Here We Go Again..

Husband is so lucky he has a nurse for a wife.

For those of you who thought my sonic-ice-with-3-cherries post looked like a festering wound, I am here to prove you wrong today.

THIS is a festering wound.

It is also an arm which is 3 days post poison ivy/oak/sumac exposure.

And this is 4 days. I'm disappointed in my timeline. The bee sting was so much more dramatic.

Don't worry. I assessed for early signs of compartment syndrome (despite husband making fun of my questions) and convinced him to go to sick call this morning after formation. The doctor validated me by asking the same questions I did (for compartment syndrome- who's laughing now?!) His right arm is 1.5 inches larger than his left. Sweet.

He got IV solumedrol and was the freak of the clinic.

It's a good day to be him.

This Post Is A Crime...

You know how California is known for Hollywood?

New York for Times Square.

Colorado for Weed.

Idaho for Potatoes. (Yeah, while I'm on it, why is Idaho the 'Gem State'?)

Fayetteville for Crime.

I first became concerned when, our first day here in North Carolina, our bank warned us renters insurance up to $10,000 was 'basically required' in Fayetteville. 

Kind of like water.

A lady at church warned me to burn all my documents and watch my wifi if I value my identity.

A woman at the Sheriffs office told me that security systems installed in the houses were considered 'standard' but screens on the window were classified under 'upgraded.'

My neighbor, John, said I shouldn't worry. People are only shot around this neighborhood if there's a reason for it.

So I'm sure I put my neighbors at rest when I went around the neighborhood with my rather vicious dog to ask what kind of security systems they had. There's nothing creepy about that.

"Hi, my name is Katie. My husband and I just moved in. I'm curious how much security you have going on around here. Are those cameras? Any blind spots? What's your schedule like? Are you home much? Cute dog, is he nice? Does he bite? Does he bark when people walk up? Have you ever caught anyone? What did they do wrong?" 

Creeper.

Just kidding. Actually, it turns out my neighbors are quite strange. But nice. One of them explained, in a very deep, masculine, masochistic way, that every now and then he "goes on patrol around the backyard" and shoots off his .45 just so people know not to mess with him. (Where he shoots it, I didn't ask.) Then there was a kind black man who admitted that the sole purpose of one of four camera's is to check and make sure his son is doing his homework after school.

I end the day now with a pointless blog post.

And no pictures.

A Wretched Truth

Husband gets a lot of heat on this blog, so I figure I'd throw him a metaphorical bone. Although it's all in hypotheticals, of course.

Maybe I'm in Denver for Christmas.

It's possible I drove 5.5 hours to Atlanta at 6 am to fly out, instead of the closest airport in my city so, if I were to take the dog (who does that anyway?!) then his flight would be only 3 hours.

Speaking of dogs, there's a chance I brought Ryker with me.

It's plausible to assume I was a little anxious about flying the dog with me. If, in fact, I did pay $200 one way to fly him, and will have to pay $200 again to fly him back.

Perhaps I had a few tears appear in the corner of my eyes as I left him with the very kind Delta representatives. Hypothetically, it could have looked more like a monsoon as it down my red, splotchy face. Or a deluge. Then again, perhaps not.

If this did occur, then it would also be believable that I asked no less than five different Delta representatives to ensure that Ryker was actually put on my plane. Including the obvious questions, "Will he be cold? Is it dark? When is he put in?" As if I hadn't done five hours of research...

In the unlikely event that I would have talked to all of those people, it would have been because of my innate goodness trying to prevent a hideous, dangerous scene in Denver when they inform me that my dog was in Milwaukee on accident.

Maybe I let Ryker out of the cage as soon as I saw him without regard to the fact that we were in the middle of baggage claim. Nor would I have cared if he was so excited to see me he spritzed all over the carpet. Maybe he did that. And if he did, maybe I didn't care.

And then that creates the potential, in such an unlikely situation, for him riding on aunt Sarah and my laps the entire ride home.

Potential only.

Possibilities only.

You get the pathetic idea.

Clocks and Flowers.

Typically, I'm not crafty.

Sarcastic, definitely. Word-oriented, yes. Aware of my surroundings, most of the time.

