Frank took me on a hot date Friday night (but first, he wrote this. I’ll pause while you awwwwww). I went dress shopping and came home with three options. This is the one I wore on the hot date:

Oh, and when I got home from dress shopping, Frank was home from work and had lilies waiting for me. Lilies are my favorites.

We had dinner reservations for Cottonwood Grille, a wonderful restaurant downtown next to the Boise River. Frank had specified when making the reservation that we would need to dine gluten-free. So when we got there, they handed us our 2-page gluten-free menu. We asked to sit outside. The patio is next to a big rock waterfall and pond–so pretty. The weather was nice and breezy, with just a little bit of a chill–if I hadn’t been pregnant, I would have been freezing.

We started looking at the menu, and I took forever to decide on what to eat. I’ve gotten used to having a maximum of ten choices at any given restaurant, so a full two-page menu was just options overload for me. Not to mention that they’d also given us a regular menu, and at least half of the items on that menu had gluten-free options available. Too many choices! :)

We shared a crab cocktail for our appetizer (I was starving when we got there), and then we both had the onion soup (without the crouton, of course). And when they brought us our soup, the waiter set down a basket of bread. “And here is some bread for you. It’s gluten-free.” !!! We never get to eat bread at a restaurant! So that was a very welcome surprise. I ate lots. And the onion soup was probably the best I’ve ever had.

It sprinkled on us a little while we finished our soup, and as soon as the family next to us moved inside due to the weather, it stopped sprinkling. There was only one other couple out there, and they were gone before our entrees arrived, so we had the whole patio to ourselves.

Frank had some scrumptious looking venison in a cabernet sauce, and if it had been a little more cooked, I would have tried it, but medium rare is just too raw for me. I had the stuffed prawns florentine with garlic mashed potatoes and some kind of squash. All was very good. The sun started setting while we ate our entrees, and it was gorgeous. We talked about lily pads and whether the ones on the pond were fake. We talked a lot about Buttercup, too, of course.

The waiter came and boxed up our leftovers and took our dessert orders. Frank had ordered a martini to go with his dinner and was only half finished with it when he got up to go to the bathroom. And as soon as he left the table, the wind picked up. I could hear it coming from across the river–the trees were LOUD–so I had a feeling. Sure enough, it was soon no longer breezy. More like mild hurricane-ish. The water started blowing off the waterfall and pond, Frank’s napkin went flying, I waddled over to get it and waited for him to get back so we could go inside.

The waiter brought our desserts before Frank was back, so I made an executive decision and just asked if we could finish up inside. So he took the dessert plates while I grabbed the boxed leftovers and Frank’s martini. I thought we’d just take one of the tables right inside the door, but I got to waddle all the way across the dining room, half-drunk martini in hand, six months pregnant. I avoided all eye contact with the other patrons.

Frank found me, and he wolfed down a yummy looking raspberry creme brulee while I had a yummy chocolate mousse, which he helped me finish off.

Dinner was gooooood. We decided it was too late to go anywhere else, so we went home, did some hot date stuff (IYKWIM), and watched half of the RiffTrax for Return of the King. Yes, we’re old, and our favorite thing to do on a Friday night is watch a movie with RiffTrax.

It was a great date. I wonder what we’ll do for our hot date next July, when we have a nine-month-old in the house. We’ll see!

ME: Do you want spaghetti or goulash?
HE: Spaghetti. I don’t know what goulash is, and I don’t like the sound of it.
***

HE: Bless you, Rowdi.
ME: You don’t have a soul, Rowdi.
***

ME: He’s a priest. He said hell.
HE: Priests say hell all the time.
***

HE: BAD. SWEETIE.
ME: You shouldn’t call me Bad Sweetie when I have a gun in my hand.
HE: Threatening Sweetie.

ME: If you ever murder someone, you need to tell me.
HE: Okay.
ME: So I can turn you in.

FRANK J.: Don’t worry. The worst thing you can ever be is a bad sweetie. I don’t think you can be any worse than that.
SARAHK: The best thing you’ll ever deserve is a bad sweetie.

Ohhhhh! BUUURRRRNNNNN! Zoom zoom zoom, bazinga, and bam!

Sometimes I’m so awesome it hurts.

The card reads, “From your secret admirer who is also your husband. I got you flowers since they are pretty like your face. I can’t even remember life before you.”

I went shopping after work, since I still have a job that could last two weeks, six months, or years. I went to Wal-Mart (forgot to get the thermal underwear, the specific reason I went to Wally World), Costco, and Fred Meyer. I came home and told Frank about the food I got for our trip.

SARAHK: I got a lot of snacks and food in case we get hungry and aren’t anywhere near a city. Even if we are near a city, we don’t know if it will be big enough to have food we can eat. So I got gluten-free crackers [Glutino — they’re good], goat cheese, smoked oysters, and cocktail sauce. I figured we could eat that if we got hungry…
FRANK J.:
SARAHK: I also got some sardines. I’ve never tried them before. I’ll probably hate them. They always look and smell gross to me.
FRANK J.: [Scrunching up his nose.] Did you get any normal food?

