Perfectly Presumptuous

My parents have spent the last few months cleaning out their storage locker.

In this process, I found all of my old high school yearbooks.

One of them includes this:

We barely knew each other. And at the time, he claimed it was a joke.

I would argue that time and circumstances have definitively. proven. otherwise.

I love this guy. I'm so glad he was gutsy.

Responsible

Our complex caught fire today. It was being re-roofed. And it's chilly. And apparently tar doesn't spread when it's chilly. So the roofers were using a blow torch to heat up the tar.

I'll bet you know what happened next. Since tar is famously flammable.

Brad happened to be outside working on his truck when he saw smoke and heard the roofers cussing like sailors in their efforts to find a way to turn on the outside spigot. They needed a pair of needle-nosed pliers. Brad rushed a pair on over.

Yes, yes. My very own hero.

However, with the immediate crisis averted, the roofing super started chewing out our superintendent for not having the spigot ready for such emergencies. There was more cussing and a lot of what Brad described as passing the buck.

Brad finally interrupted him. "Wait. You're not blaming our super for the fire you started... right?"

And that was the end of that.

A reason for Brad (one of many)

We have a fireplace in our apartment. The real kind requiring real wooden logs as opposed to the fake kind that never actually burn.

And so today when our apartment was freezing, I decided to use the fireplace by filling it with our our junk mail. (Free fuel. Sweet.)

My plan was working perfectly until our smoke alarm went off and I stepped back from the fireplace to see smoke against the ceiling.

I. Panicked. I am not good in a crisis. I imagined fire trucks coming, a crowd gathering, and the issuing of a hefty fine for all the trouble.

I called Brad.

He could have lectured. He could have been angry.

He laughed. And then he told me how to open the flue.

An hour later he came home and Febreezed the place.

I really love that guy. And. I need him. Apparently.

Tied Down

I know you're wondering where I've been. 

Well. It's complicated. 

But basically, I've been on the receiving end of this:

Metaphorically speaking. 

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

I've never considered myself very emotional. I probably cry 3-4 times a year. But compared to my husband, I'm a bawling boob.

Brad shed his last tear the first time he saw Old Yeller die, which must have been over 15 years ago. Hasn't cried since.

Until last night.

We were watching the following Dr. Pepper commercial:


Then it was over. And Brad quipped, "I might be getting choked up."

The thought of him getting emotional over the Cheers song was, frankly, hilarious.

I laughed. And I turned toward him in time to see a little pool of saltwater resting in his crow's feet.

Leaving our friends in Carlsbad is obviously taking its toll. That, or the hydrocodone easing his toothache is also disabling his stoicism.

Maybe both.

For Maren.

One of my good friends suggested that I blog six of my quirks. 

I'm not that brave. I'm pretty sure that one is enough.

I am a tired person in general. I think we've gone over my sleeping disorders. But since I started working it's gotten worse.

This is me. Every night a little after 10.

I do not remember this picture being taken. If I had, I'm sure I would have also been coherent enough to pull up my pants.

Brad is a little crazy

... and my sister is obsessed. Obsessed. With the Jonas Brothers. (yuck.)

And here's what happens when Brad tries to tease her:

That's not exactly short for...

My husband has this thing with nicknames. In high school, he told me my name took too much energy to say. (To his credit, he was adding on the "EE" at the beginning of my name instead of the "Uh" as people--myself included--usually do, so I suppose it caused him a teensie bit more mouth work. Sort of.) So for a while there he was calling me EL. Seriously.

It didn't really stick. And maybe his energy has increased because these days he calls me Elise. Or sweetie, honey, and cutiepie.

But it's the nicknames he's given our children that are at issue. And these nicknames are not really for shortening purposes. They're just for kicks.

For example. Claire has been known in our household as: Claire Bear (well, okay, that's predictable, but keep reading), Clear Beer (a spin-off of the former--not a reference to a beverage choice), Claire-de-Lune (well, my mom initiated that one), Clairee Pie, and (my favorite) Claritin Clear.

