Bette Davis Eyes

I've been on the high-end makeup bandwagon since December 2005. Why do I remember this do clearly? It was Christmas time and for some ungodly reason, I thought it was a GREAT idea to go to Oakbrook Mall for some reason. To this day, I cannot remember why I went to the mall, but I went to the mall at Christmas time and walked through Macy's.

While zig-zagging my way to get out of the department store formally known as Marshall Fields, I was accosted by a gal from the Benefit Cosmetic counter. At this point in time, all I knew about makeup was what I had taught myself through trial and error as a teenager. I bought drugstore stuff because then I didn't have to deal with sales people and it was easy to get my hands on. I was a big fan of Almay, hated L'Oreal lipstick, and wore a lot of random mascaras. I'd been to Ultra a few times, but still only bought stuff from the drugstore brands. I didn't even realize they had high-end stuff until I was twenty-five.

But, I digress, I was fighting my way out of the Macy's at Christmas when a woman commented on my eyebrows. She liked them. She thought she could help me make them look better.

I eyed her, wondering why she would tweeze my eyebrows, as at this point in time I was literally the only female person I knew who didn't pluck, wax, or thread her eyebrows. I did nothing to them. Literally nothing. They simply existed above my eyes and I refused to tweeze them, wax them, or thread them. They were dark, thick, and perfect in my eyes.

"You see, you've got a great base to work with. Nice thick brows, good color, but if we use this," she paused to grab the product she wished to show me, "they could be even better."

She did not hold out tweezers, but rather a compact filled with brown powder and wax. I knitted the glorious eyebrows together.

"Here, sit. I'll show you."

"There will be no tweezing, right?"

"No, of course not. Do you tweeze your eyebrows?"

"No. I do nothing to them."

"Well, sit. I'll show you how to accent them."

I sat. She accented. I looked amazing. She gave me some awesome color in my cheeks. I looked even more amazing. I ended up buying the Brow-Zing and High Beam, the cheek highlighter the woman used. I wanted everything but opted on the two things I did not actually own.

It was more money than I'd ever spent on makeup at once, but man was it worth it.

It also started my downward spiral into buying all high-end makeup.

Six months later, I wound up buying Dior lip products. Some lipgloss and liner cost more than my two Benefit products and the woman who did my makeup had no clue how to apply mascara as I looked like I had little spiders for eyelashes. (I should have guessed because that's how her mascara looked.) I really didn't totally switch over until the fall of 2009. I was living at home with my parents. I needed new mascara (I never use a tube for more than three months after the massive eye infection of 2008) and couldn't find Max Factor anywhere. I was about to just give up and go to Sephora and spend too much money on a tube of mascara that I'd never finish when I remembered the existence of Ultra.

They did not have Max Factor either, but they did have a travel size tube of Benefit's BADgal Lash. I'd liked it when the woman those many moons had used it on me, and the travel sized tube was the same price as Max Factor, so I got it. Honestly, unless you're a heavy mascara user, get a travel sized tube. I still only use tubes for three months, and even the travel sized ones I never use all of it, but I cannot remember the last time I actually paid for mascara.

Yeah, that's right. I don't really pay for them. Outright. I hoard samples of mascara. I get them with my rewards, I select them as my sample bonus, I always select mascara if offered it for my Birchbox. I've tried almost every kind of mascara out there. There are ones I like (BadGal, Marc Jacobs, Milk, and that's all I can think of off the top of my head) and ones I hate (mostly Two Faced Better than Sex and the other Benefit mascaras.) I've found that price doesn't matter when it comes to mascara, nor does the brush really. It's the formula that matters at the end of the day. I have very fine, thin lashes that I refuse to put extensions on, so the heavier the formula the worse I find the results. The thicker the mascara and fluffier the brush, the more I hate it. You'd think with fine, thin lashes, I'd like some volume, but I like a natural look. I'm currently using Hourglass. It's got a thin brush and the formula is pretty good. Not as good as the various Marc Jacobs I've tried, or the Milk one. The Milk mascara is like the best ever. That weird looking brush got me for a while, but once I figured it out, I fell in love.

Also, I hate waterproof mascara. It flakes like crazy. Especially in Alaska.

The Loudest Known Clock

In fifth grade, my friends began to get their bedrooms updated to "teen appropriate." For most of them, it was trading out pastels for bold, older colors. They went from pink to bold teal, light purple to bright blue, pastel yellow to in your face purple. Growing up, I had teal painted walls with a balloon wallpaper border along the top. I also had very dark furniture and got no direct light in my room.

It was dark.

I wanted to lighten up while all my friends were telling me it was time to live in a cave.

While I enjoy jewel tones, I was with my mother when she said we'd go lighter and brighter. We went to the local wallpaper store and got a ton of books filled with wallpaper. So much wallpaper. We laid them out on my bed and discussed what should go in the room. I was attracted to plaids and stripes. My mother feared the day I was let out on my own to decorate. (I've never put wallpaper on walls ever, so do not fear for my house.) In the end, she narrowed it down to a flowery print and said she'd let me have one wall of striped, as one of the coordinating papers was a stripe pattern. I distinctly remember telling her I wanted the blue color, as I hated pink. I've hated pink since it was declared that pink is the color little girls liked. My favorite color is purple, but I hated light shades of it for a very long time, so I chucked the light purple flowery one out.

Somehow, I wound up with a pink room.

So much pink.

My mother informed me she went with pink because I already had pink bedspreads and curtains and I didn't need new ones. So, I got stuck with a very pink room. And green carpet.

It took my mother a very long time to wallpaper the entire room. It is a large room and there was a pattern to match. After she was done she declared she was never taking that paper down or putting any more up. (She wallpapered her bathroom and our bathroom, but to this day my room is still pink flowers and stripes.)

I remember being horrified upon entering the room at the sight of all the pink. It didn't even match the bedspreads and curtains. It did match the carpet.

I'm not sure how long I had been living in the pink flowery room before The Clock showed up. It took me forever to tell time and I still can't tell time very well, so having an analog clock wasn't exactly high on my list of things I wanted. Somehow, I wound up with a clock. It was a dusty rose plastic thing with a white face, black numbers, and hands. It was a cheap plasticky nightmare that we should have just chucked out after that first night of hell.

How does a stupid clock cause hell on Earth? Oh, by being the loudest clock in the world. Honest. You can hear the freaking thing in the basement. Everyone in the house hated the clock, yet it remained on the wall till the day I moved out at 23. Everyone knew where I was if I answered the phone in my room. It was the creepiest thing to be in the house alone because you could hear the stupid thing in every single room. My mom put cotton on the outside to dampen the sound, but it did nothing.

After my daughter was born, I found the clock in the closet when I was going through some old papers my mom had kept. She wanted to know what I wished to keep and what she could throw out. I stared at the clock with a little nostalgia. Even though I'd spent the majority of my childhood hating the loudest clock known to man, upon leaving home I found I often was unable to sleep without loud ticking. I slept on top of my watch when I got really desperate. In Scotland, I went to Tesco and bought a wind-up alarm clock because it was the only analog clock they had for sale.

It was super loud. (Side story: I would always confuse people who'd stop by my room because it was never the right time. I strictly used it for the noise, so I didn't bother to keep the time right if I happen to miss a winding cycle.)

My mom gave me the loudest ticking clock known to man to put in my daughter's room.

"You know, to use instead of that sound machine."

The sound machine broke, but while I hung the clock on the wall, I didn't put a battery in it. My husband hated The Clock and everyone known to man has taken the batteries out of the clocks I put in bedrooms, so I didn't bother to find a battery for The Clock. I set it to 10.10 and never thought about it again until one day my daughter demanded her daddy fix the clock.

So, he put the batteries in. And he stared at me like it was my fault she wanted to have The Clock working. I feared the noise would keep her up, but she zonked out and stayed that way that night. Pilot Boy also was out for the count, but I lay awake for a long time listening to TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.

It had been almost ten years since I needed that noise to sleep and having it back was strange. But, since I spent so long with that noise, within days I forgot about it. Now, only on nights when I'm tossing and turning do I realize it's there and I can listen to it to calm down my over active mind.

Back in Fashion

It happened this week. I told someone I was wearing something I had had since high school. Upon realizing this, I was amazed and wondrous, as the size I am now and the size I am now are like night and day.

So, here's what happened. I went to a coffee shop with a friend of mine who was in town. We both wished to escape tiny humans and enjoy a conversation that was not interrupted by the tiny humans (or the husbands). Something you don't realize when you usually converse with a two-year-old and not an adult: you can't have a conversation while there are toddlers present, as they will demand your attention either by talking over you or falling on their face. So, we left the tiny humans with our husbands and escaped for two glorious hours of adult conversation at a local coffee shop.

Now, I love this coffee shop. It was the first one suggested to me upon arrival, but I nixed because it was tiny, cramped, and dark. I wound up going there because it was small and I had a tiny human who was crawling everywhere. I fell in love with it for an array of reasons, none having to do with the coffee. They have a FULL-SIZE CHANGING TABLE. They also gave my daughter a full cup of whipped cream mostly because she was so well behaved while my friend and I had coffee. EMO was maybe nine months at the time. She was crawling and I spent the majority of the time chasing her down when she'd get too far from me. (I would have just let her crawl away, but there were others in the shop and they didn't seem to think I should be letting my kid crawl around the coffee shop.) But, she didn't fuss or complain, simply went back to exploring once I brought her back to our corner. The other's times I've taken her, they've almost always given her something, though never again a full cup of whipped cream (which I ate most of because she was too busy crawling away).

