name is Courtney and I'm addicted to Christmas decorations) Which is why we also have to clean out the garage . . . I need more storage.

Now, the treadmill and I used to be good friends. We're estranged as of late. Pretty soon we'll be separated forever. She was the first Christmas present Patrick gave me after we got married. You have no idea how excited I was, but that was pre-kids. I had time to work out . . . now I'm busy doing important things like typing blog posts that bore people to death. I will miss her, but she must go. Maybe my sister will take her. Then I can have visitation rights (Hello, my name is Courtney and I'm weird).

There was quite a bit more stuff in that room that is now on it's way to a garage sale. Which, glory hallelujah, I don't have to attend thanks to my wonder Mother-in-Law. I hate garage sales. Here's a pic of some of the stuff that went (please ignore my unmade bed - there is a child laying in it).

The garage, well lets just say that there in lies Patrick's real problem. Ladies and gentlemen I have a confession to make, my husband is a hoarder. Thankfully, he married me, the anti-hoarder. Otherwise, who knows where he'd be today.

So this is what we spent our Saturday doing. It's a lot of work, but it will be so worth it when we get our little girl. Yep, we've definitely decided that we will request a little girl. I have big plans for that room. I'll post pictures one day when it's all said and done. And now it's time to end this ridiculously long post . . .  if you made it this far you deserve a medal of honor.

Welcome to Mayberry

Speaking of Passports . . . we sent our passport applications off today. We have to have them before we submit our paperwork to Bulgaria. We had our pictures made at Walgreens. I've been telling Patrick he can't smile for the passport photo, but he insisted he could. The lady put him in front of the screen, and he cracked a big 'ole smile, and she said "sorry sir but you can't smile". Ahem . . . what have I been telling you? I'm much better at not smiling. I practice everyday while teaching a classroom full of fourth graders.

So once we had our supermodel worthy passport photos in hand, we headed to the courthouse annex building to send off our passport applications. This is where my mother told me to go. She knows these things. Anyway, we get there and there is no one anywhere near the entrance. We walked around the metal detectors . . . the security is top notch (insert theme song from the Andy Griffith show here). I mean Washington D.C. has nothing on the courthouse annex in our county. We finally found a very sweet, but slighlty clueless girl, to help us. She informed us that we weren't at the courthouse annex (uh yeah it says Courthouse Annex on the outside of the building but okie dokie), and the only thing they handled was criminal court cases. Which is why they had the stellar security at the entrance. Patrick then tells the girl we'll go "ask around" and find out where we get passports done. I'm not exactly sure where we were going to "ask around" but that was the plan. Did I mention that throughout all of this we had Andrew, who's 3, and my nephew Anthony, who's 8 - they walked through the metal detector . . . multiple times. So as we're headed out to "ask around" and the same sweet girl comes running back and says that we were indeed in the right place. We were then directed to the District Clerk's office. At this point it was a little after 4:30 and the lady at the desk informed us that they only process passports between 1:00 and 4:30 p.m. All I could think was "you have got to be kidding me!" Don't worry I didn't say it. She then says that she'll make an exception (thank goodness I didn't say what I was thinking). She was actually very nice once she started going through the paperwork. Ten minutes later we were done and on our way. We walked out past the invisible security guard and headed home.

And this ladies and gentlemen is why the next time I have jury duty I will wear a bullet proof vest and possibly a helmet.