And That's That

The husband has been home for two weeks. We've hit some bumpy patches already, but we're adjusting pretty well after those 444 days apart. The kid loves him, I love him, it's all good.

Amazingly, the kid has survived her first year. She's officially a walking, talking one year old now. I know time wouldn't have flown by the way it feels like it did, had I not had her.

I had a big, dramatic farewell to My Longest Year speech planned, but it's been a long day. So, I'll just say that if you want to find me from here on out, I'll be over here.

See ya there!

Slacker!

Yes, I am. I suck. I know.

Everyone came on over a few posts back and here I've dropped the ball on wining and dining you all to keep you around.

I do have an excuse though . . . besides the obvious, of course . . .

We're moving!

Well, not we as in real life me. The only things getting packed up are in the bloggy world. My longest year is over, so it's time to move on to a happier place. Or, at least, it should be a happier place. We shall see.

So, get your blogrolls and readers ready (unless, of course, you could care less and would be happy to see this blog covered in cobwebs). I'll be back on Thursday to give a grand tour of the new digs. There's still some construction and painting going on, so you can't come over just yet.

Welcome Back, Boys!

Last night was the first of many single soldier gathering at the Longest Year household. I cooked an awesome meal (Jayna's Hungarian shrimp and pasta and fried tomatoes) and our guests brought the drinks and dessert. Let me just say that wine, 21 year old scotch and ice cream cake don't mix so very well. (Though, ice cream cake is awesome for breakfast the next day.) The kid was amazing and flirted with all the boys during dinner, and then passed right out and slept through the din of 5 drunken soldiers telling war stories in the kitchen. She's awesome, even though she did wake us up at 5:30 this morning.

Yesterday the husband also picked up our brand new bicycles and broke his in by doing drunken wheelies up and down our street at 11 at night. I spent the majority of the time yelling "Car!" and shaking my head as the husband wiped out in the neighbor's front lawn (yes, we are those neighbors. PWT hooligans, all the way). Each of our guests also got a turn, as it's only proper to share, and they didn't disappoint in the stupidity either. Only on his bike, though. Not mine. I don't share that well.

I'm loving the husband being home, and loving the friends he is bringing over. It's nice to be at ease with a group of guys and feel perfectly comfortable ripping on them just as hard as I would on the husband.

Just Gut the Place

Mold problem? Still got it.

Sopping wet puddle under the carpet in the garage room? Still there.

Daily quota of at least 5 roaches maimed? My aim is getting a lot better.

Broken dishwasher? Oh, that's a new one.

Oven that doesn't heat up? Even better.


If I wasn't so sick of moving (and if I hadn't just given away all our packing boxes), I would be getting all legal-ish on their asses and moving far, far away from this dump.

We seriously thought we were getting somewhere. Monday started off with a series of phone calls and ended with the promise of an exterminator and a handyman. Here, it's Friday and the only thing the maintenance guy has managed to do was wander across my clean kitchen floor, scuff dirt everywhere, shut the dishwasher and turn it on. And then leave. I wasn't home when he came (of course, they have a radar for that, the only time I've left the house all week). I found the dishwasher still locked shut and on the drying cycle. The friggin' idiot obviously didn't even look inside and see that there is a giant broken piece on the bottom and it's full of water. Plus, we were using it as a drying rack, so things got thrown all helter skelter and a bunch of sippy cup lids got burned up by the heating element. Those things are like gold lately around here, so that man is lucky he wasn't here for me to go off on about it.

My skin is always crawling, I'm ridiculously paranoid about the kid eating a roach, I can't use my damn oven, and I'm sick of worrying that we're going to get sick from the mold.

If I could stomach it, all the carcasses of this weekend's vermin murders would be stuck in a jar and slammed down on someone's desk Monday morning.

The husband can't do it, cause he screams like a little girl and runs away from the bastards. (Yes, I like to keep reminding everyone of that.)

Way Late Wordless Wednesday - Fast Friends

Have I Got A Story For You

I might as well jump right on back into the blog with a giant splash. A great alternative title to this one would be The Bedroom Chronicles.

Why, yes, there will be talk of sex. Hide the children.

So. Yeah. Obviously, it's been a wicked long time since the husband was home last, and obviously it's been that long since I've had sex . . . So, obviously, birth control was the last thing on my mind until recently. Before I left Ohio, I paid a visit to the obgyn and got fitted for a diaphragm. I said good riddance to hormonal birth control long ago, and this seemed like a good option. I filled my prescription, packed it away in a box and didn't have a second thought about it.

And then, all of a sudden, homecoming rolled around. Huh. Imagine that. There we were, baby fast asleep ("Okay, sweetie, hurry up and go to bed early tonight, Mommy's gotta get laid!"), and the unopened diaphragm box sitting on the bed between us. The directions for this thing were like a phone book. The odds of failure were daunting. The entire situation was nothing but clinical. ("Yeah baby, welcome home. Now read these directions.")

In the end, alternative measures were taken and we had a lovely time. Or, as lovely as is to be expected after that experience and in light of what happened next.

Again, I obviously hadn't had sex recently, so I was completely unaware as to the wonderful side effects of breastfeeding.

Yes, those of you who have been there and done that and know exactly what I'm talking about can laugh at me now.

In my defense, it was really hot in our room. So, I don't think I was all that far off when I started thinking to myself that the husband was really sweating. A lot. Like, massive amounts. I made a mental note to rip on him afterwards. But, he got me first. Basking in that afterglow, he turned to me and said "You leaked all over me!"

Allllll over. I'm surprised he didn't drown in the puddle that was on the bed.

I could totally do without that lovely bodily function.

At least he thought it was funny.

Not nearly as funny as what happened the next morning though . . .

Being the wonderful husband he is, he took the child out to the living room to play while I slept for another few minutes. I woke up and rolled out of bed. As I turned around to grab something off the night stand I saw something that makes me still want to throw up a little whenever I think about it.

Crawling out from under my pillow . . . giant, brown, filthy, nasty . . . a three inch long cockroach.

I screamed so loud that instantly the baby started cry and the husband came running. They found me jumping around like a manic trying to smash that bastard bug with a toilet paper roll.

I'm ashamed to say he got away. Hopefully he found some tasty roach bait and is dead in a corner somewhere tonight. If he's not, he will be, because we've finally got the exterminators coming out. This horrible excuse for a livable rental house is driving me insane, and that is just the first step in not having my skin crawl just by sitting on the couch. Bastards are all going to die!

And that, my friends, is The Bedroom Chronicles.

A Quickie

While the two of them are dancing around the living room to Jimi Hendrix . . .