Honey, I’m hooooooome…

Ahhh, boys. I left for about a week recently to do some work-related training in Dallas, TX… and because I didn’t want to be totally overwhelmed when I got home, I left a little note for the boys when I left:

Dear Adam and Billy,

I hope you have a wonderful week of bachelor-fun while I’m in Dallas. Would you please tidy up the house a bit before I get home (vacuum, dishes, hide the stripper evidence, wipe the counters, and clean up the living room)? I would really love the help. Thanks boys, and have a great time!

Love, Jenny

PS. Don’t forget to feed the fish. And the dog. 🙂

So when I got home, I walked in the door and was quite pleased… the living room was clean, the house was vacuumed, there were no dishes in the sink and the counters were clean. It also looked like the rugs in the kitchen had been shaken out – bonus!

Adam called me from Talkeetna a few hours after I got home, and asked me how the house looked. I said that everything was wonderful and thanked him for even making the rugs look nice. Then he changed the subject. 

The next day, my dad called. Oddly enough, he also asked me how the house looked. Assuming he’d seen my note to the boys while he was over at my house working on our remodel during the week, I said that everything looked great and I was really happy to be able to come home and relax. His response?

“Oh good, because your stepmother went over there on Wednesday and cleaned everything up for you so you wouldn’t have to stress when you got in.”

Whaaaaaaaaaat? MY HUSBAND AND MY BROTHER TOOK CREDIT FOR THE CLEANING???!!! RIDICULOUS!!! (And I’m not sure who is rubbing off on who…)

Lesson to Men: WE. WILL. ALWAYS. FIND. OUT.

(Even if it’s from another man who rats you out and then feels bad for getting you “in trouble”.)

,

Magic Mushrooms

Getting ready for the softball game Monday night (in which my pregnant ass has been demoted to scorekeeper, waaahhhh)…

Me: Okay, cool, so let me just pop in the garage and through in a load of laund—-aaaaaaaaagh!

Adam: (sitting on the couch, doesn’t even turn around to look at me) What?

Me: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!

Adam: Words, Jenny.

Me: You have to come over here.

Adam: No. What is it?

Me: COME OVER HERE!

Adam: Oh is it the mold?

Me: ‘ohisithemold’ what the fuck? You SAW this???

Adam: Yeah like two days ago. (he is still facing the tv)

Me: YOU SAW THIS TWO DAYS AGO AND DIDN’T MENTION IT??

Adam: Didn’t think it was important.

Me: (my voice is getting higher) WHAAAAAAAAT? THERE WAS A FUCKING MUSHROOM GROWING OUT OF OUR FLOOR AND YOU SAW IT TWO DAYS AGO AND YOU DIDN’T THINK IT WAS IMPORTANT????????

Adam: Well I didn’t know what to do about it.

Me: (I sound like a cartoon now) THERE IS A MOTHERFUCKING MUSHROOM GROWING OUT OF THE WALL!!!!

Adam: Yeah. I cleaned it up when I saw it the first time. (still facing the tv)

Me: (trying to bring my volume down a teeeeensy bit and stop hyperventilating) You’re telling me that this giant, fully developed magic mushroom grew out of our wall in the last 48 hours? You cleaned up a DIFFERENT indoor wall mushroom, and this one regenerated in 48 HOURS?

Adam: Yeah.

Me: LIIIIAAAARRRRR! CLEAN UP THIS FUCKING MUSHROOM RIIIIIIGGHT NOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWW! I’M PREGNANT AND THERE ARE FUNGUS SPORES FLOATING AROUND IN OUR HOUSE! OUR BABY IS GOING TO HAVE THREE EYES!

Adam: He’ll have better sight then. I’ll get it when I get up.

Me: (holding a dirty sock over my face like a mask, to avoid fungus spores) I just looked on the internet and it says mushrooms in the house is NOT a good thing, especially for infants and PREGNANT WOMEN. We’re going to have to rip up the floor.

Adam: Stop looking on the internet! We have to go to the game.

After I made Adam clean up the devil mushroom, I called my dad and he was JUST as nonchalant as my husband. “Oh yeah, those things happen. Just wipe it up, no biggie.” The hell?? Anyway, it hasn’t come back since Monday night…. SHOCKING. Because Adam would like me to believe that those fuckers magically regenerate in 48 hours. I’m not saying he did clean up “the first one” and I’m not saying he didn’t…. just pointing out that since I watched him clean it up, nothing has come back. Weeeeeeiiiird. (Sam says this may be reminiscent of the time Adam “definitely fed my fish” when I went to visit Molly in AZ for a week and had 2 dead fish when I came home.)

,

Have You Seen This Man?