Grace answers to: Amazing Grace, Gracie, Grake, Graco, Greek, and Grease (or Greece. whichever you prefer). Grease is Brad's most frequently used nickname for Grace. I'm sure that will thrill an adolescent Grace.

Purposeless nicknames. They're fun. You should try it sometime.

Warning: Not for the weak-stomached.

Brad is home. He got home on Friday night, actually. So, he's been home. But today, we are celebrating tube-, stitch-, and staple-lessness.

He is also free of an extra 25 pounds he was carrying around. A week diet of clear liquids can do that to you. He looks hot. But, he did before.

Farewell to those foreign bodies of plastic and metal. Brad had several staples, two holes housing tubing for drainage, and a few extra holes for fun (okay, really the surgeon was trying laproscopic surgery instead of having to cut him open, and the staples are evidence of how that attempt turned out).

I have eternally commemorated Brad's synthetic friends in photo here. Don't say I didn't warn you. Oh, did I not warn you? Okay, the photo shows a little blood, some staples, and a tube (the other tube was unphotographable). Consider yourself warned.

Also. I got the bills today, since we are currently uninsured. I know, I'm ashamed. No lectures, please.

Anyone like to take a guess at the combined charge for a three-night hospital stay, and the actual surgery? The winner will receive surgical tubing and bulb. Only used once.

Tribute to Mary

Brad and I haven't been in the hospital that long. A mere three days. Well, and I'm really only here from 10-10. And I'm not the one being treated.

Anyway, three days may not sound like that long (and, okay, I'll be honest--it isn't). But in terms of working shifts, three days translates into roughly nine nurses. Nine drastically disparate nurses. I have a bone to pick with a few of them. (Excuse the tactless pun.) But several nurses (such as our sweet Mary) merit some serious praise and respect.

Mostly for doing little things.

Like addressing the IV machine's incessant beeping instead of letting it go off every two minutes for hours.

And smiling instead of doling out dry crusties.

And bringing medicine when they say they will instead of an hour and a half later.

Sadly, my blog is private, so Mary will never read my gratitude (although I sang her praises in person plenty). And both Madonna and Maria will never know my frustration. Which is how I like it anyway.

As a side note, isn't it weird that all of these nurses have the same name?

Vacation Time

Brad has had the Carlsbad flu several times this season. We all have. So it wasn't a huge shocker that while under a tremendous amount of stress (you know, moving, fixing the house, working, yadda, yadda), he came down with the flu again.

The only weird part is that I never caught it.

But that weekend, my parents came to take us to Utah, so we didn't think about it much anyway. That week Brad carried Claire (and sometimes Grace) up to the Timponogos caves:

We played at South Fork Canyon (where Grace gashed her head and nearly went in for stitches--Thank goodness my dad was there to fix it): By the end of the next week (at our "Winters are Hot" Bear Lake Family Reunion), Brad was feeling crummy again, but still well enough to survive some excellent wipeouts on the wakeboard and tube.

Well, that wasn't his best moment.

And then, this Monday, he endured an evening of shmoozing at a wedding reception for one of my good friends, Deja.

And here he is on Wednesday:

I can sort of explain, although I will come out as the worst, most unattentive wife ever. I am repentant. Neither of us really wanted to go to the hospital because we didn't want to pay the fees. But under the insistence of Aunt Kathleen, GG, and with some cash she stuck in my pocket, we headed to the ER. Just to make sure that his constant abdominal pain was nothing too serious.

Good thing.

Because after urine and blood tests and finally a CT scan, we discovered that Brad's usually pinky-sized appendix was the size of a softball. And it had already ruptured. Two weeks ago. On the date that he came down with his non-infectious "flu."

The promised hour-long appendectomy turned into a two-and-a-half hour procedure which also included the removal of parts of his intestine (which had been completely infected by his appendix). Our Oxford-Duke-Johns Hopkins trained surgeon said this surgery was very rare and was more complex than he had anticipated. And as a side note he mentioned that the infection would have continued to spread had we not come in, eventually proving fatal.

