It's Good to be the Tuna Girl

So it's Memorial Day. I could go on and on about sacrifice, freedom, the military. You know. All the regular stuff. I could also go on and on about being alone and bored. But I won't.

Lately I've been feeling pretty damn lucky. I've mentioned before how I really like the people behind the blogs I read. And a lot of those people are going through hard times, or have been through hard times and are kicking ass and taking names now, or are watching and supporting their friends going through hard times.

I am very lucky.

I live a pretty privileged and comfortable life. I've never not gotten something that I wanted. Never. That might sound like I'm spoiled (and I might be a little bit) but it's more that I was blessed with some great things and was smart enough to know that when you combine blessings with hard work, you can pretty much get anything you want.

Like everyone, I have things in my life that could be better. My family could communicate better. My husband could be home. I could take better care of myself. I could be more organized.

But hell. That's about it. That's nothing. Those are all pretty small and very temporary things. And they're mostly things that I could change on my own.

I am loved. I am very, very well-loved. What more could anyone want, really? I have wonderful and healthy children. I have a few good friends. I have enough money to do the things I want to do. I'm doing something fulfilling with my life on a daily basis.

I'm not sure what else to say.

Sometimes I sit just staring at someone's blog entry, wishing that I had something inspiring or even comforting to say. But I really don't have a lot to add to the discussion. My instinct is to give hugs. That sounds corny, but I mean it.

That's kind of funny too, because I'm known among my friends as a non-hugger. But truly, all I want to do is reach out to you and offer the only comfort I can give.

So, if you've been writing deep posts, or going through something difficult, or even experiencing some wonderful things, and I haven't commented on your blog...It's only because I don't know what to say.

But consider yourself hugged.

All the Cool Girls are Doing It

I like to be part of the pack.

T	Tasty
U	Unusual
N	Noisy
A	Appreciative
G	Great
I	Important
R	Refreshing
L	Light

Name / Username:

Name Acronym Generator
From Go-Quiz.com

Personally, TASTY is my favorite. Yup. That's me. Tasty Tuna Girl.

When I use my real first name I get KINKY and NAUGHTY. How does this thing know me so well?

Where have all the Bloggers gone?

I don't mind being alone. In fact, I relish solitude. I always have. I'm sure that has made it easier for me to be a military wife. But lately I'm finding those hours between when the kids go to bed and I fall asleep to stretch on and on. I just don't have anything interesting to do.

So yesterday I found myself checking my links list again and again for someone who has updated their blog. And I was asking myself, "Where have all the bloggers gone?" I finally realized that it is a holiday weekend. Holidays mean nothing to a stay-at-home military mother, especially during the summer. But most people have lives. Most people have things to do to fill up their holidays.

So this brings me full circle right back to the little notes I leave myself in my notebook. And we begin with...

4 Day Weekend?!?!?!

My husband hasn't had a day off in five months. He's even worked every Sunday. Then he goes away and within three days he has a four-day holiday weekend. Figures. He and his friends took a road trip and saw a Major League game. He called me last night from an exotic locale.

He was at a restaurant and a heavily-accented voice on the loudspeaker kept calling people to their tables. "Where the hell are you?" I asked. "What kind of accent is that?"

"Oh, I'm in **insert exotic locale here**. I don't think the guy on the loudspeaker is from around here."

"Nice," I reply. "Do you know what I did today?"

And this leads us right into my next note...

Hot Hot Hot

It's hot here. Bayou hot. Which is the worst kind of hot. How does the Tuna Girl keep cool here in military housing?

Well, I put my lawn swing under the only bit of shade in our yard. I fill up the kiddy pool. I stick my feel in. I turn on a Blue's Clues sprinkler. I give the kids spray mist bottles and let them go crazy. Ahh. It's the life. This is what I get to do while my husband lounges on a beach sipping a cold Mexican beer. He owes me when I go out to meet him. He owes me big.

Fat Monica Dance

Okay. This one may seem like it is coming out of left field, but follow me.

Do you want to know how to lose up to four pounds in one week without even trying? I have the answer.

Eat any fast food you want. Top it off with birthday cake and ice cream. Make sure you eat all of your kids' leftovers too. Add more cake from a crawfish boil. And don't forget some Peanut M&Ms.

Then go online and download as much cheesy dance music as you can afford. Send the man you love far away. Then spend every evening dancing around your house like Fat Monica from that The One That Could Have Been episode of Friends.

Step on a scale for the hell of it and be shocked at your weight loss.

