Photo-a-day

Last month I tried to do a photo-a-day challenge, because I thought it would keep me entertained in my current barren wasteland of a home. Turns out it was hard to do during the bunny-eating training I was in. So why not try again in January. It's a new year, so I can do whatever I want, right? Besides, hopefully this will keep me entertained, since Señor Marine left for overseas three days ago, and, as he kindly put it during our one substantial phone call, "You're a little emotionally unstable this week, aren't you?"

Feel free to join in. Here is the best of the photo-a-day lists I have found (I'm not creative enough to think of one on my own. Maybe next month if I can keep up with it in January). I think this would be very boring to do on my own. Kae has offered to donate a picture a week, but we will see how that holds up once her belly explodes out a baby.

That is about all the nuggets of entertainment I have to offer. I am currently the only female in my barracks, which means I am not allowed anywhere by my room and the front door. So while I sit patiently at the front door, the boys in the barracks are upstairs making homemade hot cocoa for everyone. I think they agree with my husband's assessment this week, as they have been over the top with homemade hot cocoa and sitting lamely at the front door with me because they think it's sad I sit alone and watch Grey's Anatomy on my computer. But whatever, I'll take hot cocoa out of the deal.

Before I sign off to get my delicious chocolate, this is my current song of the week. Enjoy!

Bee out.

Maternity photo fails

I was going to go all cutesy and call it a photo phail, but that just looked so very wrong...

Anyway, if you read Bee's last post, you'll see how very much she has been wanting me to take maternity photos. I'm not sure if it's because she doesn't want me to look back and feel that I've missed capturing the precious memories of waddling, lack of oxygen, and 9 months of vomitting or if she wanted to feel included in the pregnancy even though her undisclosed location is thousands of miles away. Or she's just a creeper. Either way, I started to consider maybe trying for some maternity snapshots. And then, my friend Marina said she wanted to see my belly's current state and if I didn't post some pictures, she was going to come over to my house to look at me. Which wasn't at all disturbing or awkward. But it did get the film rolling.

33 weeks (maybe? I don't remember) Maybe if Aquaman had a model who could keep her opinions/instructions/harping to herself, these photo shoots would happen more often. ( I think I was giving really important instructions, though. Something along the lines of, "My boots are super cute. Are you zooming out to get my boots in the picture?")

 

 

That look of utter exhaustion complements the outfit nicely, doesn't it? This was taken after 4+ hours at the social security card office where we learned Matilda can't get a social security number and may not be able to get citizenship. But, whatever, I had dressed up to leave the house and we were documenting the outfit as well as the bump.

 

 

35 weeks? At any rate, well past the point where horizontal stripes are a good idea.

 

 

37 weeks. (This is the only one I'm sure of since it was taken tonight and I remember taking it). I don't know what Aquaman has against getting my cute boots in the picture. Enjoy admiring how the black t-shirt that fit 2 weeks ago is on it's last elastic leg.

 

And this last one is because I'm nothing if not vain. I want you to admire my hair. Aquaman's sister gave me the most amazing hair product ever and I'm pretty sure my natural frizz  curls will forever be supermodel worthy. See every picture on this blog prior to this one for proof of the before and after miracle. (Bee, are your curls listening to my shameless advertising?)

 

 

Aaand...that concludes a whirlwind tour of my belly's last month. For actual good maternity outfits/pics, go see my favorite blogger, Grace. And for laughs that will maybe make you snort and scare any young children near you, go see Ashley (who Grace got me hooked on. It's a small, small internet world for me.)

 

 

--Kae--

 

 

Caution...awkwardness ahead!

I greatly enjoy living vicariously through Kae's life. I tell her to teach her children silly things (although she comes up with gems on her own - like using lyrics from P!nk songs as life lessons). I knit her sacks to carry her baby in. And I try to make her take maternity pictures. She was saying she thinks that's not a good idea for her, as she would not find them attractive. I beg to differ, Kae. Take a look at my evidence.

Let the alien baby out!

Can't let the mom get all the attention. Check out those guns! It looks kind of like the dad photobombed the picture. That's she's taking in lingerie.

The zombie children are trying to eat the baby.

I'm not totally sure what to make of this one...I think the jist of the conversation that morning was, "Wrap up in towels, kids! We're taking a family photo!"

There were a number of pictures that involved an almost entirely nude mother trying to pose sexily in a window. I thought Kae would deem that too risqué for our little blog here. Sooooo many naked bellies. Even ones where the mom was otherwise dressed had her belly hanging out.

There's my contribution for the week, Kae. I will continue to look for more evidence that you should take some maternity pictures before your chance is gone. My next project - looking for things for you to stuff the baby into after its born so you can take a picture. Like boots, baskets and nets.

Bee out.

Pulling the plug on Kae

Do you know how hard it is to plan for one suitcase to hold the next four months worth of outfits (plus shoes and toiletries)? Just saying. I am going to be moving a few times over the next four months and living out of hotels, so I'm trying to keep it light while all my non-necessities are being stored. One bag for uniforms, one bag for my beloved civilian clothes. Everytime I think I have it arranged, I find something important, like a sweatshirt that surely will come in handy for someone moving from the desert to the dead of winter in a practically arctic climate. So then I find myself staring at my suitcase, wondering if I should leave behind the glitter boots or my shampoo. It's gotten to the point that I put all my clothing back into the drawers and hid my suitcase from view so I don't have to think about it.

Along with that comes another thing I had to do, which is deactivate my facebook. It really wasn't that big of a deal, other than that's the main way I communicate with Kae. As I told her, it was like having to pull the plug on her. Now I'll never be able to send her a quick witty comment about a cute DIY maternity dress pattern I found. I'm going to have to actually, like, work to get a message to her. We both are accepting this is the end of our sisterhood. I probably won't even know she gave birth until sometime in the summer.

On that note, Kae, that is what is happening in my life. Maybe send a messenger pigeon to let me know when the baby is born?

Bee out.