So then I told him about the fruit, chips and salsa, SPAM [I try not to eat pork, but during really busy weeks and travel, I’ll eat it], beef Lil’ Smokies, summer sausage (I had to show it to him so he’d know what it was), trail mix, and roasted almonds. He was cheerier after that.

Of course, I’m thinking I’ll stick to the nitrite-free stuff. Lately I haven’t had so much trouble with nitrites, but I don’t like to bombard myself with them, because migraine scares me.

Tonight I decided to make something I’ve never made before (in my whole life, even!). I made hot wings. I marinated them in Frank’s Hot Sauce, cayenne pepper, smoked paprika, olive oil, and garlic powder. I cooked them on the grill, and the grill is lighted, but it was dark outside, and I was on a massage high anyway, so I barely registered what I was doing. We had a bunch of little snacks, too — it was like going to Chili’s or Bennigan’s except without the gluten and cross-contamination! We had carrot sticks and celery sticks… no blue cheese dressing, because of that whole potential-gluten thing, but we did have ranch (and that is pretty much the only time I’ll eat ranch dressing — when I have wings). I put out pickles and olives and cherry peppers. And since we just had to be healthy, we took all our vitamins, and I put out a bowl of strawberries, raspberries, and apples.

So we sat down to eat, and I was through about drumette number three when Frank said, “Is this cooked enough?” I looked at my piece of chicken, peeled down to the bone, and determined that yes, it was fine. Then Frank showed me his. Pink and red meat at the bone.

Blerg.

So I apologized profusely for his (and my) future diarrhea. “Hey, if you’re really sick tomorrow, I’m really sorry, and just know that I didn’t mean to.” He says he won’t hold it against me.

I was able to salvage the wings. I threw them in the oven for fifteen minutes or so and burned them, just to make sure they were good and done. Of course, that added some free radicals to our meal, so I kinda think I would have preferred the salmonella.

Oh, but the marinade was teh yum.

I think I may change all my categories back to their retarded, cutesy names. It took me about ten minutes to find “Wedding/Married Life.” SarahJ was a much easier category to remember.

“We’re gonna need more quinoa.”

Warms my heart, peeps. I’ve actually found a healthy whole grain that Frank likes. He’s not crazy about brown rice, which I love for its nutty taste and its whole, healthy graininess. So I cooked whole quinoa a while back and was astonished that he liked it so well. This week, we had a green curry for dinner one night (he cooked it!), and Frank soaked the quinoa for me all day (because it’s healthier soaked) so we could eat it with dinner. Friday night I made chicken tikka masala, and I served that over quinoa. As we ate Friday night, I heard these words come out of his mouth: “I’m really liking this quinoa.”

Well then. I know what our grain of choice is around here.

FRANK: Sweetie, I love you.
SARAHK: I love you, too.
FRANK: You know why I love you?
SARAHK: Because it’s Valentine’s Day.
FRANK [laughing]: Yeah.
SARAHK: I knew that would be your answer, because you’re a dork.
FRANK: YOU are. You’re picking up the dork radio frequency.
SARAHK: Yeah, it’s so strong coming off of you I can’t help but pick it up.

Happy Valentine’s Day to my sweetie.

This is what my toe looked like when I decided to drop a bookcase on top of it a few weeks ago.

Nasty, right? The good news is it is healing very well. The smashed part of the nail eventually grew out enough I could cut it, and my meticulous cleaning of the wound has my toe almost back to normal. The skin around the top of the toe (several layers of which eventually came off) is healed up, and most of the bruise is gone. There is a little bit of bruise remaining under the top of the nail, but it looks like there will be no lasting damage from my little rampage. Yay!

FRANK J.: You said you wanted to take a shower?
SARAHK: Yeah, but I wanna post that thing about my hoo-hah first.

WARNING: Not for children nor sensitive peeps. Family might want to stay away, too: I fear nausea may be upon you if you resist my warning.
(more…)

Ick. My temperature went back up last night, and this morning it was down in the 97s again, almost normal. I don’t know what it is tonight (don’t have the energy to take it), but I’m exhausted just from grocery shopping and don’t even have the energy to cook dinner. Poor Frank, he’s been living on Amy’s Organics meals the last two days. First I thought I’d make a pizza tonight. While I was grocery shopping and my sexy husband was getting his sexy hair cut in most sexy fashion (those Wal-Mart hair salon peeps do a really good job with his hair!), I realized I was starrrrrrving. Weird, because I’d had a big bowl of soup not five hours earlier. So while I finished the grocery shopping, I decided I’d make chicken tostadas instead, and Frank said he would never complain about chicken tostadas, because he loves them almost as much as he loves me. And then I was too weak to go through the line when I was all done with the shopping, so Frank had to check out while I sat on a bench and felt completely awful. BTW, WHY does Wal-Mart put Six-Flags-grade trashcans (i.e., they smell like throw-up) right next to their benches? Yuck.

