Frustration & lies

Remember earlier when I said earlier this week was CD 1? Yeah, turns out I lied, and it was just brief spotting. This happened the last time after a failed IUI cycle too, back in November. The R.E.'s nurse said she was surprised that I didn't have an abnormally short cycle, but instead - it drug out to epic proportions - and lasted 36 days.

Today, is CD 35. THIRTY-FIVE! And I am frustrated. Frustrated with my body, with the move this weekend, with just everything. I am frustrated because I know I'm not pregnant and I hate that my previously normal 27-29 day cycles are apparently no more.

Oh, and my boss just told me I'm going to have to work both Saturday and Sunday because we have a client emergency.

Um. How am I going to do that, move my MIL out of her house and into her new one, and move us into our new house? And um - pack. Right I haven't really managed to do that either yet. Or deal with the Granny situation.

I'm a pretty good at multi-tasking, but even I have not managed to figure out how to be in two places at once. If I make it through this weekend without a mental breakdown it's going to be a miracle - second only perhaps to the Nun Bun - or maybe the Grilled Cheese Sandwich.

Blue

I just wanted to let all of you that don't already know - Blue of Navy Blue Elephant Trunks, gave birth this week unexpectedly to her daughter, at a mere 24 weeks.

The strength and support she's given me over the last year has always been greatly appreciated. Blue and her husband and Baby Blue are going to need a lot of support and love from us. They've got a long road ahead of them right now.

Please drop in and let her know the three of them are in our thoughts.

Down the Rabbit Hole

First, I fucking hate blogger. H.A.T.E. HATE. Despise even.

Blogger hungry. Eat loooooooooong post. Chomp chomp chomp.

*spits out post that took me 40 minutes to type out in garbled mess*

Burrrrrrrrrrp.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming - I hope.
------------

How do you reconcile breaking a promise to someone - one you have sworn to with your own life - with the fact that if you truly loved that person, you would have no choice but to break it?

When my Papaw died when I was 12, Granny was petrified of being alone. I lived with her in her little house on May Lane until I was 16 and left for college. For the first time in over fifty years, she was completely and utterly alone - aside from the dog. As much as she feared being alone, the fear of living in a nursing home at some point in the future petrified her. She begged me to promise that I would never force upon her the indignity of living anywhere other than under the roof of the humble home that she owned.

Granny is an incredibly strong woman. She's had over eight documented heart attacks (many more mild ones we're pretty sure of, she carries her nitroglycerin patches and pills religiously), and at least three strokes. She's outlived five siblings, three husbands, one child, and nearly every friend she's ever really had.

She loves to argue, which makes living with her - explosive at best. She knows just what buttons to push, how to make you fold - to give in, to surrender to her. Her rogue, redheaded irish temper could make Russell Crowe look like the posterchild of peaceful existence. We used to tease her that she was simply too mean to die.

Her love is equally as fierce. I can't even begin to tell you how many of my ex-boyfriends have gone back to visit her over the years, long after our own relationships ceased. Old friends in high school, that I haven't seen for nearly a decade still visit from time to time - their kids in tow to meet their "other" Granny. In fact, most people under a certain age only know her as Granny. Her given name, Mary Etta - sound foreign, rolling off my tongue awkwardly. The bank even cashes checks she signs with simply "Granny." Even her doctors call her Granny.

A few years ago after another stroke, it became apparent that she was becoming increasingly forgetful. She would forget to let the dog out to go to the bathroom, she would forget to eat - or to turn off the gas stove when she'd cooked, or to take one of the myriad of her pills. A decision was reached by the family that she could no longer really safely live alone. My mother was working on straightening out her own life, and it seemed to be mutually beneficial for them to move in together.

So, Mom moved into a back bedroom. She worked at first, leaving Granny alone during the day - and coming home to cook and clean for her at night. She gave up living alone to live in a back bedroom, caring for a cantankerous old woman who not only didn't appreciate her - but resented that she was there.

