Semi Wordless Wednesday

It Has To Be Said:

Cartoons Are Scary,
And Uniqua is the scariest of all.

But, I guess anything four times your size is a bit intimidating -- especially when its mouth is bigger than your head!!!

Poor Little Lady -- she wanted to get close to her Backyardigan friend, but it was all just too much when the dream became reality. Pink was no longer a favorite color and Uniqua was no longer her favorite cartoon character.

(Seriously, WHY do they have to make those costumes so scary? There's nothing cute and cuddly about that pink monstrosity. Do they WANT the children to cry??????)


On a side-note, THANK YOU to everyone who left encouragement on yesterday's post! The visit with the Urologist went very well. Everything scary was put off until March. So, I have a few more months before I need to become a basket-case again!

The Little Lady Goes to the Doctor

Well, be thinking of us today. :(

I have to take the Little Lady to her first visit with a Pediatric Urologist, and I'm NOT looking forward to it.

Her last urology-themed visit was painful -- physically painful for her and emotionally painful for me. I had to hold her down while the doctor performed the tests. . . and while the catheter was put in (and then re-inserted . . . twice).

I'm about to cry thinking about it.

It's absolutely awful to have little eyes looking up at you -- little eyes full of terror, pain, confusion, and questions their lips are unable to ask.

To make matters worse, this time I have to go by myself. No hubby.

I don't want to go.

But I have to. It's the only way to make sure she gets better.

I hate this part of parenting.

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My Husband's "Man-Crush"

I don't "think" he'll kill me for this post, but if I don't write anything else after today . . . someone might want to notify the rest of my family (they all have blogs -- it won't be difficult).

I think Hubby has a thing for Jack Bauer. That's right -- a wee man-crush on Keifer Sutherland's rugged, MacGuyver-esque character.


Of course, I really can't blame him. I have a thing for him myself, but I'm not as fanatical in my crush as Hubby. I don't have to watch EVERY episode each season; I don't work myself into a bundle of nerves, hands pressed to my face, wondering if Jack will get out of this particular hour's bind.

I don't forget to breathe while watching Jack Bauer aggressively confront the bad guys or while listening to his gravelly voice comfort orphans.

Not that I'm saying this is what Hubby does. Not officially saying it, anyway.

I'm Not Here Today

And, you should be SOOOOOO jealous!

I get to go to a parade. Of course, it's in a little bitty country town, but hey . . . I'm sure Santa will be there. Which, when it comes down to it, is all that really counts.

Then, it's off to Chick-Fi-La for an afternoon with Pablo and Uniqua.

That's right — from the BACKYARDIGANS!

(see, I knew you'd be jealous!)

Confession Time: I watched this cartoon BEFORE I was a mom. Yes, before I had an honest excuse to sit in front of brightly colored, artistically rendered little creatures.

How sad is that?

But, I don't care — I'm beyond excited about Pablo and Uniqua. The Little Lady better not cry when we get our picture taken with them.

That's right, I wrote "WE!"

I'm sooooo gonna be in that picture.

PSF- My Brush with Crabs.

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

As I've mentioned since the birth of this blog, we have a salt-water tank. This is NOT an easy hobby, especially the way Hubby and I have approached it. . . which was not the most methodical, researched beginning.

Along the way, we've experienced highs and lows -- nearly all of which center around the acquisition of livestock, corals, and equipment. But, through all of this, there's been one unspoken rule: HUBBY handles everything.

I just admire.



I don't touch the equipment -- the one time I did, I flooded our dining room. Salt-water isn't good for wood floors, just so you know.

I don't touch the food -- it stinks. A mixture of garlic, teeny-tiny mysis shrimp, ground up algae, etc. It's NASTY. I don't mess with nasty.

And, I don't touch the corals, fish, crabs, snails, the shrimp, or the starfish. All of those animals FREAK ME OUT! I'm afraid the corals will sting me, and I'm afraid the fish will jump out of the tank/store bag. The shrimp is a giant with giant pincers. No thank you.

That brings us to the crabs and snails. Snails are creepy and crabs can bite, well -- pinch. I don't do snails and crabs. That's boy stuff.



But, in an effort to be more involved with hubby's passion and hobby, I decided to be brave. I went to one of our mega aquarium stores and bought a clean up crew (the aforementioned snails and crabs). I did it all by myself. Well, I told the sales-girl what I wanted, she bagged them up, and I carried the back out to the car (by myself).

Then we were home -- just me, the Little Lady, and $70 bucks worth of boy animals.

Now what? Oh, crap -- I have to put them in the tank. . . BY MYSELF!

(crap, crap, crap, crap, crap)

After letting the nasty creatures properly acclimate, I faced my biggest fear. Hand to claw (and/or slimy foot) combat with the clean-up crew. One by one, I drew those yucky, former sea-creatures from the plastic bags and put them on rocks, on the sand bed, and (in the case of the snails) attached them to the tank walls.



I did it. ME. Not Hubby.

I'm just as good as a boy. . . .when it comes to this stuff, anyway.