Anyway, we had Larabars on the way home, and that made me feel better, so I thought I might be able to cook by about 8:30. At 8:30 I told Frank he should go ahead and have some Amy’s Mattar Paneer for dinner (it’s his favorite). Since 7:30, I’d been snacking on Fiery Habanero Doritos and Wal-Mart’s Indulgent Trail Mix (which is so yummy). And as soon as Frank pulled his Mattar Paneer out of the microwave, the smell made me absolutely nauseated. Meaning I ran to the powder room to make sure I had a place to throw up if needed. I wretched a few times, then I burped a lot (you wanted to know, admit it!), and I didn’t throw up, but I even had to come to the den to type this blog entry just to get away from the most nauseous smell ever. And I love the smell of Mattar Paneer, even in the freezer-food variety.

Hopefully, Frank won’t talk on the phone long and will take his tray right to the trash when he’s done eating and take the whole kitchen trash to the garage so I can make it through the evening without barfing all over the rent house.

Oh, here’s a convo for you:

SARAHK: Sweetie, when you get your food, will you also grab my glasses from the powder room [which is right next to the kitchen]? I left them on the sink so I could hold my head over the toilet.
FRANK J.: Sure. [I couldn’t see him.] Rowdi, come here! Good girl! Now take these to Mommy! No, take them… Good girl!
SARAHK: You can’t give the dog my glasses! Stop it, get them back from her!
FRANK J.: Good girl!
SARAHK: You can’t put those in her mouth! She’ll slobber all over them!
FRANK J.: Now take ‘em to Mommy, Rowdi! Good girl…
SARAHK: YOU CAN’T PUT A $200 PAIR OF GLASSES IN THE DOG’S MOUTH!

This is when I swung around the corner and saw my husband cracking up. Rowdi was running along beside him, and he was holding the glasses, laughing, telling me he never gave her the glasses. What a butthead!

Anyway, I feel like crapola. My mom says Pappy has the same thing (fever, headache, no cough, no runny or stuffy nose, no stomach problems), and my step-sis had the same thing this week.

Ugh. I hope to be better soon. I don’t like feeling like I don’t even have the energy to go up to the reading room and stare at the sunset (which was most spectacular today, if you were wondering).

Warning: This post contains graphic descriptions of a most heinous act of bloody stupidity. Do not read this while you are eating.

So last night I got mad at Frank because I wanted to play Wii golf and he’s bored with Wii golf, and I was of the opinion that he should just be thrilled that I wanted to play anything at all since I don’t even like video games. Anyway, I decided to act like a big baby to get my point across, instead of just telling him, because as y’all know, I’m a woman, and we don’t act rationally when we’re mad. So we were playing Wii bowling and I just sat on the couch and threw the ball rather than actually getting up and trying. Then Frank realized I was mad and apologized after he realized I was mad that he wasn’t just happy I wanted to play anything, blah blah blah. Well, I was completely retarded and instead of accepting his apology, I told him that I didn’t want to play anything with him.

So I got up and went over to the stairs, at the bottom of which there was a bookcase waiting to go upstairs. So I grabbed the bookcase and started dragging it up the stairs, even though it was heavy-ish. I kept dragging it, waiting for him to come help me, but not asking him to, because as was previously stated, I was crazy angry that he didn’t appreciate my willingness to play any game at all with him. Of course, he was saying things like (lazily), “Do you want some help?” because I was acting like a total child. And because of that whole child thing, I was like, “No! I don’t want your help!” Because you’re a dumbstoopidhead!

So when I got to the middle landing of the stairs, I shifted the bookcase to get it in front of the top half of the stairs so I could drag it straight up. But as I moved it over, my left big toe didn’t get out of the way in time, and I dropped that bookcase right on top of my toe. Boy, that hurt like a son of a gun. So this was when Frank said, “Do you need to go sit in a corner until you calm down?” or something patronizing like that. And then I looked down at my toe. The whole top part of the toe was bloody. Which, of course, made it hurt even more. So I said, “No! I don’t need to sit in a corner, because I just smashed my toe!” And I walked gingerly up the stairs to get to the master bathroom, lifting my poor beleaguered toe up so as not to drip blood on the rented carpet (that method didn’t work).

I got to the bathroom and shut the door most of the way so Frank wouldn’t hear me crying, because if he heard me crying, how could I be angry with him later for not hearing me cry and coming to my rescue? And as I dripped blood all over the tile (and I mean ALL over the tile), I realized just how much my toe hurt. Like. The. Dickens. And I just started wailing. I pretty much had no control over that. I tried not to be loud, but that apparently didn’t work, because when I started yelping like a chihuahua, I heard Rowdi start barking. And she was wooo-wooo-woooing loudly and apparently running halfway up the stairs (the other half having been blocked by the bookcase) to alert Daddy that Timmy was in much pain in the well. Of course, we’re spraying Rowdi in the face with the water bottle any time she barks so we can break her of that nasty habit (nothing else works), so while I was yip-yapping in the bathroom, Frank was dutifully stopping the dog from barking, not hearing my pain.

I soaked many wads of toilet paper with blood until I realized my toe was never going to stop bleeding, and I was going to bleed out, right there on the loverly tile in the bathroom — what a way to go. At least Frank would be comforted by my term life insurance.

