So I’m with child. Got a bun in the oven. Insert another euphemism for pregnancy here.
And, naturally, GAR and I are completely over the moon excited about this (and I'll try my hardest not to get too damn smug about it). I’d love to tell you allll about it and share witty tidbits from my journey thus far but, truth be told, I’m too tired. You guys, growing a baby is seriously exhausting. But no complaints since, truthfully, it’s the only pregnancy symptom I’ve experienced thus far (you’d think I’d be ecstatic to not have an ounce of morning sickness, and I am, but it also leads me into a panicked “Is everything okay in there??” mentality at times. Thankfully my expanding waistline continues to remind me that, yes, this shit is for real! Unless that’s just a result of all the ice cream I’ve been eating).
But, indeed, there is a wee one growing inside me. And, let me tell you, getting to this point was no easy endeavor … and it certainly wasn’t the result of some drunken romp in the backseat of GAR’s pickup truck. Thankfully I had the foresight to write all about it back when I actually did have energy to do such things. And, while this blog post takes you back to Election Day 2012, I should admit that I didn’t get pregnant the day I wrote this message. That happened a few weeks later (on my next “cycle” as they would say in the fertility biz). But, the process was pretty much the same.
So, without further ado…
Nov. 6, 2012: I have my husband’s sperm all up in me.
I know it’s Election Day and the nation is lining up at the polls for their chance to vote but all I can think about is today’s “nooner.” No, it wasn’t the hottest, sexiest, most romantic experience I’ve ever had, in fact it may have been the least va-va-voom “deposit” ever made, but it certainly was memorable nonetheless. That’s because I snuck out from work at lunchtime, drove right past my house, and pulled into the parking lot of the fertility clinic downtown. And there, right on the table in a chilly examining room, is where the “magic” happened. Let me tell you all the saucy details…
First I checked in at the steamy reception desk…
Then a nurse called me back to the waiting room and told me to undress from the waist down only … how naughty!
I draped my lower half with a paper thin covering – you know, just to leave a little to the imagination…
And when the aging, gray haired Dr. McDreamy strolled in I obediently thrust my legs up into some stirrups so he could get a closer look at what I’ve got going on “down there.”
Oh the rush of adrenaline as he pushed the cold speculum inside me! Generally I only allow this region to be penetrated by the very closest and most trusted penises (okay, and maybe a wayward “this one will do … I guess” willie a time or two in my younger years), but on this occasion I really let my guard down and ushered in all manner of foreign objects. Yes! I am a bad, bad girl!
And then it happened. My husband’s sperm appeared before me like a vision in a test tube. And oh the places it had been before meeting me here today! GAR's journey began in a bathroom in that same clinic the week before where he lovingly (after watching porn on his phone I’m sure) deposited this sperm into a cup. It was then frozen, defrosted days later, washed – can’t you just picture all 50 million or so of his happy little sperm dancing and tumbling together during the spin cycle? – and then left here … for me! And before I knew it – zoom! They were inside me and heading for the goal!
Like too many sexual encounters it was over all so quickly. Then I was left alone to lie on a hard table while the octogenarian Dr. McDreamy, the nurse and some random intern who watched the whole affair (like the naughty, naughty voyeur he is) went on with their day.
After 15 minutes I composed myself, climbed down from the table, pulled back on my trousers and paid my $30 co-pay (okay, yes – I admit it. I PAID for it. Come arrest me if you must. I know that paying for sex is a crime but I had to – I just HAD to. Don’t you see? It’s the only way!)
No, I mean it. It really is the only way. Lord knows that GAR and I have tried nearly every other way to get me pregnant but it just never “sticks.” After running dozens of tests on both of us, filling me full of every hormone known to (wo)man, spending every evening giving myself follicle stimulating injections until my tummy looked like a piece of Swiss cheese full of needle tracks, going in for ultrasounds every other day to monitor my ovaries (and I’m talking the sort of ultrasounds where they shove a giant dildo up inside you and poke all around to see every nook and cranny – so, yeah, perhaps I have not been so selective about what’s been going up my vagina lately after all), daily pill regimens for GAR and myself, having blood work drawn every 3 days (which also explains the heroine-esque trails on my arms as well), stalking the mailman who delivers weekly packages of assorted medicines that have to be put on ice as soon as they arrive, carrying a cooler full of said medicines to dinner functions so that I could be sure to take my required doses at the precise right time daily, administering a monthly shot that induces ovulation, trying, hoping, waiting, wishing, failing and then starting all over again … every month for a year … it’s finally come to this – IUI (better known to most people as “artificial insemination”), which gives GAR’s swimmers a quicker route to the finish line (without having to wind their way up and around the crazy maze that takes them from my lady bits up into my uterus). You know, just in case the reason we weren’t getting pregnant before is because his “girl” sperm have poor directional skills and his “boy” sperm refused to stop and ask for directions (how typical, right?) And, now that it’s done (and it honestly felt like nothing happened at all), and his sperm are all up in me where they should be, I begin a new twice-daily regimen of estrogen pills and progesterone supplements (which, sadly, are not taken orally).
But, despite all this, Old Man McDreamy still says it’s a long shot this month … again. I just don’t produce enough “lady hormones” to, as Tim Gunn would say, “make it work.” In other words, based on my testosterone levels, I’m basically just a dude with a vagina (which, frankly, should surprise no woman who’s ever met me because, let’s face it, I’m really, really bad at being a “chick.” Scrapbooking? Not a chance. Rom com movies? Hell no. Designer handbags? A waste of money. Talking about your feelings? Let me refer you to GAR for that one. Football? Beer? Power tools? Sign me up!) I guess I should have seen this coming.
Not that this problem can’t be remedied by modern science (hooray science!), but it’s a difficult cocktail of oral hormones and injections that has to be mixed in perfect harmony … and the exact recipe varies from person to person and even, once you have the cocktail for one person down, from month to month. Last month the mixture resulted in me producing too many eggs, leading me to have to decide between scrapping treatments for the month or risking getting pregnant with quadruplets (maybe I could get my own show on TLC! Spoiler alert: I went for it and ended up not getting pregnant at all. There go my dreams of making big time tv money) and the overdose of female hormones that were completely unknown to me previously really messed with my mind (why am I crying? I never cry! Is this how other, normal women feel all the time? Seriously, what is this salty discharge coming from my eyes???) So this month they cut back on the meds and my body responded by upping the ante and producing 8 eggs this time around (you sneaky little bastards! You just WANT me to be the new Octomom, don’t you?) though only 1 of them “matured” enough to be considered viable (because there’s nothing more important than having a sophisticated embryo). And so it’s that one little guy (or gal) I’m feebly hanging my hopes on this Election Day.