Seriously, Mr. Murphy?

I should have known better than opening my big mouth -- I should have known that once I divulged our secret, something bad would happen.

It did.

After five gloriously perfect nights of the Little Lady sleeping through the night (AND sleeping in till around 10 am), she woke up last night.

I had thought that we'd finally achieved infant sleep nirvana -- that beautiful stage where your little rat, I mean bundle of joy, FINALLY sleeps through the night. No 11 pm Scream Fest . . . no 2 am Whine Fest . . . no 5 am "Party in my Crib" sessions. We were the parents of a fine, snoozing creature; we were the parents I had envied for 17 and a half months.

Drat!

I had kept it to myself for fear of tempting Murphy's Law. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 days (and nights) passed. Hubby and I couldn't believe it -- we were finally getting the best sleep of our parental lives.

Till yesterday, when I told TWO people about the Little Lady's new sleep schedule. Two people -- that's it. My mother-in-law and a friend from our playgroup. Two people.

That's when Mr. Murphy began his gloating chuckle and our wave of good fortune turned.

11:30 pm, the Little Lady starts whining -- her little voice floating across the living room from the baby monitor. I tried staring down said monitor, glaring and threatening for there to be silence.

It didn't work. The whining soon turned into all out crying and then . . .inconsolable ANGRY screaming. No "cry it out" method now -- at this point, she would keep going all night long. So, begrudging every step, I made my way upstairs with bottle in hand. (Yes, we're still on the bottle -- I don't want to hear it)

She was already standing up in her crib, arms outstretched when I walked in.

She knew I was coming.

She knew the pattern.

She knew that I was whipped.

She laughed when I picked her up.

I think she and Mr. Murphy are communicating somehow . . . and they obviously have it in for Silly Mommy.

Semi-Wordless Wednesday

These are the eyes of a budding scientist,

who just wanted a close-up examination

Of this.

To go to the DMV or not . . . THAT is the Question?

(side-note -- I wonder how many times Hamlet is alluded to in the world of blogging; sigh, I'm so NOT being creative and unique today)

A few weeks ago, I received a notice from the Texas Department of Motor Vehicles.

dum
dum
DUM
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(that was my attempt at creating scary music, by the way)

Congratulations to me! My driver's license will expire on my birthday this year. Well, ain't that a kick in the head?

(I'm full of allusions and cliches today)

So, now, in addition to the "Turning 30 Blues," I also get to deal with getting a new driver's license. Sigh, it just keeps getting better, doesn't it? Apparently EVERYTHING changes when you turn 30; I can't even keep my 20-something DL -- the one with my 20-something weight on it -- the one with my 20-something face and hair and skin on it.

Stupid Driver's License.

But, wait! What's this? I have the option of renewing online, thereby KEEPING my beautiful 20-something self on my card?



Oh . . . can you hear them? The chorus of beautiful angels sweetly singing in perfect harmony?

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!!!!!!!!
(that was my attempt at mimicking a screeching record;
apparently, I'm also full of sound affects today)

That's right -- I LOST my current driver's license, with the current secret code on the back. I'm using the one with my old address on it, with the OLD secret code on the back. I can't renew online.

Stupid Driver's License.

I have to go to the DMV. With a toddler who can't be held while I'm getting my picture taken. With a toddler who will be pulling my hair, clothes, and earrings immediately prior to the photo-taking session.

So, not only do I have to preserve my 30-something self for the next 8 years, it will be a 30-something self with crazy, jacked up hair, a stretched out collar, and possibly a bleeding ear.

This looming birthday just keeps getting better and better.

*Almost* Lost My Mind This Weekend

Saturday started innocently enough, although there was a change in the air with a crisp cool front whispering in the trees.

Life was good. I'd finished all of my work for the week, my daughter was back to "almost" sleeping through the night, and Hubby had cleaned the kitchen. I was happy.

To celebrate our lazy afternoon, we decided to drive around Houston, visiting some of our local fish stores. We have a small, 75 gallon Salt-water aquarium; after a recent lighting upgrade, it was time to window shop for new corals and fishie-friends.

JUST fish and corals, mind you -- there was no intention, from either of us, to get anything else. Period.

Then it happened.

TWEET! TWEET!

The Little Lady saw the birds in the fish/general pet store. And, she was IN LOVE!!!!!!!!!!!! She flapped her arms in excitement, squealed, and mimicked the ear-piercing shrieks coming from the Cockatiels and Parrots. It took all of Hubby's strength to keep her from lunging onto the dirty wire cages.

This is the moment when I went crazy.

"Do you want a birdie? Do you want Mommy to get you one?"

"Uh-huh!" She vigorously (VERY vigorously) nodded her head up and down, reaching for her new feathered friends.

I turned to my husband, my green eyes shining with insanity. "We could get her one! My mom and sisters had birds -- I could talk to them about the care. They sell the cages here too! Awww . . . look how cute that one is!" I pointed to a yellow and green . . . um, some kind of bird, and just managed, by the little bit of maturity left in my brain, to refrain from tweeting in unison with the birds.