I hadn’t unpacked the band-aids yet, but I knew they were in an opened box right next to the bathroom door, so I crawled over and grabbed the band-aids and pre-soaked alcohol swabs. I cleaned my toe several times with the alcohol swabs, but the reality was I was going to die from a toe bleed which just would not stop. Oh, plus the alcohol just made me yelp louder, because holy crap, y’all. Thank goodness they weren’t peroxide swabs, or I would have died from the pain of cleaning my toe.

Here lies SarahK.
Died from sheer pain trying to clean her toe.
Survived by a husband who knew she was crazy.
And a wet-faced barking dog.

It was hard (still is) to determine just how bad my toe was/is doing. I thought I had gashes on the bottom of the toe, but apparently that was just alcohol pain that engulfed my entire toe. I had a profusely bleeding gash on the front of the toe, between the nail and the knuckle — that sucker was all purple and just wouldn’t stop gushing. There was the slash between the big toe and second toe that bled but stopped quickly, and I noticed today that the continuance of the slash goes diagonally down the top of my foot for almost two inches. And then there’s the nail. I probably won’t know for a few days whether I’m going to lose part of the nail. Nor will I know if I kinda cut off the tip of my toe or not. See, there’s a big ol’ skin bubble (yummy!) on the top of the toe, connected to the smashed-in nail, and every time I try to move the skin to see if the tip of the toe is just held on by skin or a little bit of toe meat (muscle, I guess?), the pain is too excruciating to bear, so I give up and put the band-aid back on.

I bandaged up my foot and stopped crying long enough that I could walk down and check the carpet for a blood trail (there is one), and I saw Rowdi lying on the middle landing behind the bookcase, looking utterly worried. I sat down and petted her for a minute and talked loudly (for Frank’s benefit) about how at least she tried to help me (I was now angry at the fact that Frank hadn’t put on his super-sonic hearing and discerned that I was sobbing and wailing in the bathroom upstairs). But then she started sniffing at my toe, and since I was afraid she might bite it off because pit bull mixes love the taste of human flesh, I pulled back from her and went upstairs. Frank said something, I don’t remember what, and I just yelled at him that my toe had been smashed to bits and he didn’t care if I died. Or something like that. Then I went back to the bathroom and decided I should get in the shower.

I heard Frank following me upstairs, so I locked the bathroom door. Again, I wanted to be able to unleash my full wrath on him as a ghost later (since I would shortly be dying). I gingerly pulled off all the bandages (there were four) and was just about to undress when I heard Frank outside the bathroom door saying something. “What?” said I in my pained yet still fuming voice. I still couldn’t hear what he was saying, so I opened the door and then turned around for the shower. I got neckid (believe me, if you’re picturing this, it wasn’t sexy, as I was covered in tears and half of my own blood, so make that little adjustment in your heads — better yet, don’t picture anything but my nasty toe) and got in the shower while big dumbstoopidhead started talking to me. I don’t remember any specifics except that I was crying and telling him how he should have listened to the bad barking dog to see if I was okay and how come he didn’t even bother to check on me knowing how upset I was and after I’d said I’d smashed my toe. He said something about figuring it was best to just let me simmah down before he tried to talk to me. And I was like, I’m not a dog who you just walk and run around in circles until she works out all her energy and aggression and why do you think I’m a dog and you’re such a butthead and go away go away go away and no Guitar Hero tonight or tomorrow! (I rethought my position on all of the above, and he’s actually playing GH right now.)

Pain does not make me more coherent, nor does it make my crazy dissipate. So then as I sat on the floor in the shower, waiting for the blood and the pain to stop, Frank brought in the big guns — Minerva. He started holding her by her front paws and making her dance for me, and then tap on the glass, then asked if I wanted Minerva to come in with me. Somewhere along in there, my toe stopped bleeding quite so copiously, and I finally got out of the shower. Of course, that was peppered throughout with, “Go away! Go away! You leave me alone!” though the intensity of my insistences quickly subsided to become vain repetitions of, “Go away. You go. Leave me alone…” It’s the dancing kitty thing — I’m a sucker for it!

Anyway, after I was out of the shower, we apologized to each other. He for not realizing he was being selfish before I went crazy (he tried to do this while I was in the shower, but I didn’t listen), and me for going crazy and smashing my toe in a fit of outrageous stupidity. I bandaged up my toe again, this time with only three bandages, and we got dressed for bed. My crazy had tired Frank out so much that he didn’t even want to read a comic book before going to sleep. I was fine for reading half a chapter of Harry Potter OTP, though.

My toe is not much better today. I’m down to two bandages, but the bleeding starts back up every time I take them off, and the nail/skin part still hurts too badly to try to figure out if the big piggy is just barely hanging on.

wRitErsbLock emailed me this morning, and in my reply to her, I said that I had smashed my toe to bits. “Why?” “Because I was mad at Frank.” Who, by the way, finished moving the bookcase into the reading room while I was in the shower. When I thanked him for doing that, he was like, “Of course I finished moving it. It’s not heavy.” RARR. Try dropping it on your toe and see if you feel the same way.

