Screw you 2011 I want my flying car!

Looking back on all these retrospectives of 2011 I can't help but gag a little whenever I see some glowing post about how fantastically awesome 2011 has been.

"OMG it's the best year ever"

"2011 has been a year of amazements"

"this has been the best year of my life"

Really? Because I have to say that 2011 has been a year of disappointments. Do you what I drive? A Toyota. It's a regular car that drives on a regular road. Seriously, how boring is that? It doesn't fly, or transform, or talk to me. It just sucks gas and drives.

And do you know how I get from pace to place (when I'm not driving my boring car) I walk. No jet pack, not even a hover board. Seriously, I'm willing to start wearing high tops if it means I get a hover board.

So I ask you 2011, where is my personal robot like Rosie from the Jetsons? Shouldn't she be waking me up in the morning with coffee and breakfast? Shouldn't she be making my bed and brushing my teeth and basically turning me into the laziest person EVER (side bar: why weren't the Jetsons fatter). Where is my spaceship? Where is my machine that magically cooks anything I want with the touch of a button in under 60 seconds? And for the love of Pete where is my flying car?

I mean sure, I'm typing this on my iPad while listening to my iPod and answering email on my phone...but really 2011 I expected more from you.

The Rejection Game

Do you remember middle school gym class and how horrifying it was when two of the super athletic cool kids were chosen as team captains and the rest of the class lined up waiting to be picked?

This, as you can well imagine, never ended well for me.  I was neither popular, or athletic.  What I was, was short...very short.  I was once compared to a wind-up toy.

For this reason I never much cared for gym, and never took it past those dreaded middle school years (in my high school the marching band counted as PE credit...told you I wasn't popular).

I like to think that those middle school gym classes were the beginning of my fear of rejection.  And lets face it, no one really likes being rejected.  We strive to fit it, to be part of a crowd, to be accepted by those around us.  It's the reason why people dress, and act, and talk, the way they do.  And lets not pretend like you don't do it too.  Everyone wants acceptance.

I'm not saying its a bad thing to want to be accepted.  I'm saying that it sucks to be rejected.

The adoption process, at least in my personal experience, is a study in rejection.  You spend months getting paperwork together; with background checks, and fingerprints (multiple times which, come on, is stupid), and social work visits, and interviews.  Your friends and family write letters of recommendation.  You create a self-absorbed (on purpose) scrapbook all about how fantastically awesome you are.  And FINALLY you submit everything to the agency and you wait...

and wait...

and wait...

And while each adoption journey, domestic or international, has it's own particular struggles, the wait is universal. And it doesn't matter if you wait 4 months for a birth mother to choose you in a domestic situation, or 36 months to get your match from China, the waiting (while it lasts), seems endless.

In my particular case the wait (9 months and counting) is interrupted with these intense moments of hope.  When I match the criteria a birth mother is looking for, and my profile is shown.  Let me assure you that the wait, during those moments, is worse then endless.  And when the hope dies, I'm still waiting, the short, unpopular kid in gym class, standing on the sidelines while everyone else plays.

It sucks...a lot.

And it's happened five times. 

And I really don't want it to happen a 6th.

A girl can only be rejected so many times before she starts to think...maybe it's her.

(also, gym teachers, I really hope you don't let the cool kids pick teams anymore...just sayin)

Envy

I often find my self suffering from blog envy or, more specifically, envy of the crafty-antiquey-bakey-homemadey stuff I see in blogs.

You see in my mind I am that girl, the one who crafts, and writes, and reads, and L.I.V.E.S. everyday like life is some sort of carnival and I'm queen of the parade.

And I like to craft, and antique, and bake (ok that's a lie, unless you count the cookies that you just break apart and set on the cookie sheet because I can bake the shit out of those), and do homemade things.

But.....

I'm inherently lazy.  I mean there are lots of things I like to do (in theory).  Things like knit, and open an etsy shop, and find a job I can do from home AND make enough money to pay the bills, and run.