Fiercely independent, Granny lost her privacy - and was forced to share her home with someone else after years of living alone. But truth be told, she slept better at night. She ate regularly, and she didn't miss pills anymore.

It was incredibly difficult for both of them, but it seemed that it was the only way.

After her last stroke, we noticed things just weren't "right." She'd started forgetting little things again, like the difference between "our" and "are" when she was writing letters. Granted the majority of my childhood, I was convinced my name was "Bettye-Tonya-April" (my grandmother's, mother's and my name respectively - run together quickly with a deep Texas drawl). But after the last stroke, we noticed that she was getting confused. She was no longer calling me Tonya because she was just absentminded, she thought I was my mom.

About a month ago, I got a bizarre letter from her in the mail - addressed to "Her Loved Ones" that talked about me. It said that I was having trouble with my marriage (we're definitely not), I had quit school (I graduated law school long ago), had moved over the Thanksgiving without telling her (definitely not true) and I hadn't seen her in over three years (we had just been up at Thanksgiving). I panicked when I read it, and called her immediately. She was chipper, and completely lucid when I talked to her. I finally summoned the courage to ask her about the letter, and she got angry - said she had never written such nonsensical drivel, and why would I say something so hurtful? Yet, there I was, holding stationery that I had bought her, with her distinctive handwriting scrawled across the page.

Last night, I called Mom to check on them - and I knew within seconds that it had gotten much - much worse. Mom said that Granny often forgets who my mom is, instead calling her Faye, her sister that died over 40 years ago. She usually refers to my uncle at "Howard" - her husband's name - and he died in '92. She tries to use the remote control to turn on the stove, or the water in the bathroom. She can no longer shower alone, because she forgets to turn on the cold water, and will scald herself. If not carefully watched, she'll walk up the street - in her gown and no coat. If you ask her where she's going, she'll tell you she doesn't know. And she doesn't. She has no bloomin' idea where she's going or why.

She's become fiercely combative, trading her verbal barbs for physical ones. Granted, she's incredibly frail - and she's not actually inflicting pain - but she's taken to hitting my mother randomly - often with no reason or provocation. She doesn't eat, she stays up all night, and sleeps during the day. She's becoming increasingly paranoid, convinced that people are after her. She threatens to take off in her car, and just drive - and trust me, Granny was never a good driver to begin with.

She hides her pills, then takes them randomly. She talks to the walls. She refuses to bathe, and must be physically forced to shower. Eating is a battle. My mom said it's like living with a two-year old all over again, but one trapped in a woman's body.

She doesn't remember her own pets, and panics when the dog comes in the bedroom to sleep with her, like it has every night for the last five years.

In a tearful apology, mom whispered last night that she was close to a breakdown. "I don't know how to handle this", she sobbed, "I don't have the proper training to take care of her, and I feel like I'm letting everyone down."

Everyone in the family knows, to some degree about her illness. We don't know exactly what it is that's caused it. She's refusing to go to a neurologist, because she's afraid they're going to put her in a home.

My family is in disarray. I'm actually her oldest great-grandchild. Which means, that yes - she has three children, six grandchildren, and five other great-grandchildren who could be shouldering the responsibility. Instead, her care has been relegated to my mother, her oldest grandchild, and the decision making to me. But as I lived with her during my teenage years, she and I have a deep bond. I am to share equally in her meager estate with her three grown children. They don't know what to do, so the decision has come to me - the one who knows her in some ways better than all of them. The one with the most education, and thus the most responsibility.

I cried last night softly onto Michael's chest, and he stroked my hair, and said that perhaps this is what's best. It's not fair to my mother to continue this way. It's not safe for Granny to be alone anymore. She's a danger to herself, and to others. My mother can't work because if she leaves the house for even five minutes - Granny freaks out and starts calling the police, convinced that my mother is dead in a ditch.

Her mind is forsaking her. But her body is too. Her arms and legs jerk wildly, flailing out at people around her.

