I told you something was coming

Remember how I said something was coming our way? I was right.

The Hub and I are deciding right now whether we will become a family of 5 by Monday. Whether my car fits three carseats might come down to be a deciding factor.

I guess this is where it starts.

Still Waiting for that Something Good

Earlier this week I'd written that I had a good feeling about this week. So far, the only suprise is that The Hub scheduled me for a dentist appointment today and that my dad needs me to work for him. Not so exciting.

I think I'll shop between the dentist and being my dad's hands. I found a recipe for custom-blended chai that I'd like to try, and I have a few new stores to check out in my parents' area. I've tried to get to these shops the last 10 times or so I've been to my parents' house since Dad broke 23 bones, but he always finds stuff for me to do that keeps me there until after he falls asleep. Turns out it is hard to do your own work when you don't have use of your hands. Not really a shocker, I know, but damn, can real estate development be boring. Nothing Trumpy at all about researching the history of road weight restrictions in Bastrop, Texas. Or figuring out why the grass is green at one golf course, but not at the one two miles away. Neighborhood covenants suck, too.

So, yes, shopping is in order, even if it is just for whole cloves and cinnamon sticks. (Yah, that's how exciting I am.)

Around the House

First up: The sign from the restaurant The Hub and I went on our first date. We went there again on our first anniversary (the little wedding anniversary), and the owner told us he was getting a new sign. Before I could remember to be polite I'd blurted out, "Can we have the old one?" It lives with us now and takes up the majority of a wall.

The next two are pastel drawings done in 1905 or thereabouts. The kids are my great-grandfather's older brother and sister, and the adults are my great-great grandparents. My great-grandmother (the Viola from the story a month ago or so) showed these to me about 10 years ago, then promptly returned them to their hiding spot underneath her couch. When she died, I asked my grandmother if I could take them, and she said, "Oh, of course, I was just going to burn them." There's a bit of glare because I've since framed them, but after playing with the angle it isn't too bad.

Pushing Paint Around

Next week, we will have lived in our house for two years. For me, this is big. I'm a girl who would sign a lease for 6-9 months, and then move on to fresh carpet, white walls, bigger, smaller, first floor, more counter space in the bathroom, newer kitchen appliances, whatever, via moveforfree.com when I got sick of the neighbors/drunks/drive to work/proximity to the firehouse of my old apartment.

So what's a girl to do when combining two 700 sf households that have maximized efficiency by adhering to the rule of "what will moveforfree really move for free?"? Aside from haunting the Pottery Barn/West Elm Outlet store 15 miles to our North looking for items I'd circled in the catalogue but refused to pay full price or shipping for, ya start making things. $7 window panels from the Croscill outlet get cut in half and embroidered and resewn to cover the bathroom window, napkin rings and 1-inch wooden dowels become curtain rods with some paint and a glue gun, and The Hub's poker table gets a hearty application of spray paint and the chair seats get reupholstered with elephant-skin pleather and a staplegun.

Once the windows are covered and you've found a $300 coffee table for $70 (oh how I love the Outlet Mall and the bottle of black-brown paint I used to cover up the flaws), you need more stuff, it turns out. After searching high and low for cheap cool stuff (cause mortgage is a scary word), I found inspiration at Wal-Mart. Yes, Wal-Mart. See, I was on a manic homemaking streak there the first few weeks, once the boxes were unpacked all I could think of was decorating, so of course I needed more hot melt glue at 2 AM, and damn it, the only place to get it was Wal-Mart.

Which brings me to today's photo array (I'm trying to get in the habit of taking pictures everyday, since I've been so bad about it in the past. The Hub and I have 3 photographs of ourselves from before we got married, and they were all sent to us by friends or family). That glassware was all bought at WM, and in one night I used acrylic paints swirled and brushed along the inside of the vases and votives and candy dishes to give it the lovely happy look it has now.

Most people can't tell that it is just paint, and even The Hub forgets (he sent all the stuff in the blue photos through the dishwasher about a month ago because they were dusty. After getting hit with the Pots and Pans cycle, they were naked and the dishwasher filter a bit stopped up.). I actually get compliments on the glassware, and people ask who made them for me. This leads to an embarrassed explanation that, "Um, I made them. They're painted." The same thing happened with my sunburst-style painting, until I put a made up name on it.