But...my hands hurt when I try to knit.

Etsy already has ten thousand of any idea I've ever had (and they are all way cuter than anything I could make).

I was an English Major, which means that my second degree gave me the skills I needed to get a job, but somehow teaching from my living room isn't shaping up to be that million dollar work-from-home idea.

The idea of shopping for a sports bra hardy enough to reign in the girls is too overwhelming for words.

So until then I'll continue to read blogs and drool over the craft rooms, and gorgeously wrapped presents, and lovely re-purposed furniture that someone just happened to find in an old barn.  And I'll work on small projects and dream of the day when my niece won't need a play room and I can turn  it into a crafting mecca....

Classy is my middle name

There is, in my town, a gated community.  A very nice gated community. With guards, and "estates."  It holds the type of houses where I imagine that people dress for dinner.  The kind of places where the pool house out back is bigger than my first apartment.  The kind of neighborhood where the Gilmore's would live (Richard and Emily obviously...Lorelai wouldn't be caught dead there) It's one of those neighborhoods that get made fun of for being snotty and stuck up (and let's be honest....parts of it probably are).

But I have friends that live in the (still very nice) but un-snotty part of the neighborhood.  And when I visit them, as I often do, I am usually conscious of the bevy of (very nice) cars going by me in the residents lane while I idle in the visitors lane waiting for another lawn-care truck to get waved through by the guard of the hour.

And often as I sit, I become aware of the fact that my car is old, and dirty, and has a pile of discarded Starbucks cups and empty diet coke cans on the floor of the backseat. And I wonder if the guard is secretly judging me for not living up to the Gated Community standards.

Still I don't spend a lot of time worrying about it (time that could be better used playing reruns of  the Gilmore Girls in my head).  And, since I'm generally such a classy person, I feel fairly certain that I belong in that particular neighborhood (or at least my friends house).

But then on Friday, I pulled up to the gate around 8:00pm to let the dog out and check the mail, already in my pajamas (sans bra), missing one hubcap, with a piece of pie on a paper plate on the passenger seat and a Styrofoam cup full of cool whip in the cup holder I thought..."way to keep it classy Keener"

And also,  this place may be a bit out of my league (I'm way more Lorelai than Emily anyway)

How do I not own this?

There are a few things you should know about me....

First, I'm pretty much always cold.

Second, I dig crafting. 

Knowing this one would think that I would be the proud owner of a Snuggie (Hello?  A blanket with sleeves....GENIUS).  I could be warm and craft, or read, or play on the computer without having to readjust the blanket to keep me snuggly (OMG do you think that's where they got the name?).  I have a plethora of blankets, fleece, wool, big, small, electric, and old fashioned, but I don't own a Snuggie. Which is sad, but I've been able to muddle through life just fine without one thank-you-very-much.

Last week I found myself flipping through one of the approximately 10 million catalogs that have arrived in the mail this month and I came across that can only be described as the GREATEST. SNUGGIE. EVER.

But before you can fully appreciate how completely amazing this particular Snuggie is, you have to know one more thing about me...

Once upon a time it was my dream to be Wonder Woman.  Seriously.  She is clearly awesome.  I spent a good deal of time running around in my Wonder Woman underroos pretending to be her.  And so you must understand that when I saw an ad for this

I was immediately transported back to a childhood spent running around our apartment in this...

And it became abundantly clear that THIS Snuggie was made for me!!! (for real yo, I want it)!!

What I Remember

I remember the phone ringing, not wanting to answer it because I was tired, but answering it anyway.

I remember my mom telling me to turn on the TV because there had been a plane crash, and feeling annoyed because I was scheduled to fly to Paris the next day and who wants to watch news about a plane crash the day before they fly.

I remember the exact shade of green of the shirt I was wearing and the feel of the ottoman against my legs when I pulled it up to sit within a foot of the television.

