Fucking Squirrels!!!

Okay, let me preface this post by saying I love squirrels. I have always loved squirrels, ever since I was a little girl and my squirrel-loving grandparents set up feeders for them in their yard. Over the years, I have continued to love squirrels. In college, we had a neighbor who would open her deck door and actually had a squirrel who would come in and hang out in her apartment and I thought that was just the coolest thing. I fed the fat squirrel outside my office out of my hand. I do everything humanly possible to avoid hitting the squirrels that wait until I am coming in my car to scamper across the street. So yes, I love squirrels.

Our house has lots of huge trees, both in the front yard and back. Therefore, we have a crapload of squirrels. Since we moved in, I've tried a number of ways to feed the squirrels, including crackers on the deck (Hercules ate them), seeds in a bowl on the railing (Hercules ate them) and a dehyrdated cob of corn on one of those corn spikes (Hercules ate it and was pooping out dehydrated corn for a week). So, even though they've never actually gotten the food I've put out for them, the little fuckers should be grateful, right? Right?! Apparently no.

Kirk bought new deck furniture last summer and let me tell ya, this was the garage sale find of the year. Beautiful table and six of the comfiest, most padded deck chairs you've ever seen. All was well on the Woltman deck until I noticed something the other week. The corners of one of the chair cushions looked like it had been gnawed on. Of course, my first thought was: Hercules, he who gnaws on most everything. But we could never catch him doing it. As the days progressed, the gnawed corners turned into a gaping hole, which turned into the entire top of the cushion being demolished which turned into all of the padding being removed. Yesterday morning, I saw the culprit. One of the un-fucking-grateful squirrels was studiously dismantling the cushion and carrying pieces of it up into his nest. So I did what any responsible squirrel-lover would do: I let Hercules out to scare the ever-living crap out of him.

My love of squirrels has not been diminished by the little fucker (or more likely, fuckers) who has decided to create a house out of our deck cushions. But you can bet your ass I'm not going to try to feed them anything ever again. And I may just swerve a teensy bit less the next time one runs in front of my car.

Ahh, the Sweetness

Tuesdays are my early days and boy have I come to dread them. I have a 7:00 am meeting halfway across town which, when you take into account my one-hour getting ready for work routine, means I have to get up at 5:40 am. When you don't get to bed until 11:30 pm, that's not a whole lotta sleep. After I've hefted my ass out of bed, I then have to deal with Hercules, who thinks he must go outside the instant anyone wakes up in the morning. I can't let him out because the neighbors bitched about his early-morning barking so I have to watch him making moon eyes at the deck door and put up with him following about two inches behind me everywhere I go.

Anyway.

This morning was actually worse than usual, though I'm not sure why. I was in a good ol' grouchy mood by the time I made it into the bathroom and prepared to shower. That's when I saw it. A handwritten note from Kirk lying on the laundry basket. He must have written it last night. It said he loved me forever. Actually, with his tenuous grasp on penmanship, it looked like:

I LOVLE YOUR FOREVNER

Oh, how I wish I would have had my camera handy, you would have laughed so. But that's not the point. The point is, ahhhhh. How sweet! How many husbands would do something like this? I get so used women saying, "My husband never makes me feel special" or "He never says I'm pretty". And I think, "Kirk tells me I'm beautiful and how much he loves me almost every day." Sure, we fight about him putting ALL OF HIS LAUNDRY ON THE DINING ROOM TABLE (can you tell it annoys me?) and his constant, earth-shaking snoring and whose turn it is to walk the dog and why he seems to think scrambled eggs, egg salad and pickled eggs is a well-rounded day of eating, but in the end, this is what matters: He lovles me forevner.

I Am Totally One of Those Women I Used to Pity

You know how you always hear people talk about how they are turning into their mothers, with horror in their voices? Well, I have never worried about that because my mother is really cool and I would be happy to turn into her (actually, other than the bad judgment when it comes to men, I think I turned into her a few years ago). Anyway, what I have feared has happened: I am turning into one of those women. Oh, you know the ones. The women who are trying to get pregnant and can think of nothing else. I never, ever thought I would be one of those. I thought I'd be one of those cool chicks who thought, "Hey, we might be pregnant but who really cares? I'll worry about it after my period is two weeks late." Ha. I was way off base.