And so God speed little semen. I’m taking this moment to honor you and wish you well as you run (I mean, swim) fearlessly into battle. Your service is truly to be applauded. Torpedoes on my friends – it’s time to penetrate!
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Up Shit’s Creek (a.k.a. Where's My Frickin' Paddle?)
It’s sort of like Dawson’s Creek, but a whole lot more shitty. No, it’s nothing like Dawson’s Creek, I’m just grasping at straws here (so I can breathe through the funky poo smell that’s surrounding this all-around shitty year that is 2013 thus far). And, yes, I do mean “shitty” in the literal sense. As in – I discover that my friend’s kid pooped in MY bed and soiled the sheets – shitty. And – GAR gets crapped on by a bird at a South Beach restaurant – shitty. Or, more recently – our septic tank backs up and fills our bathrooms with shit – shitty. So, yeah, that’s what I mean by “shitty.”
It hasn’t been pretty, and it sure as heck doesn’t smell like roses, but this is the crappy life we’re leading at the moment.
Unlike bird poop, which can be washed away and forgotten, or even our comforter, which can be washed but GAR insists on throwing out anyway because, ewww, you’re sleeping in what was once someone else’s poo (IKEA here we come!), our septic problem, while manageable, is a shitty issue that’s a little less easy to snap our fingers at and pray it will clear up. It takes professional help (not to mention a pretty penny out of our checkbook), which is on the way, but has left us knee-deep in shitty water in the meantime (or perhaps I exaggerate just a smidge, but it does bubble up through the drain in our shower which, thankfully, is the shower we don’t use, when we try to flush the toilet, making for a “which is the worse in these two scenarios?” type of debate every time we use the loo). The worst part is that, in the middle of all this, the seal on our toilet ring broke, which causes this murky brown sludge to seep out from underneath the toilet in our master bath as well (the whole area has been deemed a hazardous wasteland by yours truly and no one is allowed to enter).
Ah, the joys of owning a waste removal system built a quarter of a century ago.
On the plus side, the grass in our front lawn (located right where the septic tank is buried) has never looked greener! Who needs sprinklers when you have fresh manure fertilizing your grass (seriously, who ever thought that storing all your raw sewage in the ground in front of your own home was a good idea)? Of course I’m guessing that these lovely new green blades of grass won’t last long when the septic people come out tomorrow to dig it up all to drain the overfull container of shit below (seriously, that has to be the best job ever).
So we only have to suffer through one more shitty night before this whole ordeal is over. And I’m hoping that the remainder of 2013 is far less crappy. But I can only be so cautiously optimistic. While we did escape from the shitty confines of our home this past weekend for a lovely getaway to the Florida Keys with some friends, we didn’t exactly avoid all contact with bodily secretions. In fact, the mattress we were sleeping on (though, yes, it did have a sheet over it) was stained with something yellow that GAR repeatedly assured me was “spilled apple juice.” While I’m suspicious of his logical reasoning on that one I’m willing to go with it, for now, just because, even if it was what I thought it was, it was still a small step up from finding smelly brown child poo smudges across my pillowcase at home earlier this year. *Shudder*
Maybe I’ll just sleep on the couch tonight.
It hasn’t been pretty, and it sure as heck doesn’t smell like roses, but this is the crappy life we’re leading at the moment.
Unlike bird poop, which can be washed away and forgotten, or even our comforter, which can be washed but GAR insists on throwing out anyway because, ewww, you’re sleeping in what was once someone else’s poo (IKEA here we come!), our septic problem, while manageable, is a shitty issue that’s a little less easy to snap our fingers at and pray it will clear up. It takes professional help (not to mention a pretty penny out of our checkbook), which is on the way, but has left us knee-deep in shitty water in the meantime (or perhaps I exaggerate just a smidge, but it does bubble up through the drain in our shower which, thankfully, is the shower we don’t use, when we try to flush the toilet, making for a “which is the worse in these two scenarios?” type of debate every time we use the loo). The worst part is that, in the middle of all this, the seal on our toilet ring broke, which causes this murky brown sludge to seep out from underneath the toilet in our master bath as well (the whole area has been deemed a hazardous wasteland by yours truly and no one is allowed to enter).
Ah, the joys of owning a waste removal system built a quarter of a century ago.
On the plus side, the grass in our front lawn (located right where the septic tank is buried) has never looked greener! Who needs sprinklers when you have fresh manure fertilizing your grass (seriously, who ever thought that storing all your raw sewage in the ground in front of your own home was a good idea)? Of course I’m guessing that these lovely new green blades of grass won’t last long when the septic people come out tomorrow to dig it up all to drain the overfull container of shit below (seriously, that has to be the best job ever).
So we only have to suffer through one more shitty night before this whole ordeal is over. And I’m hoping that the remainder of 2013 is far less crappy. But I can only be so cautiously optimistic. While we did escape from the shitty confines of our home this past weekend for a lovely getaway to the Florida Keys with some friends, we didn’t exactly avoid all contact with bodily secretions. In fact, the mattress we were sleeping on (though, yes, it did have a sheet over it) was stained with something yellow that GAR repeatedly assured me was “spilled apple juice.” While I’m suspicious of his logical reasoning on that one I’m willing to go with it, for now, just because, even if it was what I thought it was, it was still a small step up from finding smelly brown child poo smudges across my pillowcase at home earlier this year. *Shudder*
Maybe I’ll just sleep on the couch tonight.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
New Year’s Resolutions – The Silent Killer
This is a cautionary tale about why you should never, ever make a New Year’s resolution … Not unless you want to end up in the emergency room without your lost dog.
This story begins when GAR and I got back from our Christmas trip to Michigan to see my brand-stinkin’-new Niece who is, in a word (or two), freakin’ adorable! We returned late on a Sunday night, and I had to work the next morning (New Year’s Eve), leaving GAR alone to prepare our house for the New Year’s Eve party we were having Monday evening. Thankfully there wasn’t much for him to do – just tidy up a bit, do a quick sweep of the floors, make sure the guest bedroom was suitable for overnight visitors, and put a giant, gaping, bloody hole in his leg.