**Results not guaranteed.

Okay. I'm done for the night. I hope you're all having a great weekend.

I didn't realize this was about sex until I was through.

I keep a little notepad on my desk. During the day I'll jot down cryptic notes to myself. These can be anything from Pay the BILLS already! to Reorganize My Life. I also write down keywords to remind me of things I want to write about.

I was looking for blog inspiration today and decided that I am a very strange person. Some of the things I have jotted down are just...well...they're very me.

So today you will be treated to random thoughts on all the stupid crap I've written in my notebook. And we begin with...

Do I talk like Yoda?

Okay. Do I? I've noticed that I tend to say things like, "I've never in my life kept a pact." Shouldn't it be, "I've never kept a pact in my life." Why do I seem to enjoy switching around my modifiers. Is it smart I am trying to sound? For me before that has never worked? Is it a geek that I may be? Does my brain just work in this kinked up way? (Ha. I said kinked up.)

Real first name and boobs google

And we're back to my boobs again. But it bothered me just a tiny bit that someone found my site by Googling my real first name and the lovely word boobs.

Oh. By the way. Search for 11th Grade Slut on Google and I am the very first listing. I'm so proud of myself.

Which came first? Love for husband or love of uniforms?

Hmmm. A perplexing question. I think I'm going to go with...I had a latent lust for men in uniform that I discovered when I fell in love with my husband. When does your appreciation for something hot cross the line into a fetish? Not that I'm saying.

Tattoos

I wonder what I was thinking when I wrote this. I was probably inspired by this picture that I stole from Patrick. (And yes! Masturbation is like procrastination!)



I had a real aversion to tattoos for years and years. My husband wanted to get one in college and I seriously put my foot down. Well, I guilted him into not getting one, but it's the same thing. Then his mother got one! That didn't help my case.

I'm not big on body modification. I think because I think bodies are so great to start with. Why mess with what your mamma gave ya? I won't even color my hair.

But lately, well, maybe it's old age, but I'm starting to think a good tattoo in a good place is really sexy. It helps if the guy is sexy too. It helps a lot.

My all time favorite tattoo was on a guy I saw in a sex catalog. (No I won't tell you what kind of sex catalog and we don't need to discuss what I was doing perusing it.) He was bald and muscular and most likely...um...not a top. Right in the middle of his back were tattooed the words Fallen Angel. I just might be a tiny bit freaky. Shhh. It's our secret. Don't tell anyone.

So the conclusion on the tattoos thing: On people I love, tattoos are bad. On people I don't love, tattoos are hot.

Straight Guy Porn

This topic seems to flow quite smoothly. When I was writing my post about my perfectly un-fetish-like appreciation for men in uniform I got the bright idea to include a few inspiring photos. Google Hot Men in Uniform Pictures and see how many straight sites you turn up. You gay boys have all the good porn.

I'm a big proponent of porn. I think porn shared in a healthy relationship is a wonderful thing. I've glanced briefly at quite a bit of porn in my time. But I don't think I've ever actually seen porn specifically for straight women. Does it exist?

Playgirl doesn't count. I've only seen one Playgirl and I was maybe 12 years old and at twirling camp (YES! Twirling camp. Don't judge me!). I was a little surprised at what I saw. Did I say surprised? I meant horrified.

So I've decided that I can send my kids to college by taking pictures of my husband as he gets out of his uniform every evening and selling them on the Internet. Any takers?

*******

Okay. Is it getting hot in here? Did I mention that my husband is away? I have three more interesting entries, but I think I'll save them for tomorrow. I don't think they have anything to do with sex.

Too Much Remembering

I spent quite a bit of time today writing a post about an E-mail that I was forwarded. My mother's best friend has two sons serving in Iraq and she will often forward me E-mails asking for prayers or even just to remember.

This E-mail linked to a site called Remember the Blood of Our Heroes. It combined historic quotes and original text with disturbing images from September 11, 2001. It asked if we have forgotten. It asked if the wound has healed.

I don't know why I watched the whole thing. It made me cry and I'm still shaking. I felt compelled to write about it. After all, writing a blog is really supposed to be for you, right? It's supposed to be a place for you to reflect and work things out.

But no amount of reflection or analyzing could ever truly convey the complex emotions that we face when we personally deal with what happened on 9/11 or the two and a half years that have followed.

So after deleting and restarting quite a few times, I decided to ditch the whole thing. The wound still is too fresh for me. I'm not ready to pull the band aid off yet. I think instead I'll just be hugely grateful that I still have my husband and children. Because even as he serves away from home, he is still alive and he still loves us.