The one thing that she feared worse than death, the one thing that she begged me not to do - I have no choice but to do. I will be breaking my promise to her.

I feel as if I am an executioner, signing her death warrant.

My heart is utterly breaking.

Avoiding black cats, ladders and mirrors

I did our income taxes this morning, all the while mulling over how I'd like to spend what I thought would be a modest refund - and was shocked to find that instead we will be forced to fork over a princely sum (in multiples of THOUSANDS of dollars) to the federal government this year. *Sigh* so much for running off to Belgium this spring for vacation. The irony of the lack of the pitter patter of little deductions is not lost on me.

Times like this make it so hard to be a good democrat. I have no idea how the hell this happened, especially considering that I apparently OVERPAID Social Security by close to $900 this year.

I haven't had the courage to do our state or local tax returns yet.

The stress apparently made my nose start gushing blood - which I didn't notice or feel until my pretty green turtleneck was thoroughly drenched. I felt the wetness, and looked down to see that my left breast in all its bloody carnage and realized I had no idea where the blood was coming from. Freaking out, I jumped up to grab the box of kleenex off the back of desk, and promptly upset my glass of tea into my lap - onto my suede skirt - and manage somehow to simultaneously snag my stockings on the underside of the desk - rendering an enormous runner.

My mother in law called to say that she hasn't started packing yet, and hasn't called a mover - even though we're supposed to be moving in less than a week. Less than seven days. Six even.

I hang up with her to rifle through the phone book to find a mover, and Michael calls to tell me that the cat has decided that he doesn't approve of the moving and has voiced his objections by crapping all over the boxes sitting in our living room floor. Yes. This is the same cat who gave us this lovely experience the last time we moved.

Oh, and CD1 - in case you're wondering.

Good times... good times.

I hope your day is shaping up better than mine.

Needs and Wants

As the end of a cycle draws to a close (assumingly sometime this weekend) and a new one begins, I'm suddenly very happy that we decided to forego bothering with another IUI and just wait for the IVF in May.

This extra time on my hands means I get to direct my somewhat obsessive tendencies to the house... and in particular - the kitchen, and outfitting it. Michael and I eloped, so we didn't go the typical registry route when we got married. [He had FIVE coffee makers when we got married, so some things well, didn't need to be purchased]. The rest, we've managed to purchase here and there, or have been graciously gifted with over the years.

So, we've got the basics down. They're not all the most top of the line, or most expensive... but they're all items that do nicely for us.

Cookware - check. Calphalon Contemporary Nonstick (love this. LOVE LOVE LOVE it. We had a wonky stovetop that heated unevenly, and it miraculously cured it and made the food taste as if I was an expert chef. The stovetop to oven ability is also great.) I actually have the 12 piece set, which I think just this 10 piece set with an included steamer insert and a double boiler. I bought this little gem to go with it, and it is great for making pancakes.

Knives - check. Henckles Five Star. If you have small hands like me, you'll find that other brands, such as the Wustoff Classic (which I originally wanted) are too big to comfortably handle. I've bought a few more of the same line, but for some reason they're hard to find now.

Casual dishes - check. We've got I think 10 place settings of Fiestaware. I love the colors, and they're remarkably sturdy dishes. We have the peacock, plum, shamrock, cobalt, tangerine, sunflower, cinnabar, periwinkle, turquoise, scarlet and I can't remember if we have another set.

China - check. O.k. so this really belongs in "dining room" but whatever. Lenox Serpentine Platinum, 12 place settings and other assorted serving pieces. We're not overly formal people, so we don't have really formal china. I like the clean lines that don't take away from the food.

Crystal - working on slowly filling out 12 place settings of each of the Waterford Aurora. It's a bit large - and thus only fits on certain shelves of the china cabinet, but again, I like the clean lines. It's HEAVY too, a problem I found when I put too much of it onto a glass shelf in the cabinet and it collapsed under the weight.

