I just want to mention/gloat that I will be in Hawaii this week, and will return when life here is better than life there (aka 'never').
I also want to report that I am receiving a high number of charlie horses (leg cramps for those of you who are stupid) throughout the nights. A stranger thing I cannot imagine.
Last night's charlie was especially bad. It started with Josh being woken up by a puppy, whining sound around 3:00 in the morning. Confused and concerned, he tried to locate the source of the noise, until he realized it was me. He started asking me repeatedly if I was okay, to which I responded with only more whimpers and whines. The whimpers started to increase in volume, until I finally started screaming out, "It hurts! It hurts! Oh, it hurts!" (the details are hazy to me, since I was half-awake and half-deluded by sheer pain). To this I dramatically finished off by leaping out of bed and falling instead, due to being completely crippled by the magnitude of pain I was experiencing. I started rolling around on the ground, grabbed my mid-section and picked up where I left off with shrieks of, "It hurts! It hurts! Oh, it hurts!" (I'm only slightly dramatic; I attribute it to the fact that my mother was a drama major in college). Josh was half-shrieking himself, fully convinced that I was going into labor. "Courtney! What's happening?! Are you okay? Courtney!!!" Yeah, we're just the kind of people you want in an emergency. Anyway, I finally was coherent enough to tell him that I was having a charlie horse, to which he stopped being concerned and started laughing uncontrollably. I stumbled back to bed and tried to explain the magnitude of the pain, but he couldn't hear me. He was choke/sobbing on his own laughter.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
The Joy
Recognize the woman I'm standing next to? Me either.
How about now?
So last Saturday, Josh and I went to a soccer tennis tournament (looked so freaking fun, by the way), where CALLE had a booth. Travis was there with his friend, and we were just talking and hanging out. Well, Jaime, the guy in charge of the whole thing walks over and tells us that Joy Fawcett, "The most decorated female soccer player in the world" is here. Travis replies, "That's great, because Courtney here is her biggest fan!" After Jaime left we laughed for a second, Jaime not realizing that I wouldn't be able to pick out Joy Fawcett from Kobe Bryant (yes, I'm aware Kobe is black and Joy is, well... not). So later that day, Travis left to take his friend home and Josh and I are still just at the booth selling and talking to people. We see Jaime walking toward us towing some woman with her kid. I thought nothing of it, until the words, "Joy, this is Courtney. She's your biggest fan! She would love to meet you!" were uttered. I sat there for a split second, mortified. Really? I knew absolutely nothing about her except that she played for the National Team for some years back. For all I knew, she still played for the US National Team. Anyway, I sort of just laughed and said something awkward like, "Yup. Your biggest fan. I'm a die-hard." She looked vaguely uncomfortable but not nearly as uncomfortable as I felt. So I walked over and proceeded to make 30 minutes of small talk with her. Honestly. 30 minutes. Eventually, she asked if I wanted a picture to which I replied, 'No. Too fat. Don't want to take pictures in the current condition I'm in." She waved away my reserves, obviously just a nervous fan's ramblings, and I took the picture with her and her youngest daugher. So there it is. Me and Joy. Joy and I. We're tight.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Having a boy...
We found out a week ago, but I'll make the formal announcement that we will be having a boy. Oh, and my due date is August 11.
I was about 99.9% sure that it was a girl (don't ask my why I thought I knew... I have no instincts whatsoever), but there was no doubting the ultrasound. The doctor got right to it, showed us the monitor and asked, "What do you see?" I shook my head in disbelief, and responded, "Junk. I see junk." Then I looked over at Josh, who had some kind of smirk plastered on his face. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it, but asked later when we left the office what his grin was all about. He nonchalantly replied, "Oh nothing. Just that there was a lot of junk. Our boy has a lot of junk." Uh huh. I'm sure.
I was about 99.9% sure that it was a girl (don't ask my why I thought I knew... I have no instincts whatsoever), but there was no doubting the ultrasound. The doctor got right to it, showed us the monitor and asked, "What do you see?" I shook my head in disbelief, and responded, "Junk. I see junk." Then I looked over at Josh, who had some kind of smirk plastered on his face. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it, but asked later when we left the office what his grin was all about. He nonchalantly replied, "Oh nothing. Just that there was a lot of junk. Our boy has a lot of junk." Uh huh. I'm sure.
Monday, March 23, 2009
ARGENTINA BABY!!!
So the wait is over. Here are my pictures from Argentina. This will be my narrative, and no, the pictures are not in chronological order.
Pic 1: This is a shot of Buenos Aires, a couple streets away from where my parents live. My parents live in the 'Hollywood' of Buenos Aires, and although they live in a good place, I wouldn't quite compare it to Hollywood.