The last time I'd gone to the coffee shop to get coffee with my dad, they'd totally redone the place and it felt bigger, brighter, and totally different, so I wanted to go sit in it and enjoy it without a toddler. While the barista was crafting our lattes, he mentioned that my jean jacket was a hot trend and they were "totally back." (Yes, he did, in fact, say that to me.) We proceeded to have a conversation about how things keep coming back in fashion. He really wanted the 80s to return and for men to wear crop tops. (I was not aware that was a thing for dudes in the 80s, but what the hell do I know? I wore whatever my mother put me in throughout my life in the 80s.) My friend mentioned henleys were coming back in and she'd just gotten rid of her whole collection of henleys, to which I responded, "I only ever get rid of stuff that doesn't fit. If it fits, I keep it just in case."

This is very true. Hence why I have a jean jacket from high school. I also have my Doc Martens from high school. All three pairs. (Which until two years ago when I bought a pair of full price Tory Burch flats, were the most expensive shoes I had ever bought for myself at $120 for the shoes and $110 for the sandals.) I have a sweatshirt and top from Abercrombie. They belonged to my brother and he rejected them. They swam on me in high school, they fit now. The jean jacket was also too big when originally purchased. And here's why: my mom refused to believe me when I told her I wore an XS.

Yup. She refused to believe that at seventeen I knew what size I wore. I had been in denial for a few years, but by that point, I had owned up to the fact I wore a size zero. I accepted it and had embraced the fact I was non-existant. I knew, in the back of my head, that so many of my peers would have loved to buy size zero jeans from American Eagle, who have been jealous of me as I bought double zero jeans from Abercrombie (yeah, double zero. I was double non-existent at Abercrombie & Finch). I wore XS shirts because I had no boobs and going to a bigger size didn't make the shirts any longer.

My mother, who did my laundry, honestly thought I was wearing clothes that were too small simply based on what these items looked like when she washed them. She commented quite often about the size of the shirts when she'd washed them, but never when they were on me. She bought me a crop top. I was never brave enough to really wear it, but she did buy it for me. I've no idea why. I was sixteen. She told me I ought to embrace the body I had at the moment as one day it'd be gone.

Like usual, she was right. And I did listen to her, hence why I owned up to the fact I was not a size 4 and began buying the size that fit: zero. (And man did I feel better about myself when I no longer had a saggy butt and had to wear belts to keep my too large pants up.)

Anyways, in the spring of my junior year, for some reason, we were at Old Navy. I didn't really shop at Old Navy in high school after I embraced my non-existence because they didn't make non-existent clothing. So, my mother and I were at Old Navy and she proclaimed she was buying me clothes. This was strange for a wide array of reasons. She had decided when I was ten she wasn't ever buying me clothing and since I was thirteen I had to pay for my own clothes. Also, I didn't NEED anything. By this point in my life, I had enough clothing to clothe the entire school and then some. (Not that many people wore non-existant sized clothing. This was tragic on many levels, most being I could never trade clothes with my girlfriends as they all wore size four or larger.) But, I was not about to argue with my mom paying for clothes, so I went along for the ride.

We both really liked what the mannequin was wearing, so she agreed I could get the jean jacket and red checkered shirt. When we went to get the clothes, I discovered Old Navy actually carried XS. (They did not have size zero pants, though. I did check.) I grabbed the XS, but my mother said, "No. You're not that small."

I think I blinked.

"You need a small."

I did not argue with her. I simply agreed and got the small shirt and jacket.

As whenever I have new clothes, I was super excited to wear the new outfit and planned to wear it on a field trip to the art museum in downtown Chicago. The morning of the trip, I excitedly put my new stuff on and realized a major flaw.

Everything was too big. The shirt was swimming on me, especially in the chest area. Even with my super bra (either filled with air or water, as Victoria Secret carried both to give you bigger boobs and since I had none and everyone who made clothing seemed to think us non-existant people had huge boobs, I had to wear padded bras and the ones filled with air or water looked more natural), the shirt was too big. I put the coat on over it and the coat was down passed my knuckles-- which was great. I loved sleeves that were too long, but the jacket was not the fitted, cute thing it was on the mannequin. It was wide and boxy.

I wore the outfit anyway, as I was running late and figured that at least my pants fit. I didn't take the jacket off all day and no one told me I looked cute.

I never wore the shirt and jacket again while in high school. I've no idea where the shirt went, but I hung onto the jacket. I think my mom sent me off to college with it. I wore it one day and discovered the pockets were sewn in such a manner they gave me inside pockets that were perfect for my ID. So, I wore it a lot in college because it had extra pockets. The jacket even went to Scotland with me. When cooler weather rolls around, I always unearth it from where ever it is and start wearing it again.

As I stood in the coffee shop at thirty-three-years-old and now wearing a size 8, I stared at the jacket I've merrily worn since I became a size 4. It's always fit since that time. Always. (Except when I was six months pregnant and it didn't button over my humungous boobs.) Was my jacket kinda like the Traveling Pants? It was kinda like a traveling coat. It's been to Scotland, Alaska, Texas, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Oklahoma. It's likely to go off and go to more places because every time I've sat down to replace the stupid thing, I can never find a better coat. And yes, I have sat down to replace it a few times. There's just never a coat that's...well, that coat. So, I give up and just go back to wearing a coat bought by my mother in 2001.

And, guess what? I'm totally in fashion right now with my sixteen-year-old denim coat.

Heed Not the Crazy Singing Lady

I have always loved music. Since I was a baby if I believe my parents. So, logically, once I found about musicals, I was a goner.

The first musical I remember being eaten alive by was Annie. My parents took me to see a live performance that a fellow from our church was in. And by the end, I was in love. My mother took me to the library and rented the CD from the movie. I annoyed the whole family for two weeks solid belting out "Tomorrow" out of tune. (This was the first time I realized I had no musical talent as I couldn't hit that one note no matter how much I played with my voice.)

There were other musicals to follow, various Disney movies and The Music Man. In high school, I was utterly obsessed for MONTHS with Titanic. I'd bought the CD on a trip to the mall when I was in 8th grade, but during either freshman, I began to listen to the CD before going to Youth Choir (yeah, I still couldn't sing, didn't stop me from trying). I felt it warmed up my voice better than doing warm-ups with the actual choir. For months, I'd listen to the whole thing before leaving the house for the evening.

Then it came to Chicago and I about burst a blood vessel. Least to say, when I requested to be taken, neither parent objected to their 15-year-old kid wanting to go to the theater to see a musical about a sinking boat.

I discovered old movie musicals the summer between junior and senior year in high school. I spent weeks singing "There's No Business Like Show Business."

In college, I was obsessed with Chicago. (I actually wanted to listen to the soundtrack to that musical while getting ready for my wedding, but didn't happen due to the fact I was having too much fun and didn't bother to put any music on.)

I love Singing in the Rain, but I hate West Side Story. (Which was reaffirmed last night when I watched it on TMC.) 

Basically, if it's a musical movie, I've seen it.

BUT

I'm currently obsessed with Hamilton. I got on that boat late, but I've been listening to it enough lately my child has started singing it without prompting. EMO began singing last night as she was getting ready for bed, "FOR SHAME! FOR SHAME! I WANT GREEN TOOTHPASTE! FOR SHAME!"

Pilot Boy looked at me like I had done something horrible, but I shrugged as at first, I didn't know what the hell she was singing. She usually needs prompting to sing Hamilton tunes. I spout out the chorus for "My Shot" and she can finish it. She sings along at the end of all King George's songs. She randomly shouts words during the raps, but she's never just begun spouting off things. 

I had a feeling it was from Hamilton, but I had to look it up to figure it out which song.

"Farmer Refuted."

I couldn't stop laughing. While I do enjoy that song, it's not one that we tend to perform together when we do listen to the soundtrack (I am that crazy woman in her car waving her arms and pointing while at a red light with a child in the back doing the same thing). 

EMO shouted her version of "Farmer Refuted" till she fell asleep. 

First Day of School

Today EMO started preschool. I had to wake her up, as today she decided she wanted to sleep in. She was a little befuddled when I dressed her shortly after waking her, but she went with it. While I got ready, she ate her blueberries and drank some of her milk. While we've been telling her she's going to school, today she seemed to understand that today was the day she'd get to go. She was super excited.

Upon arriving, my daughter said, "Go, Mama, go!" She made a shooing motion, so her dad and I left.

I had two and a half hours to myself. Pilot Boy told me I should take this time to clean the house. I glared at him as he whisked himself off to work. Instead, I downloaded the photos I took before we left, edited them, and sent one of the less blurry ones to my family. After this was done, I still had two hours left, so I was like, "Ugh. Fine. I'll clean."

So, I cleaned up the family room, reorganized things, and realized how many bikes/riding thing my daughter has (four). It was really enjoyable to sit in the quiet house and have it be clean. I could see the couches, the floor, and the carpets were vacuumed and there were no fur-tumbleweeds blowing around.

It was so enjoyable, I almost did in fact forget to go get her.

Pilot Boy send me a text at about ten reminding me to get her. I joked that I'd forgotten I had a daughter, thanks for reminding me.

Somehow, forty five minutes flew by and as I was like, "Oh, I should go get her." Then I looked at my watched and realized I was late.

I hurried over to the school, stood in line, and was greeted by my daughter saying, "Mama, you came back!"

This is how she always greets me when I've been gone for an extended period, be it I ran off to do errands or she was asleep. Sometimes, all I have to do is be in the other room and she greets me as if she wasn't really aware I'd come back from where ever I was, even though I tell her I'll be right back.

When I go to get her from her nap, she will say to me: You came back!

Just like she greeted me this morning when I woke her up. And when I came to get her at school. And when I came back from the bathroom.