I went to Hobby Lobby yesterday to buy a huge clock,  (Isn't it great?)

and decided to finish a project I started like 17 months ago. So, as far as my track record is concerned, I'm right on time for finishing. It only took me like thirty minutes and two store associates to figure out what I wanted to do. Even then, I didn't really take their advice.

But I did fake myself out when I walked up to the nearest cart, saw a hot glue gun in it and walked away before I realized it was actually mine.

Ha ha.

Just to be clear, husband told me he hated that color of mustardy yellow when I tried to include him in my decorating scheme for the front room, and really didn't want it to be a base color.

Since he failed to agree with me, I ignored him and continued with the flower arrangement anyway.

How many husband's does it take to change a lightbulb?

Conversation. Of. The. Day

Husband is standing on the kitchen counter replacing the light bulbs in their new house. Katie is walking back into the kitchen after taking her multivitamin. Ryker is sniffing out a dead spider, undecided as to whether it deserves to be eaten if it's not going to put up a fight first.

Husband: Well, honey, we have a problem.

Katie: What?

The room is still cast in dim shadows despite his obvious attempts to bring light to the kitchen sink/cupboard area. Bulb boxes are scattered in disarray everywhere, as are the trails of cookie crumbs where Husband has walked.

Husband: This one is beyond me.

Katie reaches over to a different light switch and flips it. Light floods the once dark crevices of the sink and cupboard.

Husband turns to his three boxes of Creme de Menthe cookies to make up the room in his body for all his lost pride. Ryker abandons him as well as the shriveled spider.

... and THAT is why I won't miss Alabama.

Husband and Katie are standing in the driveway near the Jeep.  A massive Budget truck the size of several small states is in front of their house. The carpet men are working in the background, the morning is crisp. Ryker is doing nothing in the car because he still can't sniff out the crazies for us. A woman in a Ford Explorer pulls into their isolated dead end street and turns around in front of their house. Husband and Katie watch in surprise. No one pulls into their isolated dead end street and turns around in front of their house. 

A kind appearing middle aged woman with gray-blonde hair and a clean outfit climbs out of the drivers seat. She waves and heads towards their pile of garbage a few feet away.

Woman: Hey! How are ya! Moving, huh?

Husband: (in a somewhat perplexed voice that seems to ask who-is-this-woman?): Yep. Heading out soon.

Woman: Oh, that's great. Going out of state?

The Woman begins to sift through their jettisoned cardboard box. She lifts up a discarded bag of packing peanuts to see what's underneath as the conversation continues.

Husband, with several blinks of doubt: North Carolina.

Woman: Oh, that's great. You must be military?

Husband (With his head tilted to the side as she lifts up a see-through bag of garbage and rotates it to peer through the contents.) : Yep.

Woman: My husband was in the military, all that moving! Definitely not fun.

Katie: Looks like it is for some.

(Just kidding, Katie didn't really say that. She just stared and blinked in confusion as the woman continued to pick apart the garbage pile.) Husband casts Katie a look that asks is-this-woman-really-making-casual-conversation-while-sifting-through-our-garbage-pile? and then walks to do something in Rhode Island, I mean, the Budget Truck. The woman sets aside a few more piles of packing peanuts and lets out an exclamation.

Woman: Phew! My exploror stinks.

Katie (with her hands in her pockets as she makes herself comfortable on realizing the woman is there to stay.): Oh no, that gasoline smell is from the lawnmower box there. Yep, that one. Gas spilled from it. Apparently the tank wasn't as empty as we thought. We went ahead and mixed it with laundry detergent.

Woman, laughing in reassurance and revealing the fact that she doesn't know laundry detergent and gasoline are incredibly explosive: Oh good! (Picks up another bag of trash to inspect through.) What a relief! Thought it was my car!

Katie: Oh no, your car is safe. (Our garbage isn't, however.)

The woman makes a little more small talk, but dismayed by the overwhelming power of gasoline that pours from the rest of the filth, eventually straightens up in defeat.

Woman, with a friendly wave: Well good luck to y'all! And travel safe!

The woman drives off in her Explorer to make more friends and Katie walks away to the snicker of the carpet men.

I don't really like you, Ahnold...

What is this, you ask?

This is the face of a man becoming a little boy. The happiness of watching a man movie like The Expendables 2 has him shouting advice to the actors and laughing with delight as the .50 cal's come out.

There's so much testosterone in the room I'm going to grow a beard.