The Little Lady was squawking by this point, her eyes dancing with ornithological delight.

I left the bird room and quickly headed to the bird supply section, gawking at the colorful cages - large and small - and the myriad of bird toys that, oddly, looked very similar to many of the Little Lady's toys. I was sold.

A bird book . . . I need a bird book. My type-A planning self was trying to gain control, sending messages throughout my brain: research, research, research FIRST!!!!

Pushing past the books on pugs, pomeranians, and poodles, I finally found a few ragged, tattered, NOT very new looking bird books. I employed my speed reading skills and skimmed the first few chapters of each one.

WHAT? You have to let the bird out of its cage DAILY to fly around the house?

WHAT? You have to offer fresh fruits and vegetables DAILY, minced to fit in their beaks? (what about all of the prepared bird food I just saw on the shelves?)

WHAT? You have to TRAIN them to like you?????????

WHAT? THEY CAN NIP YOU or GRIND YOUR SKIN IN THEIR BEAKS?????

OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG!

I called my sister, looking for confirmation that these books were bunk.

I didn't get my confirmation.

Instead, I heard about how HORRIBLY they can hurt you, how HORRIBLY they shriek at all times of the day and night, and how HORRIBLY dirty they can be thanks to flying feathers.

That's when I decided a playground would be a better Christmas present for ALL of us.

Crazy Crisis Averted.

Sigh . . . Double Sigh.

Sigh.

I did it.

This week.

Friday, actually.

I went to Home Depot.

And, I learned that Home Depot is designed for Men and Lowe's is designed for Women.

I hated Home Depot.

Too confusing -- nothing was where it logically should be.

The Staff was NOT helpful.

Except for the paint guy, who talked too much and made too many over-the-top obvious statements. (Yes, sir, I AM thinking painting a room in my house. Yes, sir, my child IS a girl. Yes, sir, I KNOW to make sure the paint lid is securely on.)

But, I came away with paint.

Two cans.

Bonjour Beige and Appalachian Trail.

I've very globally aware in my paint selections.

I rearranged our entire downstairs in preparation for painting.

I mean COMPLETELY rearranged.

Only the kitchen stayed the same (and that's just because I couldn't move the appliances).

I was very sweaty -- and it wasn't the good kind of sweat.

Then, I decide to paint a sample wall in Bonjour Beige.

That's when I learned that I hadn't purchased any brushes.

I tried using a kitchen sponge.

I now have a very streaky wall muttering, "Bonjour."

This is why I waited two years to begin repainting my downstairs.

It never goes well.

Double Sigh.

PSF -- Cruel & Unusual Punishment

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

I must be the worst Mommy in the world. My crime? I take pictures of my daughter.

And. SHE. HATES. IT!!!!!!!!!!!

This week, after arriving back in Houston, I decided to take pictures of the Little Lady in her new outfits, in order to share her cuteness with her grandparents.

How DARE I subject my daughter to such a stressful afternoon? Unbelievable.

Things started innocently enough with the first outfit. She loved the soft jacket and the hair bows. All was still right with the world.







With the next outfit, however, things began to change. Hair bows were no longer cool. This should have been a sign -- I should have realized the inevitable outcome.






The Little Rat is smart, and she played her next move very coolly -- passively pretending that she was on board with the photo-shoot. Oh, she's good!




Then all HECK broke loose!!!! Clothing was no longer cute, nothing was cool (except belly buttons), and there was nothing that would make her smile. She was winning, but I was determined to finish what I'd started. Silly Mommy.







In a desperate attempt, she tried to get away. Her only mistake? Forgetting that I'm as tall as the average British Male, which is definitely taller and more powerful than she is.





The last outfit. And, it was not a cute moment. Sigh. I tried.

WTH????

(by the way, that stands for what the HECK! This is a clean blog, after all.)

Last night, as I feebly attempted to catch up on some blog reading, I came across a post on The Charming Lamb: What Does Your Height Say About You?

Well, now, I've always wondered that.

Since I can remember, I've always been one of the taller females (if not the tallest) in any group. I don't know that I'm really that tall -- I guess I just have shortish friends (sorry, y'all). When I was in high school, there were always people (ignorant of my absolute LACK of coordination) who asked why I didn't play basketball. Um, yeah -- that would be the same reason behind my "tripping as I go UP the stairs" problem. Thanks for asking.

But, what does this tall body say about me NOW . . . as an adult, a mommy, a pale, curly-haired Albino chick??

According to "BlogThings," is says this:

What Your Height Says About You

You are a true adventurer, and you live for the thrill. You have a lot of charisma, and you're good at convincing people to join you in your schemes. You are open to the world, and you make connections easily. You have lots of friends. You are likely to have many life paths to choose from. There are many possibilities open to you. You are about as tall as the average British man.

What Does Your Height Say About You?

I repeat: WHAT THE HECK???????????

I'm as tall as a MAN?

But that's not the only thing at fault here . . . .

I'm not adventurous.