Except that last item wasn’t really on his “honey do” list. It was more of a surprise bonus add-on that he threw in there just for fun.
Actually his puncture wound was caused by the New Year’s resolution I made several years prior (but just started on a few weeks ago … okay, so I was a little behind) to finally get the house organized. Just before Christmas GAR ripped the old unstable shelving out of our guest bedroom closet and installed new, more useful shelves, which I promptly filled with organized and sorted items as I promised I would oh so many years ago when I first resolved to do so. It all looked so nice! But, in doing so, GAR simply left the old shelving sitting on the back pool deck … where it stayed for weeks … until I finally told him to move it to the garage “lest someone hurt themselves on it.”
Turns out the person who hurt himself on the shelves was my own beloved GAR (oh the irony!) when he ran into the side of it with his bare leg. The plastic coasted wire shelving went into his leg and then came cleanly back out it again, leaving a gaping hole and lots of gushing blood. (See people – New Year’s resolutions are dangerous!)
He promptly admitted himself into the emergency room and I left work to meet him there. Apparently he looked bad off enough to skip ahead of lots of other waiting injured people and we got in pretty quick (by hospital standards anyway). He got a nice tetanus shot but apparently you can’t stitch up puncture wounds due to infection risks. Instead they cleaned the bloody hole by taking oversized q-tips dipped in alcohol and shoving them into his open sore (*barf*). But, okay, a few bandages and some prescription drugs to go and we were back on track to New Year’s party time!
I made it home just in time to clean up the path of blood that GAR had left throughout the house and *ding dong* our friends The Painters (names have been changed to protect everyone involved) arrived from Tampa. They were spending the night at our house that evening with their daughters and 2 poodles. We laughed, ate, showed off battle scars and enjoyed festive merriment with The Painters and our other friends who gradually popped up for the get-together and a good time was had by all. And we didn’t make resolutions because they’re dangerous and totally cliché (and, well, also because we still haven’t finished getting the house organized from my prior resolution from years ago).
The next morning GAR and I dragged our tired butts out of our now-2013 bed and spent some quality time with The Painters before they headed back home. When it came time for The Painters to leave I realized that it had been awhile since I had seen our own dog, Mustache. He never lets anyone leave the house without barking his discontent at their departure and, yet, he was nowhere to be found. GAR and I looked for him under every bed and behind every door but he was simply missing. And that’s when we realized that he must have sauntered out the front door while The Painters were loading up their car to head home.
So I did what anyone would do – I ran into the street in my PJs screaming Mustache’s name frantically.
I dragged my other dog, Munchkin, behind me on his leash as I ran through my neighborhood screaming Mustache’s name at the top of my lungs. GAR hopped in his truck and went on his own search mission. Mustache had been “missing” for less than half an hour and I was already suffering a serious panic attack thinking I’d never see him again … imagining terrible fates where he got hit by a car … found another family who fed him nothing but the finest pupperoni and, therefore, he loved them much more than us… or, worse yet, ran off and joined the circus and became a travelling performer known as The Great Mustache-aldo. But, thankfully, it was much less dramatic than I imagined – Mustache heard me calling his name and simply followed my voice back to me (and then he looked at me with this innocent “What’s your problem lady, I’m right here” stare). Whew. Crisis adverted. I called off the search parties and brought that furball back home.
But it could have been much worse. And, once again, I blame New Year’s resolutions for the nearly devastating loss of dear Mustache. Why, you ask? Because many years ago – long before my ’09 resolution to get my life organized (which I know, I still haven’t completed) – back in the early 2000s, I made the only other New Year’s resolution I can ever remember making … and that was to get a dog door for my other pup, Munchkin, so that he would be able to roam freely, thereby allowing me more time to socialize without having to rush home to let him out. And it is because of this dog door that Mustache has learned to go in and out of the house as he pleases (into the safely fenced back yard) without fear of being locked out … even when the door he exits out of is the front door. So see – it’s all the resolution’s fault!!
And now the gym is all crowded with “resolutioners” who won’t be there come April – hogging all the machines. And poor GAR still has a week left on his winter break from being a professor (seriously, the amount of free time he has just kills me) and I’m sure he’s just going to use that gimp leg of his as an excuse not to finish the organizational work on the other closets. Geesh, why did I even make a resolution in the first place?
So next year, can we all just resolve to never make any more resolutions? Or, if you insist on trying to better yourself, please decide to do it at some other time in the year … like the summer maybe. It’s probably just safer that way.
This story begins when GAR and I got back from our Christmas trip to Michigan to see my brand-stinkin’-new Niece who is, in a word (or two), freakin’ adorable! We returned late on a Sunday night, and I had to work the next morning (New Year’s Eve), leaving GAR alone to prepare our house for the New Year’s Eve party we were having Monday evening. Thankfully there wasn’t much for him to do – just tidy up a bit, do a quick sweep of the floors, make sure the guest bedroom was suitable for overnight visitors, and put a giant, gaping, bloody hole in his leg.
Except that last item wasn’t really on his “honey do” list. It was more of a surprise bonus add-on that he threw in there just for fun.
Actually his puncture wound was caused by the New Year’s resolution I made several years prior (but just started on a few weeks ago … okay, so I was a little behind) to finally get the house organized. Just before Christmas GAR ripped the old unstable shelving out of our guest bedroom closet and installed new, more useful shelves, which I promptly filled with organized and sorted items as I promised I would oh so many years ago when I first resolved to do so. It all looked so nice! But, in doing so, GAR simply left the old shelving sitting on the back pool deck … where it stayed for weeks … until I finally told him to move it to the garage “lest someone hurt themselves on it.”
Turns out the person who hurt himself on the shelves was my own beloved GAR (oh the irony!) when he ran into the side of it with his bare leg. The plastic coasted wire shelving went into his leg and then came cleanly back out it again, leaving a gaping hole and lots of gushing blood. (See people – New Year’s resolutions are dangerous!)