P.S. Here's my song for today, as a late Veteran's Day nod.

Party Ranch

Last night I had an adventure. Last night I went to a honky tonk.

Now really, this isn't a great story. It was just the fact that it was a honky tonk. Myself, Señor Marine's little brother [Baby Bro], a friend [we shall call him Hill Boy, as I have been told "hillbilly" is too offensive] and his girlfriend [Hill Girlfriend] decided to go. It was this pretty ghetto looking pole barn just off base, and we had been curious what it was like. After all, it is named Party Ranch. It was, as Hill Boy described it, "if Disney had a western themed dive bar."

When we arrived, we immediately realized we were out of our element. For starters, none of us were wearing Mossy Oak camo. Myself and Hill Girlfriend were not wearing anything sparkly. (This was an oversight on my part - my first week here, a waitress at a local steakhouse told me if I wanted to fit in here, I need to buy myself a "party belt." A "party belt" is just an explosion of glitter and sparkle that you wear to honky tonks, apparently).

I also happened to be wearing my new military-issued glasses, in a weak attempt to try to get used to them. My vision is 20/25, mind you, but I am required to have 20/20 vision for my job. At Kae's request, here is the picture:

Instagramed and everything, for Kae's hipster pleasure

That is not a face that easily fits in at a honky tonk.

After listening to the local country band a little bit (who were actually pretty good), we decided to play pool against each other. In the midst of our intense pool game, a random guy came over and stood next to Hill Girlfriend. And when I say next to, I mean pressed up against. Hill Boy of course saw this, and froze with his pool cue above the edge of the table, like he was going to break it and start swinging it through the air at the random redneck. According to Hill Girlfriend, this is was the conversation that happened next:

Redneck: "Hola."

Hill Girlfriend: "Sorry, I speak English."

Redneck: "Oh good. Me too. I was just making sure you were American." (none of us quite got the redneck logic in that statement)

Hill Girlfriend: "I also speak Korean."

Redneck: "I don't."(Upset by the un-Americanness of this, he walks away)

As he was walking away, he stopped at me next. He took one look down at my military glasses and turned to Baby Bro who was next to me. He shook Baby Bro's hand and wished him luck. Then Redneck lurched away.

Really, that was the extent of the night. Hill Girlfriend wanted to get pictures of us in front of every fake Western storefront that was put up around this honky tonk, but the lighting was too bad. She and I really wanted a picture in front of the barber storefront, with razors to the boys' necks. Alas, maybe at the next honky tonk.

So that was my night. Now I am going to spend the next few days sitting around bored, waiting for Señor Marine to get here on Thanksgiving. As promised, he has supplied a picture of the horror that is his mustache:

I will still try to love him as I would a human husband.

For my music selection today, I chose the song that has been on the top of my most played list on iTunes since its debut about three years ago. Swim Until You Can't See Land

Bee out.

Gifts from the heart...and from the wild

Lanky is a sweet guy. He'll come inside with something behind his back and tell me he has a surprise. I've been gifted bouquets of dandelions, thistles, and some weird flower that actually kind of stunk up the house.

So, today at Grandma's when Lanky earnestly said, "Mom, I have a surprise for you," I was expecting a pinecone, maybe some dried up fall foilage.

Instead,

 



 

What mother wouldn't rather display part of an animal carcass on the kitchen counter instead of a vase of fresh picked wildflowers?

 

 



 

 

Should I even say it's the thought that counts? Because you know darn well I'll be treasuring my new animal skull for years to come.

 

 

--Kae--

Bee writes from the depths of spinsterhood

Alright. Kae, bless her heart, has been more than upholding this blog, along with gestating new life. Upholding? Is that even the right word? I'm making it one now. I, on the other hand, have been wallowing into (married) spinsterhood and, well, doing nothing. I have been keeping myself busy with little knitting projects. I am now the proud owner of a few pairs of leg warmers, fingerless gloves, and a cardigan. I sent Señor Marine pictures of my cardigan, which I made in two days. His response? "You must be really good to have knitted it that fast." No, Señor Marine, I am just stuck in a wasteland with nothing else to do, and all of my wingmen gone.

As my mother pointed out, no, I did not have anyone to take the picture for me. This is my new cardigan, creepily taken in a mirror.

So here's my update. I recently finished my work here, and now I'm just waiting to move on to the next adventure. I visited Señor Marine at his location a few weeks ago. That was a good time. It was fairly low key, as Señor Marine is pretty restricted at his base, and was at work a good amount of the time that I was there. But really, it was just nice being in a place that had, you know, SEASONS. I saw some autumn colors! I even enjoyed when my hotel was evacuated because a bunch of lieutenants were trying to cook in their room and started it on fire. I stood outside without my coat in 25 degree weather, and it was AWESOME. I say that now, anyway. Wait till I get to my next snowbound assignment.

Coming up, I will be trying to find a ridiculous show to replace Breaking Amish. Señor Marine will be visiting for Thanksgiving, I will possibly manage to see him at Christmas, and then he's off to the other side of the world. I will do my best, but I don't forsee any fun posts like you're used to from me for a little bit after that. I mean, come on. I'm going to be eating baby rabbit eyeballs, and then be as separated as possible from Señor Marine. Even if he is growing a mustache right now just to spite me, I'll still miss him. (I will also be asking him to supply a picture of said mustache, so the rest of you all can be as horrified as I am.)

Man, Kae. You need to lend me some kids for a while so I have cute pictures and stories to share. I could tell stories about PFC Cuddles, but I think that would qualify me as crazy. Like that one time a friend texted to ask what I was doing, and I said "we" were watching TV. That was mistaken to mean I was hanging out with other people. No. It was just me and PFC Cuddles watching Grey's Anatomy. He's really into doctor shows.

Señor Marine and PFC Cuddles, at his birth. Yes. HIS BIRTH.

Now that you have seen the depths to which I've fallen, I shall grace you with a song I have been addicted to lately, and sign off before this gets weirder.