Just a few of the obsessive thoughts that have been going through my head the past few days:

If I don't get pregnant until April or May, I totally won't have a baby until after I'm 30 and then my chances for breast cancer really increase!

How long ago did I ovulate? Is it too early to take a test? Can I just take one anyway even though it will certainly be negative? Just in case?

Can I have this glass of wine? Will this glass of wine wash the fertilized egg right out of me?

Can I take a test NOW?!

How am I going to tell Kirk if it didn't work? He so thinks it will happen right away.

How about now? A test NOW?!?!

These thoughts are interspersed with moments of clarity where I actually think of regular things, like the book I'm reading, work, television...but then the thought hits me like a slap..."Holy crap, we could totally be pregnant!"

I don't think it's so much that I desperately want a baby. Hey, I'm only 29 and we've only been trying for two months. It's the not knowing that's killing me. It's the same way I feel the day or two before we leave for vacation, like everything I'm doing is just killing time before we just GET THE TRIP UNDERWAY, GODDAMMIT!!!

So, come on, body!! Let's get in gear, ovaries! LET'S GET THE TRIP UNDERWAY, GODDAMMIT!!!

Dancing in the Dark

Okay, this post is not so much about dancing in the dark, but more like dressing in the dark (but the first title is much more catchy, no? Because it brings to mind Bruce Springsteen, whom I love? Yes? Anyway.).

My husband doesn't go to work until 2 pm and I go to work at the regular time (the regular time being anywhere from 8 to 9 am, depending on a million things including, but not limited to, my hairstyle for the day, whether I work out or not, the kind of breakfast I cook and how lazy I am feeling that particular day). This poses a bit of a challenge for us because I get up at 7 am and he doesn't get up until 10 am (he'll tell you he gets up at 9, but he's lying. LYING!).

Now, a normal, organized person would realize that it's impossible to turn the light on in the bedroom when your husband is trying to sleep and that you'd better pick out your outfit the night before and have it laying out all perfect for you the next morning. I am not a normal, organized person. So I never pick out my outfit the night before.

This is usually how my morning dressing ritual goes:

Try to creep into bedroom undetected and open the creaky closet door.

Inevitably wake up husband and get to hear one of his half-awake, pissed off mutterings. This morning it was, "This isn't working! Drop the phone!!"

Peer at mostly dark closet and try to pick out a top, bottom, jacket and shoes that are at least in the same color family.

Shitty (the cat) busts into the closet and sets up shop in there, making it impossible for me to close the door because she'll be trapped and will pee in my shoes. Can't leave the door open because Hercules will get in there and eat my shoes. Try to remember to close the door later when Shitty comes out in her own sweet damn time.

Creep over to dresser for socks or panty hose, depending on outfit. Peer into darkened drawers and try to distinguish navy blue from black from dark brown. Inevitably wake up husband again and get treated to a few choice words.

Retreat to bathroom with an armful of clothing and hope to God it all goes together in a slightly okay manner. Usually end up with blue socks, black shoes and brown pants. Then have to repeat the entire sequence.

That's why I blame my husband for my very uncreative outfits lately. I've been wearing black, plus more black, throw in a few more black pieces, and maybe a splash of color if I can find that splash before Hercules sticks his nose in my ass while I'm standing naked in front of the closet.

There seems to be no solution to this except for me to get my lazy butt off the sofa in the evening and lay out my outfit. Which, before you judge, I have done before but then I always wake up to find Shitty (who is grey and white) laying on my (usually black) clothes which have been laid out prettily on the clothes hamper. I guess I should be happy. At least she wasn't peeing on them.

Recipe for Valentine's Day Bliss?

Start with: Your fertile time of the month while you're trying to conceive a baby.
Add: Your husband actually getting off work before 10 pm (a very important thing when you've been so godawful tired you've been taking a nap at 7 pm and then STILL going to bed at 10:30 pm).
Mix in: A shitty mood, due to deadline at work, complete exhaustion and bitchiness that seems to be just coming from nowhere in particular.
Add a sprinkle of: pressuring the hoo-hah out of your husband by talking about your signs of ovulation and how it's VERY IMPORTANT WE HAVE SEX AT LEAST THREE TIMES DURING THE NEXT FIVE DAYS!!!
Baste with: No reservations for dinner.