We just got this blender for Christmas, and it ROCKS. I love it, although it's one heavy mo fo.

And of course, my most prized possession in the kitchen is just the plain, white Kitchen Aid mixer.

I love to cook... and am stoked that I now have the room to do more entertaining (although. sigh. my house does not have the warming oven that I covet so deeply right now). I also have an affinity for random kitchen gadgets (garlic crusher, little pans that make star shaped bread loaves, tartlet pans, vintage copper cookie cutters galore), etc. And these little custard cups? I use them so often that it amazes me. I also use a set of old cast iron skillets, and my great grandmother's dinged up biscuit cutter every time I make biscuits and gravy.

So share - what items do you have in your kitchen that you adore, and could not live without? I'm talking about everything from small appliances to the quirky little gadget that you find yourself reaching for time and time again...

And what are the items you wish you hadn't bothered to have spent the money on or been gifted with? Michael's mom bought us a quesadilla maker, and I think we've used it once. It's bulky and takes up a lot of room in the cabinet. And this griddle? Please. Unless you're feeding an army, it's a pain in the ass to use and store.

-------

updated to add -

Those of you looking for new knives - well, you could always use this little addition to the household.

Further Proof That She Ain't From Around Here

The weather here is pissing me off.

Growing up in Dallas, we used to always joke that if you didn't like the weather, to hang on for a minute or two 'cause it would change; unless, of course, it was during the summer where the only change would be from "scorching" to "branding yourself with the seatbelt buckle" to possibly "seventh circle of hell hot."

So after I leave Texas I move to South Florida, where it is pretty much without fail 75 degrees - year round. New Years Day, on the beach, perhaps a chilly 72. Oh sure, we had hurricanes, and it rained EVERY SINGLE DAY my first summer there, but it was warm!

Here. Hah! Here, there is no way of knowing. Every day I wonder if I should pack a parka or a bikini.

The other day it was 65. Today - Severe Weather with "Ice Pellets" per the local paper - the hell? What are "Ice Pellets? Hail? I know what sleet is, and I know what snow is, and I know what hail is - but Ice Pellets are a new one for me.

Ahh, per the Weather Channel link in the comments, I now know what ice pellets are. Thanks!

Now, not to pat myself on the back too much, I scraped my windshield off before I left the house this morning as opposed to just sitting in the car and letting the defroster slowly well, defrost the ice. So I left the house with a clear windshield, but the sleet was coming down so fast that the defroster wasn't able to melt it. As I was driving to work I was boxed into pretty heavy traffic and the windshield suddenly turned into a giant sheet of ice. I couldn't see anything.

So, I did the first logical* thing I could think of. I leaned over and got the can of quick melting ice spray stuff out of the floorboard and OPENED THE DOOR and sprayed it with my left hand on the windshield while I was holding onto the steering wheel with the right and driving - quite fast I must sheepishly admit.

I can only imagine how much the locals laughed at my predicament. Why I didn't open the window I'm not sure, but at the time it seemed like a good idea.

A bottle of wine begs to be shared; I have never met a miserly wine lover.

Last night we ended up going out for Chinese and I drank - perhaps far too much ginjo-sho sake based on the raging headache I have this morning. In short, delightful sake, delightful food, delightfully horrible headache. We had a wonderful time though, talked and just enjoyed each other and the night out - even if it meant ignoring the fact that we have to move in 12 days and we are no where near packed. And by no where near, uh - I have an enormous stack of boxes - that well, are not full of anything yet. When we moved here, we had somewhere close to 8,000 pounds of stuff moved - and NONE OF IT WAS FURNITURE (aside from the couch, loveseat and chair). All of the furniture we've purchased here. I'm just going to pretend that it's not a big deal and the boxes will somehow magically pack themselves. Good coping strategy, no?

