March 31, 2008

What happened last week was, I wrote this really whiny disgusting adoption post where I said things like “WHY are all my FRIENDS getting THEIR referrals and NOT ME!” “When is it MY TURN?!” “ALL THESE BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN ARE FINDING THEIR FOREVER HOMES!” “WHAAAAAAA”…. like that.

And then the Internet Gods reached out from the computer and slapped me across the face with my Scottish Man-Bum-in-a-Kilt Mousepad and then proceeded to delete my blog post, never to be seen again.

Well, those of you on Googlereader and Bloglines can see it again, it’s still on there. But EVERYONE ELSE has been spared.

I believe this to be a good thing since I’m feeling much better now, I’m sorry about that. I basically drunk dialed the internet. I blogged in a state of emotional distress. It was not one of my finer moments and I apologize to those of you, the Designated Drivers, who talked me through it and cleaned up my vomit, my verbal vomit, through emails.

I was considering switching agencies in order to potentially get kids faster. And just typing that made me want to reach up and slap my own face again because the sound of my own voice was resembling one of those raging psychotic woman-on-a-mission Adoptive Moms who only see babies in their eyes. I always told myself I would never become like that and then I was. Just like that. On a mission to get kids no matter what, no matter the agency, no matter the timing, no matter the process, no matter my gut feelings that keep bubbling up like acid reflux that say “JUST SHUT IT AND LET IT HAPPEN AS IT HAPPENS! YOU’RE SUCH AN OBSESSIVE CONTROL FREAK JAMIE!” which I thought was borderline rude. But my acid reflux (a non-religious person’s way of saying “spirit”) made a good point, I needed to chill out.

My pal Katy, who attends OCFA (Obsessive Control Freaks Anonymous) with me, reminded me that there is no way to control adoption and to stop trying. So, I was all, Okay! I guess I’ll just stop this very minute then! And I picked up my basket full of posies and skipped along my way!

So, I’m working on that.

And that’s what happened with the blog post that never lived it’s life as a blog post. In actuality, my hosting company switched servers and the switch caused some problems here and there. Which made me look like MY problems were even bigger problems since ya’ll thought I deleted that post myself and that’s not UNLIKE me to do something like that, but this time, this one time, the craziness was only PARTLY due to me.

Me, after finally seeing my husband come home from a long shift at the Hospital where he just started working: Hey, How was work?

Mike: Really awful.

Me: Why?

Mike: Well, I had to sit with a patient and his family my whole shift and….. we had Broccoli for dinner last night.

Oh, so you had to….

And I couldn’t.

You couldn’t leave the room to?

It would have followed me back in. And even then, I was only allowed to leave the room, like ONCE the entire shift.

There’s not a quiet place somewhere to let one go?

Not really.

Well, in Grey’s Anatomy, there’s a room where all the Doctors and Nurses have sex, couldn’t you have gone in there?

Gosh! I never thought of that! Next time, I’ll just ask everyone where the sex closet is!

Perfect! But be sure to let them know you are asking so you can fart in there, not have sex.

Right.

Because you don’t want to give them the wrong idea.

No.

March 21, 2008

I finally had my appointment with the blasted lights people. The evil techie trolls that they are.

I don’t know why I put things like this off for so long. I have no explanation. Sometimes, I am a champion of efficiency, a can decimate a to-do list like a frickin SPARTAN when I want to. And then other times, I don’t know, it’s like I turn into a child again. It reminds me of when I was a teenager and my Mom would ask me things like “Did you get gas in your car yet?” or “Did you wash your outfit for tomorrow yet?” or “Did you brush your teeth yet?” and I’d sit there in my bathrobe and sigh. No Mom, I’m waiting to do all those things, okay? I want to be mad about them later, and then blame it on you, alright?

And the really funny thing is that it’s still happening. My Mom would come over here and be all “So, your lights are still crazy” and I’d be all “Ya” and then she’d say something like “Don’t you have the number for the people who can fix it?” Yes. But you still haven’t fixed it? No Mom, I’m waiting to fix the lights, okay? It gives me something to direct my anger towards. If I FIX the lights, MOM, I might be forced to evaluate what I’m REALLY mad about. And that’s annoying, to talk about feelings. I don’t do feelings, Mom.

Have I mentioned I’m the daughter of a Psychologist?

So aaaaaanyway. After enough time had elapsed that I felt my marriage and family life had suffered a substantial and significant amount of time due to the motion controlled rave lights I refused to fix, I called and made the appointment with the techie trolls. The ghastly incompetent tech bots that they are.

The Receptionist that made the appointment for me asked “And what are we going to be doing for you at this appointment?” and by the end of my incessant rambling response in which I probably offered WAY too much information, she wrote three words down on the work order. Make. It. Stop. And probably made a little side note for the Employee to take along the company tranquilizer.

A couple days go by and every time the lights go on or off by themselves, it’s mixed response of either elation of soon-to-come revenge upon the lights and at the same time, sadness. Sadness, knowing that they would be dead soon at my expense. I didn’t necessarily want them dead, I just maybe wanted them to go live in a different house. That’s all.