I slept several hours this afternoon in the chair in the reading room. I think all the blood loss and dehydration from crying really wiped out all of my energy. I still haven’t figured out how I’m going to ever wear a left shoe again.

SARAHK: I need more Nerds.
(Frank gets up and goes to the kitchen.)
SARAHK: Don’t you think we need more Nerds?
FRANK J.: Do you know how to ask nicely?
SARAHK: Would you please get me some Nerds, sweetie?
FRANK J.: I’m not gonna ever want you pregnant if this is the way you are normally.

He loves me the best!

As y’all know, when I was diagnosed with epilepsy in March 2006, I read up on the condition–because I’m all about the research. As soon as I learned that too much caffeine aggravates the condition and the symptoms, I quit drinking Cokes. It huuuuuurt. I quit cold turkey, too. Sorta. I finished the Cokes we had on-hand, and after that, no more Cokes. Until I had my colonoscopy in March 2007, and I got a little hooked on ginger ale. It is caffeine free, and it was the only thing that settled my stomach after being on that wretched Half-Litely crap and emptying every nook and cranny of my intestines. Eventually, I stopped again, because Dr. Awesome said no high-fructose corn syrup. But then I discovered natural sodas (thanks, essay!) that are made with pure cane sugar and no caffeine, and well… I’m addicted to black cherry natural soda.

I have digressed in lengthy measure. Ok. When I was on caffeine, I needed a good hour to wake up with my first Coke or two. But ever since I gave up caffeine, it takes me approximately thirty seconds to wake up in the morning (unless I take my meds really late–no matter what, I can’t get out of bed if I haven’t taken my epilepsy meds at least eight hours earlier). The difference (after the withdrawal headaches) is enormous. I wake up, I pee, I come out of the bedroom to start my day.

And then there’s my hubby. He drinks at least one mug of coffee before he can even consider waking. It’s just better for me to not speak to him until he’s gotten past the first mug (or two). He goes half a day without caffeine and has enormous headaches and becomes Mr. Crankypants.

Well. I figured that since this is deeply embedded in his brain (as Cokes were in mine) from the time he was living at home and his dad was making his sludge-strong coffee for him, it would take some kind of drug rehab to get him to quit. Coffee’s great, of course, but decaf would be so much better for our marriage (read: he won’t be so grumpy in the mornings), right?

So I started slow. I told him to give caffeine-free Coca-Cola a try. I figured if he was bringing Coca-Cola (the nectar of life) into the house, at least if it was caffeine free, I could have it sparingly (the HFCS is not something I’ll have often as it is). He turned up his nose at first, because he apparently made the egregious mistake of drinking one of his mom’s caffeine-free diet sodas when he was younger (ugh, diet!) and has therefore always associated caffeine-free with nasty aftertasty cola. I finally convinced him that since it’s still horrible for him, due to the HFCS, he could give it a try. He, of course, told me I was right, and caffeine-free Coke tastes just like fully leaded Coke.

And any day after that on which he woke up exhausted and moody, I hinted (ok, strongly hinted) that he should consider moving to decaf coffee, because then it might not be such an ordeal to wake up in the mornings. After a bunch of “eh”s, he finally told me I could try weaning him off the caffeinated coffee.

But the kicker is this: he can’t know it’s happening. I am not to let him know when he’s on decaf coffee. He needs the placebo effect of thinking he’s having caffeine every morning. That will work fine until he goes back to work, at which point I’ll need to tell him so he’ll know that he has to bring his own magic coffee or drink from the decaf pot at work.

I started this week, the weaning. I make him six cups of coffee every day. Six tablespoons of ground coffee. I started with five caf / one decaf for a few days. Then four caf / two decaf… It will go on from there until he’s fully decaf. Every day I quiz him. “So, how do you feel today? Have you been tired today? Do you have a headache? How was your coffee?” He knows why I’m asking, but he doesn’t know where on the caffeinated spectrum his coffee lies, and he won’t, because he rarely reads my blog. ;-)

I’ll update you after he’s been decaf for a while and tell you if there was an effect… I suspect there will be.

All safe and sound. I don’t know who was happier to see whom at the airport. I had a huge smile on my face, and he had his adorable Monkeyface grin on… We couldn’t stop smiling and hugging and kissing (not the gross PDA kind, the “I’m so happy to see my spouse” kind). And then outside the airport, I reached for Frank’s left hand with my right hand. He reached for my right hand with his right hand. I said, “What are you doing? I’m not trying to shake your hand. I’m trying to *hold* your *other* hand.” Then he said, “Hi. I’m Frank. Nice to meet you!”

I love him so much.

The last two nights I slept with the dog crate open, the kitties nearby (Rowdi couldn’t have been less interested in anything but sleep), four guns nearby (you never know how many you’ll need to fend off attackers, and if you have to leave the house, you want to make sure your car keys AND gun are in the purse), and the lamp on. The lamp was kind of on purpose, kind of not. Both nights I was reading Order of the Phoenix when my eyes closed tight, and part of me thought, “I’m too tired to get up and turn off the lamp,” while the other part of me thought, “If someone busts in here, I want to be able to see my surroundings so there will be no stumbling when I’m grabbing for the .45s.”

