Miss Fix It

Yey me! After months of nagging Hubs to put in a new door knob because ours is broken, we only have one key and I was forever leaving the house unlocked....I drove myself to Home Depot, picked out a new doorknob and dead bolt and installed them.

Just.

Like.

That.

Tomorrow I'm tackling the half stripped bookshelf that has been sitting in my garage for a year.

Speaking of The Lizness...

Go wish her congrats!

Reality Check

Although my big kids are away for the week (read: relax and sleep), Charming decided to give up sleeping. Late to bed, up all night, ready for the day at SIX. A.M. Yeah, to say I was annoyed is an understatement. And then I got this tip from Joyce:

There is an Infertility Film Festival. Who knew? And I popped over to watch a couple videos. This is my favorite so far. And, be aware, they aren't all Christian, so prepare yourself for some language, etc.

Anyway, it gave me a healthy dose of reality. How far I've come in seven years. You know, the last days of July seven years ago our third adoption was falling through. I had several positive pregnancy tests and no one to show for it. I hadn't had a positive test in eight months (because I quit taking them, probably). And I was certain the agency we were working with would never call us again after the fiasco we'd just gone through.

As Liz would say, my Joy in the Morning was on it's way. Or as I would say, my Joy after the Mourning was on it's way. But I didn't know that.

All that to say, that Charming's smile is being quite a lot better received than it was two hours ago.

What a long way we've come.

Oh, and if you pop over to the festival, bring a box of tissues.

it is a Psalm 15 kinda day--in that I wish I were....

I am sad.

Or in the words of a great children's author, "A might melancholy. A bit blue." It could be that my three larger babies are at Grandma's for a week. It could be that, as Hubs tells me, I've become unsocial. I don't know what it is, exactly.

It could be that I've been in a situation that brings out the self-loathing in me again. Too much social life on my weekend calendar. Too much talking in my social life.

I'm still self-flagellating over the outfit ordeal. Which is so far in the past that one must wonder what it is that keeps bringing it to mind.

I should be self congratulating. I had an opportunity to say exactly what I wanted to say, and didn't say it. Holding my tongue is NOT my forte. And I did. The words would have sounded nice. If I typed them, you would wonder what it was that was so wrong with the statement. But my meaning wouldn't have been nice and I would have known it. And I didn't say it.

No, but I didn't keep my peace either. I didn't give off positive vibes. Or a favorable impression. I have got to learn to control myself. It doesn't matter that I'm irritated. And it doesn't matter that I didn't say anything particularly negative to or about the person on the receiving end. I still shrouded myself in negativity.

Have you ever heard of the motivational speaker, Ed Foreman? If you ever get a chance you should sit in on one of his seminars. In his "How to have a gooooooood day every day" (or something like that) he makes a statement, "I'd never met anyone so enthusiastically negative in my whole life!" Today I feel like that person.

I don't know if that is why I'm sad. I just don't know. but I'll leave you with that alliterative author and her great book anyway:

Bringing Me To Tears

I cried for Eldest's birth mother today. Nearly seven years later and I still shed tears for her. The story goes like this:

When we got the call that we could potentially parent Eldest, we'd had three situations fall through for us already. You could say we were cautiously optimistic. In Arkansas, where he was born, the law states that the birth mothers can sign before the baby is born. She has ten days after the baby is born to change her mind and get him back, but the clock doesn't start ticking until she has signed and she can't sign under the influence of anything (including pain meds for the delivery). Sooooo, she can sign before she goes into labor and the clock starts ticking immediately at birth. And we actually had to wait 12 because her 10th day was on a weekend so they gave her the weekend plus Monday.

By the way, this, to me, is a huge pro-life kind of a law. If she can sign consents before the BABY is born, the BABY is in fact a BABY. Go figure. Here she could still have aborted him and called him "tissue." Off topic. Climbing down off my soapbox.

Well, she did sign. But we were still a hair gun shy. We didn't buy a single thing. Not even diapers. We went into her room and met her and she made us believe it would probably happen, but we still didn't really think we'd come home with a baby. Not really. Not enough to run out shopping while we waited for them to be dismissed.