I remember seeing that second plane enter the screen and disappear into a cloud of fire and smoke, and crying in disbelief.

I remember, with absolute perfect clarity, watching a man and woman holding hands as they fell, and thinking my god, what must it be like for that choice, the choice to jump, be your best option.

I remember yelling, YELLING, at Peter Jennings when the split screen showed the tower begin to sway and then fall, and the look on his face when he realized what had happened.

I remember calling my college roommate who worked in the House of Representatives, when the news reported that a plane had crashed in DC, but they didn't know where.

I remember calling her parents to tell them she was okay, that it wasn't Capital, and that she would call them when she could.

I remember how empty the sky looked without anything flying.

I remember story upon story upon story of ordinary people doing extraordinary things.

I remember thinking that someday I would be teaching my kids about this day and how very odd that seemed.

I remember feeling angry, and sad, and confused, and scared.

I remember standing at ground zero, 9 years and 9 months after that day and still not being able to really comprehend what had happened, and just how enormous the buildings had been, and how difficult the cleanup efforts were.

I remember it like it just happened, and I imagine I always will...

The one where I reminisce about a driveway....

Hill House comes with a driveway.  A steep driveway.  I mean seriously steep, like taking the trash down each week is kind of dangerous because if the can gained enough momentum it could totally flatten me.

Here is a totally accurate illustration of the driveway.

Luckily I live in Georgia so at least I don't have to think about things like ice or snow coating the driveway.  Or, more accurately, I don't have to worry about ice and snow because if we ever do get ice or snow the entire state basically shuts down so I won't feel obligated to go anywhere until it all goes away...

At first the driveway completely put my sister and I off the house.  The first time we drove by and saw it we immediately threw it out as an option.  Not only did I have absolutely no desire to drive up it, I most certainly didn't want to have to mow the equally steep front hill.

As it turns out the front hill isn't an issue because I don't mow it (that's what lawn services are for), and the driveway isn't such a big deal because there is enough flat driveway at the top to park, and play, and turn the car around so I don't have to back down that monster hill.

But most importantly the driveway makes me totally nostalgic for childhood (I know, right), but it's totally true.

See, my BFF growing up was a girl named Brenda.  Brenda lived in my neighborhood, and I practically lived at her house.  Her house, much like Hill House, had a steep driveway.  The only difference being that while my driveway is very steep it is relatively short, and her driveway was both steep and l-----o-------n--------g.

In the winter we loved to sled down her front hill and fly off the top retaining wall only to hit the, slightly less steep, bottom portion of the hill.  Sometimes we would build a snow ramp and attempt to sled down it off the retaining wall but my aim, as ever, sucked so that never really worked out.

But the absolutely BEST THING EVER was riding down her driveway on my scooter.  Oh yeah, I had a scooter.  It was a thing of mint-green beauty and I rode is so often that my dad actually had to replace the break pads on it (I'm such a bad ass....wearing out the breaks on a scooter).  It looked a little something like this:

Only, as I've mentioned, mint green.  And, if riding the scooter wasn't fun enough, Brenda and I used to BOTH sit down on it, legs askew, and ride it down her driveway, across the road, and into the driveway across the street (thank you Peacock family).  All the while I was stretching my short little arms as high as possible so I could hold onto the handlebar and "steer", or break if it became necessary.

Looking back, it probably wasn't the safest way to spend the afternoon, but it was super fun.  And I think about it every single time I go up or down my driveway, and I kind of wish I had a scooter to try out on this driveway.

B-I-G Ideas

The thing about adoption is that it costs money.  A LOT of money.  And while there are any number of things I worry about on a daily basis (is the puppy going to pee in the house, is that a gray hair on my head, where is the closest exit and how quickly can I get to my niece if the house is suddenly stormed my kidnappers...you know, the usual) there is one thing that takes the worry trophy and that is money.

And I hate that it is money.