After we got home, Frank had to give the cats new water, give Rowdi a bone, take out the kitchen trash, and a number of other small items. Finally he said, “I missed my nagging wife while I was gone.” That’s what I was going for. ;-)

Oh! Frank brought me a long-sleeved shirt from Idaho. It says Idaho on it. It’s blue (a good color on me). Perfect size. I love it, and I love the fact that I’m going to actually need long sleeves soon! Of course, then he told me about the perfect shirt he saw for me at the airport that he couldn’t actually buy me, because it was only in kids’ sizes. It was brown (my favorite color) and said Idaho Princess on it (he has called me Princess from our first date). I was like, “Why’d you even *tell* me about that??”

I’ve promised Frank he can rest tomorrow before we hit the packing hard next week. We’ll see if I can stick by that.

Ok, I probably won’t sleep, and since not sleeping means I’ll be up doing stuff, Rowdi will probably just lie around and watch me do stuff.

Frank should be in Idaho soon. I’ve missed him since before I left him at the airport — the first time. After I’d been gone from the airport about ten minutes, he called and told me I could come back if I wanted. I wanted. His flight was delayed, and the ticketing agent had told him not to bother going through the non-line at security yet, since there was nothing on the other side of security, and he had over an hour and a half to wait. So he called me, and I came right back so we could hang out for half an hour or so. And his flight still didn’t leave for another hour and a half after he went to his gate! Good thing he had a two hour layover, because he needed the cushion.

I’m going to lock all the cats in the garage tonight so I can let Rowdi sleep outside her crate. Of course, even without putting her in her crate, that’s where she’ll want to sleep. She loves her room. But she’ll be there to hunt bandits if they should come calling.

Soon, Frank and I will have to be apart for a couple of nights… we haven’t been apart since we got married! It’s going to be tough. I’m not looking forward to his absence.

This may be a sensitive post for some, as it is about babies, so continue reading at your own risk.

I definitely don’t have the baby bug… yet. I am finding them cuter and cuter every day, though. Is that a sign of anything? It seems like everyone is having babies or wanting babies these days, and I’ve kinda been feeling like an outsider until recently. I was looking at Helen’s pictures and reading the posts about birthing her babies, and I turned to Frank and said, “I wanna have a baaaaaby.” He looked at me and asked if I was serious. And he was grinning! Grinning! What the hay? I wasn’t telling him we should go shopping for baby bedding and curtains and brightly colored paints (oh, heck no, there will be no turquoise or pink rooms in our house) or anything like that; I was just making a comment because I was all teary-eyed over Helen’s Nick and Nora. Of course, I suspect he’ll be fine with putting a bun in my oven as soon as we’re settled in Idaho — he’s made comments as such before.

I mean, we’ve talked about the fact that we’d like to start having babies not too long after we get to Idaho… because, you know… I’m thirty-one. I am getting awful ripe for baby-bearing. All of my pregnancies, should I be able to conceive, will be high-risk as it is because of the epilepsy (and I’ll have to get off my seizure meds). And at least one baby (if we have three, or have two and adopt one, or have one and adopt two – ack! Did I give in to his wish for three babies? When did that happen?) will be an even higher risk pregnancy, because I’m hoping the babies will be two or three years apart.

We’d really prefer that our financial situation is stable and good before I get all large with child and we start looking at the crib bedding and mobiles. It would be nice to not have to worry about how we’re going to afford the college tuition savings, the clothing, the food, and even the kids furniture. But you know what they say. If you plan kids for when you think you’re financially ready, you’ll just never have them. I have a feeling that with me getting on in age like apples that need to be stewed instead of served raw, my age is going to be the biggest factor. We can only wait so long to get started…

I do not understand the comic book thing. Seriously. You have to turn each picture on about four different angles before you actually get what it is trying to depict. And the dialogue is mostly grunts and lame jabs at each other.

Remember, Frank only started reading comic books because he wanted to figure out what in the world Aquaman could possibly do in day-to-day life. And then he got drawn in. To Aquaman. And other superheroes (who can’t talk to fish but have real superpowers) followed. And now when he tells me what his comic books expense is for the two week period (they come out every week, but he has them ship every two weeks to save on shipping), I just stare at him. Goggle is more like it. Sometimes I make snarky comments. Tonight I just stared, lips pursed in that “I’m trying really hard not to laugh at you” expression.

And he started rambling, trying to assure himself as much as me that there are reasons behind the extra expense this time. Ramble ramble ramble. Eventually I just interrupted.

SARAHK: I’m just letting you talk it all out, watching you try to justify it to yourself.
FRANK J.: And blahdeblahdeblah deblahdeblahdeblah…
SARAHK: I’m just glad you’re reading *something*.

(He doesn’t like reading anything that doesn’t involve pictures. So far, I haven’t had to buy him a picture Bible, but it’s only a matter of time.)