A few minutes ago I got a delivery of the case of the late bottled vintage 1998 Rocha's port from the Duovo demarcated region of Portugal we ordered last weekend - as yes, a Valentines present of sorts. I am beyond delighted, and can't wait to get it home tonight. I'm not generally a port fan, but this is wonderful. Heavenly even. [For Cricket - here's where you can buy it online.]

In the last few days I've talked to three people I haven't seen since elementary school, middle school and high school respectively. It's amazing to me how easy it is to find someone via the internet.

Your stories on the last post brought happiness to my apparently bitter little heart.

Every Kiss Begins With...

O.k. Please tell me I'm not the only person who's fed up beyond belief with the rash of jewelry store commercials right now. I was watching t.v. last night for maybe an hour and must have seen - no exaggeration - maybe 15 commercials. Maybe I'm just bitter about Valentines Day in general - as it's never been one of my favorite holidays. Why? Because it's basically become a mass-produced, overly commercialized holiday that is all about fulfilling unattainable expectations and little, or sadly nothing to do with demonstrating how you actually care about someone.

It seems that people get all verklempt around this time of year wringing their hands about the holiday desperately trying to find the "perfect" gift. A veritable flood of magazines {incidentally I don't read many "women's magazines" because their constant drone of "Be A New Woman, here are 15,702 ways to make him want you!" articles are a little offputting. Following their logic the only way that I can succeed as a woman is by being some guy's great lay? Um, no thank you. I'm not sure why or when Cosmo et al went from being an "empowering" magazine to "Fucking for Dummies *Now with Copious Advertisements Showing Emaciated Women That Are Beautiful Because We Said So!*" but I digress...}, t.v. shows and radio ads are stressing how important it is to give the "perfect" gift to your "special someone" for Valentines Day. And why is it that this day is so important? Shouldn't the way you treat each other the other 364 days a year be just as important?

And in doing so, they intone that if you (god forbid) don't have someone special to spend your day with you're a loser. [And Yes, I have been dumped on Valentines Day. Perhaps there is the source of my true bitterness toward it?] And if you don't buy diamonds, or chocolate, or lingerie, or flowers - well, you don't really care enough about the person you're with.

Maybe I'm the one who just doesn't "get it" - but thinking back to the most romantic things I've ever gotten in my life, none of them was flowers, candy or jewelry. About five years ago, a bunch of friends (a group of probably 20 males and females together) and I were sitting around in a bar after classes talking about the most romantic thing that someone could do for you. Not one of us listed jewelry, roses, candy, etc. Instead it was a homemade card, poetry, just listening, etc. I was single at the time, and I said I had always fantasized about someone throwing up little pebbles to my window - so I would open the window and have them tell me they loved me. Perhaps a little too Romeo and Juliet - but whatever.

A few weeks later, tied to my door (I lived on the 16th floor of a high rise) with a ribbon was a plastic sack of tiny pebbles. There was no note, no indication of who sent it. Obviously, I have no way to know if it was just random occurrence, or if it was someone making reference to what I had said. But I kept those pebbles in a glass vase on my nightstand for a very long time as a reminder that it is the small things in life that matter most.

I probably wear the diamond earrings that Michael bought me as a surprise a few years ago 6 out of 7 days a week. But the most romantic thing he did for me was mowing the yard. Seriously. We'd been married about 2 years, and I was in the kitchen washing dishes, and he was in the back yard mowing. He came in, hot and sweaty and yelling that there was something I had to come see. When I went out there, he had mowed I (heart) You in the grass. Now, you have to understand, Michael is not a mushy person. He's not the type to write gushy poetry or sing love songs, but more than anything else he's ever done - that touched me.

So anyway, I'm curious - what are your thoughts on Valentines' Day? How do you celebrate it, if you do? What's the most romantic thing someone could give you (or has, if you want to give us the details)?

Be as chatty as you want in the comments.