Not a thrill-seeker.

I'm not charismatic.

I can't convince people of ANYTHING!

I neither make connections easily nor do I have a lot of friends. I'm too freakishly shy.

But, since I'm sure they have the statistics, I'm apparently like the average British man.

Glad to know.

So, I didn't post today

And I felt like something was missing.

Is that a sign of blogging addiction?

Is there a help group?
(probably. . . complete with its own blog)

And, today was Wordless Wednesday -- the easiest blogging day of the week. And I still missed it.

I'm going to blame it on Mother Nature, who, last night, sent a Storm in the path of my airplane ride from Tulsa to Houston. That's right -- a "capital S" Storm, as in lightening and heavy turbulence. Turbulence scares the CRAP out of me, especially when I'm holding my Little Lady in my lap. (oh, and that was a metaphor. . . as in figurative language, not literal. Crap does not "randomly" leave my body . . . just in case you were wondering)

She thought it was fun -- as much fun as the mall carousel. Each time the turbulence began, she's begin squealing, "WEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"

That's NOT what Mommy was saying.

3 hours after our scheduled arrival time, we landed. 6 hours after our last meal. 12 hours after our last nap.

I'll let you decide what kind of mood I was in by the end.

Tired? DING DING DING! We have a winner -- I WAS tired! You are so smart!

Tired Mommy = No Blogging.

Now you know.

And .................... I'm out.

Oh, NO She DIDN'T!

Alright -- I've alluded to this and twittered about it. It's time to just come out into the open: I am just a month away from entering the Dark Side.

Dec 12 = My 30th Birthday.

People have tried to encourage me, saying things like "it's not that bad" and "but 30 is the new 20!"

Bull, I say. . . BULL!

I truly have not been looking forward to this particular birthday for fifteen years. That's right -- I'm a loser like that. And the closer and closer it gets, the more my body decides to fall apart.

All of the sudden, I have MULTIPLE silver hairs. What the heck? I'm approaching the 30-Iceberg so my color decides that its time to jump ship? And, what happened to the elasticity of my facial skin? And the pores -- they look different too. What's up with that, Epidermis? You think turning 30 is an excuse to get lazy? I definitely do NOT approve.

My mom thinks its funny. I don't know why -- I certainly wouldn't want to know I had a 30 year old daughter. But, she finds it soooo humorous; the entire time I was visiting, she loved getting in little barbs here and there. Of course, she's a young looking 49. (That's right -- I'll put her age out there like that. That's what she gets!) No one EVER believes we're mother and daughter, especially now that I'm in my later years. It's soooo not fair to have a mom who looks younger and dresses younger. . ..and makes fun of YOU for getting old.



So, please excuse my air of mourning over the next few weeks. I can't help it -- I wish I could embrace turning 30 and jump in the air and do cartwheels. But, I can't . . . mainly because I'm too old to move my butt that fast.

Hubby, if you're reading this, you SO BETTER DO SOMETHING GOOD to help me cheer up on that sad, dark day. Seriously. Consider yourself warned.

Hell hath no fury like a gal turning 30.

OWB Should Not Hang Free

Ok -- I understand that gravity is not a girl's best friend. I know that someday, in the distant future (hopefully a VERY distant future) I will have OWB (Old Woman Boobs). But, is OWB an excuse to just let them go? I mean, REALLY let them go?

Last Saturday, as my mom and I waited for our table at Olive Garden, we watched two older women walk in, one of whom INSTANTLY caught our attention. This poor soul was most likely in her mid sixties and didn't seem to be a woman who worried about her appearance. But it wasn't the lack of make-up or hair product that drew our eyes to her. Nope -- it was her two foot long OWB.

That's right -- two feet L-O-N-G. What used to be in the middle of each OWB was now WELL BELOW her navel.

(I'll give you a second to let that sink in)

Furthermore -- she wasn't wearing a stitch of foundational clothing; that's right -- no "Over the Shoulder Boulder Holder." Now, in my humble opinion, two foot of OWB shouldn't be allowed to "free-boob," as the phrase goes. But, that's exactly the situation this woman was in. Only a thin, turquoise knit shirt provided a barrier between her skin and the rest of us.

Not a pretty picture.

I STILL can't figure out why she would go around like this! In addition to the appearance, it could NOT have been comfortable; I watched her walk. Those OWB did not stay in one place! Ow! I don't have two feet of boob-action goin' on, but I know that good support feels GOOD!

Sigh -- I hope I never get so old that I don't care about these things. That would be sad. . . .for me and all those who had to see me.

Ittles and Dimples and Dentures -- OH MY!

Ever wonder what is talked about in a Preacher's home while he's away? Right after church? By his DAUGHTERS?

Picture it -- three sisters, standing around with their glasses of tea, (ok, one didn't have tea, as she just vehemently pointed out) chit chatting and merrily laughing about little random events and ittles. Wait -- what are ittles? Just wait . . . all will be revealed.

Conversation Number One:

Rachel: (to Sarah) Did I tell you that Hannah felt me up in her sleep?