Yes. We were new parents. We should have been excited. And we were. But not so much that we went out and bought a "coming home from the hospital" outfit. I didn't want anything that I'd memorialize should she change her mind.

Hindsight. Probably a bit overboard.

So when she called to tell the attorney that she and he were being released, she asked if we had an outfit for him to leave the hospital. I hadn't thought that far. I scrambled through the clothes we'd borrowed and found something that I thought would fit this teeny guy. It was a red sleeper with Mickey Mouse on it. Obviously worn.

She sent him home to us in that outfit. And with him came the most adorable little white sailor suit. Someone had obviously picked it out for him. I can only hope it was one of her friends. But today when I saw the sailor suit I cried for her. To love him so much and let him go and to have to send him away to people who didn't even buy him something new to come home from the hospital in...

So hating myself right now. Why didn't we just take the plunge and buy an outfit on hope? We had a special one on court day which was the day I had earmarked as a "big day," but the other was a big, momentous day, too.

So today, seven years later, I'm shedding guilty tears. I hope she knows what a big day that day was for us. Regardless of appearances.

I've Become One of Them

I've done diaper studies for years. A diaper company provides you with a set of diapers, you tell them what you think. They pay you. Free diapers. Money. Need I say more?

I've done these studies through the same group for years.

I've gone to the same orientation meeting for years.

(The questions have gotten quite a bit more detailed over the years, but basically it's the same thing.)

For years I've obeyed the rules. Show up 15 minutes early for the 30 minute session. Fill out paperwork during the 15, lady talks for 30.

I've wised up. If you go to the last session of the day, she abbreviates the talk. She's said the same thing 15 times already and knows that the vast majority of the moms in the room are, in fact, smarter than a post and could figure out what to do even if she didn't tell them. (You know, they should ask when they call if you've ever been and save the "real"orientation for the new people who aren't sure they are smarter than a post until they get home and realize a chimp could figure the questionnaire out. Let the rest of us just pop in and pick up our stuff. IMHO.)

So, like I said, I've wised up. Because inevitably a woman or three come staggering in late and the teacher lady waits for them to sign in and starts over. I'm there 45 minutes, the late staggerer is there 10 max. Today, I intended to get there just on time and figured I could fill out my paperwork while she was pausing for the staggerers. I hit traffic. I became a staggerer.

There is a reason people are staggerers. It is NICE to be the staggerer. I shaved 35 minutes off my time and I didn't have to be annoyed at the staggerers and inwardly fume that SURELY if I could make it one time she could.

She probably could, but chose to wonder why bother?

I so get it now.

I didn't mean to, but I'm not so sure I'm gonna stress about it anymore.

I know. That makes me one of those inconsiderate people. But the truth is, after the study is over I'll promise myself it isn't worth it because I always do. Until the next time. And by then, I'm sure I'll have forgotten that I would intentionally be rude. Therefore I won't be. So I'm going to justify this rude like desire on the basis of I'll never follow through.

Except--For as a man thinketh....

laughing!

From here:

Boy, n: a noise with dirt on it.

Nope

Okay, with sales, you'll do better than Amazon on markers. I'd have edited the last post, but I'm having blogger issues again.

Is it me, or is it them?

I think it must be me.

Here's an Idea

I've been fussing with my friends about school supplies. Sure, you can get ten cent notebooks at Wal-Mart, but when the teacher insists upon a certain brand of paints and markers it can get expensive fast. For example: Prang Paints. One, they are $3.50. Two, the kids used them, maybe, twice. But this summer they've used them enough that I have to buy new. Very Frustrating. Why the expensive brand if you won't use them anyway? However, on a whim today I checked Amazon. Lo and behold, they beat Wal-Mart prices. I'm going to check Crayola washable markers now, but I thought I'd share.

And for those of you who live nearby, if you haven't bought yet and want to combine an order to avoid shipping, let me know. Because once you pay shipping, well, it defeats the purpose.

