Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Chelsea's Packin' Heat, Bitchessss

Yeah, not really.  I mostly just enjoy saying 'packing heat'.  Because now I sound badass, don't I?  

Right. Anyways. 

Shawn has a shotgun, and we've gone shooting a few times.  And let's just say that aiming isn't my forte (Holy understatement, Batman.).  I haven't killed or shot anyone in the face yet, so I suppose I can't be that bad, right?  I blame my terrible shot on the fact that I can't focus on something without my right eye going crossed.  I can barely put on makeup sometimes, let alone shoot a flying orange frisbee in the air to smithereens.

I kept telling Shawn that I was pretty sure that I'd do better with a handgun.  I had never actually shot a handgun before, so it was all naive assumptions at the time.  This last weekend, we finally got to go to a handgun range.  And I was stoked.  We got all our equipment, and the gun dude taught us how to not kill anyone, and sent us on our way.  We were using pretty standard, simple guns.  A 22 and a 9-inch, I think?  Geez, I don't even know what they were called, nor do I really care - because I felt pretty bitchin' in my ear muffs and safety glasses holding a handgun.  


We got the targets ready on the moving thinger, (which was my third favorite part of the whole experience)... And we started shooting.

Lo and behold, the results of my first target shoot were probably the most embarrassing thing in the history of ever.


Three bullets hit the paper.  Two of them weren't even on the damn target.  I'm not even going to tell you how many bullets I shot total.  

My second round wasn't any better.  In fact, I blew the shi out of the clip that was holding the paper up.  And all the big, macho men next to us cracked up.  Mortifying.  

Betcha can't guess where the clip was.

I started getting semi-peeved that I was sucking so bad.  So I started to pretend that instead of shooting a target, I was shooting crap I hate.  Like infertility, and sucky drivers, and snow, and birth control, and bills, and flooding toilets, and just all-around shitty people in general.  And whattya know...

Worked like a charm.

My final round was my best one, naturally.  Not really anything to brag about.. at all.  Nevertheless, I was pretty proud of myself, considering where I was three rounds before.

I can totally see why people go to shooting ranges to let off steam.  I felt pretty dang good afterwards.  My husband was probably just a teensy bit concerned at just how much I liked it.   But I did.  And I fully intend on returning - and someday shooting a machine gun (speaking of badass).  How could that not be on my bucket list?  Chelsea shooting a machine gun?  Awesome.  I'll save that one for a really bad day.

So my advice to you, if you're ever feeling overly steamed (or you know, if you're bored): Go to a range, and shoot guns.  And if you suck, it's okay.  Because I probably suck more.

Stellar advice, eh?

Happy My Birthday Eve Eve Eve, Internet.

(Note: Chelsea may have used the third person a little more than usual.  You should probably just go with it.)

Monday, February 20, 2012

Macho Husband, Jillian, and a Tiny Bit of Pee.

Today the husband and I decided we'd bust out the Jillian Michaels Metabolism Boost workout.  Shawn had never tried it before.  I warned him that I probably wouldn't make it past the second circuit before my self-diagnosed exercise-induced asthma kicked in - and that if he judged me, he wouldn't see me naked for at least a week.  The fact that I inhaled an inhumane amount of McDonalds 20 minutes beforehand, probably wasn't the most brilliant idea in the world.

Nevertheless, we got our Jillian on.

As per usual, I bowed out around the second circuit, due to the fact that I couldn't breathe to save my life.  And it wasn't just your ordinary I'm-fat-and-out-of-shape out of breath, it was accompanied with some sexy wheezing, and coughing so hard that I peed a little.  Twice.  

Because my husband is a stud, and has rekindled his love of working out, he kept going.  I, however, was passed out on the couch simultaneously trying not to die or wet my pants. 

Midst my hacking up a motherload of a lung, Shawn looked over and said, "You're not recording this, are you?!"  At which point, I wasn't.  But it was a genius idea, whether he liked it or not.  So naturally I started taking pictures of him

When he realized that I was, in fact, taking pictures of him, he pulled down his pants... and continued leaping around the living room.  Touche Husband, touche.  (And if that's not a golden mental image, I really don't know what is.)