Before I checked my E-mail I was thinking of a couple of lighthearted things to blog about. Maybe I'll do that later. Right now, I think I'll just curl up into a ball and try not to think of anything. Or maybe I'll go read some of your blogs and try to distract myself. I hope you've all written some entertaining stuff for me!

Thanks for being out there, you guys.

I Married Superman

Apparently it's, like, Fleet Week, or something in NYC. Who knew? Well, these guys, of course.

I have a long-standing appreciation for men in uniform. But not just any uniform. For example, cops do nothing for me (creepy thoughts of father figures there), and firefighters (despite MAK's drool-inducing picture) don't usually set my fire. And other working class uniforms, like UPS workers and garbage men, don't really get me going. Unless the man in that uniform is exceptionally hot. Then what does it really matter what he is wearing?

But a military man. Oh, jeeze. Even the most mediocre guy can look so delicious in uniform.

Now, my husband is not a mediocre guy. He's pretty hot. I've known him too long to be objective about his looks. I knew him when he had mullet hair and carpenter's crack (both of which he fixed when he was crushing on me). But I think he is beautiful. And my friends and random associates through the last few years have told me he's hot. He has that sort of rugged-guy/I-don't-care-how-I-look/manly-man thing going on. He has a shaved head, deep chocolate brown eyes, luscious and kissable lips, and a strong jaw.

He looks equally hot in each of his uniforms. I've never met a guy who didn't look hot in a flight suit. He used to wear BDUs and he looked very Marine-like in them. Dress uniform: hot. Formal uniform: super hot.

The last time he was deployed he sent my daughter a picture of himself taken during a flight. Holy crap, but he looks hot in that photo. I probably need to copy it and keep it by MY bed.

He has glasses that he doesn't really need, well, very much anyway. If he wasn't an aviator he wouldn't need them at all. So he only wears them when he wants to look less like a thug and more like a scholar. If he wants to throw his weight around and get someone to give him what he wants, off come the glasses. If he wants to wheedle his way into something he wants, or look more approachable, on go the classes. He's like Clark Kent.

Hmmm. Glasses are sexy.

Okay, forgive my self-indulgent musings on the hotness of my chosen man. But it's not something I give a lot of thought. I realize I'm talking about appearances again. What's up with me?

He's only been gone two days and I'm already horned up.

Anyway, I had a point before I got all distracted. I have absolutely no recollection of what it was.

Oh, yeah. It's Fleet Week in NYC. Ogle some for me, boys!!!

The Surreal Life

I have some very surreal moments in my life. But they're never during the wild sex or outrageous events. The most surreal moments in my life are like the one I'm having right now. I'm up at 2 a.m., putting little ribbons on little frames as thank you gifts for the parents in my daughter's class. That is surreal. To me anyway. How the hell did I get to this place?

Children, Love, and Laughter

Big, big hugs today for my best friend and next-door neighbor, CB. Her husband left yesterday morning for his fifth deployment since September 11, 2001. Our husbands have deployed together before, but not since 9/11 have they both been HOME at the same time.

She is a really wonderful person and an amazing friend. We couldn't disagree more about religion, but she sees past my heathen ways and loves me anyway. (She probably prays for me every night.) Today she asked me to bring over my son to play, so that she could provide as normal a routine as she could for her kids. This worked out well for me, because I had to do a last minute preschool party for my daughter.

As I was driving by CB's house, the kids were in the yard, chasing her around with spray bottles. They were all laughing. I started to get teary eyed. Today has got to be one of the worst days of her life. And she deals with it by surrounding herself with children, love, and laughter.

I was surrounded by children today too. Tomorrow is the last day of school, so today we had an ice cream party for all four classes of 4-year-olds. I got to squirt the whipped cream. Well, I also planned the party and set-up and cleaned-up, but squirting the whipped cream was my favorite part. I wasn't looking forward to this party at all (they give the kids spray bottles and balloon targets!) but it was actually kind of nice. It took me all year to really warm up to all those other mothers, but I've gotten there.

And it is always interesting to observe my daughter among her peers like that. She has grown up so much this year. All of the teachers and a bunch of the parents had such nice things to say about her. She's not an easy child to raise. She is very sensitive and too smart for her own good. But you know what...we're doing a good job. Other people enjoy being around her. Considering the way most children act these days, that's really saying something.

Yup. I rock. I am a mother, hear me roar.

**By the way, CB is one of the most beautiful women I've ever met in real life. I hate her. No wait, I love her. Yup. I'm all about the love.