Words are Flowing

EMO had words. Lots of words. Most of them are easy to understand, even. Sample of her favorites words:

• Mama
• Daddy! (there is always an exclamation mark after that one...)
• Bucky
• Mook (also known as milk)
• Melmo (AKA Elmo)
• Gapes (grapes)
• Luce (Lucy)
• Bye!
• Hi.
• Peas (please)
• Tanks (Thanks)
• Tigey (Tiger)
• Basue (Basil the Dog)
• Horsie!
• NEIGH!
• Bark!
• No
• Potty
• Poo poo
• Toot
• Hungee (Hungry) 
• Mac N Cheese
• Mee
• Smoothie
• Phone
• Moovie (TV)
• Mickey
• Goofy
• Funneee
• Silly
• Tickle
• Puckle (pickle)
• Berry
• Elsa (Anna)
• Elsa (Elsa)
• George (yeah, she can say it right)
• Daniel
• Cat
• Doc
• Lambie
• Jammie
• Dress
• Shoes
• Car seat
• Pretty
• Awesauce (Awesome. She loves "Everything is Awesome" and will sing it with you if you want)
• Bayme (Baymax)
• Purse
• Okay
• Muzic (Music)
• Frozen
• Let it go
• Sit
• Sleepy
• Leepsteak (Lipstick)
• Lotion
• Shoewer (Shower)
• Brush yur teeth (brush your teeth, which means she wants to brush her teeth as well as you better brush yours)
• Dinner
• Scared
• Safe ("Bucky safe" is what she usually tells me, as she happened to accidentally see the scene of Captain America where Bucky fell off the train. I'd thought I'd paused the movie when I went to get her after nap time, but hadn't. She was very concerned for Bucky, so I told her he was fine. She didn't let up till I assured her Bucky was safe, so now she always tells me Bucky is safe.)
• Tissyou (Tissue)
• Seeick (Sick)
• Choke
• Don't die 
• Diznee (Disney)

And those are the only ones I can think of while I'm sitting here while she's napping (after telling me she wasn't tired. She was out instantly.) 

Time Munching with Wiggles

A year ago, I was exhausted, elated, freaked out, exhausted, anxious, and exhausted. Why?

I'd just had a baby.

By this time (roughly 7pm), I'd adjusted to the fact I had this small being dependent on me and I had peed the three mandatory times required for me to be able to go home the next day. I'd been fed, drugged, and was looking forward to sleeping. As I might have mentioned, I was exhausted.

A year later, I'm no longer exhausted, but I am constantly tired. It usually hits at about 7pm. I just get utterly exhausted and desperately want to go to bed.

However, someone who no longer really Wiggles doesn't wish to sleep at seven.

Or much.

That much hasn't changed in the year of life. My kid still doesn't like sleeping much. She does, though, seem to understand she needs it and will do it. For some stretches. She takes one nap, sometimes two hours long. She sleeps from about 8 till 12, then 12 till 6.30, 7 if we're lucky. On bad days, she wakes up at 4 am ready to get up and face her day.

Crazy child.

She walks now more than she crawls. She's into everything and I'm not sure how she sees as her hair is always in her face. (She won't wear barrettes and yanks out elastics.) Her feet are not big enough for most walker-shoes, as she wears a 2.5, not a 4. She wears a size 12 in length, but a 6 in with. Everything still makes a trip into her mouth and she loves to chew on books. Unloading the DVD bins is a daily activity, as well as handing Mommy all the DVDs as if they are precious jewels.

My days speed by at the speed of light and by the time we put Time Muncher (formerly known as Wiggles) I cannot for the life of me figure out where the day went. While I might not be able to explain to you what I exactly did today, I'll will have either gotten dressed to leave the house or dressed to work out. If I dressed to work out, I almost always get it down during nap time. I might not unload the dishwasher, but I will work out. Days I work out AND unload the dishwasher are REALLY AMAZING DAYS.

The past year as seen Time Muncher go from a squirming, funny looking newborn, to a pretty little baby, to a long, lean walking machine. Her hair went from just on her head to everywhere, and her teeth went from zero to four. She laughs, cries crocodile tears, and claps her hands for Elmo. She always stops what she's doing when Frozen starts and will attempt to dance to any music she hears.

She takes her socks off, tends to loose one shoe, hates for you to put things over her head, but will always help you remove her shirts. She likes to give people things and then stare at them while they hold them. She usually doesn't want them back. She love to knock things over and hates when Dad leaves the room when she's cranky.

Everyone tells me she's beautiful, she looks like me, and she's utterly adorable (especially when she waves at them or claps her hands). I tend to agree with all these assessments and I love that she loves almost all food we give her (except cheese and spinach ravioli). She drinks water, love wheat puffs she can share with Basil Bea Dog, and rolls around on the dog bed like it's her own.

I know life has changed with the addition of Time Muncher, yet I am still me. And I am proud of this. I did not loose myself. I changed-- I no longer spent two hours to get ready to leave the house. I can get ready to go somewhere in under 30 now, including a shower! I still write, still do art projects, and still bake sugary things I shouldn't likely be eating. I sewed a diaper bag, painted half a bedroom, wrote several stories, edited several stories, scrap booked, and got into oil paints. I still love clothes, buy too many pairs of shoes, and adore designer purses. I just also love buying shoes, clothes, and toys for TM. I love building block towers for her to knock over, reading books to myself while she chews on another and is clearly not listening to me, and walking her down the mean streets and not get hit by cars because the town lacks sidewalks. I like taking TM shopping. She likes to get out and see the sights.

I am less house bound since TM and will likely remain that way as she's super social. And now that she's walking and playing, she'll likely like some friends.

A year ago, I had a baby. A year ago, I didn't know what was going to happen, yet I was looking forward to it. I'm looking forward to the next year of development and every year after. Will I miss her being a baby? Being a newborn who didn't do anything except lie there and stare at the ceiling?

No. I'm one of those weird people who will not miss those days because they were boring and frustrating. My child didn't want to cuddle, she wanted to be independent. She was so happy the day she figured out how to move on her own. I do cherish the moment she wants to cuddle, when she sits in my lap and happily sucks on her two fingers and ceases moving.

Those moments...those I like.

Diaper Update

Wiggles is now almost 11 months old. She weights 19 pounds and I've no clue how tall she is as I haven't gotten her to be still long enough to measure her. Her legs have finally chunked out a bit, but she is still long and skinny for a baby. Likely because she is NEVER still. Even when she's asleep she's not still.

We still battle for naps, still have issues sleeping through the night. But sometimes it does happen: sleeping through the night.

Only we had a problem: diaper overflow.

My beloved Luvs were no longer containing the outflows. In the past, when this occured, it was time to go to the next size up. While she was in the weight limit for the diapers in the past, her legs were usually a little too skinny for the next size, her her loads were ready so we just strapped her in and hoped for the best. This time, she is no where near the weight limit for the size 4. She is firmly in size three, yet they do not hold enough pee.

Pee is my enemy now, not poop. (Unless she pees and poops at the same time, then it is a disaster.) During the day, I can change her diaper every two hours. However, HUGE COMMA, at night, I am not waking her up to change her diaper. It ends in tears. Trust me. I woke her once at four to change her diaper because she hadn't woken at her usual time for a bottle. I'd hoped I could get the wet diaper off, put a dry on one, and put her back down.

Not so lucky.

So, the next day, I went to investigate diapers, just as I had when she was still in my belly. This time, though, I had more options. Did you know there are like two different versions of diapers for her size in Pampers? And Huggies? But Luvs only had one type of diapers and they simply do not hold enough pee to go all night long without a diaper change. But, they do make diapers that go that long. After spending a little too long staring at diapers, I picked up small packs of Pampers Cruisers and Huggies Snug and Dry. Both claimed they held 12 hours worth of wetness.

Pampers Cruisers were up first. I put it on her before her nap that day--which she actually took! It was two hours long. In the Luvs, I'd have a very heavy diaper after a two hour nap. With the PC diapers, I had a half full diaper of pee. Happy, I changed her diaper and put her in a Huggies one. Instantly, I hated the Huggies on. I don't like them-- plain and simple. They seem flimsy. At least her legs fit into the holes this time. She wore it for four hours while crawling around and no leaks. I've used the Huggies Snug and Dry at bedtime and so far, no leaks and no overly full diapers. Same with the Pampers.

She's slept through the night at least three times since I bought the new diapers and only one time did Pilot Boy put the wrong diaper on her at night. I had a damp baby come morning when she spent the entire night in the Luvs diaper (she usually wakes up when wet, but she's growing or something).

So, after we finish the Luvs, we're switching to Pampers Cruisers and I will forlornly stare at my empty pocket book but no longer have to change her pants every three or four hours.

An Ode to Shoes

I love shoes. I've loved shoes since I was 13 and realized I owned almost fifty pairs of them. I was awed and amazed to discover I had an obsession with shoes. Since that point in time, I've continued to hoard shoes, loving everything about them except one thing: wearing them.

I hate wearing shoes.

I walked around barefoot whenever I could get away with it. I took off my shoes as soon as it is feasible. I was that person who will take her shoes off on the plane and put my feet on the gross carpet. Why? Because due to the fact I hated wearing shoes, I had about ten inches of callouses on my feet. I could hardly feel anything.

Till I got my first pedicure.

It's been all downhill since that point in time because do you know what they do to your feet when you get a pedicure? They scrap your feet and remove the callouses.

I was horrified. Utterly, completely horrified. I wanted to rip my foot out of the tiny woman's grasp, as what the hell was she doing?

I didn't though and I regret it all the time. Why? Because up till that point, shoes, when I did deem to wear them, didn't bother me. I never got blisters. I never had to break shoes in.

Then, my years of work hardening my feet was taken away from me and suddenly my feet always hurt. Shoes gave me blisters on my heels, my big toes, between my toes when I wore flip flops for the first time in a season, and worst of all I had to break shoes in suddenly.

I'd never had to do that before.

Why the hell do people get pedicures? Seriously. I've gotten maybe four total in my life and each time they scrap away my callouses on my feet I think, well, maybe this time will be different.

It's not.

Yeah, my feet look pretty, but my shoes and I have a hard relationship after this point.

I haven't had a pedicure in seven years. I got one before I got married. Mostly because I was like, "What the heck? It's fifty degrees. I can wear flip flops." I mored when the polish finally began chipping and swore I'd get another one in the summer. Maybe keeping up with the whole foot scrapping would help?