And if you wanted a 53rd reason that I love this guy, there it is.  How many husbands would do an entire Jillian Michaels workout, and let their wife post pictures of it on her blog?  I submit that there aren't many husbands that awesome.

Meanwhile, an hour later, I'm still practically gasping for air.  But I've managed to keep the pee to a minimum.  Small victories.

Happy Monday, Internet.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

One Hella Mushy Valentine's Post

So, for Valentine's Day, I decided I was going to get my craft on and make something for my husband.  (You know, like the iPad I made him last year, except less cruel - and admittedly, less hilarious.)   I made this decision yesterday, because I'm a really good wife.  I Googled all sorts of crap, looked stuff up on Pinterest, and finally decided on that deck of cards with "52 Reasons I Love You" on it thing (I'm just about 78% positive you've seen this floating around Pinterest.  If not, Google it.)  I even spent $3.20 to buy the templates.  Watch out.

Anyways, after farting around with the templates for maybe 7 minutes, I got bored.  Further proving that I certainly don't have the attention span to craft much more than writing an I on a pad.  My husband got home, and I confessed to him that I didn't have anything for him for Valentine's Day.  To which he responded, "Eh, that's okay.  I don't have anything for you either."  Do we rock at Valentine's Day or what?  It may sound cheesy, but I don't really need any grand gestures of love to know how much my husband adores me.  Sure, flowers are pretty, and Lindor Truffles are little pieces of heaven in a wrapper... But it's just extra fluff.  I don't need presents to know Shawn loves me.  And I love that about our relationship.  (Note to husband: Hi! I still like presents.)  So even though tonight Shawn will be in class until 9, and I'll be working until midnight - I still wanted to tell him, and the entire Internet, 52 of the millions of reasons that I absolutely adore him.  (Akin to the time in high school I plastered his bedroom walls with hearts with reasons that I love him while his mom watched, only way less awkward.)  Sure, it's no artsy-fartsy deck of cards - but it'll do.

So, to my wonderful husband, here are 52 of the many reasons why I couldn't possibly live without you!

#1.  You are one of the most loving, genuine people I have ever met in my life.
#2. You have a beautiful testimony of our Savior and the Gospel, and you live your life as a testament to your convictions.
#3  You humor me with different names you like for our future children, and making a Word document to keep track of all the ones we agree on.
#4  You call when you're on your way home from work, just to shoot the breeze.
#5  You let me hog all the water in the shower because I'm always whining about how cold I am.
#6  You still give me "butt kisses" - even when I'm pretending to already be asleep.
#7  You don't yell at me for taking a ludicrous amount of time off of work.
#8  You cook amazing meals.
#9  You agreed to do another swimmer test, even though you passed the first one.  And even though it means no Valentine's Day nookie.
#10  You are way too adorable with kids.  Even kids you don't even know.  It absolutely melts my heart, and makes me excited for the day you'll become a father.
#11  You let me check the mail.  Every day.
#12  You don't judge me for going for days without showering.
#13  You pray with me every night.
#14  You work hard to support our little family - harder than I've probably worked in my entire Princess life.
#15  You are usually the first to apologize when we're arguing, or giving each other the silent treatment - because I'm too stubborn.
#16  You've dealt with my snoring like a champ - especially for someone who told me once upon a time that you'd never marry someone who snored.
#17  You watch teenage girl TV shows with me.
#18  Your giggle is absolute music to my ears.
#19  You spoil me.
#20  You let me wear your clothes.
#21  You aren't embarrassed by my super classy blog posts.  And if you are, you hide it well.
#22  You hold my hand.
#23  You pretend to like the food I occasionally prepare, even though we both know it's most likely tastes like garbage.
#24  You'll watch chick flicks with me, and like them.
#25  You help clean - and if you're not helping, you're doing it all yourself.
#26  You walk around the house butt naked, and don't care if the entire neighborhood sees.
#27  You assure me that everything will be okay, when I'm pretty certain that it won't be.
#28  You give me back rubs.  Sometimes with ulterior motives, sometimes not.
#29  You're eager to please me.  And yes, I mean what you think I mean.
#30  You hang out with me while I work.
#31  You encourage me to hang out with girlfriends.
#32  You let me put my cold feet on yours to warm them up - when normally I'd swat your feet away if they were too cold.
#33  You courtesy flush.
#34  You encourage me to stay healthy, in a non-threatening way.
#35  You wipe away my tears when I'm sobbing like a baby.
#36  You squeeze my hand three times to tell me you love me.
#37  You love Toby and Bob like they were your own children.
#38  You chase Toby when he escapes from the house.  Because let's be honest, I'd never catch him.
#39  You're excited and eager to have a family.
#40  You have sexy black-man lips.
#41  You let me use your razor to shave my manstache, even if you think I'm a complete whack job for doing so.
#42  You play with my hair.
#43  You moon me when you're pretend mad.
#44  You warm your hands up with a blow dryer before putting your hand down my shirt.
#45  You sit next to me on the booth every time we eat out.
#46  You play footsie with me when you can't sit next to me.
#47  You tell me I'm beautiful.
#48  You stay home with me when I'm not feeling social.
#49  You are a wonderful example to me each and every day.
#50  You pray for our babies.
#51  You give the best hugs in the history of hugging.
#52  You love every part of me - mood swings, flaws, and all.