Birds of a feather

Rather than inundating both readers of ye ol' blog with pregnancy update after update after update... I thought I'd offer a little alternative entertainment to watching the election results. (Note: I promise this will be muuuuuuch less stressful to read than counting electoral votes).

So, this boy:

Got his very own chicken coop, complete with chickens from Grandma.

The hens are Lucy and Hannah. The rooster (not the look of controlled fear on Specs) is named Piranha. That should tell you about Specs' feelings for roosters in general.

But these chickens. People, you would not believe the level of care these chickens receive.

If Specs misses closing up the coop for the night and Aquaman goes out to do it, he's immediately interrogated by Specs when he comes back inside.

Specs: "Dad, did you close the coop? They need to be inside so they stay warm."

Aquaman: "Yep. I closed the coop."

Specs: "You made sure you closed the door?"

Aquaman (bless his patient heart): "They're all inside."

Specs: "But did you tuck them in?"

And now that our northern tundra is starting to get even chillier, Specs goes out every morning to deliver tap water to his flock. And then comes this conversation:

Me: "Specs, it wasn't that cold last night. Their water didn't freeze."

Specs: "But their water is cold. I'm getting them a drink of warm water."

Yep. We would be the family that has a chicken coop with its own personal butler/valet.

--Kae--

How I spent my summer vacation, by Kae

So, maybe Bee was aiming a bit high last month when she referred to our mediocre return to blogging. But, I'll go along with it and continue our delusions of grandeur by announcing our triumphant return to the blog...at least for the rest of the week. Then Bee will set off for another undisclosed location to do more undisclosed training that I think involves raising a pet, then eating it. So you're in my capable hands until she's released from her POW camp.

Rather than blogging for the past several months, I was doing other things. Kind of important things, like gestating new life. Which is a scientific term for lying on the couch, clutching my bottle of Zofran and trying not to vomit. Which mostly worked. With the Zofran I only threw up a couple times a week, instead of five times daily. (That pregnancy glow is actually the cold sweat that comes with a vom-fest).

30 weeks (maybe a little late on the announcement?)

But with my queasiness safely behind me for the last four weeks (as long as I stick with my BFF Zofran), and the ability to sit upright without the room spinning, and the bedrest/preterm labor fun in the rearview mirror, it's time to move on to more important matters. Like how to congratulate me and Aquaman on our upcoming bundle o' sleepless in a non-offensive, politically correct way.

In case you haven't noticed, our five children have less issues with sunburn than Aquaman and I do.

Contrary to the highly-educated WalMart cashier who thought she had it figured out, it's not actually a recessive gene from me and Aquaman that made them that color. The darker skin comes from their birth families in Ethiopia. And thus begins the need for education about appropriate things to say to an adoptive family that's now expecting a child via the biological route.

Not OK. Not ever:

1. So will this be your first real child?  (Umm....pretty sure they're all real)
2. So this will be your first kid of your own? (See number 1, above)
3. I know lots of families who adopt and then get pregnant! (This one comes down to the tone of voice. It usually implies that it was nice of us to adopt and pass the time until we could "really" start our family. This time with one of those "real" children who's "our own")
4. Were you surprised you could get pregnant? (Mostly inappropriate because you're the cashier at the thrift store and not my sister or best friend. Let's just say I don't question your obstetrical history: "So when you got pregnant were you using contraceptives?" Feels a little invasive, doesn't it?)

Appropriate and appreciated:

1. Congratulations! That's so exciting.
2. Congratulations! I'll be the kids are excited for a new brother or sister!
3. Congratulations!

And for the record, the kids are excited for a new brother or sister. They're just a little confused on the color of this one. Lanky was quite disheartened to hear after a little genetics lesson that this baby wouldn't be brown. After some serious thought, he asked, "But miracles can happen, right?"

Yep. Miracles can definitely happen.

 

 

--Kae--

The mediocre return of Kae and Bee!

I don't know why Kae hasn't been holding up the blog during my internet-less, motivation-less stretch. It's not like she has things to keep her busy, like I do. She just has five screaming, running, fighting, adorable little leeches to chase after. Jeez.

Anyway, as a recap in what has happened over our month-long hiatus: Um, nothing. I have been sweltering and wilting in the heat of my new home. I moved across base. Señor Marine stopped to visit on his way to his new home, still partially across the country from me. And that was about it for me.

I stopped my bedazzling adventures for the time being, but mostly because I have nothing left to bedazzle. I wore those blue high heels, and I was paralyzed for a couple days afterwards. I wore them out the first night Señor Marine came to visit, and he ended up carrying me home. Literally carrying me. I had bruises and blisters galore. They will not be making another appearance until they apologize and get some nice cushioning insoles installed.

Also, much to the dismay of Kae and the rest of the world, I have been watching Say Yes to the Dress almost non-stop. When Señor Marine reminded me that I don't have a need to watch it, we had the following conversation:

Me: "It's like if you were to go to a strip club. You have the perfect model woman already, but sometimes it's fun to look."
Señor: "So this means you want me to go to strip clubs? I don't want to. I'm confused."
Me: "No. You can't. Ever."
Señor: "So it's really not like strip clubs at all."
Me: "Okay, not at all. It's like a pretty actress?"
Señor: "I think you should stop trying to compare me to wedding dresses."

In other news, I made a scarf for Señor Marine, at his request.

As modeled by a friend

Now I just have to stuff the scarf, along with several other goodies into a care package for Señor Marine at his new, stricter base. He swears he will wear it. I will post proof later.

And before I sign off: you have been hipsterfied (except they played this at BWW, so I don't think it counts anymore) And also, doesn't one of the dudes in the band look just like a young Woody Harrelson? Or is it just me?

Now it's time to go get some burritos for dinner.

Bee out.

The downfall of Bee

Señor Marine yesterday was slightly concerned about my mental health and due to that concern, has now caused my downfall and the destruction of everything I touch. Allow me to explain.