Then, I never got another one.

I thought about it. Multiple times, but I've never gone. Even while I was pregnant. Mostly because I had no idea where to go to get it done other than the place by Walmart and I was like, "I don't want to go there by myself. It's alway awkward."

So, yeah. I've got seven years of callouses on my feet, but I still have to break in shoes.

That's where I am going with this: breaking in shoes.

I finally broke down and bought a pair of Tory Burch flats. I've only wanted a pair for seven years. The only reasons I didn't do it before now was because I had a minor heart attack each time I saw the price of a pair. Then, as discussed in a previous post, I discovered designer resale. And I know what you're thinking: used shoes. Ick. But, seriously, I'm not about to pay $400 dollars for a pair of heels I might wear twenty
times in the next seven years.

LK Bennett Sledge

Stuart Weitzman Corkswoon

But, oh, how I lusted after Kate Middleton's shoes. I love the Sledge by LK Bennett and the Corkswoon by Stuart Weitzman. I seriously wanted the Corkswoon, but I cannot pay $400 for a pair of 4 1/2 inch platforms I won't be able to walk in. Towering high heels and I are not friends after my pregnancy. About 3 1/2 inches is what I can get away with without a platform and four with, but that extra half inch is not doable. I cannot walk. And it breaks my heart, BUT, I found the perfect subs for the Corkswoon and they are super comfortable. Last spring, I was tooling around JC Factory's website and found a very similar pair. They were navy, wedges, but used rope rather than cork. However, I was never able to find a look-a-like pair for the Sledge within my low price point and in my size. I'd find the perfect pair, but they'd not have my size.

Tragic. On many levels.

Then one afternoon, I logged onto ThredUp and there they were: the LK Bennet Sledge. In the Right color.

I don't think I even really thought about it, I put it in the cart and checked out before I even realized what I was exactly doing: buying used shoes. I did not even care. All I could think: I was going to own a pair of $400 designer shoes! And I only paid $77 for them!

I was giddy by the time the shoes arrived and threw them on my feet as fast as possible.

They were a little tight in the shoe box, but I didn't care. I owned a pair of LK Bennett shoes! And the ones I'd lusted after for years! Also, as I wore them around the house to get used to them/break them in, I discovered if I put my foot in sides, my toes didn't get squished. (I know, does that make sense? No.) I also discovered, if I wore them with socks, I could wear them longer. The only issue was finding no show socks that were low enough cut not to shoe. (I've yet to find them.)

Anyways, so I had my first pair of high end designer shoes and I could not stop thinking about my next pair. (The same thing happened when I first bought a designer purse, I couldn't stop thinking about my next one.) I trolled the two resale sights I use and never came across what I really wanted: a pair of Tory Burch flats. Oh, sure, both sites have a lot of Tory Burch flats, just none in my size. I spent months waiting and hoping, but never did they show up.

Then one day, Pilot Boy said something that made me think: I could buy a pair of designer shoes at full price. (Then I shuddered.) So, I ventured out onto the retail sites online and began to research. I looked at Stuart Weitzman, read reviews. What I like about his wedges is the heel base is larger than on most wedges, making it easier to walk in. Yet, I still could not bring myself to pay for a pair of shoes I might not be able to walk in, so I turned my sites to Tory Burch.

I can walk in flats. I've always wanted a pair of Reva flats for seven years. I remember when I first saw them on PurseBlog (yeah, weird I know). The writer had just gotten a pair and loved them. That weekend, I was at Dillards (I think) and saw a pair on display. I grabbed it up, flipped it over, and promptly put it back down.

For newly wed and currently unemployed me, they were way too much money.

I didn't pick up another pair till we were in San Antonio and at an outlet mall. I went into the overly crowded Tory Burch outlet thinking maybe I could get a pair of flats. The store was a zoo, so I just waked around quickly looking for shoes. I found a pair, flipped it over, and promptly put it back.

The outlet shoes cost the same as the non-outlet shoes.

And that's the thing about outlet malls I've come to discover: their not any cheaper any longer. Retailers MAKE clothes for their outlet stores. Yeah, they have "sales" on them, but in reality its not any cheaper than going to the actual store if they had a sale.

So, before I had a panic attack in the overly crowded store, I left and decided I'd just buy the flats another day. (I'd just gotten a pair of Ray-Bans, so I figured the flats were out of the question for that trip.)

Fast forward two years and my current obsession with designer shoes.

I've wanted these shoes for seven years. Yes, they've changed over the years, but the Reva flat is still made, still comes in black and gold.

Only, I really hate gold.

And I really do hate labels. (Odd, I know.)

When I first began lusting after the Reva flat, no one knew who Tory Burch was, nor knew her logo. Now, they do. So, yeah. But, it was mostly the gold logo that turned me away from the Reva flats currently available. I was surfing around the Tory Burch site and found the flats for me: Mini Miller.

Mini Miller Flat in yellow

I am not sure what is mini about them, but they are the typical Tory Burch flat, but the logo is done in the same color, and in this case leather, as the shoe itself. After a few days of thinking about it, I bought them.

And like when I bought my first (and third) designer purse, I fretted about the purchase. Like my first designer purse, I cannot brag about not paying full price, as I did. Tragically. Why? Because each and every time Tory Bruch has a sale, the flats are never on sale in my size. NEVER. Everyone must wear an 8.5. Seriously. Anyways, so, the shoes showed up a few days ago. After the dog stopped barking (UPS delivered and he cannot stealthily deliver anything due to the noise his truck makes never mind his instance on ringing the bell), I unpacked the shoes and stared.

I've never had a designer shoe box before. The LK Bennett shoes didn't come in a box, they were simply wrapped in bubble wrap. Now, I know, why does it matter. Most people throw away shoe boxes. I used to, but now I keep my shoe boxes and store shoes in them. You know, so they don't get dusty. I started doing this in Alaska when I had a shelf to keep the boxes on. Now, I have a shelf for shoes to display them, so I keep the ones I wear often on there and the nicer ones all in boxes, sometimes doubled up if they don't have boxes due to being bought at TJ Maxx.

Anyways, so I spent a lot of time staring at the box. I also spent quite a bit of time looking at the wrappings, as that is one thing I just love about ordering designer things from the designer's website: the packaging. I'm pretty sure I only like this due to the fact I ran my own shop for four years and took pride in how I presented the handbag to it's new owner via it's wrappings. So, I spent quite a bit of time enjoying the shiny paper and shoe box before I actually took the rubber band (nice purple elastic thing) off and looked at the shoes.

Yup. Those were the shoes I ordered.

I put them on and stared at my feet. I almost expected something to happen, but nothing did other than Wiggles deciding she also like the trappings of my shoes and made the box explode of packaging.

Not knowing if I ought to keep them or not, I wore them around the house, realizing they were kind of uncomfortable. Now, I didn't expect them to be like my boat shoes, instantly comfortable. They are hard leather and need breaking in. And today, after three days of having these shoes I decided to "break them in" quickly by use of a hair dryer. I found it on Pinterest. So, I was like, eh, worth a shot. Especially after I am not sending them back. Between the fact I do really like them, Wiggles has drooled all over them a few times before decided, No. I do not like Tory Burch as much as LK Bennett (yes, she nawed on my LK Bennett shoes. She loves them.) So, I took my hair dryer, blasted the shoes for a total of 8 seconds each then put them one with a pair of SmartWool socks.

They are a lot more comfortable with the SmartWool socks on, even if I look like an idiot due to the fact I'm wearing designer flats, SmartWool socks in grey and blue, and exercise pants. (I'm dressed for working out this afternoon when Wiggles goes to sleep, not just because I didn't feel like putting proper pants on this morning.)

However, part of me knows that if I'd never gotten a pedicure all those years ago, I wouldn't be breaking shoes in at this moment and instead would be dancing around merrily not having any idea what blisters felt like.

the world is wide

My favorite episode of Doctor Who happens to be "Closing Time." While my Doctor might be David Tennant, my favorite episode of all time is "Closing Time." And not just because I had the song by Semisonic stuck in my head each time I happened to either see the title, hear it, or think about it. No, I actually like the episode because I think it's well done. It's funny, serious, there's a baby, and Craig is awesome. My favorite lines of the show still stem from "Utopia," but overall, "Closing Time" is my favorite episode.

Speaking of "Closing Time," I happened across this post on Facebook today. I read the whole blog post before watching the video, but like the author, I thought the song was about the bar closing and getting kicked out. And while fifteen year old me had never set foot in a bar, I still loved the song. I taped it when it was on the radio and played it over and over-- no where near like how I hit repeat on the Backstreet Boys or 'N Sync, so my dad is likely to know all the lyrics, but I am able to recall them easily enough to sing it in my mind when I see "Closing Time."

So, I watched the above video. I stared at Wiggles (who spent most of the time I was trying to watch it on VOLUME SETTING LOUD), laughed, misted up, and then proceeded to go download the song. Because, even thought 15 year-old me loved it, 15 year-old-me failed to have iTunes (due to the fact it wasn't invented yet).

It does make me wonder how many other songs that seem straight forward are not what we think. (I know many of the songs I like are sometimes not about what I think. And sometimes the words are even wrong. It breaks my heart that "Adam's Song" is not  The dream is over, I've survived but rather The tour is over, I've survived. Makes me glad I didn't contribute that quote to them on my yearbook senior year. Mostly because I didn't have room if I wanted my own name on it. Turns out, it was a quote by myself, as I'd heard the lyrics wrong.)

adventures in online consignment and designer jeans

Since having Wiggles, my body is different. One: I still weight ten pounds more than I did before Wiggles decided to implant herself and grow. Two: how I carry that extra ten pounds is different than how I usually carry weight. Last time I had a huge weight gain, EVERYTHING grew wider. Hips, waist, bust, legs, arms...you get the idea. This time those pesky ten pounds (or sixteen after the holidays) sits right where Wiggles used to hang out. Only, now instead of being all hard and baby filled, it's just saggy and empty. I can feel my abs once more, but after eight months, I accepted the fact it's kind of here to stay. My hips aren't all that wider, but my waist is two inches wider than it was before Wiggles. (BW.)