----------------------
And as to the last post, thank you for your kind thoughts. I didn't post that to have you shower me with praise, though... as shameful as it is to admit - far too often I look the other way when someone is in need. Too often I pretend that they aren't there, that I don't see them. Bobby touched me in a way that I didn't think possible, and I haven't stopped thinking about him. For the last week, I've been circling the neighborhood around the restaurant- trying to find him. When it snowed Saturday I cried, worried about him in the cold. I searched for him for close to 40 city blocks. But what I realized in doing so, is that it's not just him that needs help - that needs to be treated with respect and love. It's the woman carrying two kids and pushing another in a stroller. It's the 10 year old kid wearing clothes that don't fit. It's the attorney in the next office, the teller at the bank, the cranky neighbor who *still* has their christmas lights on when I get home at night. It's all of us.

Recognized.

I packed for a few hours when I got home last night, wrapping up things that have lovingly become a part of our home - carefully wrapping the crysal, the china, the picture frames that held family photographs. At about nine o'clock - I realized we still hadn't eaten dinner and I didn't particularly feel like cooking. BBQ sounded good - and I asked Michael to drive with me, as the place I wanted to go was across town, and I didn't want to go by myself. The wind was blowing, and it was cold - maybe 20 degrees or so.

We walked in, and we were one of only maybe 15 people scattered in the restaurant, and incidentally the only white folks in the place. (I say that only because it surprises me how startled the employees look everytime we go there. There's around four of these restaurants in the metro area - and this one isn't in what I would consider really to be the ghetto, but it's in a relatively high-crime area, and for whatever reason while white folks go there during the day, there's some sort of unspoken rule that they rarely go there at night.

[Race discourse isn't really the point behind this post, and while I'd like to pretend that it doesn't matter - the undercurrents of "otherness" are defintiely palpable when you walk in and every single person stops what they're doing and turns to look at you and stare. To be the minority is uncomfortable, and I realize that my thirty minute foray into it doesn't begin to address how thousands of blacks deal with it on a daily basis. I wish it wasn't like that - and while I concede that great progress has been made, we've got a LONG way to go before it's no longer a "black and white" issue.]

"Hi, May I help you?" the woman behind the counter asked. We put in our orders, and I ended up getting $5 back through some promotion that they had going on. While we were standing at the register waiting to pay, the room became suddenly quiet. A large man, maybe 6'3" came in wearing sunglasses, a trench coat and a hood up over his head. I didn't see him at first, because he was standing directly behind me. But I could smell him. He reeked of stale urine and musty clothes. He was uncomfortably close, and the woman behind the counter stepped back from the register, her voice wavering and asked if he would please remove his hood and sunglasses. He did, his hands trembling, and asked if they had coffee. She said yes, that it was around the corner, and he asked how much it was, and she said he could have it for free. He thanked her, went and got a cup of coffee, said good evening to us as he passed, and sat in the dining room alone, humming softly.

He was kind, he wasn't bothering anyone, and to be honest, I forgot he was there. We ate our meal and as we walked out, Michael said, "Honey, you know. That five dollars that we got back at dinner would mean a lot more to him than it would to us. Why don't you run back in and give it to him with and let him get a hot meal."

At first I was hesitant. While it seemed that he was probably homeless, or at the very least very down on his luck, I didn't want to offend him. I didn't want him to think of me as some uppity white bitch taking pity on him. What if he got angry and caused a scene?

Michael reached into his pocket, pulled out all the cash he had and stuffed it crumpled into my hand. "Just go." I grabbed the money we'd gotten back from the register, and cursed wishing I had more cash in my wallet.

I turned around, and approached him. His eyes were closed, his hands resting on the top of the table and I was afraid he'd fallen asleep. "Um... sirr...." I stammered, and he opened his eyes. I quickly stuffed the wad of bills under his hand and whispered, "Please, have something to eat other than a cup of coffee. It isn't much, but please, have a bite to eat." He looked up at me, and he asked me my name. He smiled and said "I'm Bobby. It's a pleasure to meet you." He invited me to sit with him, and tears welled in his eyes.