Look at me, just not really closely.

I'm pretty sure that if you've been following along, you know by now that appearances mean very little to me. But I feel like the last few days have been all about appearances for me. Well, appearances and my breasts. I don't know why my breasts are such a popular topic these days, but here goes.

Okay, first of all, I suddenly realize that I am going to be going on a vacation. Not a family vacation, but I real romantic get-away. Well, it will be as romantic as it can be traveling along with my husband's fellow worker bees and their assorted spouses and families. But there will be plenty of time by the pool, a formal event, and visits to clubs and such. And suddenly I am feeling very...matronly.

Add to that Toddy's awesome post from today, Mark's barrage of pictures, David's post on fashion, my shopping excursion for formal wear and vacation appropriate clothing, and numerous references to my breasts, and man. But I am tired of thinking about looks.

It's not that I think I'm ugly. I'm not. I'd say I am pretty average looking. I actually think that I was born with some pretty good assets. And there have been times when I was downright hot. Unfortunately, I never realized I was hot during those times. It is only in hindsight that I can see my attractiveness. If you met me at a party you'd probably think that I was a work in progress. The braces aren't exactly helping my self confidence.

Anyway, I keep reminding myself that most people are so wrapped up in their own insecurities that they aren't really looking at you. They're just wondering what you see when you look at them. I keep reminding myself that I don't have to be a size 6 to have fun.

I received a birthday card from my parents (a few days late but I guess since they gave me life I'll let them away with it) that sort of made me blush. I should preface by saying that my family is very subdued and a little distant and cold when it comes to affection. It's not that we don't love each other a lot, it's just that we don't know how to show it. I should also add that my mother has told me that she loves me twice in the last week. I was probably a little girl the last time she told me that.

Anyway, this card said, "Ask me what beauty is and I will show you my daughter." That's pretty damn sweet.

Okay. Enough blathering. On to the breasts.

Since my husband had to take a couple of suitcases today, he also schlepped along my gown so I wouldn't have to pack it myself. Which means that I spent last night trying on my closet full of gowns trying to find the right one.

There is one in particular that I don't really like (I bought it in desperation) but my husband loves. My trying it on led to this conversation.

Him: I like that one.
Me: Really? I don't know. It shows so much cleavage.
Him: That's what happens when you have big tits.
Me: (Slaps him in the stomach) I hope that hurt. It hurt my hand.
Him: What do you want me to say?
Me: I don't have big boobs.
Him: Yes, you do. The bra straps are pretty sexy too.
Me: Ugh. I'd have to buy a new bra.

This precipitates me going to the mall to buy a new bra. Which leads me to the formal dress section, which leads me to buy a brand new, military-wife-appropriate gown.

Upon arriving home we have this conversation.

Him: (Referring to the dress) I like it. It's perfect for this event.
Me: Yeah and it was the first thing I tried on. It took me twice as long to find a bra. Why would I want a bra with padding. I have plenty of padding on my own. And I don't want to maximize. I want to minimize. It's hard to find a **insert bra size here**.
Him: Holy shit. You wear a **insert bra size here**. I didn't know you were that big.

For the record, I do not have big boobs. Repeat. I do not have big boobs.

Okay. I might be in boob denial.

Another Late Night Post

I'm actually typing downstairs on the kids' computer right now (Damn this thing sucks!) which makes me feel weird about using words like sucks.

I'm up so late trying to finish laundry for my darling husband. He leaves bright and early tomorrow (this) morning for a few weeks "business trip" to an undisclosed but resort-like location.

And here's the big news people. The big fucking news. (Oops!) In a couple of weeks I will be flying my sainted mother in to babysit my children and I am going to go join him. Woo Fucking Hoo! (Oops again!) How excited am I? This is the first time in five years that we will spend a night away together. And it will actually be four whole nights!

My husband has decided that we will actually go out and "do things we don't normally do." That means we'll be dancing and I will be sucking up a whole lot of liquid courage.

I actually love to dance, but I don't think I've been in a bar or club in eight years. Have things changed? I know you're all the experts. I have a theory though. (Stick with me, kids, and you'll hear a whole lotta theories.) I decided years ago that if you decide you're cool and go with it you will fit right into any social situation.

We will also be attending a formal ball. And riding a roller coaster. And shopping. And, um...doing other things that y'all really don't want to know about.

I'm so friggin (that deserves a half oops) excited that I'm not even sad to see him go. But, as my long term readers know, it's time to brace yourself for some horned up posts from the Tuna Girl. (Sorry kids!)