Yesterday I spent much of my day sending texts to my long-suffering husband complaining. Complaining about the heat, about the girls who live in the dorm room next to me, about how the moving company has lost all of my belongings, about how he told me to buy these rocking blue heels to start building my shoe collection back up (and replace my poor lost blue boots) but I have nowhere to wear them to. He wisely suggested I find a friend to do something with so I can dress up in my heels. I responded I only have dude friends that go out with me, and it's a little weird to get dolled up to hang out with them. 

Not a shoe you can casually wear with shorts, in my opinion

He then suggested I find something mindless to occupy my time. Here is where it gets dangerous.

I went to the craft store. This may seem harmless enough, as the only craft I can do with any skill is knitting. Then I passed the aisle with all the puff paint in it, and thought, "I have been talking about how I need a new computer tote bag. Maybe I can decorate one."

And that's when I saw it. It was tucked in the back of a bottom shelf, but it was like a soft heavenly glow was lighting my path to finding it. I pulled the box out from behind some cheerleading patches and unicorn stickers, and gingerly dusted it off.

My bedazzler.

I went back to my room armed with a tote bag, the bedazzler, and assorted studs and rhinestones. I set it up on my bed, and proceeded to accidentally bedazzle my finger, the back of my hand, and my toe. Once I got the hang of it, I managed to intentionally bedazzle my tote bag with an anchor. The anchor because the bedazzler came with patterns and the only one that didn't involve stars, hearts or flowers was the anchor. And as I explained to Señor Marine, anchors are very in right now.

A (consolidated) text message exchange between me and Señor:

Me: "The instructions don't make any sense. I don't think I have a stud stuffing tool. Oh wait. I found it. HA! I just bedazzled my finger. I should just leave it. Now my finger is pretty. THIS IS SO MUCH FUN! I'M GONNA BEDAZZLE EVERYTHING I OWN!" 

Señor: "Wow. Take it easy."

Me: "I'm not very good at this. I'M GONNA BEDAZZLE EVERYTHING!"

Señor: "Maybe you should take a break."

And that was the start of the downfall. Although I did follow his advice and put it away before I bedazzled any clothing, or my uniforms, which I badly want to do. Maybe I'll just stick with bedazzling my new blue shoes, since my other glitter shoes sucked. Or bedazzle the rest of my hand. Or sneak into the dorm room next door and bedazzle that girl's uniform, because these studs are impossible to get out. Or maybe I should take a friend's suggestion and modify the bedazzler so it shoots rhinestones from afar, and can be used as a weapon. I need to go. I have lots to do now.

Bee out.

Listen up, Jacques Rogge

I'm surfacing from my new evening love- watching Olympic swimming and gymnastics obsessively- to share my thoughts on the Olympics. IOC, take note. (Don't worry, no spoilers here).

In no particular order:

1. Olympic swimmers should not wear nose plugs. If you're in the Olympics, thus one of the best 
     swimmers in the world, you should be able to handle a bit o' water up the old schnoz.

2.  The women swimmers are really good about congratulating their competition after a race. Hugs
      and all. I don't know if the men just find it awkward to hug in the pool while they're scantily clad
      in their little compression shorts, but I think they could pick up a good dose of Olympic spirit
       from the women's side.

 

3.   Gymnastics- will it ever end? I can't handle any more late nights.

4.    The media is fickle. I never realized just how desperately they want to shape public opinion until
       I watched their Michael Phelps coverage. ("Now we love him, now we speak with scorn of his
       lack of training, now we dredge up nasty comments from teammates, now he's winning so we
       need to respect his amazing Olympic record. And just for kicks, let's play up a little rivalry
       between Phelps and Lochte that may or may not really exist). How am I supposed to blindly
       follow whatever the media tells me now?

5. I don't think I'd make a good Olympian. I start finding myself cheering for other countries because
    hasn't the US won enough medals yet? Can't we spread the gold around? Also, I just don't like to
    work very hard.

5. Olympic commercials rock. Thanks to some commercial (that must not actually be that good
    because I've seen it a million times and still can't remember what it's advertising. Something
    related to computers) I have a new favorite song:

   

         And a new favorite commercial. I'm not going to admit to weeping. Maybe a poignant tear
         trickling down my cheek:

Sleep...I so desperately need sleep...must watch women's individual all-around...Jamaican sprinters...

--Kae--

The love of jalapeno Cheez-its

Kae has been nagging lovingly encouraging me to post for a few days. She didn't know Señor Marine just headed back to his side of the country yesterday afternoon and therefore I was ignoring not receiving her messages and hints. Apparently Kae promised you all (all three of you) an upbeat post, and was relying on me to deliver. Given that I spent my day doing manual labor in the 108 degree heat, Señor Marine is recently torn from me (again) and I am pretty sleep deprived, I can't make any promises.

I shall start off by letting you know the search terms from people that led to our blog this week. "Koreans compliment too much" was one search term on there. You're welcome, Kae, as that particular post about my Korean teachers telling my husband and me that our faces compliment each other has drawn quite the crowd. Still not as good as one last month, "Marine Corps glitter shoes." I really wonder if it was a friend trying to find our blog, but not remembering the name or anything about it, other than Señor Marine and that time I tried to glitter my own high heels. Impressive they found us, however, because I searched that term myself and didn't find our blog.

Señor Marine and I recently have started reading The Hunger Games together. By started, I mean he is finished with the trilogy and I'm about 100 pages behind him. The second and third books are pretty good, but the first book I found very disturbing for some reason. Without giving anything away and because we tend to draw a little bit of the sheltered, cut-off-from-the-world crowd (cough, cough, KAE), the basic premise of the book is about a post-apocalyptic-type United States where two teenagers from each section of the country are thrown into a fight to the death against each other, as a reminder that the Capitol is in total control of them. Read the book, the author explains it better.