He promptly admitted himself into the emergency room and I left work to meet him there. Apparently he looked bad off enough to skip ahead of lots of other waiting injured people and we got in pretty quick (by hospital standards anyway). He got a nice tetanus shot but apparently you can’t stitch up puncture wounds due to infection risks. Instead they cleaned the bloody hole by taking oversized q-tips dipped in alcohol and shoving them into his open sore (*barf*). But, okay, a few bandages and some prescription drugs to go and we were back on track to New Year’s party time!
I made it home just in time to clean up the path of blood that GAR had left throughout the house and *ding dong* our friends The Painters (names have been changed to protect everyone involved) arrived from Tampa. They were spending the night at our house that evening with their daughters and 2 poodles. We laughed, ate, showed off battle scars and enjoyed festive merriment with The Painters and our other friends who gradually popped up for the get-together and a good time was had by all. And we didn’t make resolutions because they’re dangerous and totally cliché (and, well, also because we still haven’t finished getting the house organized from my prior resolution from years ago).
The next morning GAR and I dragged our tired butts out of our now-2013 bed and spent some quality time with The Painters before they headed back home. When it came time for The Painters to leave I realized that it had been awhile since I had seen our own dog, Mustache. He never lets anyone leave the house without barking his discontent at their departure and, yet, he was nowhere to be found. GAR and I looked for him under every bed and behind every door but he was simply missing. And that’s when we realized that he must have sauntered out the front door while The Painters were loading up their car to head home.
So I did what anyone would do – I ran into the street in my PJs screaming Mustache’s name frantically.
I dragged my other dog, Munchkin, behind me on his leash as I ran through my neighborhood screaming Mustache’s name at the top of my lungs. GAR hopped in his truck and went on his own search mission. Mustache had been “missing” for less than half an hour and I was already suffering a serious panic attack thinking I’d never see him again … imagining terrible fates where he got hit by a car … found another family who fed him nothing but the finest pupperoni and, therefore, he loved them much more than us… or, worse yet, ran off and joined the circus and became a travelling performer known as The Great Mustache-aldo. But, thankfully, it was much less dramatic than I imagined – Mustache heard me calling his name and simply followed my voice back to me (and then he looked at me with this innocent “What’s your problem lady, I’m right here” stare). Whew. Crisis adverted. I called off the search parties and brought that furball back home.
But it could have been much worse. And, once again, I blame New Year’s resolutions for the nearly devastating loss of dear Mustache. Why, you ask? Because many years ago – long before my ’09 resolution to get my life organized (which I know, I still haven’t completed) – back in the early 2000s, I made the only other New Year’s resolution I can ever remember making … and that was to get a dog door for my other pup, Munchkin, so that he would be able to roam freely, thereby allowing me more time to socialize without having to rush home to let him out. And it is because of this dog door that Mustache has learned to go in and out of the house as he pleases (into the safely fenced back yard) without fear of being locked out … even when the door he exits out of is the front door. So see – it’s all the resolution’s fault!!
And now the gym is all crowded with “resolutioners” who won’t be there come April – hogging all the machines. And poor GAR still has a week left on his winter break from being a professor (seriously, the amount of free time he has just kills me) and I’m sure he’s just going to use that gimp leg of his as an excuse not to finish the organizational work on the other closets. Geesh, why did I even make a resolution in the first place?
So next year, can we all just resolve to never make any more resolutions? Or, if you insist on trying to better yourself, please decide to do it at some other time in the year … like the summer maybe. It’s probably just safer that way.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
She’s Crafty
And she’s just your type.
I’ve written before about my general dislike of any arts and crafts-esque project. The idea of scrapbooking gives me the willies, glitter is very strictly banned from our household and the idea of stepping inside Michael’s is enough to give me hives. Even as a child I shuddered anytime a teacher pulled out popsicle sticks, fuzzy puff balls and some Elmers. Oh sure, we bought a glue gun and constructed some of our own wedding décor, but that was really more of a necessary cost-cutting measure than it was a “fun project.” It’s just not my thing. I don’t enjoy homespun things – I just don’t. And I certainly don’t like crafting them myself.
But lately … I don’t know … something has possessed me. Perhaps I’m ill. A strange virus infestation maybe? Well, whatever it is, it’s compelled me to tackle a few home improvement projects that some would classify (myself included) as “crafts.” *Shudder*
It all started because GAR went to Austin a few months ago and brought me back an “Austin City Limits” t-shirt that is completely awesome but is, also, completely suffocatingly (yes spell check, I know it’s not a word, lighten up) tight on me. He tried to see if he could exchange it for a larger size to no avail. But I had an idea to frame it for our music themed home office, along with another concert t-shirt that’s too big on me (if only they could be combined into one perfect t-shirt!), and a simple Google search gave me several options for how best to do this. No biggie, right? I mean, framing something isn’t really a craft project. But ... I didn’t love the color of the frames I had so I decided to spray paint them ... which is really just "painting" ... which is totally NOT crafting. Nonetheless, the whole thing did feel a little like arts and crafts hour in Kingergarten. But I am pleased with the results, so that's fine ... just fine. (Although I do have a major problem actually hanging the items I frame - hence the leaning on the floor shot. Get used to this ... you might see a few similar type shots moving forward as well.)
But, okay, while I was Googling this little t-shirt framing project I might have also seen an idea for how to turn old t-shirts into pillows (no sewing required! Which is good, because home ec was a bad, bad time for me in 7th grade) and thought “Oh, I have another really cool concert t-shirt that I’ll never wear again and wouldn’t this be a nice thing to help cushion my office chair?” (I’m still working on this one though – photos to come.) And then, well, it just kind of spiraled out of control from there.
I was unhappy with the wall full of framed postcards I had in my bedroom. The idea had seemed good in my imagination but it never really looked as good in person as I would have hoped. So I Googled ideas for other ways to display my retro travel postcards in one frame and came up with an idea for a craft project that would look way more kick ass than my current display. And so I did it. All it took was an empty frame, some string and tape. Easy! (Plus I invested in a very manly staple gun - score! - to hold the strings in place. And some day I'll even hang this bad boy too.)
I also revised my fireplace mantle artwork using framed fabric, which meant I had to go a place even MORE evil than Michaels – Joann’s. (Though I can deny ever doing this one since I took it down for the holiday season and put up garland instead.) And then I created two additional pieces of artwork for our office. I took some of our many, many concert tickets and created this (yes, I do know how to use a hammer and nail - get off my back).