I think I must swear a lot when I'm tired.

Stupid Little Post on a Late Sunday Night

Setting: Our bedroom, Thursday night, as my husband is changing out of his uniform.

Me: You look weird.
Him: Oh. You know why. My underwear is on backwards.
Me: Weren't you uncomfortable? Didn't you miss the little door?
Him: No. I don't use the little door.
Me: So what do you do? Pull them down?
Him: Yup.
Me: You're showing off your stuff to anyone who'll look.
Him: Guys don't look like that.
Me: Um....right.

Men fascinate me.

Random Men with Roaming Eyes

Attention! All Random Men who stop me at Random Places to discuss Random Things!

Yes, I am a woman. Yes, you can confirm this by glancing briefly at my chest and seeing that I indeed do have breasts. Yes, you will freak me out if you continue to stare at said breasts the entire time you speak to me. Yes, you will freak me out further if you keep on talking and actually follow me though I am making obvious Bostonian moves to get away from you.

I'm not sure if you've stopped me to discuss Random Things because I look nice and approachable and you actually think I care that I look like someone you went to high school with, or that you once lived in the state that my license plate depicts, or that you knew someone who went to a school that sort of sounds like the school from my sweatshirt.

Or maybe you've stopped me because you thought I looked nice and approachable but then you realized that you really enjoyed staring at my breasts, so you just kept talking in the vain hope that I would stand there longer, and you could continue to stare.

Or maybe you even stopped to hit on me. I know I'm 31, married, and the mother of two, but it could happen. Maybe once you were transfixed by my hypnotic breasts you forgot your pick up line and just started rambling.

Or maybe, you noticed my breasts first off, and started talking to me, in the vain hope that a sudden wind would suddenly whip off my shirt, and bra, and well, you wouldn't want to look away from my breasts for one second and miss that spectacle.

But regardless of your reason, please, dear Random Men who stop me in Random Places to talk about Random Things...at least make an attempt to look in my eyes. They're these green things, surrounded by lashes, somewhere about a foot above where you're staring. At least that way I won't have to stare at your Random Bald Spots.

Thank you, and goodnight.

I *Heart* the Internet

Wow. Who knew you'd all enjoy my puke story so much. I could fill a whole blog with stories about puke, poop, and pee. Sometimes I feel like that's all my life revolves around. Seriously.

Speaking of glamour, about half of my readership will be carousing in NYC this weekend. I'm jealous. But mostly I'm a little amazed. Most of their blogs have been commenting on how surprised they are that this gathering has taken off. But I think it is absolutely wonderful that the internet can bring people together this way.

Okay. I realize that it's pretty obvious to all of us that the internet has changed things, but right now I'm feeling real love for technology. It strips away the surface, something that I can really appreciate. Appearances define us, but they shouldn't. I've realized that I have been living vicariously through people of ages and life styles that I would never have the chance to meet in my real life.

But it reflects real life too. It's sort of like high school. Instead of being defined by how many girls/guys would date you, or who you sit with at lunch, you're defined by how many hits you get and who links to you. Cliques develop. Popularity reigns. It's funny, really.

A blogger I love recently mentioned how she feels a little guilty for enjoying the mess of other blogger's lives. (I'm paraphrasing here big time..sorry Jenniy.) Her readers commented that some of them really like to read blogs of people they don't like and sort of root for them to fail. I guess I could sort of understand that, but I've never felt that way.

I really like the people behind the blogs I read. Or at least I like the person they're presenting themselves to be. My own blogroll reminds me how much I love variety in my associations.

The internet has also made major changes in how military families deal with war. I can't even imagine having to wait weeks or months for one letter from my husband. My husband and his cohorts had access to digital internet on their last deployment. We could IM, voice chat, and video conference. It's not even close to being together, but it's lightyears better than what the military wives of just a few years ago had.

Speaking of that, my best friend CB's husband is deploying next week. I'll be one of the only wives with my husband around this summer. I'm going to be feeling guilty. I'll be offering his services (get you minds out of the gutter) for handyman services and babysitting.

He's been working 18 hour days (including weekends) for about 5 months now. But today he came home at 1 p.m. This is unheard of! So, he said hello, raced to the bedroom, curled up and passed out. I'm trying to type quietly as to not wake him, and it is quite impossible. He's leaving next week for a month, and then he'll be done with this program.

I can't wait.