On the right of this page, in the profile pic… my husband… his name is Adam… remember his face because it may soon appear on the back of a milk carton.

Me: Hey Baby… this app I have on my phone says that the baby’s fingernails are formed and that synapses are rapidly growing in it’s brain. And it’s the size of a large lime. Also, it says I should be able to feel my uterus now… HEY! I CAN FEEL MY UTERUS NOW! This is so cool!!

Adam: *blank stare*

Me: Hello? Are you going to respond?

Adam: Yeah, well… I finally hit 45,000 miles on the truck yesterday.

Me: *blank stare*

Adam: What?

Me: Maybe this should be considered more of a quiet time for you. Like, a listening time.

Adam: I thought we were sharing exciting information.

Me: I’m sorry, you’re right. Would you like me to bake you a batch of cookies, maybe rub your feet? You must be so exhausted. I’m only GROWING A PERSON.

Adam: A beer would be nice. And maybe a backrub.

Now if you’ll please excuse me while I go find a shovel to bury the evidence…

,

When do I get my killing license?

You know, the one that comes with pregnancy, that’s allowed to be used when your husband commits food felonies?

Oh here, let me explain:

Last week I had a musthavethemnownownowrightnow craving for Apple Toaster Struedel (I saw a commercial for Eggo waffles, which made me think about how toaster struedel were way better, which made me get off the couch in my sweatpants, put on shoes, and drive to Carrs at 8:30pm). A few mornings later I woke up and asked Adam if he’d like me to “make” us breakfast, and offered the struedel. He complained about me even having bought the damn “breakfast candy” in the first place since he’s on a diet, but finally decided he wanted some.

I went downstairs and threw two into the toaster, trying not to cause an electrical fire while leaning over the toaster and drooling. When I served Adam, he was still complaining about carbs, and then, THEN he had the nerve to say this:

Adam:  Oh. Ew. It’s apple? Why didn’t you buy raspberry? Gah.

Me: Fine, don’t eat it. they’re my favorite, and there’re only 6 in the box. I’ll eat it and make you eggs.

Adam: No, I’ll eat it.

Me: DON’T EAT IT IF YOU’RE NOT GOING TO ENJOY IT. THERE ARE ONLY SIX IN THE BOX.

Adam: I just don’t understand why you bought apple.

Me: GIVE IT TO ME!!!!!

Adam: Hey, crazy lady. I’m eating it.

Me: IF YOU’RE GOING TO DISRESPECT MY FOOD, I MAY HAVE TO KICK YOU IN THE BALLS. YOU’RE LUCKY I EVEN GAVE YOU ONE IN THE FIRST PLACE!

Adam: I’m leaving the room now.

What? I barely think this pregnancy is even affecting me. 🙂

Okay, second food felony on Adam’s record:

On Easter Sunday we went to visit my grandma before church, and she was putting those delicious Pillsbury crescent rolls into the oven. I made Adam stay 15 minutes extra so I could eat one fresh out of the oven before we headed off to church. He was nervous that we were going to be late, so I grabbed the tiniest one off the pan while they were still baking, and it was one bite of pure deliciousness.

I figured they only had about 2 more minutes to go, so I stalled JUST so I could grab another (a bigger one, of course). Lucky me, it worked, and just at the last possible second before I was dragged out the front door I was able to snag a full-sized roll off of the pan. Yay!

When we got to the truck and Adam was opening my door for me, he asked if he could have a small bite. Grateful that he let me stay the extra 2 minutes when I knew it would make him nervous about being late, I put the heavenly roll up to his mouth…. and he took the whole thing. HE ATE THE WHOLE ROLL IN ONE BITE.

HE ATE. THE WHOLE. ROLL.

Now, I’ll ask again… when do I get my pregnancy killing license?

Yep… we’re married.

Adam and I were in the car the other day discussing his birthday plans, and he told me that I am “required” to come out to the cabin with him for a snowmachine trip next weekend (his bday is the 19th). Thinking back to the last time I was at our little cabin in Talkeetna, I remembered that while I was *a little* intoxicated over New Year’s Eve I *may* have stepped in a bit of dog doo. Or a freaking POOL of it, from the looks of my boots. Which I haven’t cleaned off yet, because, well, it’s disgusting and I have a majorly sensitive nose (and gag reflex). So they’ve been sitting outside our garage for like a month. Also, I forgot about them.

So… obviously I can’t use them again until they are cleaned, and according to Adam I’m going snowmachining next weekend. Being me (a squeamish, conniving sexpot), I thought I’d use my uber-sexiness as a bargaining tool…

Me: So… (seductively)… what do I have to do to get you to clean my boots off?