Pic 2: This is a picture of when Meg, me, and my mom went to lunch with some of the sister missionaries on their P Day. I kept telling them that they were unusually normal, not like the horror stories I've heard of sister missionaries. I think they might have been offended.
Pic 3: My dad and I both love these guys. These guys travel all over picking up cardboard or anything else they can possibly recycle for money. The horses are dirty, but lovable nonetheless. My mom's goal is to give one of the horses a carrot. I somehow think the driver wouldn't appreciate it. "Get that fluffy-haired blond lady away from my horse, please"
Pic 4: This photo was taken at La Boca (a seriously cute place with colored houses). The guy in the photo is obviously Diego Maradona, the infamous Argentinian soccer player.
Pic 5: This is the fluffy-haired mom that I love. She is posing outside of one of the side streets in La Boca. Meg and I both really liked La Boca because they love tourists and are exceptionally friendly, unlike most of the other Argentinians.
Pic 6: This is my mom, Sister Kathy Fitch, Meg and me at a restaurant. We watched Tango dancers as we ate. It hasn't arrived yet, but my mom and Kathy made the mistake of ordering the barbecue plate. It came with all sorts of mystery meats.
Pic 7: These are Gaucho dancers at La Boca. They were way better than the Tango dancers. They do a lot of stomping and I'm pretty sure one of them was gay.
Pic 8: This is on the day we left. Meg was 'helping' with transfers. Meg and I kept trying to get dad to send elders that bugged us home, but he said it didn't work like that. Too bad.
Pic 9: You can't see very well, but there are bottles on top of cars. That's how you know they're for sell. Seriously. Even at dealerships. They put bottles on top of cars, people!!
Pic 10: We went to the coast on the weekend we got there and stayed in this really cute hotel. They had one king bed and one baby tiny bed. Meg slept in the tiny bed. Surprised?
Pic 11: I love my mom. This is us at the coast in a city I can't remember the name of. There were jellyfish all over the shore. Gross.
Pic 12: Meg and I at the coast. We're so dang hot and identical. We look alike, yes?
Pic 13: The whole reason for the trip was to see these people. It was so fun just to spend time with them and see that they're still the same people. My dad still says 'Vicky!' in that exasperated tone and my mom still does weird dance moves. Oddly reassuring.
Pic 14: This was the day they picked us up and took us all over Argentina. We're tired and disgusting but we're happy to see 'em.
Pic 15: This really is quite amazing. My picture doesn't do it justice, but this is a picture of the villas that exist there, basically, the slums. People just put together cardboard, wood, and whatever and built these little shack homes. My dad says that in spite of having no running water and hardly anything else, nearly every single home will have both a dog and a tv. They pirate the electricity.
Some highlights not found in the pictures:
Pic 1: This is a shot of Buenos Aires, a couple streets away from where my parents live. My parents live in the 'Hollywood' of Buenos Aires, and although they live in a good place, I wouldn't quite compare it to Hollywood.
Pic 2: This is a picture of when Meg, me, and my mom went to lunch with some of the sister missionaries on their P Day. I kept telling them that they were unusually normal, not like the horror stories I've heard of sister missionaries. I think they might have been offended.
Pic 3: My dad and I both love these guys. These guys travel all over picking up cardboard or anything else they can possibly recycle for money. The horses are dirty, but lovable nonetheless. My mom's goal is to give one of the horses a carrot. I somehow think the driver wouldn't appreciate it. "Get that fluffy-haired blond lady away from my horse, please"
Pic 4: This photo was taken at La Boca (a seriously cute place with colored houses). The guy in the photo is obviously Diego Maradona, the infamous Argentinian soccer player.
Pic 5: This is the fluffy-haired mom that I love. She is posing outside of one of the side streets in La Boca. Meg and I both really liked La Boca because they love tourists and are exceptionally friendly, unlike most of the other Argentinians.
Pic 6: This is my mom, Sister Kathy Fitch, Meg and me at a restaurant. We watched Tango dancers as we ate. It hasn't arrived yet, but my mom and Kathy made the mistake of ordering the barbecue plate. It came with all sorts of mystery meats.
Pic 7: These are Gaucho dancers at La Boca. They were way better than the Tango dancers. They do a lot of stomping and I'm pretty sure one of them was gay.
Pic 8: This is on the day we left. Meg was 'helping' with transfers. Meg and I kept trying to get dad to send elders that bugged us home, but he said it didn't work like that. Too bad.
Pic 9: You can't see very well, but there are bottles on top of cars. That's how you know they're for sell. Seriously. Even at dealerships. They put bottles on top of cars, people!!