Kindergarten Cop

The movie Kindergarten Cop is on Encore this week. Every time I see a reference to that movie, I just have to laugh. It was the centerpiece of my Worst Date Ever.

Just picture it. A girl who is a senior in high school. Sort of athletic, sort of smart. She has a thing for a boy, but he let some misunderstood comment come between them. He seems to keep hanging around though. You know...as friends. Even though she's dating some jerk, he shows up at all of her basketball games. He goes out dancing with her. He even takes her to the movies. Those all sound like dates to her.

So one winter evening, this girl isn't feeling so well during basketball practice. And she somehow manages to tear some cartilage in her ear as she's going for a rebound. She feels like crap, but her friend-who-is-a-boy is picking her up for dinner and a movie, and she's not going to miss it.

He's not exactly a big spender, so he takes her to Papa Gino's where she orders and eats a seafood salad sandwich. Okay. Obviously she wasn't thinking. But they're having fun and things are moving along.

They go to see Kindergarten Cop. It's 1990. Give them a break.

About a quarter of the way into the movie, the girl isn't feeling too well. She's feeling clammy and hot and nauseous. But it's Ah-nold after all, and he doesn't have a Too-Mah. She, however, has an upset stomach. But she ignores it, not wanting to end her pseudo date with the boy.

Until she can't ignore it anymore. And just as she decides to make a dash for the bathroom, well, her stomach decides that it's time to empty itself. All over their shoes.

She'd love to die of embarrassment. And she's just hoping no one noticed her ralph. But she's feeling better and a hasty retreat will only draw attention. Must have been that seafood salad. So they discreetly move to another row and thank their stars that they don't work in a movie theatre.

Five minutes later, it's time to admit defeat, and dash to the bathroom again. Like a gentleman, he escorts her to his Hyundai, asking her if she is okay.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," she insists. But half way home, she isn't so sure and she asks him to roll down his windows.

Which he does, while warning her again and again, "You better not throw up in my car! Anywhere but in my car!" What a sweet boy.

They finally arrive at the girl's house and she sprints in the door, past her mother, and directly to the bathroom.

She spends the night in abject misery, only to find out that she has a 104 degree fever. Days later she breaks out in spots and finds out that she has Rosiola.

Years later, when Kindergarten Cop finally makes it's way to network TV, the boy and the girl finish watching it together in a dorm room. The only puking done this time is by the drunken cadet boys in the bathroom across the hall.

Many years later, that boy and girl will see Kindergarten Cop listed on their satellite directory, and every single time they do, that boy just has to say, "Hey! Remember when you threw up all over me?"

To which she replies, "Yes dear, fondly."

Don't Mess with Mommy

I just can't seem to decide what to write about today. I've started and restarted a couple of posts. Most of the things on my mind are kind of deep. And I just don't have the mental prowess today to do them justice.

So, as I've been told many times, when it comes to writing it is best to just go with the flow. And today I feel random. So here are some random thoughts.

***

The director of my daughter's preschool stopped me today at carpool to talk about my daughter. "She's so happy!" she said. "Have you noticed that she has just been so happy and bouncy these last few weeks?"

No. With me she has been sullen, moody, and emotional. What's up with that? Well, okay. It hasn't been that bad. But damned she's had her moments.

***

I had to take my son to my orthodontist appointment. I almost always take him with me, but my appointments are usually just a few minutes long. But, I was having all of my x-rays, impressions, and pictures taken so I knew it would be a long one. Considering that he has been acting very "two-years-old" lately, I was a little stressed at having to take him.

He was an angel. Of course. The nurses and doctor went on and on about how sweet and well-behaved he is, and then regaled me with stories of monster children.

The next day, my birthday, he threw a fit at the library (because I wasn't getting myself a book), the pool (he didn't want to get out), the kitchen (he didn't want to take off his wet clothes and get dinner), and in his bed, during his time out (because he didn't want to say he was sorry for throwing said fits). What happened to the angel at the orthodontist's office???

***

My husband passed his paper. Yay. Not everyone did. I was a little worried. But he still has to edit it further before it can be published. It's the assignment that will never go away.

***

I pissed someone off in traffic yesterday. Let me preface by saying that I am an excellent driver. Really. I am. My father taught me to drive and he took it very seriously. I drove in and around Boston for six years, and that teaches you something. And I've been driving for *ahem* 15 years without an accident.

There is a very skinny stretch of road through a college campus that I must drive four times a day. It's two lanes in each direction. The young man next to me decided that I was encroaching on his space, which I wasn't, and honked at me. Fine. Whatever. Then he sped by me, going at least sixty, cut in front of me straddling the two lanes and stomped on his brakes.