By request

Julie asked, and in case someone else wants:

Pasta Alfredo

8 oz pasta (if you want to be like the hut, use a tri-shaped pasta mix)
1 1/2 cups whipping cream
1 1/2 cups milk (I used 1%)
3 tablespoons butter--the real stuff
3 tablespoons flour
2 cups (8 ounces) grated Parmesan and Romano cheese--I used it out of a can, but I'm sure fresh would be even better.
1/2 t salt
1/2 t pepper
1/2 lb browned sausage

Cook pasta according to package; drain

While the pasta is cooking, combine cream and milk and bring to room temp or warmer. I microwaved it. But be careful, the micro can really do a job on milk. Or the milk will to the micro. I know this from experience.

Melt butter. Whisk in flour. Add milk mixture all at once (if you add it cold, your flour will lump). Keep whisking it until it comes to a boil. Lower heat and continue to whisk for five minutes until it thickens. Add Parmesan/Romano, salt and pepper. Whisk until smooth.

Now, I dumped the pasta into a big bowl, dumped the sausage over it and the sauce over that, stirred it up and served it. If you want it more old school Hut like, stir the sausage into the sauce, pour over pasta in individual baking pans (like creme brulee dishes), top with Mozzarella and broil until the Moz is melty and bubbly and browning.

And these amounts are the corrected amounts. I began with a Pampered Chef recipe that called for way too much pasta. It was a bit too dry for our tastes. We like things extra saucy. That and it made way too much. We'll could all eat it for three meals and still have some left, I think. This ought to better serve a "normal" family. Well, maybe not with teens. I don't know about that. You might want to double the sauce and use a pound of pasta.

Pepto Bath

So? Better than the pepto bismol bath of the soul? I'm liking the horsehead nebula. Looks pretty chaotic. Suits me.

Congrats Me!

I've figured out Pizza Hut's OLD fettuccine recipe (circa 1993). With a little less pasta and a little more sauce, I will have it perfected.

Neener-neener Hut, you can change your recipe, but you won't convert me.

Barnard 33

What I got from here: The dark nebula that forms the Horsehead itself is known as Barnard 33 (B 33).

Yeah, I had to pick a lovely nebula with a name like Barnard. See? What did I tell you?

Hello, I'm from the Horsehead Nebulae

Do any of you wonder if you really operate on a whole other wavelength from the vast majority of people with whom you come into contact? You know, Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus, and though you'd secretly thought your mother had adopted you from Jupiter, you woke one day to discover you are from a whole different galaxy?

That's what I've felt like this weekend.

Like, I'll be in a group, and they are talking about a subject. And everyone there seems to be on the same plain, right? Except me. I can't wrap my brain around what they are talking about because I have this whole other nagging issue about what I THOUGHT we were talking about, but I'm the only one.

Worse (as if it could worse than operating on a different plain than your whole social network), here's an example:

I am obsessed with a house that is for sale. Right next door to said house is a gorgeous home. Plenty big for my family. Looks like a neat layout. THIRTY-THOUSAND dollars less than the one I'm obsessed with. See, I could be obsessed with a home with nice siding, move in ready, yellow (I live yellow homes), well-landscaped, CHEAPER, and very stereotypical I-have-arrived-in-this-county home that 99% of the people I know would love to have. Well, I think so. Anyway...

No, I must be obsessed with the repo next door. There is a massive hole in the dining room ceiling. The siding on this house is Nas-ty. You just drive by this house and it looks like a wart on the nose of the neighborhood princess. I want the silly house. And it costs $30,000 more! And I have no idea why. But I keep asking Hubs if we can go see it. As if we could afford it, anyway.
(We can't even afford the one next door! Shoot, we can't afford the one we are currently in!)

Here's one more:

So Hubs might sell his company. I say might because the counter offer that was supposed to come in, didn't. And I'm supposed to be praying that this will happen. And last night I confessed to Hubs that I can't pray it. I'm scared of the money. I only know broke. I have a whole identity in broke. I love clearance racks. I get a rush out of buying three pair of jeans, two skirts, a pair of shoes and a hair thingy for $24.53. Not only that, what if I can't change to accommodate having money and Hubs leaves me for a woman who likes the lavish lifestyle? What if the money changes me and I just want more and more sparkley things? What if our children get even more materialistic than they already are?

What if, what if, what if???????