And then I Instagramed (yes spell check. I know, I know) photos from these concerts (and a few more we've attended) and created a modern montage of them in Photoshop (before everyone started hating Instagram and saying they're selling our souls, etc., etc.) All I need now is to frame it (and, yes, hang it. Picky, picky)!
Pretty much I’ll never need any more décor for my office again. Or anywhere for that matter because I also created this for our bedroom.
It’s “artwork” created out of a bunch of little paint swatches I had collected at my "favorite" (okay, maybe not "favorite" but most frequently visited) store – Home Depot. But I totally love how it looks like legit art. And the best part? This one is supposed to sit on my dresser and lean against the wall - ha ha! I did that on purpose!
Yeah, okay. I may have a crafting problem. Granted it’s mostly just framing stuff with a little bit of design work thrown in. It’s not like I’ve taken up knitting or anything. But it’s definitely out of my realm of comfort. For the love of Pete I even joined Pintrest – PINTREST! I have clearly been possessed. But I’ll be damned if ever put anything I created up on that site. I am too selfish for Pintrest. Because, while I’m more than willing to look at your ideas and maybe snag a few of them for my own projects, I sure as heck don’t want anyone stealing my ideas. They’re mine. MINE I tells ya. Mwahhahhahhah (evil laugh) … even if I did share them here with you today (because I’m nothing if not a complete and total braggart).
To ease my mental state of affairs I took a breath, stepped away from the bedazzler, and decided to do a cosmetic enhancement that was just a little less "girly" (and I didn't even get hands-on with this one, I made GAR do it while I instructed him on how to do it correctly - natch) – hiding our television and electronic wires behind our new entertainment stand. This was no easy task given that our new stand has a completely open back to it. But I was just crafty enough (errrr ... I meant, intelligent enough) to figure out a way around that (basically it involved massive amount of electrical tape to hold everything into place. Viola!
This is the "BEFORE" shot (messy!):
And here is the "AFTER" (with GAR watching some crazy show about auctions - yawn). As you can see, we did a decent job of hiding the cords behind the shelves and then stuffing all plugs into that basket, which holds a power strip:
Okay, it’s all good. That last one was toooootttallllyy a macho, not too girly girl, type project. Perhaps I wasn’t a victim of body snatching. I am still “me” after all. Now I just need to find onnnneeee more frame for this uber cute Nirvana painting that GAR got me for Christmas. I'm sure I can find just a little more room on my wall for it ...
I’ve written before about my general dislike of any arts and crafts-esque project. The idea of scrapbooking gives me the willies, glitter is very strictly banned from our household and the idea of stepping inside Michael’s is enough to give me hives. Even as a child I shuddered anytime a teacher pulled out popsicle sticks, fuzzy puff balls and some Elmers. Oh sure, we bought a glue gun and constructed some of our own wedding décor, but that was really more of a necessary cost-cutting measure than it was a “fun project.” It’s just not my thing. I don’t enjoy homespun things – I just don’t. And I certainly don’t like crafting them myself.
But lately … I don’t know … something has possessed me. Perhaps I’m ill. A strange virus infestation maybe? Well, whatever it is, it’s compelled me to tackle a few home improvement projects that some would classify (myself included) as “crafts.” *Shudder*
It all started because GAR went to Austin a few months ago and brought me back an “Austin City Limits” t-shirt that is completely awesome but is, also, completely suffocatingly (yes spell check, I know it’s not a word, lighten up) tight on me. He tried to see if he could exchange it for a larger size to no avail. But I had an idea to frame it for our music themed home office, along with another concert t-shirt that’s too big on me (if only they could be combined into one perfect t-shirt!), and a simple Google search gave me several options for how best to do this. No biggie, right? I mean, framing something isn’t really a craft project. But ... I didn’t love the color of the frames I had so I decided to spray paint them ... which is really just "painting" ... which is totally NOT crafting. Nonetheless, the whole thing did feel a little like arts and crafts hour in Kingergarten. But I am pleased with the results, so that's fine ... just fine. (Although I do have a major problem actually hanging the items I frame - hence the leaning on the floor shot. Get used to this ... you might see a few similar type shots moving forward as well.)I was unhappy with the wall full of framed postcards I had in my bedroom. The idea had seemed good in my imagination but it never really looked as good in person as I would have hoped. So I Googled ideas for other ways to display my retro travel postcards in one frame and came up with an idea for a craft project that would look way more kick ass than my current display. And so I did it. All it took was an empty frame, some string and tape. Easy! (Plus I invested in a very manly staple gun - score! - to hold the strings in place. And some day I'll even hang this bad boy too.)
And then I Instagramed (yes spell check. I know, I know) photos from these concerts (and a few more we've attended) and created a modern montage of them in Photoshop (before everyone started hating Instagram and saying they're selling our souls, etc., etc.) All I need now is to frame it (and, yes, hang it. Picky, picky)!
Pretty much I’ll never need any more décor for my office again. Or anywhere for that matter because I also created this for our bedroom.
It’s “artwork” created out of a bunch of little paint swatches I had collected at my "favorite" (okay, maybe not "favorite" but most frequently visited) store – Home Depot. But I totally love how it looks like legit art. And the best part? This one is supposed to sit on my dresser and lean against the wall - ha ha! I did that on purpose!
Yeah, okay. I may have a crafting problem. Granted it’s mostly just framing stuff with a little bit of design work thrown in. It’s not like I’ve taken up knitting or anything. But it’s definitely out of my realm of comfort. For the love of Pete I even joined Pintrest – PINTREST! I have clearly been possessed. But I’ll be damned if ever put anything I created up on that site. I am too selfish for Pintrest. Because, while I’m more than willing to look at your ideas and maybe snag a few of them for my own projects, I sure as heck don’t want anyone stealing my ideas. They’re mine. MINE I tells ya. Mwahhahhahhah (evil laugh) … even if I did share them here with you today (because I’m nothing if not a complete and total braggart).
To ease my mental state of affairs I took a breath, stepped away from the bedazzler, and decided to do a cosmetic enhancement that was just a little less "girly" (and I didn't even get hands-on with this one, I made GAR do it while I instructed him on how to do it correctly - natch) – hiding our television and electronic wires behind our new entertainment stand. This was no easy task given that our new stand has a completely open back to it. But I was just crafty enough (errrr ... I meant, intelligent enough) to figure out a way around that (basically it involved massive amount of electrical tape to hold everything into place. Viola!