He did this twice. Real nice. If I was the bad driver he thought I was, we could have all been dead, twice. And a little road rage is really worth killing a two-year-old over, right? Never fuck with a mother, people. I seriously could have stopped my car and strangled the life out of that guy with my bare hands. I'm not sure that I've ever been that angry.

It's a good thing my father wasn't there. I've seen him hop out of a moving vehicle to threaten an obnoxious driver. Hmmm. Talk about road rage.

***

Ah. This is nicer than therapy. Cheaper too. I'm so glad to vent this stuff. Doesn't my life sound so glamorous? I've been pissy and depressed this week, but I'm feeling better today. You might be surprised how much your nice comments from yesterday helped me feel better. So thanks.

Happy Birthday to Me

I have a love/hate relationship with my birthday. Every year, I get all excited as it approaches. I guess it's a throwback to second grade. And every year I am disappointed when the day comes and goes just like every other day. I guess the world doesn't revolve around me after all.

Be that as it may, in honor of my birthday, I present you with pictures of me as a wee little guppy. And, Mom? What's up with the weird hats?

 

The Man Suit

Today, I am truly creeped out. I finally got my first penis related Google search and it was a doozy. It was cock ring AND my daughter. Ooh. Yuck. My first freaked thought was that my father had found me (because Google is that intuitive, right?). And I'll avoid even mentioning my second freaked thought.

So on to nicer things. Mark mentioned "man purses" in his post Saturday. I've always found this concept rather interesting. What does a man do when he has stuff to carry and is without pockets or a handy female with a bag?

My husband avoids carrying the diaper bag as much as he can. He'll opt for a backpack when he can't. But he has the ultimate solution to the man purse.

He wears a flight suit to work every day. It has, oh, about two dozen pockets from his chest, to his arms, and even to his legs. And, man, does he fill them up. He even carries bottles of Pepsi One in the pockets on his legs.

So, one day, I noticed that he had patches on his legs with no hair. He's fairly well-furred, so they really stood out. In a week or two, the hair had disappeared from one whole side of his leg. It took me a few days to realize that his overloaded pockets had rubbed the hair right off his legs.

I find this hilarious. Sort of cute, but hilarious none the less. He can never ever make fun of me for carrying a big purse, which I don't anyway. Because everything from ear plugs to snack foods can be found right on his body!

A Tuna Weekend

It has been a strange weekend. First off, we went out for Mexican food on Friday night. Do you want to see something funny? Watch a white, Irish Catholic girl from Boston eat Mexican food. My nose and cheeks turn red. My nose runs. And I sweat profusely. And that's just from the chips!

On Saturday, a technician from DirectTV was supposed to come and provide us with a free dish upgrade so that we can continue to receive local channels. Sounds good to me. They were supposed to be here between 8 a.m. and noon. They didn't show up until 3:30 p.m. Then it took them over 2 hours to get the new one working, and it involved moving the dish across the yard and my husband threading the cable under the house himself. For someone who says he's a little claustrophobic, he spends a lot of time under our house.

So, anyway...when they finally left, we took the kids to the BX to have dinner in the food court and let them play in the indoor play area. After, we went shopping for just a few things that we needed.

As we walked in and had our IDs checked, my daughter said, "I hope we don't buy anything." So my husband started teasing her about not being any fun. He had planned to buy her some candy, which is a fairly rare occurrence, and was sort of teasing her about following her around the store. She got the impression that he was going to let her pick out something she wanted. So she chose a stuffed animal. Which wasn't his intention was at all. She started crying. He got mad. I suggested they go to the car. She wailed on the walk out. He YELLED at her near the front door.

Ugh. I was embarrassed. I must say, that in all the time I've been a mother, I've never been embarrassed in public. My kids aren't perfect, but the few times they've melted down in public, I took quick and decisive action. I never had anything to be ashamed of.

In my husband's defense, he asked for her forgiveness for yelling at her in public. And she asked for his forgiveness for crying and being spoiled. He just doesn't get that people can't read his mind and understand his ulterior motives. I can't do it. A four-year-old certainly can't.

And in his further defense, I can't get into why, but he was taking "go pills" as part of a test. I think they really effected his personality.

Which takes us to the next weird part of our weekend. I sometimes feel like I never sleep. And I often get household stuff done in the middle of the night. Last night, I had a partner in crime. At 2 a.m. my husband was building bookshelves. Today he did yardwork (unheard of!) and took the kids out to run errands. I took advantage of my free time by sleeping it all away. I hate when I do that.