So, if you are looking for murano-fake, go get a clear glass vase, bowl, votive, or dish. Pick your acrylic paint colors, and squirt paint into the base. Dip flatheaded paintbrush into edge of paint pool, and drag up side in one stroke. I like to mix a few colors in and brush them on at the same time, but if you want a dominant color, use one paint first, allow to dry, and then layer another color on. Too much brushing will blend the colors, so cleaning your paintbrush every now and then is a good idea. If you want to seal them to be waterproof, go for it.

In other news, ACL Day 3 was good. Not as many bands that I lurved already, so we spent it mostly wandering about and drinking chai out of a thermos.

We're making plans to go up to College Station on The Hub's frat's Founders' Day. I swear, if I'd been told ten years ago that I'd marry an Aggie frat boy, I'd have thrown up on you. (If you're not from Texas, just know that in my mind, in general, UT = liberal and progressive, A&M not so much) We're also planning a trip to Minnesota (yay, I get to go home!). In addition, I've been approved for a big craft show and sale because of the dolls and toys I've sold in the area gift shops. I figure once we have a million things going on, other things will start coming together.

I have a good feeling about this week. Maybe something cool will happen.

Too Much Party

Austin City Limits Music Festival = awesome, again.
Me = dehydrated.
Ears = ringing.
Weather = 97 degrees.
Skin = saltlick.
Standing too close to speakers at Gnarls Barkley = unexpected shedding of uterine lining.
Khaki capris = totally embarassing.
30 minute wait for bathroom = buying ACL sweatshirt and tying around waist.

More fun tomorrow. With tampons.

Adoption Underachievers

We submitted two more inquiry forms this morning, bringing our grand total of inquiries to... drumroll... ten.

Up until I read Margaret's post, I thought that the 8 we'd submitted (of which 3 seem active, one was ignored, one child was beyond our abilities, and the rest have either been placed/aren't ready for adoption) was a lot. But, um, not so much anymore. Granted, we plan on adopting from our home state, as I think a 6-9 month ICPC might kill me, so our pool is smaller than Margaret's. But reading the advice people gave her in their comments helped a bunch, too. Casting a wider net might be a good idea.

At the moment, the three profiles that seem to be active are all in the same region. This region sends out form letters saying, "Don't call us, we'll call you in 30-45 days," which is more than most, but it still isn't much, but still more than I've come to expect. We're in the 30-45 day timeframe now, so maybe we'll hear something back soon. Two of the inquiries have a good chance of going nowhere, I think from the state's perspective we'll be too noob for the kids. Our homestudy is booooring, not to mention full of errors when it was submitted on the kids, so I don't feel too confident. But there is a child we sent a homestudy in for, a boy who likes bugs and bears an uncanny resemblance to my sister (seriously, if I didn't know she didn't have a child years ago, I'd request a DNA test), that everyone on our end thinks could be "the one." He's the only child our SW has suggested for us, and by the time she sent his information to us, I'd already sent our inquiry. My mother has put this boy's photograph up on her refrigerator, she's sent his profile to my aunt and grandparents, and my dad asks me things like, "Think he'll want to do Boxcar Derby?"

I'm really dreading not being matched to him. I want to be matched to him, but I'd guess there are a lot of people who would also like to be matched to him, and the odds are we won't be, even though I think we'd be good for him.

(That sounded kind of sad and self-defeating, and I didn't mean it that way. So to end on a happier note, here's a photo of me and my sister at our grandparents' lakehouse in 1985. Bikes! Polka-dot swimsuits! Big puppy! Happy!)

Yes, Still Adopting

We're still adopting, it turns out, though you wouldn't really know it around here.