Happy Valentine's Day, HotPants!

Thursday, February 9, 2012

One Time I Went on a Cruise.

First of all, I just want to thank you all for all your sweet messages and comments from my last post.  I sincerely appreciate it more than you know.  Between that, and a dear friend bringing me flowers and Coconut Dreams (Cha ching!) - I'd say I have a pretty wonderful support system, and I love that.  I can literally feel the effect of prayers made in our behalf.  So, thank you.

And because I can't really bear to leave a depressing post up for much longer, here are some pictures from our cruise.  We didn't take nearly as many as we did the last time, mostly because I looked atrocious 98% of the time.  And that is a legitimate statistic.  Between the full blown breakout I had going on, my hair greased back into a super pretty ponytail, and the most ugly sunburn you've ever seen, I wasn't feeling particularly photogenic.  So if you were getting excited for my obligatory check-me-out-I'm-wearing-a-bikini-on-a-cruise picture, my apologies in advance.

And now that I've severely lowered your expectations, let's DO this thang (in no particular order).  

 My husband is such a special person.

 Shawn and his brother, Artem.  He's from the Ukraine.  NEAT.

 I laughed for about 5 minutes after I saw this picture.  Stellar.

 The whole fam damily.


 I paid a lady $3 in Panama to let me hold her monkey.  (And that sounds about 87 times more provocative than I intended.)

 Best $3 I've ever spent in my life.

The boys played in the ocean.  Shawn ventured out so far that I was 97% sure he'd get eaten by a shark.  Turns out he survived.

I don't think I've ever looked worse in my entire life than I did in Panama.  And that is a fact.  Don't believe me?

If you look hard enough, you can see your whole damn reflection in the grease on my forehead.

Shawn, his booty, and his sisters.

 Pretty much the only picture we took of the cruise ship.  Rather, half the cruise ship.

 We tried this picture about 17 times.  Hoo boy.

 Was this picture necessary to include?  Probably not.

I hate people that post mirror pictures of themselves.  But this is probably the best I looked the entire cruise, so...  tacky as it may be, it's proof I didn't look like a pre-pubescent boy the entire time.

I'm not positive what's happening in this picture, or who took it, for that matter.

So I've never been good at the duck face, but check out the lips on my man.  Yeah.  Right?

*Snort*  I love this dude.

This was me showing my husband my repertoire of sexy picture moves.  My wall hug is pretty impressive.  Amiright?

Aaaaand some videos that may or may not be super boring for your viewing pleasure.

I can confidently say I will never go out that far in the ocean.  It bloody terrifies me.

Shoreline in Cozumel.  

This was after we had ran into the hummer with army dudes hanging out the windows with guns.  This was their base, if you can even call it that.