So, I sighed and chucked my favorite Lucky Brand jeans, those VS jeans I've had since I was 25, and my various other jeans/pants. (Except my American Eagle ones I've had since I did that first major weight gain while in Del Rio. Those, oddly, still fit me just fine. No clue why as the others are all the same style, just different brands. But whatever.) I dreaded, deeply dreaded, finding new pants. I have never liked buying new pants. Mostly because they don't make pants for me. When I was a twig, nothing fit because unlike most twigs, I had hips and a butt. (Go figure.) And while I matched up measurement wise perfectly with a size six across the board, some times I needed a four, sometimes a two, and once a zero.

After Wiggles (AW), I don't fit in anywhere. My hips are the same size, my bust depends on the day of the week, and my waist is a size ten. I wouldn't mind wearing a size ten. I don't care about the number, I mostly care about how my butt is going to fit into a size ten. Because while my so called waist is a size ten, my butt is still a size six. And I know there are a whole bunch of people who have a similar problem. And I know there are pants that are made for people like me. However, I cannot try these pants on easily because I live in the middle of nowhere.

Also, I don't want to pay a lot of money, but I really wanted designer jeans. I mean, I've always wanted designer jeans, but I didn't understand paying 100 or more for jeans. I had a heart attack when I hit the buy button on my Lucky Brand jeans and they were only 88, and I got extra marked off for being a first time buyer on the website. But, that's a lot of money for a pair of pants.

Then, while buying clothing for Wiggles, I realized: If they have online consignment for children, they must have them for women. I had seen a news story back when I was pregnant about online congisnment, but it was mostly really high end stuff and mostly purses. I didn't need a new purse (shocking, I know), but I did need new pants.

So, after buying Wiggle's some new jammies to fit her super long body from Moxie Jean , I did a web search for online consignment. I wound up on a website called ThredUp. I surfed around, looking at what they had, what they took, and realized it was right up my alley. It was a mix of high end and the middle of the road. Basically, everything I wore and what I aspired to.

My first order, I ordered mostly jeans. Because that was what I needed. After much deliberation, I decided I'd try a size 29, a size up from what all my old jeans were and a size down from what all the sites claimed I needed for my new waist. While, when you order enough to get free shipping your order will take what feels like a life time to zigzag from California to where you are (sometimes being mere miles away yet going to Dallas for some reason), it is worth it. The prices for their lightly used designer items is great and you can easily return anything that doesn't fit. You have to pay for the return, but clothes are light and if they are heavy, flat boxes work just fine.

Anyhoo, I got four pairs of jeans to start out. James Jeans, Citizens of Humanity, Hudson, and 7 For All Mankind. All size 29.

The James Jeans were rather tight, but they were supposed to be legging jeans. After I wore them a few hours, they stretched out perfectly. Now I just air dry them on a hanger pulling the waist to keep the shape I molded.

Citizen for Humanity fit perfectly right out of the box. They were also trouser style, which I LOVE. They reminded me of my favorite pair of Levi's had in college that bit the dust awhile ago. (I still have them, but don't wear them for fear of them falling apart.) My only issue: after two wears, they loose their shape and fall down all the time. I had totally forgotten this was an issue for regular jeans. I hadn't had this issue until I tried to wear maternity jeans, but it seems to be my new world. As the Hudson jeans did the same thing. Even if I wear a belt, by the second wear, I'm always pulling my pants up.

The 7 For All Mankind jeans didn't fit at all. Couldn't even button them. So, I sent them back with other items that didn't fit and ordered the next size up. I have a feeling since they fit perfectly right out of the box, in a few hours I'll be pulling them up as well. Such is life. While reordering the 7s, I ordered a pair of green jeggings by Habitual. Never heard of them, but green pants! They looked like they'd be way too small, but they fit fine but were super long. All the jeans I got claimed to have 32 inch inseams. Well, except the 7s. They claim they have 31. I'm not sure who measures inseams of the jeans I've been wearing, as I've always worn a 32 when I want to wear flats and a 34 when I wear heels. Clearly, when the company claims it's a 32, it's really not because none of my former jeans were too long unless they were 34s.

Maybe I shrunk?

Now, I've also used the selling side of this site. I sent in a bag before the holidays. However, due to the volume of people unloading clothing on them, they are backed up and I haven't gotten my itemized list of what they took. I did, at the same time, send off a bunch of Wiggle's old stuff to Moxie and heard back. I sent in 102, but they only took 64. They did tell me why they didn't take the items they rejected and all things that are nice (which mine were) are donated to a local charity. Hence why I went with them when I was doing my research for kids consignment online. (There's thrift stores in this place, but no kid consignment.) ThredUp also says they donate the things they don't take, so I view it as either way, I get it out of my house easily and get a little bit of money (or store credit. For Moxie if you spend your money one their site, you get ten bucks extra. I will be spending it there, as Wiggles keeps growing.)

Alright, I must end this entry of somewhat random pointlessness and dry my hair before Wiggles wakes up from her nap as I said I'd go to a fini flight (Final Flight) for one of our friends whose getting the hell out of Dodge.

The Homestretch

One week till my due date.

My bag is packed and I'm ready to go.

And I'm showing now signs of labor. I'm still, as the doctor put it, closed up tight.

Bah.

I'm ready for this baby. Well, as much as I can be. I've got everything ready to go for her, I just need the actual baby. As I said recently, I'm ready for the next step. I'm ready to meet the kid who keeps kicking me from the inside even though I know it's hard for her as there's not much room for her. (Pilot Boy keeps looking at my belly and wondering how a 18 inch long baby is supposed to fit in there. She is a contortionist. Duh.)

Other than the constant peeing, the inability to get comfortable, the constant being overly hot, the swollen feet, and the curious happenings of my digestive track, I'm just peachy.

Okay, I lie. I'm so ready to not be pregnant. I've been warned it'll be at least three months till I feel like my old self again, but hell, I'm just looking forward to not randomly falling over, being able to stand at the counter, and not peeing constantly. (I'd also like to be able to sleep for more than 45 minutes, but I'm not totally mental. I know babies don't allow for much sleep. At least they get you ready for it by pressing on your bladder with their heads for the final four weeks of pregnancy!)


When I first found out I was pregnant, I kept thinking, "Oh god. I'm not ready for this. Oh god."

I kept repeating that over and over and over till about a month ago when I was like, "Okay. I'm ready. Now, come out!"

She's not listening. (I never thought she would. My own dog won't listen to me, why would my own kid.)

It's also the strangest thing to be sitting around waiting for something to happen that you know has to happen, yet you have no clue when it'll happen. It's hard to plan anything, as you NEVER know when you MIGHT just RANDOMLY go into labor. (Also, relatives want to make plans to visit, yet I don't want to be overwhelmed as I know myself well enough to know I won't be able to handle anyone other than Pilot Boy and my mother for the first few weeks. I think I've finally managed to convince people of this, so they've given me a month.)

I've made a birth announcement as well. All I have to do is add a photo and the unknown information (weight, length (or wing span as Pilot Boy insists), and the date and time of birth).

Well, my hips hurt from sitting here for too long, so I'm going to end this post and move to another location.

A Quest for Salsa

You'd think it wouldn't be hard to find salsa, but it is. Trust me.

Before I met Pilot Boy, I had no desire to eat salsa. I hated hot foods and thus never ventured near the salsa bowl or a Mexican restaurant. This all changed when Pilot Boy waltzed into my life because the boy lives to fry his tongue and Mexican food is his all time fav.

Whilst dating, there was this Mexican restaurant in West Lafayette, Indiana he liked and we went to quite often. The joint always brought two different salsas, one mild, one hot. This worked well for the pair of us, as Pilot Boy likes to burn his tongue and I'd rather keep my taste buds.

During our time in Fairview Heights, IL, there was this perfect Mexican restaurant right near our apartment complex and we spent almost every Friday night (or when we failed to want to make dinner) eating at this place. They also had good salsa.

Then, we moved to the Dirt Hole.

You'd think that living on the Texas boarder, you'd find GREAT Mexican food and salsa would be easy to get.

LIES. ALL LIES.

To date, the best Mexican food I've consumed has been within the state of Indiana. And the best salsa I've eaten came out of my kitchen.

Yeah, you read that right: I make my own salsa.

While we were living in Texas, there were store bought salsas that were okay. In Texas, there were so many available I don't think we ever got the same one twice. Then we moved to Alaska where they had no idea about salsa, let alone chips.

Oklahoma isn't much better. The lone okay Mexican restaurant in town doesn't actually give you chips and salsa with your order, as they don't have a table. They are a drive through restaurant. (Their food is really good, though. Likely the best in town.)

I'd been tooling around Pinterst for awhile, looking at salsa recipes. I'd gotten a new blender as a house warming present from my parents. It claimed it worked as a food processor as well (hence why I got it). Finally, after going through every, single salsa our tiny town shops had to offer, I decided I'd just make my own. So, I bought all the stuff and made it.

It was 1,000 times better than any of the jars we had in our fridge rotting away because they sucked.

(I was also over zealous the first time I made salsa and also made my own chips, which were really good, but labor intensive.)

Anyways, I've made the recipe a few times. (Oh, find it here: Quick and Easy Blender Salsa.)

The first time I made it, I had no ground cumin, so I put in chipotle powder. I also had gotten the Rotel diced tomatoes with green chiles in them, not the plain ones.

The second time I made it, I only used half a can of diced tomatoes and it came out looking brown. (It tasted fine, it just wasn't very red.)

The third time, Pilot Boy made it by just dumping in what I could remember. I forgot the honey and he failed to listen to me when I told him he was over blending. We also didn't have any fresh cilantro, as the cilantro we had had gone all slimy.