We were that close (insert mini pinched fingers here) to not going in. Too close.

After All

So Brad and I did not actually remember our fourth anniversary by ourselves.

But it seems that our anniversary would not go uncelebrated. It only gets one day a year, after all. It must have felt cheated. It demanded our memory.

And so it happened that while packing up, getting ready to move, we found a camera. An old one. The film kind. I know. Ancient.

In the camera, we found partially used film. Intrigued, my Brad went to Walmart and bought an antiquated, short, fat camera battery (for a whopping $9), and turned in the film.

One hour later we returned, excited [do you remember the anticipation of going to pick up pictures at the store not quite sure of what you'd find? Try. Try to remember], to retreive our envelope of pictures.

We opened it to discover our long lost honeymoon photos.

Can you believe it?

Moving Day

First of all, people love us. We are so lucky to be living in a place full of members of the Church who take care of each other and serve. We have never felt so loved in a ward before. We will miss it.

On packing day, we didn't ask anybody to come. In fact, we had just mentioned in passing that we would be packing up that day, and people just came. Just drove by to see whether we were working, and joined in.

{Tory, Andrea and Matt Smith; Chad, Paul, Kenny, and Curtis Twitchell, and Brad}

This ward has taught me that people learn to love each other when they serve each other and accept service. I have never felt so much love and family-ness in a ward before. I can't emphasize that enough. I want to go on and on. I hope I can be the ward member that my friends have been here to me. Brad and I leave Church every Sunday and remark to each other, "We can't leave. We have too many friends here." So we want to come back. Desperately. But not before we share the love with other wards.

{Cory, Angela Brown, Andrea Smith}

{Chad Twitchell and Brad}

{Curtis Twitchell, Marissa and Riley Smith}

Anyway.

Second of all, I am so big. Grace says that when she's proud of herself, and so I am saying it now since I drove a 17-foot U-Haul from Carlsbad to Prosper without Brad and with two little kids. I must also say that I am very proud of Grace since the recently-potty-trained-girl only had to take one single potty break. Which was good. Since it's hard to squish into a stall while holding a nine-month old and helping a three-year-old onto the toilet (while constantly reminding her not[!] to touch the toilet. or the walls. or the "sanitary napkin" basket.).

And I found myself relatively competent with a truck. Sort of. No accidents. Not any major ones, anyway. Although I did sort of brush one of those big steel bars they have at the gas station to prevent people from running into the pumps. Kind of embarrassing. And potentially (although thankfully not in the end) dangerous.

For anyone who's interested, we are not officially gone from Carlsbad yet. Brad still has some work to finish up there, and we still have a lot of work to do on our house before it's actually marketable (did I mention that we decided not to keep it?). This week, he is at scout camp on his last hurrah as ward Scoutmaster. And since I am not good at one week of kids by myself, we decided to move our stuff out of the house and spend the week with Papa and Grandma Betsy. We will go back to Carlsbad at the end of this week and... sleep on the floor. Yay!

{The front door of our house which sports a new front step. It happened to be poured the same day as moving day. Kind of awkward. But funny.}

Dog Pile

"How did Grace get so physical?"

Brad asked me this question as I helped Claire recover from one of Grace's bone-crushing, organ-gushing bear hugs.

If any of you know Brad, you know he was obviously kidding.

Grace is definitely physical. And not just with Claire. When I sit down, she is on me too: wallowing in my lap, climbing onto my head, standing on my shoulders. And if I'm typing at the computer, she's hanging off my arms.

And Grace learned from the best.

Because I am usually in the middle of some domestic activity when Brad pounces. I am ripped from cooking dinner, sweeping the floor, loading the dishwasher, or diapering Grace while he pins me to the ground and tickles me until I stop breathing.

Although there are some nasty side-effects to our family's rough-housing (namely unfinished chores, unsightly bruises...), we have fun. We laugh. We like to play.

I just have to make sure Claire doesn't get clobbered before she gets a chance to join in.