Hannah: (protesting) I wasn't asleep!!!

Sarah: (to Hannah) So you KNEW you were doing it?

Hannah: I wasn't feeling her up!!

Rachel: Here's how she did it!

Rachel ran over to the other side of the kitchen island and grabbed Hannah's right hand, placing it over her own "ittle", I mean boob. . . as in Rachel's boob. (side-note: Hannah said that this sounds like I'm writing a romance novel. Exactly what kind of smut is she reading???????)

Rachel: She ran it up and down like this (demonstrating).

Hannah: No, I remember it was my LEFT HAND.

Sarah: So you did it on PURPOSE?

Hannah: No, I was confused! I rolled over and my arm flung across her chest. I wasn't sure who it was and I thought I was rubbing her ARM!

Rachel: Um, yeah -- that definitely wasn't my arm.

Hannah: (trying to speak over Sarah's laughter) Well, I didn't know!


Conversation Number Two -- a few seconds later

Sarah: (suppressing her giggles, turned to Rachel) SPEAKING of boobs, did I tell Hannah about the strip-club?

Hannah: What????

Rachel: OH -- you NEED to tell her that!

Sarah: Ok -- so, there's this nasty . . . I mean NAS-TY strip club in our town.

Rachel: You know -- as opposed to the "not-nasty" establishments.

Sarah: Well, really it's a strip BARN. Anyway, it's nasty -- the kind with old, toothless women.

Hannah: Wait -- ALL the women are TOOTHLESS? They only hire toothless women?

Rachel: They aren't specifically advertising for toothless women; those are just the type of women applying for "work."

Sarah: Yeah, but this isn't the point! GUESS what the name of this nasty establishment is?

She paused dramatically.

Sarah: DIMPLES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The girls erupted into a new wave of laughter.

Sarah: That's right - -NO ONE thinks about the cute, little baby dimples! It's the OTHER kind! (and, she affectionately patted her own bum)


Conversation Number Three -- again, just a few seconds later

Hannah: Wait, how do YOU know the strippers are toothless?

Sarah: (blushing) Uh -- I wasn't going to mention that.

Rachel: Well, you HAVE to now!

Hannah: (pressuring her big sister) Yeah-- how do you KNOW?

Sarah: I really don't wanna talk about it.

Rachel and Hannah began glaring at their red-faced sister.

Sarah: Alright!!!!! Ugh. . . I overheard a woman, who was only around 30, talking about why she opted to have her teeth removed. Yeah -- she's thirty and wears dentures!

Rachel: She WANTED them out?

Sarah: (getting even redder) Yes -- she wanted them out for "work related" purposes.

Hannah: Where did she work?

Sarah: At DIMPLES!

Hannah: (a bit confused) Huh? Why did she need her teeth out in order to do her job???

Rachel and Sarah exchanged glances.

The Mom: What are y'all talking about?

Sarah: NOTHING! Don't tell her!

Rachel: We're trying to figure out how to explain why a hooker would want her teeth removed for a "job."

The Mom: Huh? I don't get it.

By this time, Hannah had figured it out on her own.

Hannah: I'M not telling her!

Sarah and Rachel, exchanging their infamous looks, quickly turned and left the kitchen.

Sarah: (muttering) I wonder if that qualified for Workman's Comp?

PSF -- It's Hard Being a Big Kid

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

When I was around twelve years old, things began to shift in my life, and there's an old VHS home movie to prove it

It was my first Christmas as a "big kid." My first Christmas without cool toys. My first Christmas without the excitement. In the video, you see me, wearing my cool, over-sized, puff painted sweatshirt (a la the "80s"), sitting dejectedly on my Grandma's couch. I'm apathetically watching all of the little kids as they excitedly tear through candy-cane wrapping paper to find the toys that "Santa" had brought them.

It was a sad Christmas.

My poor little nephew, Isaak, a mere seven years old, has been experiencing something akin to what I went through nearly twenty years ago. And, it's just as sad.

For six and a half years, my nephew was the "One and Only" in our family. He was the only grandchild, the only boy in a household of curly-haired and freckled girls, and he was spoiled. Every trinket purchased was for him -- every silly little song sung was for him. He was a little Prince.

Now, however, he has competition. Two little kids have joined the mix: my Little Lady and Isaak's new brother, Asher. Two new babies in a household that ADORES babies. (Seriously, everyone that knows us KNOWS that we are the craziest bunch of baby lovers ever) Isaak is singing the "I Get No Attention" blues.

Imagine everything your kid has ever done, trying to be the center of attention, and Isaak has done it this week. Poor kid. It's hard growing up.

I've tried to do some "just us" things with him during our visit. We've watched movies; he's "helped" me with some blog design; and we watched the election, where Isaak was routing for Obama . . . another, as he put it, "brown guy like me."

Isaak, I'm sorry this is such a hard year of transition for you, going from "Only" to "Oldest." We'll work on making sure the babies know you're the coolest big brother/cousin the word's ever known.