Anyway, whilst reading this book, I had some crazy dreams. The most vivid one combined The Hunger Games with The Bachelor. My dream was twenty-some girls competing to the death for Señor Marine's love. Thankfully my dream wasn't too graphic. Whenever I beat up one of the other contestants, they didn't die. I would just mime hitting them and they would freeze. I fought wild dogs, I fought girls in leopard print fur minidresses, I fought rocks.

You try competing with this.

In the end, I knew what I had to do to win Señor Marine's love was buy him a motorcycle (which he has always wanted and I keep telling him no, as he will kill himself on one) and some jalapeno Cheez-its. Because I figured, Señor Marine must be tired and hungry and when he's tired and hungry, he really digs his Cheez-its. And jalapeno because, well, he's Mexican. Apparently dream Bee stereotypes a slight bit.

In my dream, I beat up these other girls to get him his presents. I set a date with him and he showed up to our date ... on a motorcycle. I was crushed. Someone else got him one, and it was better than what I had gotten him, so I couldn't give him my crappy one. I was left presenting him with the box of jalapeno Cheez-its. And just as he was about to tell me what he thought, my alarm went off and I woke up.

After this, I googled jalapeno Cheez-its. They don't exist. I called Señor Marine.

Me: "I had a dream about you."

Señor: "I love you. I love you a lot." (He always says this after I tell him I have a dream about him because frankly, Dream Señor is a bit of a tool. Actually, quite a tool. He knows this, and always precedes my recounts of dreams with a Real Life Señor reassurance.)

Me: "I tried to win your love with jalapeno Cheez-its. But I woke up before I found out if it worked."

Señor: "It would have."

Me: "I love you so much, I beat other girls to death to get you something that doesn't even exist."

Señor: "I love you so much, I'm going to pretend you aren't completely nuts."

My hair, slightly tamed for the night

Hopefully Kae deems this a worthy uplifting entry. If not, she can (um....I don't have an appropriate PG-13 insult here).

Minor surgery

Nope, no minor surgery for me. My brother deposited his wife, Emme, here earlier today after she had her wisdom teeth pulled. I'm not sure where she had them pulled, but I should ask. I'm thinking it was some guy named Snake that works out of his garage.

She was wheeled out in a wheelchair after having her teeth pulled because she was too out of it to walk. I'm glad Snake at least has a wheelchair and his garage is apparently handicapped accessible, but shouldn't he have let poor Emme at least regain consciousness before he tossed her out to make room for his next victim patient?

So, my brother Ricky Rescue (he's a firefighter/EMT/possible adrenaline junkie?) half carried Emme inside, got her settled on the couch, and gave me a rundown of the instructions Snake had given them.

If you are our lone reader who checks in regularly from Russia you a.) probably don't see anything wrong with dental surgery occurring in a back alley and b.) don't know that I'm a nurse. Not that I work as a nurse, but I have retained some knowledge. Which meant I thought these instructions were just as crappy as the post-op care. There were strict instructions in bold print to not take any pain medication for 6 hours after surgery. Because everyone knows it's a good idea not to take anything for pain after having permanent teeth extracted from your jaw.

Anyway, the high point of the morning was poor Emme on the couch after being here for about 10 or 15 minutes tearing up and asking for her youngest child. I thought she was just missing the little runt until Ricky Rescue reassured Emme that their baby was fine. She was sleeping soundly in the car. !? Emme, still more than a little gorked, just cried some more. I freaked out suggested maybe a one year old shouldn't be left in the car indefinitely and Ricky went to get her. It was my big leadership move of the day.

Ricky and baby went home to the rest of their kids, leaving Emme to recuperate in peace. (My kids were quietly occupied by children's television). The rest of the morning involved saliva, blood, gagging, etc. (not necessarily all from Emme), and culminated in watching What Not to Wear and having a deep discussion involving curly hair and mullets. Which I'm pretty sure Emme won't remember since she was under the influence of lingering anesthesia and against-sketchy-medical advice Vicodin.

*I'm sorry that this is the most boring post ever, but unless you want to hear in excrutiating detail how I've been on the couch watching the Olympics nonstop ("13 minutes into the water polo match between China and Spain, I decided I needed a glass of iced tea...") this is what you get. Also sorry to Emme, our most faithful reader, for featuring her entrance to the project in this inane, blathering post.

--Kae--

Knowledge is power...but only if the other guy realizes you're knowledgeable

I'm pretty sure I made some sort of half-hearted promise earlier in the week about an uplifting post coming. It will just have to wait until Bee returns to blogging after spending some quality time in a romantic locale (which may or may not be your friendly neighborhood Air Force base) with Señor Marine. Because I'm fairly certain she's not wasting one second of together time in front of the computer.

Today I had the pleasure of meeting a woman who firmly disproves any of Darwin's theories about evolution or survival of the fittest. Seriously, people, a person this dense should have theoretically been weeded out centuries ago. And yet she's here, she's nearing retirement age, and I can only assume has procreated. So explain that to me, Charles Darwin.

Our conversation started when I told her I had two sets of twins. And she was justifiably impressed with me. Then it came up that they were adopted. To which she replied, "So do you have any of your own?"

Let me interject here... I can guarantee any of my many adoptive mom friends (3 or 4 of whom read this blog) have had to answer this question. And, like me, have felt obligated to answer using the correct terminology. I've never been angry about someone asking this question, just glad to have the chance to educate Joe Public about adoption.

So, I answered with a smile, "Well, they're all our own. But, yes, all five of our kids are adopted."

Usually this is where the lightbulb goes on, the other party understands and the conversation moves on.

She nodded seriously. "So do you have any real kids?"

At this point, I'm pretty sure I just looked bewildered and she looked like the one who knew what was going on. (Can I point out that Aquaman was listening to all this right next to me and never once looked up from his magazine? Thanks for the help, hon.)

Kind of baffled, I kept smiling and said, "Our kids are all real. Their tantrums are very, very real."

And thus ended our session of Politically Correct Adoption Speak 101. I think we all got failing grades.