UPDATE: Frank *did* have a picture Bible when he was a kid. It was his favorite book. He used to read it during church, because church was boring.

SARAHK: I’m sorry lunch was so late and that you hate me.
FRANK J.: Ohh. I don’t hate you much at all.

Ever since I got home from my hair appointment, Frank has — about once an hour — told me how beautiful I am. But tonight, after pawing through his broccoli salad…

FRANK J.: What? No pine nuts? [It’s his favorite part of the salad, and the only way I get him to eat veggies consistently.]
SARAHK: Oh! Sorry, I forgot.
FRANK J.: [pouty face]
SARAHK: We have some, though. Go get them and I’ll put ‘em on your salad.
FRANK J.: Suddenly you’re less beautiful.
SARAHK: :-O

As y’all know, we’re always punning around here. Frank always tries to stump me with goofy and/or punny questions. Such as…

FRANK J.: Know what goes behind pine nuts?
SARAHK:
FRANK J.:
SARAHK: Uhhhhh….
FRANK J.: [grinning, because he’s quite sure he’s stumped me good.]
SARAHK: Pine butts?

I can always tell when I’ve gotten it right, because he starts laughing silently and trying to keep a straight face so I won’t know for sure if I’ve gotten it.

SARAHK: Did I get it?
FRANK J.: [sad look on his face] Yeah.

Eventually I want to get around to doing a day by day account of our Caribbean cruise (the Nightfly had posted his within a week of his honeymoon, but hey, it’s only been just under two years since ours). That will probably be a long endeavor, so for now I’ll give you another piece. For our second stop, we were supposed to go to Cozumel; however, Cozumel had a couple of months earlier been ravaged by Hurricane Wilma, so our cruise ship (along with the Carnival cruise ship that had been following us since Key West) got diverted to Costa Maya. And our mere half-day in Costa Maya kept Frank from donating blood for a year.

The weather, which had been perfect everywhere else, was a little gloomy in Costa Maya, but we didn’t care, and neither did any of the other tourists. We were underdressed in shorts and short sleeves, because it got a little chilly when the wind picked up. We hadn’t chosen any excursions for this locale, so we spent the day doing our Caribbean shopping (we had refrained from shopping until Mexico) and eating bad food (something I didn’t expect in Mexico, actually).

The guy behind Frank’s left shoulder apparently thought I was taking a picture of him, so he mugged for the camera.

This is the day Frank bought his man-with-no-name poncho and I bought my Mexican vase. While we shopped, we were delighted by the Mexican folk dancers.

Frank was also happy to see the Cuban cigars (shudder), and I was excited about the jewelry, until I saw that it was not as cheap as I would expect cheap Mexican jewelry to be. I was a little worried by the insane number of women going into a tequila store (I really hoped they were on the Carnival ship) — until I saw that they were all just going in to buy pure Mexican vanilla. Giant bottles of it.

On our way back to the boat, we stopped by the beach to check out the fossils and the fishies.

Then we went back to our stateroom so Frank could give his new poncho a whirl.

I left for the endocrinologist this morning (good news! my thyroid is doing well, and my counts are improving beautifully! bad news! he still feels something on the right side and wants me to get another ultrasound in a year!) and left Frank a huge list of stuff that had to be done by 4:00 p.m. Why 4:00 p.m.? he asked. Because that’s what I have scheduled, yo. Of course, I left him enough for the whole day, but hey. We all work harder when we have a list of too many things to do. (I used to just give up and let it *all* go, but then I stopped eating gluten, and my brain works like it used to before I started getting sick. Boo gluten! Yay brain function!)

Okay, so he has gotten all forty-eleven items on the list done (except cleaning the guest bathroom), plus he replaced the burned out track lighting bulb in the kitchen (which I didn’t even ask him to replace).

Poor feller hasn’t even seen the list I have for after dinner.

A couple of nights ago we played Scattergories and drank hot tea right before bed so we would go right to sleep (decaf hot tea really does work!). We are hilarious, ridiculous, and crazy when we play that game. Here are some examples:

• “Notorious People,” letter R… Frank said Richard Nixon, and I said Rachel Lucas. Hahahaha.
• “Fruits,” letter R. We had the same fruit but different answers. I said red grapes, Frank said raisins.
• “Things in a Medicine Cabinet,” letter R. Frank tried to answer “raft.” He said, “If it’s an inflatable raft, and you deflate it and make it really small, you can stuff it in a medicine cabinet.” I nixed that one.
• “Halloween Costumes,” letter R. I said Ron Weasley, and Frank said Remus Lupin. That was awesome.
• “Parts of the Body,” letter O. Frank: ova. SarahK: orifices.
• “Things You Replace,” letter O. Frank: old people (so sad). SarahK: old boyfriends (I replaced mine pretty much every week at church camp).
• “Villains/Monsters,” letter O. Frank: Orney ogre. He meant ornery.
• “Things You Shout,” letter O. SarahK: “Oh noes!” Hahahaha.
• “Famous Duos and Trios,” letter P. SarahK: Paula, Simon, and Randy. Frank: Paul and Oates. Hahaha. I disallowed that one.
• “Vacation spots,” letter P. Frank disallowed Palestine for some reason. Hey, I saw the Gaza Strip from a distance when I went to Israel. Close enough. And he put Poland.
• “Diseases,” letter P. Frank’s answer? Puss-filled pimples. I nixed it.
• “Words associated with money,” letter P. I went with Paypal, of course.
• “Things that you wear,” letter P. Frank’s answer, I’m not kidding: Preety pumps. Misspelled pretty and put girls’ shoes. He knew he misspelled it, though (when he read off his answer). My answer was panties. I’m really glad we didn’t have the same answer.
• “Vegetables,” letter F. Frank, desperate for an answer, said Fred Thompson because people joke he’s so lazy. I said absolutely not and made him apologize.
• “Types of Drinks,” letter F. Frank said fondue. Oy.
• “Musical Groups,” letter F. This one isn’t funny, but I was so proud of my three-point answer, Five For Fighting.

I beat him, 45 to 44.

Old Yeller has, for the past few months, been topless. Dirty little desk! OY’s top is in storage, and OY’s bottom is about to go there, too. But first I had to get all the random screws, nails, nuts, and bolts out of the top two drawers (those are my “useful junk” drawers) and some kinda organized. So I had all my little semi-neat piles, and when I got home with the snack-sized zippy bags today, I started to put everything into little bags and ready to go to the tool bench. I had been rolling along for a while and came across, on top of several semi-neat piles, a big pile of nails. Huh. I was *sure* I had put the nails into the little nail box. And I don’t remember having this many nails inside the desk.

SARAHK: Where did these nails come from? Huh.
FRANK J.: What?
SARAHK: Did you put all these nails on top of Old Yeller?
FRANK J.: *mumble-mumble*
SARAHK: What?
FRANK J.: I did. Rowdi told me to do it.
SARAHK: So you just threw a big pile of nails on top of all the stuff I organized yesterday?
FRANK J.: Uh… It seemed like the thing to do.

How he expects me to get it all cleaned up when he keeps adding to the mess I will never understand.

This must be how mothers of toddlers feel.

I’ve neglected blogging about the honeymoon (that happened, um, over a year and a half ago), not because I don’t want to share it with y’all, but because we have so many fantastic pictures, and I want to tell you the whole story. Well… not everything. But the parts suitable for mixed company. ;-)

What the heck, though: I’m looking through my pictures of the Bahamas, and y’all just need to see some of them. Of course, I’m not going to share them all right now – I really want to do an in-depth, non-fake, no-sea-lice, no-Frank-going-to-jail write-up of the whole thing (when I have time, of course).

This was the last stop of our Disney cruise before coming home. Mind you, we went in December, and this is the view that welcomed us to Castaway Cay (Disney’s private island).

Gorgeous, no?

The first thing we did was start checking out the rocks to find little critters. We found some.

He was so cute!

The weather was fantastic. When we arrived in the afternoon, it was a little warm behind the trees, but we just stayed close to the water and felt an amazing breeze all day. The foliage was beautiful, and I loved these purple flowering hedges most of all.

We ate some lunch at the Disney BBQ restaurant on the island (I wasn’t GF at the time, so we were not worried about that, but Disney is outstanding at serving special dietary needs, so I’m sure I would have been able to eat). It was yummy, of course. After lunch, we had a date with a glass-bottom boat and these precious little fishies:

After the tour, we took a tram over to the adults-only beach (no scream-giggling children!) and sat under an umbrella sipping our drinks (brought right to our umbrella) until the beach closed, which meant it was nearly time to go back to the ship.

The honeymooners on the tram.

By the time we went back to the ship near sundown, it was even getting a little chilly (meaning upper 60s – translation: perfect). Knowing we were going back to muggy Florida, I was happy to be underdressed in my shorts.

The Disney Magic. Yes, that is a Christmas Tree right next to the ship.

I can’t wait to go back.

SARAHK: You didn’t finish your ham. Go put it in the fridge.
FRANK J.: Okay… where should I put it?
SARAHK: There are two plastic bags full of ham. And I already told you where to put it. “In the fridge.”

SARAHK: Who’s he talking to about his car?
FRANK J.: Your mama.
SARAHK: That is just… over the line.
FRANK J.: You’re over the line.

SARAHK: Ooh! Something keeps flying over my head!
FRANK J.: Is it a Minerva?
SARAHK: No. I think it’s a flying carpenter ant. Ooh. You know, I saw one outside Walgreens today.
FRANK J.: That’s where they must be coming from.
SARAHK: Yes. They’re exporting them to our house. ::eye roll::
FRANK J.: But if it’s a Minerva, she’ll be like “Meow! Meow! Meow!” while she’s flying over your head.
SARAHK: You are so dumb.
FRANK J.: Maybe they had a sale on fire ants. Or a fire sale on ants!

Carpenter ants. Not fire ants. (Though they do bite me when I’m sleeping.)