This is the "BEFORE" shot (messy!):
Okay, it’s all good. That last one was toooootttallllyy a macho, not too girly girl, type project. Perhaps I wasn’t a victim of body snatching. I am still “me” after all. Now I just need to find onnnneeee more frame for this uber cute Nirvana painting that GAR got me for Christmas. I'm sure I can find just a little more room on my wall for it ...
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Eating Arachnids
You know how they say you eat some insane number of spiders each year in your sleep? Eight is the number I generally hear (*shudder*). How these disgusting creatures end up in one’s mouth, being chewed up, swallowed and digested, is generally not something I care to spend much time thinking about in my daily life. But, honestly, at this point I think that I’d be at least a little bit okay with the idea (provided I can still go on living in ignorant bliss that it ever occurred) if it means that the Hanks are finally extinguished from my abode for good.
If you don’t remember the “original” Hank, he was a giant, furry, nearly tarantula-esque type spider I found (like I find all evil things that take up residence in our home) one day while GAR was away … well over a year and a half ago. And then I lost him. Then found him again dead, weeks later (after many fearful, don’t touch anything before inspecting it for giant spiders first, moments), squished in the sliding door track. And then I found two of his buddies dead in our unused spare, spare bedroom – proving that he was not a one-time-only freak-of-nature occurrence. And, despite learning that they are actually not poisonous, I got an exterminator … who kindly also pointed out that we had black widows (and their eggs) living around the perimeter of our house (and, as we learned later, also living in our garage) ... and those bad boys are poisonous.
Here’s a photo of a Hank (a.k.a. Wolf Spider) just so you know the source of my nightmares more intimately (no, this is not a photo that we took. We are sane people who do not pick up and hold very scary spiders no matter how seemingly harmless their venom is known to be. However, I would like the man to come live with us since, clearly, he is much less frightened of Hanks than we are).
So, yeah, although I think it would be nearly impossible to chow down on one of those bad boys in my sleep without being aware of it, I would, perhaps, be willing to bite the bullet if I meant I never, ever, EVER had to see one again. But, come on, that would HAVE to count as my sleeping spider eating quotient for the next couple of years at least.
But there’s been no need for all that. We have been living blissfully free of Hank and his offspring for some time now. Oh sure, GAR found this crazy giant spider in the pool and when he tried to fish it out it formed a bubble around its entire body (what the???) and “paddled” away from him. And then another time he found some other spiders on the pool deck whose bodies appeared to be made of spiky, weaponized armor. But there weren’t any IN OUR HOUSE (unless I had accidentally eaten them, of course) and so it was fine … until GAR found a Hank in our master bathroom a few days back. And, yes, he killed him, but how can I ever rest easy again? HOW?
Of course it doesn’t help matters that I’ve been home sick these past few days … which means I’ve spent some significant time alone in the house – which always seems to be prime time for terrifying creatures to make their appearance known to me. So, of course, I wake up this morning in a foggy, congested haze and head into said master bathroom where what to my sleep-caked eyes does appear is some large and possibly eight-legged creature making its way through my in-ground rock garden (I suspect this is why most people do not have rock gardens in the middle of their bathroom floor but, you know, they’re just not as lucky as I am I guess). Of course, I couldn’t be sure what I was seeing since I didn’t have my contacts in, but it was SOMETHING HUGE. But, naturally, by the time I located my glasses it could no longer be found. We even tossed around the rocks a bit in an effort to startle it out of hiding with no success. I crouched on the cold tile for 20 minutes afterwards just staring into the rocks, looking for it (while GAR stumbled back to bed), but it never reappeared. I know from past experience that when you dig down past all the rocks all that you find is dirt, not cement foundation, so it could be lurking somewhere on the earthy bottom of the “garden” (though, despite what my friend Katie believes, no creatures can actually burrow into – or out of - the bathroom through that dirt … this isn’t The Shawshank Redemption and the critter would have quite a long path to dig to freedom), but that means it’s still here … whatever it is … somewhere.
GAR believes it was just my delusion. With my sight impaired, my head in a weird NyQuil coma and visions of Hanks scampering in my head, he believes I dreamt the whole thing. But he is wrong. So very wrong. I know it.
And so it’s decided – from now until the end of the month I am going to devote myself to finally finishing the New Year’s resolution I made on Dec. 31 (2010 … okay, yeah, I am a little late, I know) and get every nook and cranny of this house organized. I need to ensure that there are no little cubbyholes of clutter where critters could be lurking unnoticed. I will smoke Hank out of his hole. I MUST.
Really there are only a few stones (well, actually, there are still LOTS in the rock garden) left unturned. I organized the laundry room and linen closet last weekend … and I would have gotten farther if I hadn’t stubbed my toe so hard I thought it was broken (which it wasn’t … the only thing broken was my spirit … my spirit). So now all that’s left is the aforementioned spare, spare bedroom – which is where I found the dead Hanks before. And, yes, I’ll admit I’ve saved this room for last because I acknowledge that it’s the most likely to be the source of whatever it is I don’t want to uncover. But I’ve got to face my fears and go in there to finish filling the boxes I’ve stored there with stuff to drop off at the Salvation Army. And today I made that pile just a bit bigger when I tossed an old dish towel I don’t want any more on top … and a giant lizard leapt up and darted away. Of course. Sure. Lizards. Why not? Come and join the party.
But I did make GAR perform a “catch and release” with our new green scaly friend. Still, I can’t help but wonder if I made the right decision. After all, lizards are harmless. And from what I know of them they eat bugs … even big hairy spiders. Perhaps Mr. Lizard really was the lesser of two evils.
Dang it – now I’m going to have to be the one to eat Hank after all.
If you don’t remember the “original” Hank, he was a giant, furry, nearly tarantula-esque type spider I found (like I find all evil things that take up residence in our home) one day while GAR was away … well over a year and a half ago. And then I lost him. Then found him again dead, weeks later (after many fearful, don’t touch anything before inspecting it for giant spiders first, moments), squished in the sliding door track. And then I found two of his buddies dead in our unused spare, spare bedroom – proving that he was not a one-time-only freak-of-nature occurrence. And, despite learning that they are actually not poisonous, I got an exterminator … who kindly also pointed out that we had black widows (and their eggs) living around the perimeter of our house (and, as we learned later, also living in our garage) ... and those bad boys are poisonous.