See? I'm a freak. I'm from the Horsehead Nebulae. I'm only pretending to be Venutian.

Linky Love

Mandy posted this too many days ago to admit, but I'm behind, even on my favorites.

I have to admit we are in the midst of something right now that makes this so apropos.

A Couple Bits of Randomosity

Charming seems to be on the mend. He, however, coughed and sneezed into my face one too many times. By the sheer amount of eye goo, I have determined that his lung thing has invaded my eyes. Better than staying up all night coughing, but still.

And friends and I traded calls all day as we discovered the clearance racks. A friend called to send me to Old Navy for cheap jeans for Princess (I found some for Eldest also).

On one of my outings I picked up milk. I decided it is a sad day when a gallon of milk costs more than a pair of jeans.

It's Done

Well, I gave in and had the Pepsi.

And then another.

And then two coffees later, (plus some more Pepsi) and Princess' room is pronounced clean.

Even that crevice between her bed skirt and the wall.

That ought to last about four hours.

One Thing

I promised myself that today I would take care of two problems.

Princess' bedroom.

The living room.

I would obsess about nothing else today. Tackle those two and have a successful day.

I just went up there and couldn't do it.

The thing about kids' rooms is that you can make them clean them, but until you, the mom, go in there and take care of all the rinky-dink junky-junk around the perimeter, the room really just doesn't look clean. Oh, how I abhor that job. Because I see trash. I treat it as such. But the kids? They notice I've entered their rooms and they come supervise. And every piece of crap(visualize a strike through) treasure I lay my hands upon is at once declared priceless.

If it is so durn priceless, why has it been stored here in this crevice between the bed skirt and the wall for these last three months?

I can do this. I can.

If only I have a Pepsi first.

My Name is Jamie

And I'm a Pepsi-holic.

I opened the fridge this morning, going for the milk, when I spotted it. An open two liter. Suddenly that was all I wanted. All I could think about. That eight cups of coffee I'd just brewed? Not interested. The standard breakfast fare of a string cheese stick? No thanks. Not unless I could have a Pepsi with it.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a problem.

I do OK as long as Hubs doesn't crack open a two liter and store it in the fridge. Room temperature Pepsi has no hold over me. A sealed two liter I can resist. Especially if it is in the garage. A can, even in the fridge? I can usually hold off until my 3 o'clock break. That open two liter first thing in the morning?

I can think of nothing else.

Rest In Peace

Way back in September of 2002, Hubs and I took our second and final voyage upon the SS Norway. Nine months later there was an explosion in the boiler room while she was in port. Last I heard, she was rotting away in that ship graveyard somewhere in Asia (Thailand?).

I have mourned the loss of that ship. She was old. My friend called her "shabby chic." It wasn't a cruise ship for rich people; it was a cruise ship for real people. (I think lots of cruise ships would say that about themselves, but I'm not sure I agree.) She wasn't flashy. There were a couple small pools. A couple hot tubs. Several "lounges." Our favorite was this jazz bar with a dance floor that was nearly always empty. You could sit in there and visit and relax and the music was wonderful. No climbing walls. No water slides. But lots of deck chairs.

The staterooms were teeny. Really teeny. I've seen maps of other ships and their smallest rooms were twice the size of our closet. And we never had one with a porthole. So they were black as night whenever you wanted to sleep. But it didn't matter because you could just go find a lounge or a deck chair and read or visit and relax.

What I loved most about this ship was that our last cruise on her was $250 per person for seven days in the Caribbean. You can't match it. (Not for a cruise, anyway.) On our last trip we got to take our very good friends and that made it that much more fun.

Sigh.

One of the lesser known benefits of this cruise (and I suppose many) is if you went to 10 "work out" sessions, you got a free t-shirt. As we are cheap and didn't want to buy the $20 t-shirts, all four of us did it. (One of the work out sessions was a putting contest. Another one was "sports trivia.")

This morning, Eldest pointed out that my shirt had a hole in the armpit. Boy, did it. A hole the size of a large fist. It will have to be put out of commission.

My Norway is crumbling and I can't stop it.

Rest in peace old girl. Rest in peace. Here's to many fond memories.