Pic 10: We went to the coast on the weekend we got there and stayed in this really cute hotel. They had one king bed and one baby tiny bed. Meg slept in the tiny bed. Surprised?
Pic 11: I love my mom. This is us at the coast in a city I can't remember the name of. There were jellyfish all over the shore. Gross.
Pic 12: Meg and I at the coast. We're so dang hot and identical. We look alike, yes?
Pic 13: The whole reason for the trip was to see these people. It was so fun just to spend time with them and see that they're still the same people. My dad still says 'Vicky!' in that exasperated tone and my mom still does weird dance moves. Oddly reassuring.
Pic 14: This was the day they picked us up and took us all over Argentina. We're tired and disgusting but we're happy to see 'em.
Pic 15: This really is quite amazing. My picture doesn't do it justice, but this is a picture of the villas that exist there, basically, the slums. People just put together cardboard, wood, and whatever and built these little shack homes. My dad says that in spite of having no running water and hardly anything else, nearly every single home will have both a dog and a tv. They pirate the electricity.
Some highlights not found in the pictures:
- Taking the color code test and finding out that I have absolutely no ambition in life.
- Going and getting ice cream with my mom and Meg and Meg telling me that I'm "absolutely worthless" to have around. She got mad because I was nervous to use my spanish at first. It still makes me laugh, though.
- Sitting around at night and reminicising with my parents until late.
- Meg and I trying to capture pictures of children in their school uniforms. Their uniforms were labcoats, which they looked ridiculously cute as mad scientists.
- Having Meg complain that every single person in Argentina was staring at us.
- Pointing out which missionaries were 'bad' missionaries, based on their profile picture hanging in my dad's office.
- Teaching and then demolishing Meghan in chess.
- Watching that lame missionary movie with my mom and Meg and my mom sprinting back and forth to kneed the dough.
- Discussing in length how absolutely bizarre our family is and where this stems from.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Arms of jiggle
I'm still waiting for Josh to send me my pictures from Argentina so until then, I'll update you with something of great importance.
I've come to the conclusion that I hate beyond hate, being pregnant.
I sat in bed sobbing the other day, absolutely and thoroughly discouraged by the fact that nothing looks remotely attractive on my expanding waistline. "But you're pregnant! You're supposed to expand!" If I hear something like that one more time, I will throw myself off the Coronado Island bridge and take whoever said it with me. I can't take it anymore. Every day of dressing is a demoralizing experience. My utlitmate goal now is to look more like hippo than a whale. I've never felt worse about my appearance in my life, and it is only going to get worse, since I'm only going to get more pregnant, and being more pregnant means being more fat ("It's not fat, it's baby!" Uh huh. And I suppose the baby is currently resting in my neck, then?).
I've always been able to find clothes that I like and feel good in, but that is no longer. I go to these maternity stores and try anything and everything on, only to further discover that it isn't the clothes. It's me. It's my face (usually the proud owner of a long, skinny, horse face, I now have what looks like a saturated marshmallow). It's my shoulders and arms. I've never thought twice about my arms and now I have to constantly check for wiggle, jiggle, and biggle (wanna tell me 'biggle' isn't a word? I dare you, since I could probably smash you with one of my biggle arms. Don't mess. Killing someone might make me feel better).
Josh is also at his wit's end, since he is unprepared on how to deal with a fattening, hormonal wife. Once he finds me laying in bed with an old pair of jeans half-buttoned, a baggy shirt that isn't quite so baggy, and a pillow over my face, he flees the scene. He knows he's about to walk into a deathtrap and I'm not past taking him down with me.
So I know what you're thinking. "She's really being quite shallow and vain about this..." Yeah. That's right. I am. I am shallow and vain. I care if my once-horse face turns into a bulldog face and I care if my arms are more like bags of jello than actual human arms.
Basically, I'm not liking what's happening to my body and I tell the baby (the baby can hear me) all the time to stay in my stomach and not my thighs. I don't think the baby is listening.
I've come to the conclusion that I hate beyond hate, being pregnant.
I sat in bed sobbing the other day, absolutely and thoroughly discouraged by the fact that nothing looks remotely attractive on my expanding waistline. "But you're pregnant! You're supposed to expand!" If I hear something like that one more time, I will throw myself off the Coronado Island bridge and take whoever said it with me. I can't take it anymore. Every day of dressing is a demoralizing experience. My utlitmate goal now is to look more like hippo than a whale. I've never felt worse about my appearance in my life, and it is only going to get worse, since I'm only going to get more pregnant, and being more pregnant means being more fat ("It's not fat, it's baby!" Uh huh. And I suppose the baby is currently resting in my neck, then?).