Here’s a photo of a Hank (a.k.a. Wolf Spider) just so you know the source of my nightmares more intimately (no, this is not a photo that we took. We are sane people who do not pick up and hold very scary spiders no matter how seemingly harmless their venom is known to be. However, I would like the man to come live with us since, clearly, he is much less frightened of Hanks than we are).
So, yeah, although I think it would be nearly impossible to chow down on one of those bad boys in my sleep without being aware of it, I would, perhaps, be willing to bite the bullet if I meant I never, ever, EVER had to see one again. But, come on, that would HAVE to count as my sleeping spider eating quotient for the next couple of years at least.
But there’s been no need for all that. We have been living blissfully free of Hank and his offspring for some time now. Oh sure, GAR found this crazy giant spider in the pool and when he tried to fish it out it formed a bubble around its entire body (what the???) and “paddled” away from him. And then another time he found some other spiders on the pool deck whose bodies appeared to be made of spiky, weaponized armor. But there weren’t any IN OUR HOUSE (unless I had accidentally eaten them, of course) and so it was fine … until GAR found a Hank in our master bathroom a few days back. And, yes, he killed him, but how can I ever rest easy again? HOW?
Of course it doesn’t help matters that I’ve been home sick these past few days … which means I’ve spent some significant time alone in the house – which always seems to be prime time for terrifying creatures to make their appearance known to me. So, of course, I wake up this morning in a foggy, congested haze and head into said master bathroom where what to my sleep-caked eyes does appear is some large and possibly eight-legged creature making its way through my in-ground rock garden (I suspect this is why most people do not have rock gardens in the middle of their bathroom floor but, you know, they’re just not as lucky as I am I guess). Of course, I couldn’t be sure what I was seeing since I didn’t have my contacts in, but it was SOMETHING HUGE. But, naturally, by the time I located my glasses it could no longer be found. We even tossed around the rocks a bit in an effort to startle it out of hiding with no success. I crouched on the cold tile for 20 minutes afterwards just staring into the rocks, looking for it (while GAR stumbled back to bed), but it never reappeared. I know from past experience that when you dig down past all the rocks all that you find is dirt, not cement foundation, so it could be lurking somewhere on the earthy bottom of the “garden” (though, despite what my friend Katie believes, no creatures can actually burrow into – or out of - the bathroom through that dirt … this isn’t The Shawshank Redemption and the critter would have quite a long path to dig to freedom), but that means it’s still here … whatever it is … somewhere.
GAR believes it was just my delusion. With my sight impaired, my head in a weird NyQuil coma and visions of Hanks scampering in my head, he believes I dreamt the whole thing. But he is wrong. So very wrong. I know it.
And so it’s decided – from now until the end of the month I am going to devote myself to finally finishing the New Year’s resolution I made on Dec. 31 (2010 … okay, yeah, I am a little late, I know) and get every nook and cranny of this house organized. I need to ensure that there are no little cubbyholes of clutter where critters could be lurking unnoticed. I will smoke Hank out of his hole. I MUST.
Really there are only a few stones (well, actually, there are still LOTS in the rock garden) left unturned. I organized the laundry room and linen closet last weekend … and I would have gotten farther if I hadn’t stubbed my toe so hard I thought it was broken (which it wasn’t … the only thing broken was my spirit … my spirit). So now all that’s left is the aforementioned spare, spare bedroom – which is where I found the dead Hanks before. And, yes, I’ll admit I’ve saved this room for last because I acknowledge that it’s the most likely to be the source of whatever it is I don’t want to uncover. But I’ve got to face my fears and go in there to finish filling the boxes I’ve stored there with stuff to drop off at the Salvation Army. And today I made that pile just a bit bigger when I tossed an old dish towel I don’t want any more on top … and a giant lizard leapt up and darted away. Of course. Sure. Lizards. Why not? Come and join the party.
But I did make GAR perform a “catch and release” with our new green scaly friend. Still, I can’t help but wonder if I made the right decision. After all, lizards are harmless. And from what I know of them they eat bugs … even big hairy spiders. Perhaps Mr. Lizard really was the lesser of two evils.
Dang it – now I’m going to have to be the one to eat Hank after all.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Tradition. Tradition. TRADITION!
You should be singing the title to this post Fiddler on the Roof style which, I know, is hard to translate into writing but, eh, whatcha gonna do?
Actually, I am not a gal who is so much into tradition. Not that I have anything against traditions, per se, I just think that one should leave herself open to doing whatever feels right in a situation, not simply doing things the way they’ve always been done “just because.” Our wedding was not full of customs that other weddings generally follow, for Thanksgiving we grilled out since I don’t eat meat (no turkey in the household), and next year we’ll probably do something different entirely, and we often celebrate what we call “Christmas” on a day other than Dec. 25, depending on our plans for that year (which always vary).
But, we are traditional when it comes to the holidays in some ways. We do always deck the halls (though I don’t have any balls of holly) – putting up a tree, hanging stockings and (usually, assuming I can convince GAR to do it) stringing up the lights on the front of the house – and we NEVER do it prior to Thanksgiving (that’s sacrilege in our house). We bake cookies, send out holiday cards featuring photos of us and the pups, and wrap presents – every year. And we likely watch a few holiday tv specials too. These are traditions I suppose, though we’re not insistent about how we do them or when … we could let one or two slide without much notice … but mostly they’re just things we do to feel “festive.” However we do have one main tradition in our house, and this tradition can NEVER be broken – our gift giving ritual.
We started this tradition a few years ago when we first bought our house. We wanted to keep our Christmas spending small while still getting each other thoughtful, meaningful tokens of affection. So we made some rules (traditions always have rules, which can sound limiting or oppressive but, somehow, we’ve made our “rules” into such a game that it’s completely fun … and challenging – in a good way).
Rule 1: There is a max spending limit of $100 (including tax and shipping for any items purchased – although GAR will often try to negotiate out of including one or the other of these add-ons in an effort to spend a few extra bucks)
Rule 2: Everything you purchase MUST fit inside the other person’s stocking (at least part of each item anyway, there can be some spillover at the top)
We also sometimes make a Rule 3 to challenge us further. Rule 3 includes specifics for the gift content. For example, this year we must have one gift that the other person can wear, one gift that you made and one gift that is symbolic of something we’ve done together as a couple (you could have three separate gifts to meet these criteria or you could have one or two gifts that serve double/triple duty – i.e. a scarf you knitted out of old vacation t-shirts). But we don’t always have a Rule 3 because, as I said, even our traditions have to be a little bit flexible.