Nevertheless, the Techie Troll came. The senseless and incompetent Hitman that he was. I knew it would be a long, drawn out appointment when the guy asked me to sit down so he could go over all the endless possibilities that his company offers. Even after reading his note that all I wanted were normal lights, he still felt I needed to know all about what I was missing out on. And apparently, this lights company, they’re serious about lights. They are a home automation company. Smart lights that aren’t really smart, if you will.

This guy from the home automation company, I had to offer him a glass of water half way through. He was appearing parched after 30 minutes, and counting, of detailing the endless possibilities. It wasn’t just lights, people, it was programs to benefit and protect your life. Lights that dim during a candlelight dinner? Simply press 367! Lights that stay on for 2 minutes? 10 minutes? Excellent! Simply enter 429! Want a beep when the garage door is open? Want a beep when the power goes out? Want the front porch lights to turn themselves on and off with the longitudes and latitudes of the earth’s sunsets and sunrise? Want to call in to your house and open the garage? Or turn off your lights? Want your house to call YOU if the lights are on? Want your house to call you on an anniversary? Want your house to dump buckets of formaldehyde on the Missionaries at your door? No problem!

That was mean. My husband was a Missionary once. He would have had to pedal his little bicycle home in formaldehyde while listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on his walkman.

After repeatedly telling this Dude, no, all I wanted were perfectly normal, average, run of the mill lights and that I didn’t want a robot running my house, he nearly accepted defeat. But after seeing his pitiful face all gloomy and grim like that, I caved and told him “Fine, WHATEVER, give me auto porch lights, alright?” He happily programmed our fancy porch lights to come on at sunset and turn off a couple hours later and seemed content knowing that his time and glorified techie powers were not COMPLETELY wasted on me and my useless nincompoop self.

And as he was leaving, he asked one more time. Am I SURE I don’t want to add multitudes of thousands of dollars to the value of my home by programming the robot to run our lives? And I finally had to be all, Listen Man, it’s just not for me, okay? Nothing personal. (I was thinking to myself, Seriously, this guy takes his job WAY too seriously) and I kicked him out of my house. TWO HOURS after he arrived.

What is WITH people, right?

Then as he was walking out to his techie transmitter van, I glanced at the card he left me on the counter. It said “Techie Troll Man” and below that it said “Owner - Techie Troll Company”.

Aw, man! He was the OWNER!

How sad is that? I felt terrible. I felt like running after him, giving him a big hug and saying “Keep your chin up, Troll. There are lots of people out there who like this crap, okay? You win some, you lose some. I’m sorry, I could have programmed the lights to come on when the Fridge opened or something. That was rude.”

And then I would have said, “Okay but SERIOUSLY, you have got to send some of your techie spawn next time! YOU don’t get come! YOU are the OWNER!”

How dare they guilt me like this? I’m not supposed to do feelings.

March 19, 2008

You’ll be THRILLED to know that I have been to the all knowing and wise American Idol Guru again.

I know. Be still. I come to pass on his wisdom.

BAAAAAASICALLY, we all can’t wrap our big internet arms around the cute Irish girl with the rockin pipes because the Guru says Scary Blue Eyes gives off a yellowish-green aura which indicates that she feels as though she deserves to win the show. And nobody likes a deservy-show-winner.

Elaborate?

Let’s.

It’s not as fun to watch someone accept praise by going “I WAS JUST ABOUT TO SAY THE SAME THING!!!” than watching, say, David Archuletta or Jason Castro who nearly stutter themselves off the stage with all their goofy, awkward likeable-ness. Watching one makes you cheer and watching the other makes you feel like you don’t need to cheer, the contestant already loves themself some self enough, they don’t need your cheers. Cheers are way more fun to give to someone who will blink excessively and make squampous facial expressions in front of 130 million people.

I still like her. And when she hits those big notes, it really does give me chills. The Ladies just aren’t doing it for me this season.

A little lady who DOES do it for me, is this one:

I give you: The after-cut.

It’s not nearly as scary in these pictures as it was in real life.

But see how she puts her fist up by her mouth like that when she is embarrassed or shy? It’s quite possibly the cutest thing ever to happen on earth. Cuter than that baby Panda. Cuter, even, than Justin Timberlake in the Mickey Mouse Club.

She’s doing it again here. She was, quite visibly, disturbed about the whole thing. Especially since she was, like, totally stoked about her chop until her psycho, lame MOM came in to ruin everything.

So, there you are. Once again, the two most important things in my life wrapped into one post. My kid and tv. Another valuable discussion here at the Battle Station. Class adjourned. You’re welcome.

edited to add: So now I feel bad because Irish was in the bottom three. And so now I like her again. Not that I didn’t like her before. But I kind of didn’t. But now I do, more so than the little I did. Damn you American Idol. You musn’t play with my emotions this way!

March 13, 2008

Things are looking up, people. It’s a new day, a new era in the Battle Station household. It’s sunny out, we went to the River today on a walk, our dog (sloth) actually walked for 1/3 of the time, our kid rode her new bike, we are back on the adoption list and we have a corrective appointment scheduled with the home automation people who CURSED our house with motion controlled INDOOR lights. Yes, things are looking up.