--Kae--

Monday, monday

Perhaps I'll do a nice uplifting post tomorrow (or next week, we're not known for our prompt and punctual posting here at the project). Right now I'm laying on the couch, ready to watch yet another episode of Burn Notice and recuperate from the day. Yes, the difficult day of the stay-at-home-mom. (I also have disc 2 of season 2 of Downton Abbey waiting, but I think the world of burned spies and counter intelligence is more in order after a day like today).

I spent the morning thinking about how much Mondays totally suck for stay at home moms, just as they do for the people who have to leave their home for work. Then one of my favorite bloggers dedicated a whole post to that thought and I felt (mildly) vindicated.

Tantrums. Just tantrum after tantrum after tantrum from child after child after child. And the tantrums don't stop. Ever. Except for Pipsqueak. Who after losing the tantrum battle with Mama and deciding it may be in his best interest, after all, to stop screaming, ran to his room and started singing a sweet little song that goes a little something like this: "Mama's a baby kaka. Mama's yucky. Ooohh ooohh, yucky Mama." So then I had to heave a huuuuuuuge sigh and trudge down the hallway to address that little gem of disrespect. Which led to another tantrum.



If he wasn't so absolutely squish-a-licious...



To end the day on a brighter note, Aquaman just asked Pipsqueak if he had a diaper ready to put on for bedtime. Pipsqueak immediately ran to his dresser and streeeeeeeeetched his arm behind it to pull out a diaper...soaked and obviously previously used. I have no idea why he has a stash of used diapers, but if we ever do have need of urine-soaked diapers, we won't be caught short.

Happy Monday, all.

--Kae--

Patience is not my virtue

Thanks, Kae, for taking care of our sucking up and award accepting duties. Like she mentioned, I have been very busy lately. Of course, it's mostly being very busy waiting. That's just what the military does. We had an early formation, and then waited an hour to go answer a survey about whether we had had unprofessional relationships with our TIs (Training Instructors) during boot camp, or whether we had ever been discriminated against because of our gender. To which, I answered, I'm a female in the military. Of course I have. It doesn't make it right, but it doesn't make it a surprise.

Also, as mentioned in an earlier post, I had some of the things from me and Señor Marine's home packed up and sent either to storage or to meet me at my new base. This was my first time doing the whole shipping thing, as up till now I've been able to stuff what I own in a couple duffel bags and drag them along with me.

This happened near a month ago, so I called the TMO office (TMO is the guys in charge making sure you and your things all get safely to your new base) to ask where my things were. They responded with an unhelpful, "We can't release that information to you." I'm sorry, are my things top secret or something now? I'm imagining what they could possibly be holding my things for. The things I shipped, keep in mind, are textbooks, cold weather clothing I won't be needing until, oh, never again, and shoes. Lots and lots and LOTS of shoes. Did some spec ops group stumble across my blue suede boots and decide they had to have them for a mission? 

Like this, but with blue boots.

Of course I asked for clarification, and they said, "You can look online for it." Again...WHAT? Like on Craigslist? Do I need to buy my own stuff back? Look for pictures of these spec ops guys in my clothing? The office didn't have any more information to give me than that.

Thankfully, yesterday, I got a phone call from the TMO guys at Lackland. Lackland is the Air Force's basic training base. They had my things there, but didn't believe that I wasn't there, and would not be releasing it until I proved to them I wasn't in basic training. Once again...WHAT? How does it make sense that I would be shipping things to myself if I were at basic training? I think they would know that isn't allowed. Thus starts my adventure of faxing copies of my orders, and waiting. I guarantee my orders will be lost at least three times and my things won't show up until late August. Anyone wanna start a betting pool?

Definitely wish I had had stilettos and my own clothes at this point. Or anything but MOPP gear. Funny thing is, this is actually my flight at basic. No, I don't know where I am. Just look for the one with the left-handed gas mask. That one is me.

Along the lines of "hurry up and wait", Señor Marine and I were going to wait until the Labor Day weekend to set up a visit. Of course that looked like it wasn't going to work out, so we decided to just go ahead and buy plane tickets now. So he'll be here in a week! One week from now, we will be disgustingly sickeningly cuddling on the same side of a booth at some romantic catfish diner. Just thinking about it makes me nauseated with how cute it'll be. But the bad part is, I have no patience. Literally none whatsoever. Ask Señor Marine. Thus starts the longest week EVER.

How could you not be looking forward to seeing this little nerd.

I have promised Señor Marine I would keep my crazy under wraps for this week. I'll try to make that same promise to the rest of you.

Bee out.

I'd like to thank the Academy...

Why, yes, it is high time Bee and I won an award for our sporadic stellar blogging. And thanks to Mrs. Grey of With Wit, Not Leisure, we finally have our award. I think it's called a Lovely Award or something like that. I'm not too picky about details when people want to award me with things.

I'm accepting this award solo, however, since Bee is currently busy in her undisclosed location answering questions relating back to some scandals-leading-to-trials relating back to the drill sargeants from her basic training days. Since Bee commented that she doesn't even really remember the names of her Training Instructors, I think we can all assume she wasn't one of the victims. (But since she's being given the forum, I think she should try to remember the names of any-and-all who denied her cell phone use when her sister wanted to talk to her, and made it impossible for her to receive baked goods without having to share).

Anyway, back to our awesome loveliness and our award.

THE RULES

Thank the person/people who nominated you and link back to them in your post.
Share seven possibly unknown things about yourself.
Nominate fifteen or so bloggers you admire.
Contact the chosen bloggers to let them know and link back to them.

Not to be picky, but since I've won an award, I don't really think rules apply to me anymore. But whatever. I'll follow the ones that I want to.

Seven unknown things about myself...don't exist. It's part of the problem of being a chronic

over-sharer. So I'll just share seven lesser-known things.