(no, he doesn't really have cruddy, orange teeth -- this was another attempt to get some attention after drinking an orange soda. As you can see, it worked!)

Repeat After Me: Floss Is Your Friend

Yesterday, an historic event occurred, one of earth-shattering proportions. At 11:00 am, I had my first Dental appointment in over five years.

That's right -- my mouth hasn't truly been clean in over 1,825 days. . . until yesterday, that is.

(ugh, I'm kind of grossing myself out with this one)

I know, I know -- dental health is very important and regular dental visits are imperative. I really do get that.

But, um . . . you see, I'm kind of busy. Too busy to be bothered with dentists and their x-rays, flossing sermons, and hygienists.

My sister, Sarah, the Dental Hygienist, did NOT buy that excuse. As soon as she heard I was coming to visit, she called.

My Sister (The Dental Hygiene Freak): Hey -- do you want me to make you an appointment while you're here?

Me (The Unclean): For my teeth?

The Freak: Of course! I can clean them for you and, by the way, I read your blog.

The Unclean: Ok?

The Freak: I saw your mention about getting yellow teeth from Dr. Pepper and Coffee.

The Unclean: Oh, good grief- - THAT'S what you remember from that post?

The Freak: Let me take some impressions of your teeth and I'll make you some whitening trays.

I tried to warn her -- I told her that I never floss, that no one scrapes my teeth . . . that I probably have more barnacles than all of her patients combined.

Sarah wouldn't listen and the appointment was made.

And the nerves set in. What if I have the worst teeth she's ever seen? What if every tooth has a cavity? What if the doctor comes in and says that he's ashamed of me, that I have no business even walking in his building, that he hopes my child looks up to someone else as a role model of good oral hygiene? What if it hurts?

There was no way to cancel this visit -- Sarah wouldn't let me. She was so appalled by how long I'd gone without a visit that I knew that little mite would hunt me down, tools in hand, if I didn't show up. (darn her and her obsession with clean teeth!)

I'm sure you can imagine how the actual visit went. I showed up, promised I wouldn't share any embarrassing stories with the her boss (ooo . . . I think I broke that promise. Oops), sat down under the bright light, and opened my mouth.

And then she said it.

"YOU HAVE REALLY GOOD TEETH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Heck, YEAH, I do!

Take that, you 3 out of 4 dentists who are always trying to get me to buy your products. I DON'T NEED THEM!!

Seriously, apparently, I have miracle teeth -- ones that repel build-up, tartar, plaque, and everything else that can show up on pearly white enamel (or not so pearly white, as the case may be).

Now, there was one, teeny-tiny cavity in one of my wisdom teeth (yeah, I still have them -- remember, I don't go to the dentist). But, what's a wisdom tooth? They're not real teeth -- you don't need them for anything. Everyone throws those babies away!

My real teeth ROCK.

Maybe I'll reward them with a flossing now and then.

Semi Wordless Wednesday

If you haven't been able to tell from my tweets and posts, the Little Lady and I are visiting family in Oklahoma. I was born, raised, and educated in this state and I absolutely love it! Never, EVER, did I plan or anticipate living anywhere other than right here in "Green Country." Growing up, I vowed I would never marry a Texan (like so many of my family did) and I would NOT actually move there.

So much for being adamant.

Despite having lived in Texas for nearly eight years, I still (and probably always will) consider myself an Oklahoman . . . just don't call me an Okie. I HATE that term!



I love coming home; as our plane neared the Tulsa airport, I tried to point out familiar landmarks to a very disinterested little girl (who can blame her though -- she had other things on her butt mind). Walking to my mom's van, I couldn't keep the excitement at bay. I WAS HOME!!!!!!



Each day since has been wonderful -- some days have been activity filled, such as visiting the local farm shown in these photos; other days have just been quiet, simple, and comfortable in my parents' home.

As you can see from the pictures, this area, my home, is beautiful. There's no other way to put it. Heck, even my shoes look good in Oklahoma.



If I could convince my husband that life is better here, that we NEED to live here, I would. I would move back in a heart-beat. I miss the trees, rivers, lakes, hills, and family that reside in this state. It's incredibly hard being over 9 hours away -- seeing family only 2 or 3 times a year.

So, Hubby, I guess what I'm saying is . . . you can add "Move to Oklahoma" to my Christmas List. In fact, put it at number one.

Random #2: My Baby Mama

In light of November being National Adoption Month, I've decided that Random Life Event Numero Dos will focus on my adventures with our lil' Baby Mama!

That's right -- I, Mrs. Conservative, have a Baby Mama.

People are ALWAYS surprised to hear that our Little Lady is adopted. With my coloring and Hubby's eyes, she truly looks as through she could be our biological child. A few months ago, some friends, whom we had not seen since before her placement with us, refused to believe us!

"There's no way -- you're joking! Look at her!"



But, it's not just in looks that she takes after us; the Little Lady is as personable as Hubby and just as stubborn as I am. . . just ask my sisters, who repeatedly pointed out that latter fact over the weekend.