I've always been able to find clothes that I like and feel good in, but that is no longer. I go to these maternity stores and try anything and everything on, only to further discover that it isn't the clothes. It's me. It's my face (usually the proud owner of a long, skinny, horse face, I now have what looks like a saturated marshmallow). It's my shoulders and arms. I've never thought twice about my arms and now I have to constantly check for wiggle, jiggle, and biggle (wanna tell me 'biggle' isn't a word? I dare you, since I could probably smash you with one of my biggle arms. Don't mess. Killing someone might make me feel better).
Josh is also at his wit's end, since he is unprepared on how to deal with a fattening, hormonal wife. Once he finds me laying in bed with an old pair of jeans half-buttoned, a baggy shirt that isn't quite so baggy, and a pillow over my face, he flees the scene. He knows he's about to walk into a deathtrap and I'm not past taking him down with me.
So I know what you're thinking. "She's really being quite shallow and vain about this..." Yeah. That's right. I am. I am shallow and vain. I care if my once-horse face turns into a bulldog face and I care if my arms are more like bags of jello than actual human arms.
Basically, I'm not liking what's happening to my body and I tell the baby (the baby can hear me) all the time to stay in my stomach and not my thighs. I don't think the baby is listening.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Small and Googly
There are some things that never fail to make me smile. The Geico commercials with the wad of money with googly eyes that follows people places is one of them. I love that little money guy and I love his googly eyes. I'm thinking about switching my car insurance over to Geico simply because the googly money guy is so amazing. He charms me.
But I've come to the conclusion that I love anything small and anything with large eyes. I love baby animals (they're small), and I love lemurs (they're animals and they have huge eyes). I love miniature hand sanitizer, small bottles of shampoo, and baby clothes (all small things). I love my niece Adelle, baby turtles, and monkeys (all owners of abnormally large peepers).
But then there are some things that I don't love. I don't love when patients come into the office and assume that since I went over their contracts with them, we must naturally be best friends. A woman comes into the office today and proceeds to give elaborate details to me of her date last night. I'm sitting there, listening to her ramble on and on, and trying to connect the dots. Now why is she telling me this? Is it because I'm wearing a name tag and she feels that since we're on a first-name basis (she knows mine by looking at my chest and I know hers by pulling up her son's account and then finding the responsible party tab. Yes, we're on intimate terms), she can tell me these confidential details? Or is it because I'm more aware of her financial situation (I know where she works, what kind of payments she can afford to make, and what dress she wore on her date last night) than anyone else in the office? I'm not really sure. All I'm really sure is that this woman had a hot date last night with a guy she met at a gas station and she smoked a cigar while wearing a sultry dress. I know a lot more, but since I was ready to shoot my brains out after having to listen to her go on and on and on, I'm pretty sure telling you anymore would have the same effect.
Unfortunately, this isn't a singular experience. The magazines in our office seem to spark discussion. From what I think about Obama (Newsweek) to why they keep putting Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie (US weekly) on the cover together, the fact that I sit closest to the patients seems to keep people turning to me with questions like, "And why is Ellen on the cover of GoodHouskeeping?" I usually have to stop what I'm doing (usually not much), and engage in some pointless conversation about celebrities, recipes, and decorating for your dinner party (no; I don't have dinner parties. Yes; I pretend that I have dinner parties when patients ask me what I think about dinner parties).
I guess the bottom line would be that when you go into your orthodontist's office, just keep your head down and read your magazine. Chances are, the girls already took the magazines to lunch and discussed everything there was to discuss. We don't want to do it again.
Monday, February 23, 2009
LA and boys
**Mom, you hate the word 'fart.' I'm going to ask you not to read this since it uses the word quite often. You should probably just know that the entry talks about the disgusting things guys do and why they do them. There will be no softening words like, 'fluff' or 'toot,' since men neither fluff nor toot. They fart. They do, mom! I'm just telling it like it is! So anyway, don't read this. You'll not like what it has to say.**
I spent this last weekend in LA (one of the most disgusting cities in the US) for a soccer convention for CALLE. My opinion of the disgusting nature of boys was confirmed after spending only 3 full days with no other female companionship (apparently they knew better and stayed away). My days entailed a lot of "That's what she said..." jokes, farting, nasty odors, greasy food, hours of analyzing what makes the Lakers tick, SportsCenter, and even nudity (has anyone ever figured out why men enjoy being naked so much? Five minutes after meeting Dane, I was shocked to see him streaking through the parking lot without a stitch of clothes. Well, not shocked so much as puzzled about the reason for the nudity; we weren't really even talking about anything and suddenly he was stripped and running naked through the parking lot. The other guys all laughed and jumped around like Dane was the most clever being to ever think of such a thing; it was like watching a bunch of chimps at the zoo cheer on their comrade as he made an escape).