1. I really wish I could wear high heels (as in sky high heels) everywhere. But I'm concerned that it will cause foot/knee/hip/back problems. And the one time I've worn heels for a wedding, I was crippled for an hour or two after the ceremony. So, I guess you won this round American Podiatric Medical Association.
2. I also don't wear heels because I feel like I may have to be able to run at any moment. Not just after a loose toddler in the parking lot (because I have a couple of those), but from a Bad Guy. Not necessarily a rapist or a mugger. It could be black ops special forces type person who is after me because I've unknowingly stumbled into uncovering a spy ring. And heels would impair my get-away.
3. I still like The Spice Girls music. And early Brittany Spears.
4. I still feel like the nerdy girl from high school (see Numbers One, Two, and Three , above), but I have come to the happy place where I'm good with that. Thanks to a little help from The New Girl who has made nerdy and naive its own kind of cool.
5. When I'm in Ethiopia, I feel like I'm home. And it's hard to get on a plane and go back to the place my passport says is home.
6. Follow-up to number Five: I really want to move out of country. Aquaman and I have talked about the Caribbean as an option (this discussion usually occurs most seriously during the months of November through March). But I would also take a warm African country as an option. Probably not Europe, though. Definitely would consider Australia.
7. I have a wildly over-active imagination. This is probably not news to, um, anyone, but paired with pessimistic tendencies, it affects my quality of life. In our moments of online house-hunting, I look at every house listed in Texas that has a picture of a porch or crawlspace and am 99% sure I can see a poisonous snake curled in the grainy-photographic shadows. And then envision myself living in that house and calling animal control while the kids and I huddle together on the roof, screaming bloody murder. All the houses in Florida that have their own private pond, I have visions of alligators lunging out of the water and grabbing a small child. While my kids and I huddle together on the roof, screaming bloody murder. The imagination/pessimism combo is exhausting.

Now I'm meandering into a shady area with these award "rules". Because I'm supposed to nominate 15 or so bloggers I admire, and then comment on their blogs that I've nominated them. I can nominate with the best of them, but the commenting part...I'm a professional lurker, people. I don't comment, I just creepily stand on the sidelines and read every part of these people's lives. So, I may or may not actually creep these people out by commenting that "I love you so much, and I'm a huge fan, and here's an award that's eerily similar to a chain letter." We'll see how much chutzpah I have.

1. Nelson Family of 7 My real-life friend's blog. (So, yes, I do comment on her blog without shame). We met in Target on a cold winter's day. I pushed my cart past her telling myself to be socially appropriate and not ask the white stranger with black kids where her kids were from. Thankfully Jess throws caution and social norms to the wind and asked me. She also went from 2 kids to 5 overnight.
2. Suri's Burn Book Do actual people have to write these blogs that I nominate?
3. Biblical Homemaking The name of this blog sounds kind of...dry? boring? But it's so pretty. And if you are obsessed interested in before and after room makeovers of the best kind, as well as DIY home decorating...well, just be prepared to spend hours online here.
4. The Pleated Poppy More DIY decorating. After reading this one, I find I have to wipe the drool off of my laptop.
5. Camp Patton I've linked to Grace over at Camp Patton before. So I figured I should do it again, just to be sure I come across as a real creeper.
6. House Unseen This family bought a house unseen off the internet for something like $27,000 so they could live debt free. And the house was in Michigan while they were in California (maybe? somewhere besides Michigan at any rate), so they moved with their four kids. More before and after pic fun. And right now, Dwija's in the middle of sharing her homebirth story. So that's a whole new set of fun. And squeamishness.
7. The Common Room Just so people know I do sometimes use the internet to better my mind (not just stare at decorating pictures). Lots of interesting news links/opinion pieces. Even if you don't agree with everything she says, there's usually some really interesting political history included.
8. This Mama Needs Coffee More opinion pieces/news links. With unabashed opinions to go with them.
9. Bean In Love Right now, this is the place to go for absolute cuteness. She just had twin girls and their smooshy little cheeks will have you checking back 2 or 19 times a day to see if she's posted any new pictures of them. And of course, more DIY home decorating and before and after pictures.
10. Rage Against the Minivan So, I confess, this blog has very little to do with my life, aside from transracial adoption. Kristen works outside the home. And travels. And has a nanny. And there are no before or after decorating pictures. But I keep coming back because she freely acknowledges how very first-world her problems are when she does have them. And she has darn good posts. And the most unique guest posts, possibly ever.
11. Large Family Mothering Homeschooling/homemaking advice, but of the gracious kind. And yet more opinion pieces/news links. But, like The Common Room, usually with some interesting social history tied in.
12. Emily Lane Style Oh look, someone else I know in real life. Perhaps I could leave a comment on her blog without embarrassment. This is the blog of The Fashionista, who has been mentioned before on this blog because she's dating my brother. Even if I didn't have that connection, I would be on her blog daily to see what she wore. While sitting in my pajamas at noon.
13. Simplee Photography Good, I can round out the list with one last blogger I know personally. Kelsea's photography is stunning....STUNNING. Looking at this blog may make you feel like your little family snapshots are slightly inadequate. Unless you happen to be friends with Kelsea and she patiently spends half an hour explaining to you how to use your camera so your little darker-skinned children can actually show up in photographs with actual facial features. (This blog may also make you want to find a newborn and squish it into various household items-large boots, buckets, etc-and take a picture. I don't recommend that, unless you are also a trained professional).

OK, I think that brings us up to "15 or so" blogs. Off the top of my head, I see...3 bloggers I feel comfortable contacting and letting them know they've won a Lovely Award. I'll let you know how I do on that. I'm pretty sure the blogs linked here won't even notice the whole two readers Bee and I send their way.

--Kae--

Highlighting the ordinary

Here's a little update on what we've been doing in our little neck of the holler this summer. (But not a complete update, there may be a little something that will be mentioned in a few weeks...Does anyone else hate cryptic Facebook and blog posts? You're welcome).

Aside from our daily adventures with a laundry list of food allergies, aaaaaaaalllll belonging to our sassiest, pickiest little eater,

we've been looking for Bigfoot. The kids and I may or may not have watched an entire season some episodes of Finding Bigfoot...and then counted it as "science learning". Because they call themselves field researchers, after all.