When we first began exploring adoption, I was very leery of an open adoption. I had no idea what to expect but I wasn't sure that I wanted to "Share" my daughter. And, how would an open adoption affect my relationship with my child -- would she be confused as to who her MOMMY was? Would she turn to her bio-mom during hard times instead of coming to me? What if I didn't like this woman who would be giving me her child?

Questions like the raced through my mind prior to meeting Miss G. The weekend we were to be introduced to her, I was a nervous wreck! I cried at the stupidest and littlest things -- I snapped at Hubby over nothing -- I changed my outfit at least ten times. This woman, by the biggest decision in her life, was about to change my life for all time.

Fortunately, Miss G had NO problem chatting with us -- and she openly shared her life story and the situation that brought her to this decision to place her baby for adoption. She hadn't made the best choices in life, but she was absolutely determined to make the best choice for this child. And, given her lack of education, income, and support, adoption was the best way she could care for her baby. She was also an adopted child, so she had an even more unique perspective on the entire situation.

We visited her several times during the remainder of her pregnancy, attending her church and OB appointments. Her parents joined us for dinner, where Miss G's mom gave me a sweet little doll she had made, years ago, for her future granddaughter. She wanted our Little Lady to have it. The doll sits on a little shelf in her bedroom, next to a picture of the first time we met Miss G.





Watching my daughter's birth was an indescribable experience. I sat next to Miss G., the two of us the only non-medical people in the operating room. I remember holding her hand, trying to calm myself and willing eyes to stay dry. Miss G., ever "Miss Personality," joked with me during the c-section. Then came the moment I will remember forever. A little wrinkled, purple baby with the most swollen lips I'd ever seen, was pulled up by the doctor.

I was in shock. There she was -- my daughter. A tiny little creature, leaving her home and entering my life. I remember looking at Miss G., who was also trying to get a good glimpse of the squawking bundle being poked, prodded, and printed. This young woman, a mere 19, was only 48 hours away from permanently placing this little girl in my arms. She trusted me completely to be the mother she felt she couldn't be -- the mother she wanted her baby to have.

Miss G. never looked back or questioned her choice. On the day she signed the papers, she did so with excitement. She was so happy for us . . . for our family. Instead of being in tears (as I surely would have been), she was rejoicing with us, thrilled that we had our long-awaited child.



I've tried my best, since that moment under the bright lights of the OR, to be the Mommy my Little Lady deserves . . . the Mommy I promised Miss G. I would be. It's not easy -- any woman who bears the title, "Mom," can tell you that. But, I'm doing my best because I love my daughter and her mother.

Things You're Gonna Wish You Didn't Know

That's my theme this week!

Diva Ma, Sex Diaries of a Mom, Lori of I'm No Supermom, Bobbi of Mom2dm, and Jen of Keep it Classy tagged me for the 7 Random Things meme. While I've already completed this, there are certainly MORE than enough random things about me to fulfill the requirements.

But, I didn't want to another list. I wanted to fully explore my randomness, my eccentricities, the little quirks that have made my life interesting (or at least made for a good story). So, for each day this week, you'll get to read some of the crazier things that have happened to me.

For example. . . .

Dancing Cheek to Cheek
(random story number one)

Did you know that I once had my arm stuck up a cow's derrière?????



It's true. I was fifteen years old, helping my (then) farmer-dad give Pregnancy Tests to a herd of cows. Now, for those city-folk reading this, giving a preg. test to a cow is no easy feat. It's not a matter of finding "the best technology you'll a cow will ever pee on." No, unfortunately for this story, there is no little plastic pee stick involved in this process. The only equipment involved is one, solitary, long plastic SLEEVE! That's right, I wrote sleeve . . .as in a long glove that completely covers your fingers, hands, arms, and shoulders.

Yes, your shoulders. You need that much protection when you are going to be touching a cow's uterus.

GROSS! I knew it -- that's your reaction, right? That was mine too. I watched my dad test cow after cow, feeling around for the bovine fetus. If it was there, then the test was positive. If no little calf could be felt, then this preg. test was negative. Better luck next time, Bessie.

Cow after cow was brought into the squeeze chute (jail-like device meant to hold cattle in place while they receive meds or human arms, whatever the case may be). I didn't want to watch, but I couldn't stop. You know those times -- where everything in your brain is telling you to look away but YOU JUST CAN'T!! This was that time. I was totally and completely disgusted by what I was seeing, especially given the condition of the sleeve when my dad's arm would come out. OH MY GOSH -- excuse me while I have a momentary flashback.

As the process went on, something insane took place in my head. I began to wonder what that little calf would feel like: "How small would it be" and "Would I be able to feel the sac" were questions that began floating through my head. Maybe it was the heat of the day, or the fact that I had been standing for hours, or maybe the methane being released by the cows was getting to me. Whatever it was, I heard my voice ask an absolutely ridiculous question . . .

"Dad - can I try?"