This is where we off-roaded.  And yes, putting my arm out the window was a brilliant move.

All in all, it was a fun cruise. 

And that is all.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012


Today I feel defeated.  

I went to my fertility specialist today to get a baseline ultrasound to make sure we were good to go on a new cycle.  I had felt confident that February was going to be a good month for my husband and I.  I felt excited at the prospect of an actual plan to get me pregnant - even if it involved giant needles.  I had hope.

That is, until my doctor showed me my ovary which had a gigantic cyst on it.

I immediately had to fight back tears as she told me they would have to cancel my cycle this month and put me back on birth control.  Birth control.  The anti-baby drug.  I was horrified.  Supposedly the birth control is supposed to help shrink the cyst.  Having a cyst that big would make it a lot harder to get pregnant in the first place - even with medication, apparently.

Even though it's just a cyst, and there are much more severe hurdles that women have had to clear in order to get pregnant, I still can't help but feel completely heart broken.  I bawled the entire way home.  I cry each time it comes up with my family or my husband.  I cry as I write this post.  I just feel so sad, and so broken.

And I'm not saying this because I'm looking for pity.  I'm saying this because it's how I feel.  And I know several years from now I'll be able to look back and know that I was able to overcome these feelings and these obstacles.  

But for now, I will let myself grieve.  I will let myself cry.  All the while knowing I will not let my sadness consume me, and that tomorrow will be better.

Monday, February 6, 2012

Hi, I'm Chelsea...

...and I suck at blogging.

Which isn't to say I don't have about 17 half-started posts in my drafts.
Because, even if I'm exaggerating, I do.

But as I'm half-assing posts about Christmas, and about our cruise, and about my broken baby maker, I get bored.  And if I'm getting bored writing them - I'm not particularly sure how you'd be any less bored reading them.

Thus, I haven't blogged for a solid month.  I've 'Marked All As Read' on about 95% of the blogs in my Reader.  And skimmed the ones that usually entertain me. So uh, sorry

But in short, just in case you're dying to know...

Christmas was awesome.
I now own an iPhone, and Scramble with Friends is my new favorite time-waster.
And Bejeweled.
 I also own a Mac, which I still barely know how to use.
 Our cruise was a blast.
We went to Cozumel, Costa Rica, and Panama.
I'm pretty sure I contracted skin cancer.
My skin peeled for about a week afterwards.
And I'm still white.
We had a run in with the Mexican army, guns and all.
I think the only reason they didn't throw us in Mexican jail is because I'm so damn good-looking.
I finally went to a fertility specialist.
She confirmed my self-diagnosis of PCOS.  Pleasant.
She also gave me a picture of my empty uterus. 
Which is just as depressing as it sounds.
Even so, it's hanging on my fridge.
I have to inject myself with hormones with the biggest. ass. needle. I've ever seen in my entire life.*
And by 'I', I mean my husband.
My W2s for 2011 were pretty embarrassing.
Embarrassing as in, I almost made as much working for 3 months at my last job, than I did working for JB for 9 months.
My husband is really proud.
We named our cat Bob.
He just mastered the art of drinking out of the toilet.**
He and Toby are, at the very least, civil.
Toby hates when Shawn holds Bob. Or when anyone holds Bob, for that matter.***
Spoiled little turd.
Went to Shawn's grandparent's 60th anniversary.
Grandma gave a speech on how wonderful it is to be a mother.
I sobbed like a damn 2 year old.
I'm sure his entire family thinks I'm a lunatic.
Speaking of family, sister in law is leaving for her mission on Wednesday.
I'm going to miss her a bunch.
Which brings us up to today, where I'm about to go boost my metabolism with Jillian Michaels.
I'll only make it to the 2nd or 3rd circuit before I feel like dying.
I'm still trying to convince people that exercise-induced asthma is a thing.
Because it couldn't possible have anything to do with being in the worst shape in the history of shapes.

That is all.

Told you.

Yeah, there's poop on the side of the toilet.  Judge away.

Toby tries to sit on Shawn's lap if he's ever holding the cat. 

Happy Monday, yo.