And yes we can. Yes we can.

I love saying the Barack slogan just intermittently throughout the day. It’s my thing right now.

Delaney’s thing right now is to say FOR REAL after everything she says. Example: I just farted, FOR REAL Mom! So between the two of us and our fancy new idioms, it’s certain to be a good time around the battle station. And that’s why Mike has decided he really really wants to organize the garage tonight on his one night off.

As he was walking off to garage he yelled: Okay! I’ll really miss you girls while I’m organizing my tools in the silence of the garage! To which Delaney yelled: You’re not even the boss Dad, FOR REAL! And just to drive it home, I yelled out a final YES WE CAN, YES WE CAN right before he shut the door. It was magical. I recommend being a part of the majority within your household. Multiply and replenish your home with girls. You will not regret the decision and your counterparts will have nothing to do but be outnumbered all the time.

Mike is sooooooooo close to finishing this blasted last semester. It’s so unbelievable that we have decided to not talk about it. It’s the unspeakable thing. We must not speak of it, for fear of disrupting the Murse (male nurse) God. The Murse God is testy, unpredictable and apparently friends with President Bush because the whole crazy long deployment thing halfway through the nursing program? Murse God COULD have exercised some Murse God Powers there and instead chose to use the opportunity to vacay in the Caribbean somewhere.

Bummer about David H going home, eh? (That was a segue into an American Idol discussion) I think the whole male stripper thing didn’t bode too well for the chap. Which, I found it curious that he didn’t mention that tidbit in his little bio video before his song, did you not as well? I was an airport screener, I was a waitress, I was a nurse… I rocked a male thong! Vote for me America! Poor lass.

Good news though! I think I finally figured out why I can’t love on some David Cook! Mike said it perfectly. He passed the tele while running around the house JUST as David Cook was doing his little bio thing, Mike stops and watches, five seconds go by and he says (sarcastically, as David) “No matter what is happening at the moment, I feel it deeper than you”. I dropped my jaw and was all, THAT’S IT! THAT’S why there’s no love emittance from me for David! I couldn’t pinpoint it!

And then he left. Just when I need him most, he appears, answers life’s riddles for me and then leaves me deep in thought at his abounding wisdom. His American Idol wisdom.

If any of you are having this problem, this inability to pinpoint why a contestant bothers you problem, please send all inquiries to Mike at AI Energy Expert dot com. Botherless tv can be right around the corner for YOU too.

March 5, 2008

You guys, thanks for the love. I love the internet. I got some awesome emails. One in particular was from Mel and contained within it the most beautiful gift. Pictures of another child with the same mangled butch cut and big sad cry eyes. Mel said, “I have always saved these pictures because I KNEW someday I would be able to help comfort another victim of toddler scissor hair.”

Another awesome email, I loved this, it said that when SHE pulled those kinds of shenanigans as a child, then SHE would be forced to go under the scissor herself. That’s right. Delaney’s cousin should have to sport the scrimpy crop as well.

Which, don’t get me wrong, the idea made me laugh. A really evil laugh reminiscent of Cruella DeVille, envisioning Delaney’s cousin being strapped into a chair, squirming and me coming at her golden locks with a pair of freshly sharpened scissors.

BUT. That’s a little excessive. And she’s four. So that also makes it weird. In addition to that, I don’t think she would even know why it was happening. Just like you can’t punish a puppy for pooping on the carpet 3 hours ago, too much time has passed, the puppy doesn’t get it. So it would be in the case of the Lock Amputator. That sort of thing has to happen directly within the moment of the action as a sort of natural progression. You cut my child’s hair, you get cut. Boom, right away, like that. But alas, it was not so. Sadly, my first instinct isn’t to lash out at my four year old niece. Damn.

The pictures do exist of those first fateful moments after the incident but unfortunately they are on my sister’s camera and for those of you who know my sister, you know that I will never see those pictures again because my sister, she suffers from an incurable, devastating disease known as “Erratic Follow Through Syndrome”. But we love her in spite of this.

So in light of not being able to show you the sad, dismal and dreary pictures of her tattered hair, I can show you what it looks like now. So, here we go.

From the front:

From the side:

From the back:

Pretty stinkin cute, right?

I mean, aside from some crazy sparse bang action on the right side, it looks somewhat like a hairdo a parent would pay another adult hair stylist person to do. Am I right?

Delaney is still loving it, if the pictures don’t already give you any indication of that. And as long as she’s happy, I’m happy. Except when an Applebees’ waitress asks what “HE would like off the children’s menu”. That doesn’t make me happy. Because when I was about Delaney’s age, my Mom did ON PURPOSE AS AN ADULT to me what Delaney’s cousin did to her except my “hairdo” had a tail. A TAIL of hair coming down my neck. (Pause here while I barf) Needless to say, it was the most DISGUSTING thing to ever happen to me and I still haven’t forgiven her for it.

Where was I going with that? Right, I was called a boy all the time and it really messed up my whole entire life. I, to this day, remember exactly the whole scenario when another Mother at the park called me a little “boy, or girl or child.” You don’t forget these things. I just don’t want Delaney’s life to be ruined forever.

And that’s all I have to say about that.