We threw that one out.

The last batch I made, I pretty much followed the recipe, only I used paprika. I also failed to put enough salt in and didn't have a fresh lime.

HOWEVER, since I made the batch, I've been adding a little more salt and some Bold Taco Seasoning by Penzey. And a bit more lime juice, as I don't think Pilot Boy put enough in. (He didn't seem to think we needed a full tablespoon to compensate for lack of fresh lime.)

It is heavenly.

So, here is the recipe tweaked from the original one: (Once more found here: Quick and Easy Blender Salsa)

What you need:

1 can of 14-oz canned diced tomatoes
(drain a bit of the water out unless you like watery salsa)
1 can of 10-oz Rotel Mild (with green chilies)
Some roughy chopped onion.
(Roughly chopped is the key, as you're putting it in the blender. I'd say add as much onion as you like. I hate onions, so I put maybe 1/4 of a red onion in.) 
1 clove of garlic.
(PEEL IT. DO NOT CHOP IT UP EITHER. If you do not have an actual clove, put the equivalent of the powder stuff or whatever you've got in the garlic department. First time I used minced garlic, a heaping 1/2 tablespoon.) 
1 teaspoon of honey
1/2 teaspoon of salt, plus extra if you feel you need it.
1/4 teaspoon ground chipotle or 1/2 Penzey Bold Taco Seasoning plus 1/4 paprika
Juice of one lime
(Or put a tablespoon or two of lime concentrate.) 

Directions:
1. Gather all ingredients.
2. Chop your onion. Roughly.
3. Peel your garlic clove. (If you have one.) 
4. Open your cans of tomatoes.
5. Dump everything into the blender.
6. Plug the blender in. (Very important.) Turn blender on. (Also muy importante.) Blend on high for 10 seconds, or low for 30. Do not over blend or you'll liquify it.
7. Put it in a jar or whatever you wish to store your freshly made salsa within.
8. Enjoy. (I figure it keeps for maybe a week. Only one jar we've made, the first, made it passed a week and looked kind of funky after a week in a half of living in the fridge.) 

Now, I know these food/recipe posts usually have photos to go along with them, but I don't have photos of me making salsa at the moment. However, I wanted to write this down before I forgot. Or had a baby and thus was busy bonding with said baby.

Back in the Day...

Recently, a childhood friend of mine posted an old school photo on Facebook.

I was utterly mortified. I looked like a complete idiot.

I was an adorable child. My parents will tell you this, other people might agree, and I will tell you this. However, around the age of about ten or eleven, I turned into a complete, awkward mess. I'm not sure if it had to do with getting glasses or what, but something happened between fourth and fifth grade. And it only got worst till I was a junior in high school. I still tended to take horrible photos, but I stopped looking so awkward and geeky. (Sometimes.) I also finally stopped hacking off my hair to channel a mushroom.

But I digress.

The photo posted on Facebook (or The Facebook as some people call it) was from fifth grade. Oddly, I was actually wearing my glasses (I tended to forget them till I was in about seventh grade when I finally became blind enough to be unable to function without them). I also, for some unknown reason, tucked my shirt into my high waisted jeans. I know, back in 1995, those were like the ONLY type of jeans out there, but still. WHY DID I TUCK MY SHIRT IN? Out of the seven or six girls in the photo, only two of us were sporting tucked in shirts. And since I was the short one with the tucked in shirt, tapered jeans, and granny boots, I looked like an awkward mess. Even for 1995.

With the exception of the girl who posted the photo and one other, each person (besides myself) commented on the photo how, well, horrible she looked. Each one thought she looked the worst, completely passing over myself. (Who did look the worst. My brother agreed.) The photo had been up for quite a few days before I realized that likely all of us were totally embarrassed (in a ha ha ha kind of way) of how we appeared as kids. For the most part, when I see photos of myself as a kid, I don't cringe at the clothes. Yeah, I look dated, but for the most part I think I look fine. It's not till I hit that awkward stage (around the time of the photo), where I want to crawl into a hole and hide.

Though, out of all the years, I think my junior high years were the worst. I remember thinking during those years I looked GREAT. My mom let me have more control over my wardrobe (in eighth grade she took me to Old Navy to buy clothes and I almost passed out, as she never took me to "cool" places to shop. I had to take my dad) and I had wire rimmed glasses (which at the time I thought were great and cool).

My hair kept getting shorter, the glasses kept getting geekier, and I had braces. And I am just awkward. I am still awkward. I just can dress and do my hair now. In high school, when I finally stopped trying to channel a mushroom, I finally stopped looking like a complete train wreck. By the time I went to college, I had "style."

Seriously.

I never thought I had my own style. I wanted to look like everyone else. I shopped at the "in" stores (especially after I got a license and a credit card). My hair was finally somewhat under my control and not always in a scrunchie. (Oh god, the scrunchies...) My basic goal in life was not to look like an award mess.

But style? That was the farthest thing from my mind. Yet, for some reason, all my friends seemed to think I was the fashionable one, the one with style, and the one to come to when they had clothes questions.

I spent a lot of time blinking my first year of college when this would happen.

As I went through college, it kind of went to my head. Especially when this one well dressed girl told me she liked my style. I was totally flattered. And blinked a lot.

When I look back at photos from my college years (or late high school), I do not cringe at my hair, clothing choices, or glasses. Even when I still sported the braces, I looked okay. I do cringe at photos of me from after I got married, but not due to what I'm wearing. I usually cringe because I think my face looks fat or something else along those lines. Or why or why did I cut my hair off before we went to Del Rio? I look like a moron with short hair. I don't know why, but I think I look like a loser. And it always makes my face look fuller, so then I look fatter. (I know I am not fat. Even at the moment, I know I am not fat. If I were fat, I'd fit into my maternity jeans and I would have to take them in on the sides to avoid them a) falling down and b) having mom butt.)

That is another thing I began to contemplate while staring at this photo from 1995: will my daughter be an award mess like myself? She will be blind (I'm blind and Pilot Boy was blind till he let some doctor cut his eye up with lasers) and she will likely have some crazy hair. (When Pilot Boy has hair, it's curly and I've got a wavy/curly/straight mess on my head.) Will she likely listen to me when I try to tell her to do something because she will later want to hide her face in her hands when looking at a photo some twenty years later?

No. Just like I didn't listen to my own mother. I doubt she'll listen to me. Such is life.

So, it snowed....

It snowed.

The world ended because it snowed.

"What?????" you're asking, "The world ended?"

If you live in Oklahoma, yeah, the world had ended several times since winter began. I say the world ended, because they cease running normal programming and run constant....weather reporting. Oh, and random People driving around and telling you not to drive around. Stay home. Don't get into your car, mount a camera, and drive around aimlessly.

The first "snow storm" the state got (because if it snows anywhere in the state, it's the main news story, as there are only two TV markets in the state and we happen to live in the bigger one), the entire Sunday morning was spent watching some dude drive from Altus to OKC. (Instead of showing us the program Sunday Morning.)

Was it snowing where I was?

No.

Did it snow?

No.

This week, it was indeed snowing where I was located. But not on Sunday when they refused once again to show me Sunday Morning. And then when it was snowing here, I wasn't allowed to see any national news.

(You can watch regular programming on CBS if you either don't have cable or have Cox Cable, one one of the digital channels, but I've got a dish to watch football, so I'm trapped with no news when ever it snows here.)

It is annoying. Not EVERYONE NEEDS to see CONSTANT UPDATES FOR THREE HOURS STRAIGHT. You know that ticker thing you run at the bottom of the screen? That's FINE. You know that little graphic with the radar on it? Yeah, use that instead of showing me it's snowing on some highway where I AM NOT LOCATED, nor will I be located. (Nor will a large portion of the people watching your freaking channel.) You know what? You can interrupt to tell me something pressing, but doing the SAME FREAKING FORECAST FOR THREE HOURS IS NOT NEEDED. You see, in the THREE HOURS you are broadcasting random people driving around and some poor woman standing outside in the freezing cold, NOTHING HAS HAPPENED. It is still cold. Roads should still NOT be traveled and it is STILL snowing. I do not need to be told this for three straight hours instead of seeing whatever national news has for me in the mornings. You can tell me EVERYTHING you have been going on about for THREE HOURS in the thirty second forecasts you're given by the national channels. DID YOU KNOW THAT?

One day, when it was "supposed" to snow, they ran the "forecast" all freaking day. It hadn't even started snowing yet (anywhere really) and they were already showing people driving around the state highways and showing the radar. Seriously. It was on ALL DAY LONG.

We got less than an inch. You could still see the grass, but you weren't allowed to see regular programming.

I've lost track of the times this winter I woke up and wasn't able to see any news (I don't like news channels on cable as they make me mad). Though, what makes me REALLY mad is when they refuse to allow me to see Sunday Morning. It's on ONCE a week.

The only good thing about this last snow: it was enough to cover the grass and has hung around so Basil has snow to play in. It's been a year exactly since her last romp in the snow. She was so THRILLED to have snow to run around in. It was like the BEST DAY EVER as far as Basil was concerned.

Buying for Baby

I'm feeling greatly accomplished. Since officially entering into my third trimester (not semester, no matter how many times I say 'semester' it's not a semester), I've been in a blind panic because of one simple question posed to me by one of the preggo apps I've got.

The wall color for the nursery.
Shermin-Williams, Grey Screen

What was this question?

It was: What was the first item you bought for baby?

So, what was the first item I bought for my kid?

Paint.

Seriously. When I read the inquiry, I hadn't actually bought anything for the kid. Yeah, I had some clothes, a few pacifiers, and some other random things, but I had not bought any of those items. They'd been given to me. I personally had not bought a thing for the baby. And when I did finally buy something for the baby, it was paint for her room.