This culminated in The Great Bigfoot Expedition of 2012.

The plan was for the intrepid explorers to hike out across the neighbor's field and down to the creek. Because the creek was probably prime 'squatch land, obvs. They made it to the edge of the yard before the explorers lost their intrepid and realized it was dark. And scary. So they just hunted around the pine trees at the edge of the house.

(Do you notice it's Aquaman taking the trio out on their hunt? That's because it was decided that the parental that's unafraid of the dark and doesn't actually believe in Bigfoot would be a better guide. And less likely to scar any children for life).

And then, Summer 2012 continued with a little claustrophobia about the boys' room. Due to the heavy '70's furniture.

(From the official craigslist posting. Adios.)

So Aquaman decided to prove his love (and desire for a wife who's less of a shrew happy spouse), and he whipped up this little beauty:



It's built in to fit over the bizarro built-in ledge of our basement abode. And has drawers underneath Pipsqueak's bed. Happiness.

Is everyone on the edge of their seat? Are you holding your breath on this whirwind recap of the first half of our summer. Me neither.

Intersperse a whole lotta bike riding, and that's the high points thus far.

I'm not really sure if blogging rules allow for a four-posts-in-one highlight reel, but whatever.

We look so good, the rules don't apply.

--Kae--

Scandalous and more scandalouser

I'm deeply disturbed by the women in our country. 50 Shades of Nastiness and Magic Mike. Enough said. Off my soapbox now.

--Kae-- (Don't worry, Bee, I'm taking all the credit for looking down at society from my high horse.)

Marrying the help

(In a conversation with one of my new superiors)

Superior: "It says here you are married. Where's your husband?"

Me: "At home" (meaning the place I just had to move from this past week).

Superior: "He got the same job as you?"

Me: "No, sir."

Superior: "Didn't anyone tell you to marry your own kind? He at least Air Force?"

Me: "No, he's a Marine."

Superior: "Didn't your mama ever tell you not to sleep with the help?"

Me: (quite caught off guard because, while generally the Air Force thinks of the Marines as just grunts, I have never heard this before in relationship to Marines and Air Force. I mean, I have heard him referred to as a bullet catcher and the guy who I'm waiting for to die so I can collect his life insurance, but not the help. I don't think Señor Marine will be too offended when he hears this, as I have heard Marines refer to me with some pretty derogatory terms): "Sir, my mama tells me Jewish proverbs. Like make sure you cook your brisket thoroughly and always call home." (That's a lie, but whatever. Close enough to what she says.)

Superior: (also suddenly quite caught off guard) "Well. Alright then."

Ahhh, Señõr Marine, my help. It makes me think of him dressed as a butler serving me sweet tea and fanning me with a palm leaf. If that's what I married into, I think I win in this situation.

Why my wedding dress should be part of my daily wear wardrobe

Pardon me if I look a little crazy today. I have spent my time madly throwing away clutter in me and Señor Marine's apartment, prepping for the moving company to come tomorrow and Friday. Tomorrow  it's the bigger one, as they will be packing and taking away our furniture, dishes and random non-necessities to put in long term storage until Señor Marine and I are reunited in a real life house. Señor Marine will be allowed to stay in our apartment a little longer but let's face it, the chances of him cooking anything more than a pot of canned soup or doing anything but sitting on the one couch left behind playing Minecraft are zilch.

It was also very upsetting when I was telling Señor Marine that it will be a pain in the butt to drag my wedding dress all over the country with me. That's when he replied with a reasonable, "Why don't you just throw it in storage?" And for some reason, that thought had never crossed my mind, and for some reason, putting my gorgeous 번쩍번쩍 (sparkly) wedding dress into some musty, dreary storage unit was quite upsetting to me. I mean, can you blame me?

Look at those gorgeous ladies.

Anyway. Señor Marine came home from work to find me with my Jewfro in full force (from the stress and mad heat in the house), the house in total chaos, and my wedding dress and bouquet lovingly spread across the couch. Señor Marine said this was all better than what he expected, which apparently was me sitting IN my wedding dress, eating ice cream and sobbing while I watch Dirty Dancing or some other dopey chick flick. Not surprisingly, he forced to sit down and watch a mindless episode of Stargate SG-1 with him.

And all of this to say, Kae had better rewrite our blog intro, as she is no longer a twenty-something (HA! Outted you!) and Señor Marine and I will no longer be blissful newlyweds living on the coast.

I shall leave you all with my dose of awesome for the week. And as was pointed out, I specialize in saving the world, not linking awesome music to awesome blogs, so if it doesn't work, Kae will clean up my mess.

Bee out.

Let the good times roll...

We finished our standardized testing for the year (thanks Governor D. for not doing away with those things for homeschoolers when you had the chance last year. I'll let you know how I feel about that in the next election). And I've had a headache for four days straight, which may or may not be related to standardized testing (I'm blaming you for the headache as well, Governor D).

I feel like we all deserve a fun day. But Lanky just started talking to me about "The Inflatable Hulk" and was shocked to find out it's actually the Incredible Hulk (welcome to ESL land). And over the weekend, Matilda showed me a tooth that was maybe a little loose, then trotted back two minutes later to show me that she had pulled the tooth. (Me flapping my hands and trying not squeal out a girlie, "Eeeeeewwwwwwww!" ensued). Because she's done this a time or two before, I'm starting to fear for her permanent teeth that aren't at all loose. (Because who does that?! Who pulls a tooth out of their head that is not loose?!)

So the moral of the story is, maybe I think we'd be better served today by sitting around the table and working diligently on some vocabulary. Or reading. Or science wherein we learn that teeth are supposed to be attached to your jaw unless they fall out on their own. And then take a standardized test to prove that we learned it.

Yes, let the good times rollllllllll....

*Why yes, this song was performed by the opening act at the concert Aquaman and I semi-recently attended

--Kae--