We've stopped bothering to replace the outlet covers after we vacuum. I let The Hub eat the homemade chicken nuggets and mac and cheese I made and froze in case of an on-the-fly fost-adopt placement (seriously, I remember being told that those happen). I've stopped de-cat-hairing Unknown Child's bed each day. The Hub and I have resumed walking around the house in pajamas or undies, even though we were told to get used to being modestly covered when not in our bedroom. The lawn chemicals and household cleaners are out of their home in the locked cabinets because we're crazy that way, with a bag of fire ant poison resting on the second shelf in the garage. I've officially returned all the things we've purchased, aside from the waterproof mattress pad and the super-clearance bedding we got for 60 bucks instead of 400. I took the packing lists off the fridge and filed them, since it doesn't look like we're going to have to secure the antique glassware or fireplace pokers anytime soon. I'm not checking my email nine times a day waiting for word, any word, from any of the social workers that are out there. I'm not even upset anymore that, even though our agency told us that most of their placements are fost-adopt, we've not yet been contacted about one single child -- and we're looking for older children, not babies. I was planning on waiting until we were matched before I had my hair re-dyed, so I maybe could coordinate with Unknown Child or just get rid of the un-mom alternating purple and ultrablonde highlights (because I'm insane, you know), but I've got a "multi-color" appointment scheduled. We're back to going over the foreclosure listings in search of a house to flip, calling my beloved contractor to see when he's available for a project, since I'm starting to think we'll have the four or five months a medium-impact house would take (from search to market).

In addition, when my family or friends ask about "how the adoption is going," I've started acting like I'm 15 and my dad has just asked why I'm late for curfew. Turns out that "I don't know" shoulder shrug and eyeroll is pure muscle memory.

Overall, this is a bland place to be. When we began, we had intent, we had a goal, we had momentum, we had a placement worker that would talk to us on the phone (in this state, I hear that's a miracle). Now, instances of excitement are far between, and followed by weeks of uncertainty, and so far, disappointment.

So for now, we just keep doing what we've been doing for years, with as little thought as possible (for sanity's sake) to what may or may not be around the bend.

Second-Guessing

All this waiting isn't that bad, but it isn't fun. I'm a classic overthinker when time allows, like now.

I want to do this, I want to adopt, but I also don't want this experience to break me, to turn me into a crying wretch huddled into the corner of my closet behind The Hub's khaki pants, and good gosh, some of the things y'all go through would put me there. I am doubting my own strength, I think. The Hub happens to be doing the same thing, it turns out, and to him I said, "That's stupid. You'll be the best father this world has ever seen." Why can't I believe that about myself, even after he says it?

Smarter than House

Just to record this event for posterity, I'd like to let you all know that I was a full 35 minutes smarter than Dr. Gregory House this evening. At 8:12, I was yelling, "Absorbed twin! Absorbed twin!" at the TV, while my husband looked at me like I'm both insane and entirely disgusting. My vindication came soon enough, however, and The Hub nearly choked on his Oreos when it came to pass. Through the spray of chocolate wafers and sugared lard, my man gasped, "That actually happens? No more Discovery Health Channel for you, smartass!"

Childhood Fear, Revisited

I was always a little fearful of breaking an arm or leg and getting a cast because of the saw that would be used to take off said cast. But no one ever gets hurt having a cast taken off, right?

Right?

When my dad had his elbow surgery last Friday, the docs knocked him out before removing the cast that went from forearm to first set of knuckles. And then they used the wrong sized saw to take the cast off. After the procedure, his surgeon came out and told my mom this "wrong saw" story, and told her he had a little abrasion on his hand, but that it hadn't broken the skin. General feeling was that ok, accidents happen, and you picked out the wrong saw for a cast your office put on, oh well, guess you're not as smart as you look, but whatever.

Yesterday, Pops had his arm unwrapped for the first time when he had his removable cast made. Turns out his surgeon, Dr. Suck, is a big, fat, enourmous liar. He's cut from pummel of hand to nearly the crook of elbow. The cut wasn't terribly deep, but it is about a foot long and was crusty with blood, which I hear made the de-gauzing a laugh riot. Since it was done with a saw, it is about the width of a fettucini noodle. Direct quote from my mother: "It looks like you slit your wrist and knew how to do it." Sheesh.

And just guess how much it cost to have the cast removed by a doctor in the OR.

Dad says that when it is time for the other arm's decasting, he's just going to go after it with a chisel and sledgehammer.

So, yah, that's not cool. I do realize it isn't the worst thing that could have happened, but I like my doctors competent, so it upsets me.