WOW... Last night as I was perusing through the different insurance options for my new job, I was comparing cost of the insurances, whether I prefer HMO or PPO, or just stick with old faithful BCBS. What made me go ape-fucking-shit right here in front of the computer and my husband, was one teeny tiny little box. I noted that the HMO was significantly cheaper in both premiums and deductibles... and it pays 90% of everything. BUT, it's an HMO, which means that my one chosen GP must dictate ALL my care. I'm not sure I trust my lady doctor (of only a year?) that much yet.

Well, get this. I find in this little box that it pays for all infertility testing and up to three IUI's per year. No mention of IVF, but I wasn't sure that was for me anyway. Yeah, I totally spazzed out.

I'll be signing up for the HMO, quickly.

I haven't bought ONE SINGLE Christmas present yet!

ACCCCCKKKKK!

I do this every year. I wait until the absolute last possible minute then shop in a frenzy. The craziest part about it is that I LOVE to shop... I'm just a procrastinator at heart. I will so go out and buy 100 things I don't need, but don't bother with the christmas shopping. I wonder why I do this?

Anyone?? Feel free to therapize.

Last night I had this dream that I adopted two babies. One was a white little boy, and the other was an asian little girl. It was crazy because I loved them, instantly. I never thought of myself as someone who would/could love like that. I've never considered adoption because I saw myself that way. But that dream- it was like an awakening. It's not like I can afford it, but it was so real. I'm not sure how I feel about it.

Guess what I found in our local Wal-Greens? Yep. That's it. Instead Cups. They were surprisingly easy to use, and once my sweet, sweet hubby just made a "deposit" into a cup and I slipped it in. No muss, no fuss. It's almost like a free IUI ... lol. I am already into my 4th post-surgery cycle, so time's a wasting. (Oh, did I mention I didn't go for the lupron shots? I might do it later.)

Lastly, I'm just so darn thankful for my kids, even though they both brought home HORRIBLE mid-quarter grade cards, and I'm muchly grateful that I have a wonderful marriage. I'm thankful that I have all my family near enough to see every day if I wanted to, and I'm thankful that my new job is a peice of cake, and pays very well.

I hope you all have many things to be thankful for this year.

My house is situated on a city street with a two-acre field behind it. Beyond the field is a set of railroad tracks. Over the railroad tracks to one side is an overpass for the highway. This is good, because (a.) this overpass is the town-wide sledding spot (meaning when it snows, I no longer have to drive the kids anywhere) and (b.) the field is great for ball games and such. (It is city-owned and they keep it mowed.) I very much enjoy having a place for the kids/dogs to romp and scamper about. When I decide I just can't take one more round of the Pokemon theme song, I can often be heard saying/yelling, "GO PLAY IN THE FIELD!"

So, now that I have explained to you the merits of living near a field/railroad tracks/overpass situation, I will explain the shit that pisses me off, which just so happens to have culminated into a big nasty head today and exploded, leading me to freak the fuck out.

Two words. Field Mice. My neighbors and I often ruminate over the disgustingness that is mice. Apparently, mice are called field mice because they live in fields. My whole block has the same problem- mice getting into their shit. I'm no exception. They love to pillage about looking for crumbs of food and whatnot that my children invariably leave EVERYWHERE. This year it seems to be a little bit more of a problem, the mice. Mind you, I think mice are cute, especially when their dead, limp bodies are hanging out of a trap, and they don't scare me. (I grew up in the country. But spiders, that's a whole different story.) I've noticed that I had one really bold mother fucker who is not scared of people. He (she?) was sitting on my kitchen counter today and did not even try to run when I banged on the counter. On a side note, I know what you're thinking. My GOD! How gross is she, to have mice all over her house?!?!?! It's the LOCATION of my house; I'm not gross. I swear. So, now that we're clear, on with the story. I cannot use my oven anymore, because the mice live in it, and when you turn it on, you smell the ungodly smell of mouse urine. Now you think I'm really gross!?!?!? It's not my fault, I SWEAR. I'm buying a new stove, right after christmas. I just have to be more creative now to find meals that I can make on the stove top. I don't turn it on! Cuz that's GROSS. My poor dear husband has pulled the stove out numerous times, cleaned the shit out of it, taken it apart even to clean the innards, and we still cannot figure out where the fuck all the nastiness is and why it still smells. I'm resigned to a new stove. (Maybe one of those all silver things to match my fridge?? Hmmm.) By the way, yes, I have two cats, and yes, they catch mice. But they prefer to catch the outside mice and drag them to the door step. They only come in to eat and use the litter box... oh, and to torture the dog. Maybe I should keep them inside so they have to use their hunting skills for good instead of evil. Hmmmm.

So, this bold little mother fucker, as I've endeared him, had to die. I put out mouse traps today. All four of them from the package, strategically placed so as to keep the cats away from them. Then, I left to go to the grocery store. I was gone maybe an hour and I'll be god-damned if two of those traps weren't full of dead mouse when I got back. YaY! I caught two of the bastards. So, then, I moved the one from behind the trash can (the one in the most cat-dangerous spot) to underneath my kitchen sink (where one of the two was caught.) NOT 3 MINUTES LATER, as I was putting groceries away, it snapped, killing a third. My skin is crawling. I am sickened to know that THAT MANY FUCKING MICE WERE IN MY KITCHEN, ALL AT ONCE. It's time to call an exterminator, I think.