Adam: What do you mean?

Me: You know, like, a deal. What do I need to DO in exchange for you cleaning my snowboots.?

Adam: (without missing a beat) Finish my laundry.

Me: Seriously? Laundry? No sexual favors???

Adam: That’s not an even trade! You’re asking me to do something shitty – (ha, ha) – in exchange for you doing something fun! Don’t disguise it like it’s only fun for me. Now do we have a deal or what??

Me: *sigh* I guess. Do I have a deadline?

Adam: Sure. When do you want me to wear clean underwear by?

Yep. Marriage. Soooo glamorous.

*side note: I never do Adam’s laundry. I took a stand like, 5 years ago when I realized I was spending half my life in the laundry room. Now I get mad when I find out even one of his socks has slipped into my laundry basket… so this is a Big. Deal. And he totally knows it… Brat.

So THAT’S what “married” means…

Okay, I know I’m still sort of newly married (1.5yrs)… but PLEASE tell me this isn’t something I have to look forward to.

Adam and I, having a light conversation while sitting on the couch this evening.

Me: Blah blah blah, that movie Zombieland made me kind of queasy… blah…

Adam: Something something chicken wings for the Superbowl party…

Me: Hey, what are you doing with your hand? Stop playing with your crotch and just have a conversation with me for one second please.

Adam: I’m moving my balls off my leg. I’m not playing with my balls.

Me: Whatever, it’s weird. Please stop.

Adam: WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GET USED TO THE FACT THAT I TOUCH MY BALLS? I’m, a dude, it’s what we do.

Me: It’s just fucking weird and uncomfortable for me when I’m sitting here trying to look you in the eyes and have a conversation, and you’ve got your hand down your pants trying to act like everything’s normal! And by the way, how long does it take to “move your balls off your leg”? You’ve had your hand down your pants for 5 minutes!

Adam: Well if I move my hand, they’ll be touching my leg again now won’t they? Duh.

Me: You’re making me uncomfortable. Can you just quit it at least while we’re talking?

Adam: Jenny! Knock it off! Nothing should be uncomfortable between us. We both should be able to sit here facing eachother, buck naked, Indian-style and have a normal conversation. We’re MARRIED.

Me: I just choked on my tea. I’m going to bed. And I’m never sitting Indian-style again. Ever.

,

Safe Words and Tippytoes

I mentioned in my first post that Adam and I started trying for a baby in 2009… well it’s been nearly a year now, and no luck. I thought I’d share my experience with the issues and frustrations I’ve been dealing with here. I know I’m not the only person who has ever had fertility issues, and it helped me to read other couples’ stories online. My journey so far has been frustrating, uncomfortable and sometimes comical. I don’t know how cathartic this will be, but hopefully it will at least be either entertaining or comforting to someone.

So… just a short story for now. A few months ago I decided to finally get fertility testing done, and after a bunch of OBGYN appointments and some big long scary needles, my doctor prescribed Clomid. I had 3 blood tests and a failed hysterosalpingogram last year, and just this month my doc decided to dilate my cervix and give me pills. She’s pretty confident that we’ll (finally) succeed in makin’ a baby within 3 months, so I guess we’ll see.

When my doc was talking to me about the medication, she mentioned that it might make me go a little bit super-bitch-crazy… I laughed and said that I’m already a super bitch, so no biggie. She took it a little more seriously and then told me that I should “come up with a ‘safe’ word” for my husband and I to use in case I get out of hand… emotionally. SRSLY? Enjoy a small peek into my home life, in which you’ll see that this idea? Would never work. Â

Me: “Hey Honey, before I start taking these pills tomorrow, my doctor thinks we should come up with some sort of safe word in case I turn into too much of a biotch.”

Adam: “Oh, great. Is that what I have to look forward to? Can I just move out for a little bit?”

Me: “That may make the ‘baby-making’ a little difficult. Seriously though, we should come up with some sort of signal or word. Just in case.”

Adam: “How about, ‘Hey Jenny you’re being a huge bitch’? That should be fine.”

Me: “Uh, unless you don’t care if I throw plates at you, that will not work fine.”

Adam: *sigh* “Okay. Tippytoe.”

Me: “Huh?”

Adam: “That’s the word. Tippytoe.”

Me: “No. Absolutely not. I can guarantee that that word would just piss me off even more if I’m already in a shitty mood.”

Adam: “It seems like you’re starting to put yourself in a shitty mood right now.”

Me: “No, I just want you to take this seriously! C’mon!”

Adam: “You’re starting to freak me out. Have you already started taking those pills?”

Me: “What? NO! I said I start taking them tomorrow!”

Adam: “…tippytoe… tippytoe…”