Later, I would wonder why he said yes -- I think he could foresee the potential outcome and knew, from his perspective, this was going to be GOOD. With a smile on his face, he handed me a fresh glove. As I carefully, with a little trepidation, put the glove on, Dad tried to explain how to navigate my way through the cow. I'll admit, I didn't really pay attention -- I was too busy focusing on the end result (ha ha . . ."END" result).

I stood before the cow (no, make that BEHIND the cow), my arm encased in a looooooong plastic glove. I was ready and I was too stubborn and proud to back out of it. (ha ha -- back out).

I went in. Farther and farther, I made my way through . . . hmm, was I technically in her intestines? I'm not sure on cow anatomy -- which, is probably what resulted in the crisis.

Yes, there was a crisis. I didn't know what I was doing and whatever it was that I WAS doing, apparently, was NOT RIGHT because the cow (that poor cow) did not appreciate my efforts. Have you see those Discovery specials on boa constrictors? Just like one of those snakes, the cow's muscles began to constrict, tightening around my skinny (this was back in my thin, stick-figure days) arm. I ignored her obvious displeasure and continued my journey, trying to find my calf.

SQUEEZE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

With all of her might (which was a lot -- cows are big, you know), she used her muscles to put a lock-down on my efforts. Panic, on my part, set in.

My. Arm. Was. STUCK!

That's right -- STUCK. There was nothing I could do. That cow was now the boss of me, keeping a tight hold on my arm, while my face was next to her rump. (which wasn't a pleasant addition to my problem)

"Help me!!!!" Frantically, I screamed for Dad's help, who was laughing so hard he could barely stand up. He came over, and like any good Dad would do, pulled my arm out of the cow's body.

Only, the worst wasn't over. I'm not sure how it happened -- maybe it was the force of the cow's squeezing down on my arm -- maybe it was just my luck that day. As I began to see my elbow emerge again, I saw the NASTIEST sight I had ever seen. Everything that you can imagine would be in a cow's intestine was covering my plastic glove. Green, brown, stinky, thick, gloopy, WARM sludge.

Finally, my arm was free! I backed away from the cow, wanting to be as far away from her as possible. I looked my arm, still in the glove. Wait -- no it wasn't. THE GLOVE'S SEAM HAD SPLIT!!!!!! My plastic protector was only covering half of my bony limb. The other half was completely smothered in the aforementioned sludge.

OH, THE HORROR! COW POOP ON MY BARE SKIN!!!!!!!!!!!!

It was the tragedy of tragedies, especially for a 15 year old girl. And, as you can tell, one I'm still fighting to get over.

And, if you were wondering . . . I never did feel the fetus. Altogether, a completely wasted random adventure.

Pour Moi?

I've been a slacker this week. Wait, no I haven't -- I've been working my tail off. Blog Candy Designs has had a wonderful first week, but it's left me very busy. I've managed to squeeze in my normal tally of blog posts, but they definitely haven't been my best ever.

The saddest little side affect is that I haven't been able to spend hardly anytime visiting all of my favorite bloggy friends -- I feel like I'm so behind in my snooping of your life (lol).

I promise that this next week, I will do a MUCH better job of keeping in the loop with all of you; visiting other blogs has always been my favorite part of blogging. I need to get back on the saddle!

BUT . . . . many of you have definitely done your part in the blogosphere, visiting and encouraging others. Some of you even brought PRESENTS!!!!!!!!!!

Tena (Punky Monkeys) and Kelly (The Neurotic Mom) sent me this sweet little award:



Amy (Thoughts from the Mrs) passed along this one:



Erin from The Mom Buzz passed this on to my Blog Candy Site:



Trish of Sweet 'N Sassy Girls and Elle & Stacy of Blue Monkey Butt (I heart that blog name!) decided I'm "Kreativ!"


And. . . The Neurotic Mom also sent this one!




Thanks guys! I'll be passing these out this week!!

Virtue or Vice?

Credits: I totally cheated today (this mama is TIRED) and used a quickpage by Scrap By Color.

I'm not sure whether it is a sign of brilliance or greed, but it only took the Little Lady about 2 minutes to figure out that the whole point of October 31st was to grab candy.

Yes, by our second stop, she was holding out her pudgy fingers in "less than patient" anticipation of the sweet goodness, and heaven forbid that the Candy Giver attempt to put the treats in her bag. Little Miss Independent wanted to do it BY HERSELF!!!

I think I had more fun tonight, in my role as the Mama, than the kids did trick-or-treating. My nephew went with us . . .actually, I think the reverse is the truth. The Little Lady and I tagged along with my nephew and sister (we are the visiting pair, after all, here in Oklahoma). I was in charge of escorting our Batman and our little Lamb from house to house, reminding the shy Batman to say "Trick or Treat" and "Thank You" and reminding the Greedy Lamb that she only got one treat per house.

She never got the Trick or Treat phrase down, but she could"Baa" on cue. Which, for the little old ladies and gents grinning at their doors, was enough.



Oh, and the interesting expression on the Little Lady's face? Papa was holding a piece of candy in an effort to get her to look at the camera. It worked.