I LOVE our gift giving tradition because we each have to think a lot about what it is that we want to get the other person most. We have to budget our money accordingly, shop wisely, get reeealllly creative about how to accomplish our mission, think strategically, and still manage to surprise and delight the other person with our craftiness and consideration. On numerous occasions I’ve seen GAR taking precise measurements of my stocking, plotting and planning what will fit inside. GAR’s stocking is all misshapen now – stretched out from me cramming as much as humanly possible in there in years past. We get crafty and cunning and downright sneaky about our purchases. And, best of all, we’re not blowing the bank with our perfect little presents. However, we do, frequently, blow each other’s minds with what we’re able to get each other on our tight budgets.
This year’s gifts are already starting to pop up. Every few days I look and there seems to be something new that’s appeared. Here’s where we stand today – Dec. 1. Only 24 more shopping days to go (or, since we’ll actually be celebrating Christmas on Dec. 23 this year, 22 shopping days really)!
I can’t wait to see what this year’s stocking madness brings.
Now if you’ll excuse me, GAR and I are off to do some shipping for another little (fiscally responsible) holiday tradition we have – The Dollar Store Christmas. Each year our friends all get together for a “Secret Santa” style party where the gift you give to your assigned recipient must come from the Dollar Store (or cost no more than $1 + tax, if purchased somewhere other than the Dollar Store). Again, you’d be surprised what you can get for a single buck. I used my $1 copy of Sanjaya’s memoir (from "American Idol" – didn’t you know he has his very own book?) to trap a snake in my house earlier this year, I have a $1 recording of the Michigan State (my alma mater) fight song on CD and, should the need ever arise, I can take a $1 pregnancy test (though I’m not sure I’d trust the results on that one).
So yeah, some traditions really are worth keeping around (as long as they don’t cost me too much moolah that is). Happy holidays!
Actually, I am not a gal who is so much into tradition. Not that I have anything against traditions, per se, I just think that one should leave herself open to doing whatever feels right in a situation, not simply doing things the way they’ve always been done “just because.” Our wedding was not full of customs that other weddings generally follow, for Thanksgiving we grilled out since I don’t eat meat (no turkey in the household), and next year we’ll probably do something different entirely, and we often celebrate what we call “Christmas” on a day other than Dec. 25, depending on our plans for that year (which always vary).
But, we are traditional when it comes to the holidays in some ways. We do always deck the halls (though I don’t have any balls of holly) – putting up a tree, hanging stockings and (usually, assuming I can convince GAR to do it) stringing up the lights on the front of the house – and we NEVER do it prior to Thanksgiving (that’s sacrilege in our house). We bake cookies, send out holiday cards featuring photos of us and the pups, and wrap presents – every year. And we likely watch a few holiday tv specials too. These are traditions I suppose, though we’re not insistent about how we do them or when … we could let one or two slide without much notice … but mostly they’re just things we do to feel “festive.” However we do have one main tradition in our house, and this tradition can NEVER be broken – our gift giving ritual.
We started this tradition a few years ago when we first bought our house. We wanted to keep our Christmas spending small while still getting each other thoughtful, meaningful tokens of affection. So we made some rules (traditions always have rules, which can sound limiting or oppressive but, somehow, we’ve made our “rules” into such a game that it’s completely fun … and challenging – in a good way).
Rule 1: There is a max spending limit of $100 (including tax and shipping for any items purchased – although GAR will often try to negotiate out of including one or the other of these add-ons in an effort to spend a few extra bucks)
Rule 2: Everything you purchase MUST fit inside the other person’s stocking (at least part of each item anyway, there can be some spillover at the top)
We also sometimes make a Rule 3 to challenge us further. Rule 3 includes specifics for the gift content. For example, this year we must have one gift that the other person can wear, one gift that you made and one gift that is symbolic of something we’ve done together as a couple (you could have three separate gifts to meet these criteria or you could have one or two gifts that serve double/triple duty – i.e. a scarf you knitted out of old vacation t-shirts). But we don’t always have a Rule 3 because, as I said, even our traditions have to be a little bit flexible.
I LOVE our gift giving tradition because we each have to think a lot about what it is that we want to get the other person most. We have to budget our money accordingly, shop wisely, get reeealllly creative about how to accomplish our mission, think strategically, and still manage to surprise and delight the other person with our craftiness and consideration. On numerous occasions I’ve seen GAR taking precise measurements of my stocking, plotting and planning what will fit inside. GAR’s stocking is all misshapen now – stretched out from me cramming as much as humanly possible in there in years past. We get crafty and cunning and downright sneaky about our purchases. And, best of all, we’re not blowing the bank with our perfect little presents. However, we do, frequently, blow each other’s minds with what we’re able to get each other on our tight budgets.
This year’s gifts are already starting to pop up. Every few days I look and there seems to be something new that’s appeared. Here’s where we stand today – Dec. 1. Only 24 more shopping days to go (or, since we’ll actually be celebrating Christmas on Dec. 23 this year, 22 shopping days really)!
I can’t wait to see what this year’s stocking madness brings.
Now if you’ll excuse me, GAR and I are off to do some shipping for another little (fiscally responsible) holiday tradition we have – The Dollar Store Christmas. Each year our friends all get together for a “Secret Santa” style party where the gift you give to your assigned recipient must come from the Dollar Store (or cost no more than $1 + tax, if purchased somewhere other than the Dollar Store). Again, you’d be surprised what you can get for a single buck. I used my $1 copy of Sanjaya’s memoir (from "American Idol" – didn’t you know he has his very own book?) to trap a snake in my house earlier this year, I have a $1 recording of the Michigan State (my alma mater) fight song on CD and, should the need ever arise, I can take a $1 pregnancy test (though I’m not sure I’d trust the results on that one).
So yeah, some traditions really are worth keeping around (as long as they don’t cost me too much moolah that is). Happy holidays!
Friday, November 23, 2012
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Festive Foliage Frame Christmas
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