"Thank you." He said. "Thank you for taking the time to care about someone else, for saying hello, for just recognizing me as a person. God Bless You." I squeezed his hand, and wished him well, and then ran out to the waiting car - where I promptly burst into giant racking sobs. It breaks my heart to see someone who is suffering, without a roof over their heads, without food, without the ability to even provide for the most basic needs. It breaks my heart because I know - it could've been me, or anyone that I love standing there instead of him.

What we did, in the grand scheme of things was really nothing. It was just a little money, and we live a very comfortable life. We could afford to give much more than we do, and we should. But last night, my heart was so full of love for someone I didn't even know that it devastated me.

A close friend of mine's wife went this year and walked, delivering holiday cards to the homeless in her hometown. It was a small gesture of love for humankind, cost her basically nothing, and brought a brief glimpse of normalcy and happiness to the lives of people that are often cast aside and ignored.

This may not make sense, but this is why I want children. I want a child so that I can teach them that everyone, no matter their physical or economic stature, no matter their race, their age, their sex is important. Each person deserves to be recognized as worthy, to be treated with grace and dignity.

Take a chance. Recognize someone that many find it easier to ignore.

No Time For Love Dr. Jones...

Another low key weekend, but go-go-go-go the entire time. I'm not sure how that's possible really, but it is.

Friday I left work early with a tremendous backache - to the point that I was close to vomiting from pain. I have no idea what the hell I did to my back, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it was caused by something I'd rather not relate to the doctor. After taking um, seven or eight 500 mg. extra strength tylenols on Saturday I was still close to tears. Considering we were in the car for the majority of Saturday (going back and forth 2+ hours to a college basketball game) it was not a good time to have a backache. There's still an uncomfortable soreness that feels very similar to when I was overstimulated so I'm seriously hoping that this is not some ovarian cyst gone awry.

We spent hours yesterday discussing what we're going to do with the house to make it "our" space and planning out the basement renovations. Amazingly for a man who had little more than a black metal futon when we married, he actually has excellent taste. Unfortunately that means he's putting quite a bit of input into the decisions which I had not anticipated. The sage green that I had wanted to do the downstairs bathroom in, he now wants to do the kitchen in. Hmpf.

We went to FOUR lighting stores on Saturday, not counting the big home improvement box stores - and still are without a light fixture for the entryway.

The kitchen is a somewhat L-shaped eat-in kitchen. The custom made cabinets are all cream color (not something I would have picked necessarily), the countertops are similarly cream and the floor is large cream ceramic tiles. The appliances are also all cream. The wallpaper in there now is fairly non-offensive, and maybe four months old, but Michael has put the kibosh on the wallpaper, so we're debating paint colors now. The only thing that we've agreed on is no yellow, and no blue. When we moved into our home in Florida - the kitchen was painted somewhere between pumpkin and Tennessee orange. It sounds horrible, but we really grew to love it. We've decided to do something else though in this house.

The kitchen will have an oak farm-style table and chairs (which I personally dislike, but it was his before we were married and he is oddly attached to the table). I have an assorted collection of fiestaware that we'll use in this room, so I want something color wise that won't be garrish with those serving pieces. Any suggestions? He doesn't want "in your face" color - and I don't want boring boring neutrals.

I guess it would help if I'd upload pics of the house, huh?

Was it just me or were the Superbowl ads oddly boring this year? Aside from the "magic fridge" Bud ad, I don't think I even laughed. And how much older can Mick Jagger get? He could have at least endeared himself to me by calling it gridiron, but alas...

I tossed and turned until 2 last night, at which point I decided that I was either going to have to smother Michael with the pillow or go sleep in the guest room. I opted, rather reluctantly at the time for the cold guest bed. Unfortunately both cats thought that meant we were having a party in there - and I was trampled on by the monsters all night long.

I finally fell asleep at 5. The alarm went off at 5:15.

Bags under your eyes are the new black. At least that's what I'm trying to convince everyone of today...