Boys are just gross. I love Josh, but he's gross, too. I guess he can't help it. When they come with testosterone, they are engineered to automatically do nasty boy things. Take for instance, the iphone. The iphone isn't nasty, but it definitely caters to guys when there are apps that have a hundred and one different fart noises. The truly amazing thing is not that they exist, but that every single boy in that room (all 5 of them) had their very own farting application plugged into their phone. And not only that, but they spent a good 20 minutes listening to each other's and laughing their faces off. "No, no Ty. Listen to this one! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!" *minutes go by.... boiterous laughter still ensuing...* "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA......" I might have puked.
Not convinced that guys are disgusting? Go into any men's public restroom. Even corporate office building ones where the men are highly educated and likely live very well. The bathroom has pee all over it, toilet paper is strewn across the floor like confetti, and the smell is nothing short of treacherous. Wonder why that is? Because men are disgusting. Plain and simple fact. And don't ask how I know. I know, okay?
Perhaps the most unnerving part of the trip was when I was sitting on the bed with a member of the opposite sex (I'm leaving names out for fear of possible slander suits), watching tv when he ripped one. A normal reaction would be, "Oh gross! Knock it off," rather than the applause and cheers he received from the other guys. You would have thought the guy had just finished a marathon after being diagnosed with a terminal illness that he was supposed to have died from 6 months ago. They all looked at him proudly, and even a little jealously as he sat there still laughing, at this marvelous accomplishment.
I mentioned that LA is disgusting and dirty, but maybe it has something to do with the large population of men and that's why it is the way it is (too many men and not enough women to spray their girly perfumes and such). I'll look into it. But really. I hate that city. I would offer to burn it down but the fumes would likely cover the world in a mist of darkness and we would be no better than the dinosaurs.
I spent this last weekend in LA (one of the most disgusting cities in the US) for a soccer convention for CALLE. My opinion of the disgusting nature of boys was confirmed after spending only 3 full days with no other female companionship (apparently they knew better and stayed away). My days entailed a lot of "That's what she said..." jokes, farting, nasty odors, greasy food, hours of analyzing what makes the Lakers tick, SportsCenter, and even nudity (has anyone ever figured out why men enjoy being naked so much? Five minutes after meeting Dane, I was shocked to see him streaking through the parking lot without a stitch of clothes. Well, not shocked so much as puzzled about the reason for the nudity; we weren't really even talking about anything and suddenly he was stripped and running naked through the parking lot. The other guys all laughed and jumped around like Dane was the most clever being to ever think of such a thing; it was like watching a bunch of chimps at the zoo cheer on their comrade as he made an escape).
Boys are just gross. I love Josh, but he's gross, too. I guess he can't help it. When they come with testosterone, they are engineered to automatically do nasty boy things. Take for instance, the iphone. The iphone isn't nasty, but it definitely caters to guys when there are apps that have a hundred and one different fart noises. The truly amazing thing is not that they exist, but that every single boy in that room (all 5 of them) had their very own farting application plugged into their phone. And not only that, but they spent a good 20 minutes listening to each other's and laughing their faces off. "No, no Ty. Listen to this one! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!" *minutes go by.... boiterous laughter still ensuing...* "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA......" I might have puked.
Not convinced that guys are disgusting? Go into any men's public restroom. Even corporate office building ones where the men are highly educated and likely live very well. The bathroom has pee all over it, toilet paper is strewn across the floor like confetti, and the smell is nothing short of treacherous. Wonder why that is? Because men are disgusting. Plain and simple fact. And don't ask how I know. I know, okay?
Perhaps the most unnerving part of the trip was when I was sitting on the bed with a member of the opposite sex (I'm leaving names out for fear of possible slander suits), watching tv when he ripped one. A normal reaction would be, "Oh gross! Knock it off," rather than the applause and cheers he received from the other guys. You would have thought the guy had just finished a marathon after being diagnosed with a terminal illness that he was supposed to have died from 6 months ago. They all looked at him proudly, and even a little jealously as he sat there still laughing, at this marvelous accomplishment.
I mentioned that LA is disgusting and dirty, but maybe it has something to do with the large population of men and that's why it is the way it is (too many men and not enough women to spray their girly perfumes and such). I'll look into it. But really. I hate that city. I would offer to burn it down but the fumes would likely cover the world in a mist of darkness and we would be no better than the dinosaurs.
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