Because this house was the right decision.  There is space for a baby, work is ridiculously close, the school district is great, and I love it....but the adoption fund took a hit.

And I knew it would.

But, yikes! It was a big hit.

And I've decided that what I need is an IDEA (yes, in all caps). Like and epic harry-potter-meets-twilight-meets-any-other-damn-thing-that-just-popped-into-the-heads-of-their-creators type of idea.  Because I every time I think of something I could make, or sell I find 25 of them on Etsy (and way cuter than I could have done), and I don't thinking selling my eggs would work (but don't think I haven't thought of it, or the irony of it), but I know I need something.

I have a second job.
I'm saving a crap-ton of money in this new house since I split everything with my sister.
My gas bill went down to almost nothing since I can see work from my backyard.

But I've done the yard sales, and I have nothing left to sell.
And I've done the budget, and I have nothing more to save.

But if I'm perfectly honest there is one thing that I haven't really done, haven't honestly done and that is pray.  I mean for real pray.  Specifically pray.  Just for what I need.  Because honestly, honestly, it works.  I know it works.  I've seen it work. 

And it's just me, my doubts, my worries, my me-ness, that has prevented me from truly believing that I can trust Him with this worry, with this need.  Which is ridiculous because I fully trust Him to bring my daughter home.  Seriously, that worry never enters my mind because I am absolutely certain that my child will come home when the time is right.  

So why is it so hard to believe that He will help me find a way to get the money so that He can bring her home?

(and wow did this post go off in a direction I wasn't expecting, so I give.  I'm listening, and I'm praying...and okay, I'm still thinking of BIG ideas but only because I think it would rule to retire and work from home)

The One Where I Complain About Health Insurance

It's no secret that I have some medical needs.  Things are actually pretty awesome in the RA department, but even when I'm feeling good I still have to take medicine daily to maintain the good.  Until recently this has been no big deal.  I have insurance which covers a bulk of the cost.  My local pharmacists know me on sight.  And I (usually) remember to order my refills in time.

All was going well until last month when my insurance company decided that my expensive medication (enbrel) had to now come from a "specialty" pharmacy.  As far as I can tell the only thing "special" about their pharmacy is that it's especially annoying. 

When I have to pick up my enbrel from my local pharmacy I get this. 

I can call the pharmacy on a Friday when I need the enbrel on Saturday.  It takes me 5 minutes to get to the store.  And, as an added bonus, I can pick up a Diet Coke, or People magazine while I'm there.

Under the new policy (which is supposed to make the process easier), I have to call the pharmacy at least a week in advance.  They then bug the crap out of me on the phone (um, no I don't want to sign up for anything I just want my medication, and I'm already annoyed that I have to call you to do that so lets just move on shall we).

And did you notice how small the box is that my medicine is in?  Yeah, because this is the package that came in the mail today....

And inside that giant box was an equally giant styrofoam cooler

And inside that giant styrofoam cooler were three cold packs, and one tiny box of meds....

And YES the cooler and ice packs are necessary to keep the syringes at the right temperature...but seriously?  Mother Nature is SOOOO pissed at me right now (and I blame you Health Insurance)!

The Waiting Game

I often imagine that waiting to get THE call from my adoption agency saying that I've been chosen by a birth mother is akin to that 3 minutes you have to wait between peeing on the stick and seeing that little pink line.....times, like, a million!

And in the months since my papers became official at the agency I've only had one of these moments. At the beginning of a 12 hour car ride I got an email about a "situation" (as they call them), asking if I would be interested in the birth mother viewing my profile (Duh). And even though I knew I shouldn't, my mind shifted into overdrive and I had this baby in my arms, in my life, and in my heart almost as soon as I pressed send. 

This could be it, this could be my daughter, this stranger on an email could be tied to me forever through adoption.