So, I began to buy stuff. I got some snappy t-shirts my mom suggested, I bought an adorable Peter pan collared shirt on sale from The Gap that won't fit her till she's six months or so, I went out and bought canvas and paint to make artwork for her room, and...I...bought...a....crib (and a mattress, as cribs don't actually come with the mattress. I had to explain this to Pilot Boy, as he couldn't figure out why the crib failed to come with the mattress).

The crib. 

In my life, I've bought very few "expensive" items. I think the most expensive thing I personally have ever bought was the eight hundred dollar area rug. I had a mini heart attack after I hit the ORDER button.
The crib I bought wasn't ANYWHERE near eight hundred bucks. No, I'm not that mental. I also didn't pay for most of it. (Gift vouchers are amazing, as are grandparents.) However, after the area rug, this crib is the second most expensive thing I've hit the ORDER button for. Granted, out of pocket, I wasn't paying much, but still.

Yet, I did not wake up for the first time this week in a blind panic about the lack of baby items for the baby. I mean, besides ordering a crib, I've also signed up for those pesky birthing classes. And I announced later this month I was ordering the car seat and stroller. (It was pointed out to me the car seat is a must need, as you can't take the baby home without one. Pilot Boy seemed to think we could just store her in the trunk with Basil. Kind of like how he didn't think we needed a crib because she could just sleep in the crate. Without Basil, as Basil would sleep on the floor. Clearly, Pilot Boy is confused. The Baby is not a dog. You cannot put the Baby in the crate. Will she crawl in there someday and try to sleep in there? Likely. Will Basil like this? No. Will it happen? Yeah.)

Dream light

Next month, I plan to order the furniture for the room. I'm getting a dresser and a nightstand.

Pilot Boy said I don't need a nightstand. Clearly, he wants to be woken up fully when I feed the baby in the middle of the night when I turn on the overhead lights in order to see what I am doing instead of turning on an adorable little table lamp. Also, he's never read anything about pregnancy or afterwards, as he ought to know that breastfeeding requires things. I've seen it in books. You need a 'breastfeeding' station. Thus, a nightstand.

(Also, I know if I do not order the nightstand now, the kid will never get one. Just like I don't actually have one. Nor does the guest bedroom. We don't actually have any side tables either. We use stools. Yeah. We've been married for six years and have no side tables or bedside tables and use stools. Okay, we've got one table that Pilot Boy claims is a bedside table, but until this house we never used it as a bedside table. It also doesn't have a drawer, it's just a higher than normal side table which is huge. It's tall because the bed Pilot Boy had in college was lofted and it's huge because, well, I don't know why it's so big. He did build it for me as after I showed up in his life he realized I had no where to put my glasses at night and I think he got tired of me trying to find them in the morning.)

I plan to get new knobs.
I hate those knobs, but it has everything else I want. 

Now, I plan to use the dresser as a changing table. Kill two birds with one stone, you know? So, I also ordered a changing pad thing to mount on top of the dresser. The only other major item needed for the nursery: a glider.

The ones I've found that I like are either way too pricey or now sold out. Everything else is ugly as sin and I don't want it in the room. Will I actually get a glider before the baby shows up? I not likely. So, where will I sit at three am to feed a squalling newborn?

No idea. I'll likely wind up on the couch.

Baby Earthquakes

The first time I was kicked from within, I was lying on my back (when it was still safe to) and had my hand just resting down near where many moons ago my appendix was ripped out of me...ever so lovingly. (And for 7,000!) I was trying to convince myself I ought to get out of bed when I felt a sharp thump against my hand.

I froze.

Had she just kicked me?

I waited a moment for it to happen again, but I didn't feel anything. But, I knew it was a kick. My baby had kicked me for the first time.

Later that day, I put my hand back down in the area and waited for her to do a repeat performance. It took hours, but I finally felt little jabs of her tiny foot. (Or fist, but I think it was a foot.)

Pilot Boy couldn't feel anything. He thought I was making up.

As the weeks went on, the movements got stronger and more pronounced. There were also clear kicks, head-butts, and just random movements (like rolls or something). Basically, I spent a lot of time with my hand down my pants just to feel my kid move around.

Finally, shortly before the winter holidays, Pilot Boy felt his daughter move. It was a bit movement. It felt like an earthquake going on in my uterus and I said, "You've had to have felt that one."

"Yep."

And that is when the kicks stopped and the earthquakes really began. Seriously. Sometimes they are concentrated earthquakes-- like in the area where my former appendix lived till it decided it hated me and moved out. It moved on to green pastures seven years ago, yet when my daughter decides to beat up on it, it hurts. Her other favorite thing to do is stomp on my bladder. Or one night, she decided to do headstands or something on my poor bladder. I spent the entire night thinking I had to pee, but I really didn't. I just had a baby on my bladder.

Rumblings tend to happen at night, like when I'm trying to go to bed. Since I hit week 25, the little quakes have been happening more often. I'll be sitting around during the day and suddenly the book, laptop, phone, Kindle will just go tumbling over from where I had it perched because my kid decided she didn't like it there. Or my arm jerks.

"What the hell was that for?" Pilot Boy asked when I accidentally elbowed him this weekend in the side whilst we sat on the couch reading.

"Your daughter wishes you to know my pain," was my reply.

He didn't buy it.

Sometimes all this movement (which is a good thing, as she's old enough now she ought to be moving and shaking and channeling a soccer player) is fine with me, while other times I just wish she'd kick me in the stomach. Or the spleen. Or somewhere other than my bladder or my former appendix. I've no clue what it is about the scar tissue hanging out there, but man...each time she hits that spot it feels almost as bad as when I made the mistake of going bowling two weeks after I had it removed. Or when I went bowling three months after it left me for some jar. (Or whatever they do with infected appendixes.) Or when I went bowling almost two years after it was cut out of me.

I shouldn't go bowling. I tend to hurt myself in the area where the appendix used to live.

I also shouldn't be pregnant as my kid loves to kick me there and it's freaking annoying. It's either a sharp paint or a dull pain, depending on how much oomph she puts into her movement.

I've yet to see anything, like a foot or hand poking out. I've yet to see anything really as when I'm paying attention and staring at my bare belly, she decides to do all her moving towards my spin or something. I do know it moves, though, the belly. My shirts sometimes ripple during earthquakes.

She is kicking me down. Just little jabs right behind my belly button.

I like it best when I do catch her out and get to feel her little foot as it rams itself into my innards. There is just something completely mind blowing about the whole thing--you know feeling it inside and on your hand and knowing it's a little foot and some day there will be a little human outside who will kick you in the face with the same foot. (And not on purpose. It'll just likely happen. Most likely whilst changing a nappy.)

I Heart Water

We went away for two weeks.

Now, since we've owned this house, we've not left it alone for more than hours at a time. I did not honestly think we had to sit around looking after the house, as it's a house. We've lived in a house before and left it for extended periods. It was always perfectly fine when we returned home.

Of course, this one wasn't okay.

Yeah, it looked fine. Everything was where we'd left it and from the outside it appeared to be perfectly normal.

It felt good to be back, out of the car, and not going anywhere anytime soon. The whole upheaval of the holidays was over. Brilliant!

I went to get the dog some water, as she hadn't had any in quite awhile.

I turned the tap and nothing happened.

"Did you turn the water off?" I called out to Pilot Boy.
"No. Why would I do that?"
"I don't know. It doesn't work," I replied, moving the tap up and down some more.

Nothing happened.

Seriously. Nothing.

It is winter. Since it got "cold" we've seen signs telling people to leave their taps dripping, which to us former residents of Alaska sounded idiotic. It doesn't get that cold here.

And it DID NOT get THAT cold here while we were gone. Sure, they had some winter weather, but it wasn't THAT cold. And our house is NEW(ish).

Pilot Boy didn't think the pipes were frozen (it was 60 degrees), so he called the water company. I  payed the bill (and the new bill I had in my hand claimed I did as well). But, he called them and asked if they'd turned it off.

Nope. Our pipes must be frozen.

It was sixty freaking degrees out. And the day before it'd been forty. Why are our pipes frozen?

Pilot Boy went about calling plumbers and "thawing" the pipes.

Nothing happened. At least unlike the a/c guys, the plumbers all ANSWERED their phones. They couldn't show up that day but they ANSWERED.

Pilot Boy at some point talked to this guy he knows down the street who'd been around and he told him it'd been warm throughout the entire time we'd been gone. (Except the day we left, of course.) Basically, our pipes shouldn't have been frozen.

(I lived in Alaska for three years. It actually GETS cold there. Our pipes never froze. And we left in the dead of winter quite a few times during those three years and never came home to frozen pipes.)

Let me tell you something: it sucks not having water. You do not realize how much you use water until you don't have any. Yeah, our toilets flushed and you could get two flushes out of them before they needed to be reloaded and yeah, we went out and bought drinking water, but you can't do dishes, you have to carry around water to wash your hands, and you cannot bathe. (Well, we could if we went to the gym or the neighbor's house, but still. I'm pregnant. I don't want to shower in a stranger's home or a gym.)

Luckily, the plumber showed up the next afternoon. He was confused when he was told we have frozen pipes and no water pressure.

"It's been warm," he informed me.
"I know," I said.

He went to investigate at the water thingy in the front yard and discovered it was turned off.

"Did you call the city?"
"Yes. They said they didn't turn our water off."
"Someone turned your water off."

I could only shrug.

He turned the water on, then turned it off.

During his quest to find the water thingy (you know, the thing that turns water to the house on and off), Pilot Boy had done something to cause the sprinkler system thing (I've no idea what it is but it's for the sprinkler system) to spout water off straight into the air next to the house. The plumber had no clue how to fix it, as he'd never seen anything like it before. He suggested in the spring we call the company that installed it and have them look at it. Or they (the plumbing company he worked for) could look at it. He did shut it off, cutting off the water supply to the sprinkler system.

Then he turned our water back on and oh, how it was lovely to have water again. (After I spent an hour running water through the pipes and getting all the stale water out or whatever my dad said I ought to do. I had no clue, but it made sense at the time.)