Bake all in a 4 million degree oven and you get: either a fertilized egg or a black eye (for him). Either one is equally possible.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!!

When You're Talkin' in Your Sleep

My husband sleeptalks. And sleepwalks, for that matter. I found this out early in our relationship when I awoke to the sounds of him peeing in the closet. Not wanting to embarrass him, I decided to pretend like I didn't notice. Then the next day, he calls me up and says,

"All of my Army clothes in the closet are wet!"

And I said, "Why don't you smell them."

It could be worse. I had a roommate who awoke to find her boyfriend peeing all over her dresser, where she put all of her high-priced cosmetics. Poor girl had urine-smelling eye shadow and lipstick for months.

So last night, Kirk was snoring, as is pretty common for him during the winter months. I whacked him in the shoulder and said, "Kirk! You're snoring!"

And this is how he responded: my six foot, 250 pound husband pulled the blanket up to his chin and whispered in a little boy voice, "Scary, scary! They're coming to get me!"

This morning, he only vaguely recalled a dream in which someone was chasing him. And he thought I was making up his nocturnal mutterings, as he usually does when I relate one of his funnier sleeptalking episodes to him.

So tell me, readers, your funny sleeptalking/walking stories!

Vacation Recap

So here it is, the post you have all been waiting on pins and needles for because isn't it just the most exciting thing in the world to read about someone else's vacation that you did not get to go on?? Isn't it almost as good as menstrual cramps and proctology exams? Almost but not quite? Here it is anyway.



Don't we all look happy? Doesn't Kirk look sunburned? Doesn't Shayne's shirt look like it could burn your corneas?



And, of course, the photo you've all been waiting for (har har): The Dress. It fit! My non-boobs didn't pop out! I got a compliment on it from the gay Indian jewelry salesman on the ship! And then we almost lost it when the cabbie gave the suitcase it was packed in to another group of people! Damn thing is cursed.


Highlights of the Trip

Snorkeling with the stingrays in Grand Cayman.


Isn't the water beautiful? I have better pictures of us actually holding and feeding the stingrays, but they are on my waterproof camera and God knows if I'll ever get those damn things developed. Have I mentioned I'm lazy?

Other highlights included the formal dinners (lobster! Prime rib! Suspicious appetizers that looked like my cat's vomit but tasted delish!), the casino (we actually won money, believe it or not--I still don't believe it because I think Kirk is lying to me about he did at craps), the nightly shows (I would have to give the singers and dancers an A +) and the fact that I was one of the hottest chicks at the pool (granted, almost every other chick at the pool was pushing 70, but you gotta take what you can get).

Lowlights of the trip

Throwing up on the second night. Not sure if it was the motion sickness, the champagne, the wine or a combination of all three. Sorry, but I have no pictures of this event.

Another lowlight which is actually a highlight since it was damn funny in retrospect is the hotel we stayed in the night before the cruise. The boss had the idea we'd just wait until we got to Miami and book a hotel near the seaport. Ha ha. Every hotel we found near the seaport was either full or $200 a night. Even the Motel 6's were over a $150 a night. We're from Nebraska, we're used to $40 hotel rooms. So, when we spied a hotel with a sign that said $39.99 a night, we jumped at it. Oh, lordy was it bad. We're talking gang signs written on our bathroom door, huge mysterious stains on the carpets, frayed wiring sticking out of every light fixture, cockroaches and not a white person to be seen (not that I'm complaining about this--all the people were quite nice--it was just odd for four white bumpkins from the Midwest). There was also no deadbolt or chain, so we barricaded our door with all of our suitcases and a chair. I have a picture of this, which I will try to post later. But thinking back on it, it made our cruise ship room seem oh so nice and posh. And it made for a good story.

So that's all for now. More pictures to come if I get off my ass and get them downloaded/developed.

I'll leave you with this picture of Kirk and I, which shows why we were meant to be together:



We're both idiots.

Post-Vacation Stupor

Yes, I am back. No, I am not happy about it. No, I am not going to write a huge post about everything we did because I'm still tired and sluggish and pretty much just want to go home and sleep. But this picture pretty much sums it up:




I will post more pictures and details as I slowly recover.