I told five people about the email.  Five people who I knew would keep it close to their hearts.  Who wouldn't ask me 15 times a day if I'd heard anything yet.  Five people who I consider family, even though three of them technically aren't.  Five people who I know will be a part of my daughters life. 

And after the longest weekend of my life, I had to tell those five people that I hadn't been chosen.  That the little girl who had lived in my imagination wouldn't be coming home to me.  That this was not THE call, simply A call.

It sucked

And again I imagine it's like waiting for that line to turn pink, for the test to say yes, for those three minutes to change your life forever. 

So while I wait for my turn, for my pink line, for my life to change forever I'll continue my endless dreaming, my imagining, my wondering....and I'll try very, very hard not to pee on any sticks (because I really don't think it'll help).

Para-whating?

I don't about you but when I think about parasailing I think about one thing...Jurassic Park III.

What? You don't? Oh, come on, you remember the opening scene right?  People innocently enjoying a day of parasailing while hoping to catch a dinosaur on their sweet camcorder when suddenly the boat runs into a mysterious thick fog and is obscured from view (are you with me now) and once the fog rolls back out again the innocent parasailers are shocked to see that the boat is now empty and they wind up stranded on an island overrun with scary dinosaurs and it's up to Dr. Alan Grant to come in and rescue them.

It's pretty much the main reason why I've never gone parasailing before since dinosaurs are super scary. 

But despite all that I decided to give parasailing a whirl while I was at the beach since I was fairly certain that there would be no mysterious fog (or retired billionaires trying to genetically recreate dinosaurs from the blood they found inside a mosquito trapped in fossilized sap) in Gulf Shores, Alabama which is how I found myself strapped into a harness attached to a parachute on the back of a boat in the Gulf of Mexico...and it ruled.

Of course me being me I spent most of the ride using only the power of my mind to keep the rope connecting us to the boat secure (only one knot? really?), and also making contigency plans in case my mind power failed and the rope snapped in which case I tried to remember everything I could from movies about people jumping into large bodies of water from great heights (mainly to keep my feet together to prevent breaking them, and my arms crossed in front of my chest to prevent breaking...them).  And I was very proud of my quick thinking survival skills until my sister pointed out that I was attached to a PARACHUTE and that if the rope I was keeping secure through mind power were to fail I would just, you know, float...

But at least there were no dinosaurs.

Testicles are NOT food...and other reasons why I have trouble with change

As a general rule I'm not a fan of change.  I like order, and structure, and routine.  I do NOT like disorder, or chaos, or uncertainty.

This is the reason why my house doesn't get redecorated for every season. 

Why I still like the same foods as I did as a kid (with the exception of the great Mustard Revelation of 2002).

Why my hair stays the same.

Why I don't rearrange furniture.

Order GOOD.  Change BAD. ...these are words I live by (along with my motto: "just because they make it in your size doesn't mean you should wear it").

But last month I suddenly found myself surrounded by chaos and change. My sister and I bought a new house and were stuck in moving limbo for what seemed like eternity.  I arranged, and rearranged, and rearranged movers and delivery trucks, and the cable guy, and the bug guy, and the gas guy. It sucked (thanks for nothing Wells Fargo). 

On top of that, I found myself in the position to accept a new job, in a new town, with completely new and different rules and responsibilities.  And while it is very exciting and I'm very happy with the new position and can't wait for school to start (gasp)...it's also kind of scary.

But now that we're settled in the new house, and boxes are beginning to be unpacked, and rooms are starting to get painted, and research is being done on the new job, I'm discovering that change is actually pretty awesome.

While I'm not saying that I'm going to suddenly run out and change everything else in my life I am saying that it's probably not a bad idea to start introducing some change into my (kinda boring) life.

So I'll be willing to try new things. 

Go new places.

Eat new foods*

And let change not be so scary.

*seriously though, you can dress up your testicles and call them mountain oysters all the live-long day...they are still not food

I've been a bad, bad....blogger

Wow I kind of suck at this blogging thing.