Moral of the story?

Someone turned our water off. Our pipes were not frozen, our water was off. Thanks city. You're really on top of things.

It's Research, Not Stalking...Honest

When I first began writing seriously (meaning past naming characters, putting them in designer clothing and making up some dialogue), I never did research. I sat in a cold, concrete floored room at the back of The Ditch and wrote what I knew.

Pages upon pages of what I knew.

Then, I began to make outlandish things up.

And I filled pages upon pages with words.

I never sat around thinking, "Hey, I don't know enough about that, I should look it up."

Granted, this was the day and age before the internet was in your hand at all times, but the Internet was a happening thing and I believe I sometimes ventured over to use it to research things whilst still in high school. I know I used it in college.

I hated the internet.

I'm honest. I hated with with a flaming passion because I could NEVER find what I wanted. Throughout college, I sat in the dusty library and did my research using books that sometimes hadn't seen the light of day since the sixties.

And I still wrote.

Still filled pages of notebook paper with words, still typed Word docs filled with stories and characters I grew to love.

But, never once did I research anything passed maybe looking up a meaning of a name I was unable to find within one of the numerous baby name books I own.

It never occurred to me that as a writer of works of fiction, I'd have to do research, have to do something similar to what I did when writing an essay for school.

Then, one day, my mother informed me I ought to "look something up" so it sounded like I knew what I was talking about. I do not remember WHAT she told me to look up, only she created a monster.

I am a research monster now.

I'm still not any good at it, the internet still fails ninety five percent of the time to tell me what I want it to tell me, but I research everything now. Hours of my life are wasted on various websites looking up random bits of information. I've spent time hunting down slang used in the Old West for ONE SENTENCE.  I've wasted time trying to find how a British person would say "crazy" in the twenties. I spent an hour trying to find out when the rollerball pen was invented and how widely used it was in the 1940s. I spent at least two days searching floor plans online till I finally gave up and made my own-- just so I could describe something better. I've lost track of how many time I've made sure the stupid pop culture reference I've made actually would be known by certain characters and are the right time period.

It's a lot of freaking work.

And that's just for the fan fiction I've been working on as if recent.

Last summer I spent days on end looking at school catalogues to get ideas for course to stick students in. I've wasted hours making sure the schedules I made for them actually worked. I've spent years trying to figure out what colleges some of my characters are going to attend, though I don't plan to actually write about them IN college. I've spent days staring at a map of Glasgow on a real estate site trying to find a flat. For a fictional character. (I did find one. Well, two. Then I merged them, as what I wanted doesn't actual exist.) I've scoured the internet for images of interiors so I'd have a good idea how to describe them. (One day just to find out they'd remodeled the building I was trying to write about so I really had to just use what was in my head. No one thought to take pictures of the fourth floor Adam Smith lecture hall before they redid it...)

Hours of my life were lost when I was working on HYRM and I got lost in a world of quotes. Quotes ate me alive for days on end.

Many of the clever things I come up with in my original works as well as my fan fics no one bothers to really take note of...it's like I always thought: no one notices. They are reading and enjoying the story-- not looking for symbolism, not looking for those little things.

Then, I got feedback when someone noticed the painstaking effort I put forth.

One of my stories follows two real people, who are quite famous. I went back to my roots in my fan fics and started writing about actual people instead of fictional ones. I had the idea in my head for awhile and it wanted out, so I let it out. Yeah, you might think it is rather teenybopper of me, and I think it is, but I like the two OCs I created and if I REALLY wanted to, I could change the names of the famous people, change the names of projects, etc and it'd be orignal. So, I guess you can say I'm just too lazy to change the inspiration. (10p technically started out as a fan fic, only I changed the main romantic interests name, then his profession, thus, it's not. See? No...that's fine.)

Anyways, I've become somewhat fixated with where these two people WERE. I don't care where they are right now, I care where they WERE. I get caught up in trying to figure it out, till I suddenly realize what I'm doing and I laugh.

I'd be worried if I hadn't done the same thing when I was writing some of my original works. Granted I cannot scurry the internet to figure out where my characters were located, but if you saw the pile of paper I carry around for RAB, you'd see I'm rather keen to know every detail.

It wasn't always like this. Once upon I time, I just made stuff up and called it a day.

(Except that one time when I was in high school and I drew a map of the town RAB takes place in just so I could name the street's D used to get from one end of town to another. I could have just made that up, but...I didn't. I made an entire map. On lots of paper. I still have it and use it too. Well, I did have it...I'm not sure where it got off to now that I think about it. Hopefully it survies the move.)

Vivid Imaginations Are Not Always Good

Those indeed are my feet. And they do not actually look that small in person. It's the camera angle and pointing my toes together. I took the photo myself with my iPhone. Because no one helps me photograph things in this family. (Hence why the last photos of me that were taken were at Christmas.)

In other news, I'm NOT dying!

(There was about an two hours this morning I assumed the worst, panicked and had to medicate myself. Pilot Boy, of course, abandoned me for the first time since we left AK, so clearly, I'm going to wind up dying in the hospital or something...or that was my thinking. Clearly, I'm not in a hospital or dying.)

Why am I excited about the whole not dying? Because I've been in very minor pain (read, most people would have completely ignored it, but I am me and I HATE pain) for a few days longer than I thought normal, so finally I dragged myself in a mild panic to the phone to make an appointment. Last time I had similar pains, I wound up in the hospital for four days and had some guy cut me open and remove my appendix. And that wasn't the worst thing that happened whilst I was there. But, that is not a story y'all want to hear. Trust me.

Anyways, after suffering a panic attack, I downed those one of those little happy pills I picked up in Alaska for moving and felt...a weird combination of calm and panicked. To came in waves. I'd panic, then clam down and feel sleepy. Then I'd panic again. It was an annoying cycle till I had to leave.

When I first got the pills, due to the fact I read the warnings, I refused to operate a car whilst on them. However, seeing as Pilot Boy flew the coop, I had no choice but to drive myself and seeing I'd taken a pill on Sunday (I was thinking the pain was part of an upcoming panic attack, which I was having due to the prospect of being out in the sun for hours around hoards of people--which wound up not happening because Pilot Boy can't read the date on his iPhone correctly and the air show/car show wasn't going on when we got there) and managed to watch Iron Man 3 and pick up on things Pilot Boy failed to notice, I was like, "I can drive!"

So, I did.

It wasn't really until I actually got into the clinic did I become super loopy.

First, I went the wrong way to Flight Med. Luckily a nurse pointed me in the right way. (I might have scared her with my huge smile and cheery thank you while looking like death warmed over-- which I look like usually, as I am the palest thing in Texas. And I was super pale today, as I forwent my usual makeup in fear of being shoved into the hospital.) After going back the way I came passed the coffee bar (yeah, the clinic's got a Starbucks), I arrive at the correct place and handed my ID over and waited for the paper work.

"You can sit down," the woman said, handing my ID back to me.

I stared at her, cocked my head and sat down.

Without any paperwork.

I sat with some babies who were getting shots till they called my name.

Fifteen minutes early. (I was super early because I thought it'd take me longer to get there and I knew I'd get lost. I still refuse to use the highways here unless I have to. So, sometimes I wind up somewhere I've never been before.)

I wandered after the nurse to the exam room, sat down and began to laugh. I was also shaking, twitching and just all around acting strange. I quickly explained my issues and added the fact I'd taken some anxiety pills that morning.

She knew which one I had taken and I hadn't needed to drag the bottle out to tell her.

In fact, she knew everything about me from the past five years. (Medical wise, she failed to know that I sit around writing, making up my own words, and singing songs about my dog.)

The computer worked. My records had transfered.

I kind of died of shock at this point. In the past five years since I "joined" this whole military thing, no one has ever known anything when I've gone to the doctor because the computer never works and my chart never says anything past my name (though something they don't even know that and call me Pilot Boy). Hence why I simply gave up trying to solve my allergy issues whilst in Alaska because the last doctor they'd shoved me off on used GOOGLE to look up what drugs to put me on. GOOGLE. I use GOOGLE to figure out what drugs I want to take. (Well, when I research that type of thing, which was once. Google failed me, so I began asking people I knew who were on the same thing. It yielded better results.)

But today, they knew EVERYTHING. They had all my blood pressures, all my medications (they frowned as it'd clearly not been updated in some respects. There were a few things I'm not on any longer that were still on there as if I were taking them) and basically everything I'd ever written a million times on that damn paper they always hand me first thing!

It was so shocking I almost passed out.

The best thing, though, I got a prescription for Zyrtec. I could write odes to that pretty little pill that allows me to kind of breath and not die from the fact Russia likes to live in my head right between my eyes.

Anyways, the pain I was in there for turned out to be strained muscles from over zealous Pilaties crunching. So, no core working out for four to six weeks. BAH. Just as I was getting back into it. At least I'm not dying, they do not have to cut me up to drag something out of there or give me another vile cat-scan. (You do not want to know.)

Moral of the story: for the first time ever, I'm actually somewhat impressed with the medical wing. They had their stuff together. Or I happened to catch them on a good day. I only was at the pharmacy for maybe a half hour-- if that. I didn't pay attention. I was reading and coming down off my panic high. (Trust me, I'm feeling it now...and this one was bad...I haven't ached like this since I got the happy pills. I can't imagine what state I'd been in without the meds....eek.)

In other news that has nothing to do with my health, I finished book four of my Potter series. I also began posting my newest obsession. Links to all can be found under the tab with a list of all my stories. I'm trying to get my act together and get something posted on Wattpad-- something original. I was thinking of posting Elle, but I think she needs some more editing. Mostly because when I looked, I couldn't figure if I'd put the edits in or not. Or if I had been in the process of editing it on my Kindle. Basically, I got confused. Not unheard of.

Well, I have one last read through on the next part of the New Obession. Since I posted one this AM, I figured I'd post this in the PM. Get more readers in the afternoon than morning.

Laterdays.