Okay, this is quite possibly the most tedious post ever!

Pop My Blog Cherry

I love reading people's 100 things list. But everyone always seems a little embarrassed and apologetic about posting one. And so do I. But I figured I'd use a slow Saturday to pop my blogger cherry and write up 100 very boring things about my boring life.

I'm so embarrassed.

And I'm sorry

Yours truly,
The Tuna Girl

100 Things

1. I’m a little embarrassed to be writing this list
2. I was born and raised in a suburb of Boston
3. My dad was a cop
4. My mom pretty much stayed home with us, but got part time jobs when we were older
5. I have a brother who is about 4 years older than me
6. I was born in May 1973 (Do the math)
7. I was two weeks late
8. That’s typical
9. I am married to a military man
10. We met in high school when we both worked at a grocery store
11. We dated for three months our junior year in high school then broke up
12. We got back together when we started college
13. We got engaged our junior year in college
14. We got married a couple of months after college graduation
15. We decided to try to have a baby when I turned 25
16. It took us a year to get pregnant
17. I have a beautiful little girl who was born in July 99
18. In March of 01 we decided to try for another baby
19. We figured it would take another year and our kids would be 3 years apart
20. In March of 01 I was pregnant again
21. My son was two weeks late
22. That’s typical--We’re very much alike
23. I have a beautiful little boy who was born in Dec 01
24. I have had 15 different jobs
25. I only liked one of them, and that was an unpaid internship
26. Now I stay at home with my kids
27. I love being a mom
28. I majored in Marketing in college
29. I started out as an English major but switched when I realized an English degree would be pretty useless
30. So I minored in English
31. I went to Catholic school from sixth grade through college
32. My high school was all-girls
33. My college was all-women
34. I loved that
35. I was a very good student and things came easily to me
36. Except French--I suck at languages
37. I started an MBA and got halfway through when I realized that I didn’t need it
38. All I really wanted was to have and raise kids
39. When I was in second grade my IQ was tested to be 126
40. When I was in high school it was tested to 143
41. I’m not that smart—I got an 1190 on my SATs—every time I took them
42. I took the SATs when I was in the seventh grade
43. I got an 800
44. I love sports and I can play just about anything
45. I played basketball and softball in high school
46. I played softball in college
47. I was a pitcher
48. In 1995 I applied for the US Softball team, but didn’t qualify because of the number of innings I had played in our season
49. We had a short season because it is hard to play softball on snow
50. I’ve never broken a bone
51. I’ve never missed a game because of injury
52. I twirled baton from ages 5 to 18
53. I was very serious about it and even competed at the national level
54. I think that is pretty hysterical now
55. I never wear make-up
56. I only own a few pairs of shoes
57. Half of them are sneakers
58. My parents raised me Catholic but never took us to church
59. They only had me confirmed so I could get married in the church
60. My bother’s best friend is a priest and married us—in a church
61. My two best friends in my past were lesbians
62. My two best friends now are Christian republicans
63. I think I’m a good friend
64. I also think I’m a good mom
65. I also think I’m a good daughter
66. I am not, however, a good sister
67. My brother and I rarely talk because we feel awkward
68. I have three nephews, twin boys and a baby boy
69. They drive me crazy—they’re not very well-behaved
70. I tolerate my sister-in-law, but I really don’t like her
71. I can lie with the best of them
72. In elementary school, I was an alto in the chorus
73. I also played the clarinet in the band
74. The girls behind me snapped my bra during the parade
75. I still hate those girls
76. I went through puberty when I was in the fourth grade
77. Which made me really popular with the boys—in sixth grade
78. When I got my first period I thought I had cut myself
79. When I was young, I wished that I were a boy
80. I don’t wish that anymore
81. In junior high, the nuns assigned me to choir
82. They took all the joy out of singing
83. Now I only sing in my car, but I’m better than Jessica Simpson (Isn’t everyone?)
84. I am a preschool room mother
85. I am a soccer mom
86. My son and I go to a mommy and me music class once a week
87. I have long, straight, thick, brown hair
88. I’m Irish and Portuguese (mostly) and I look it
89. I wear braces (for now)
90. My eyes are a very weird green
91. My daughter has my eyes and she loves that fact
92. I will never work again—thank god
93. To me, working for someone else feels like being in prison
94. I want to travel the world, once my kids are in college
95. I will winter in the Florida panhandle, and summer on Cape Cod when my husband retires
96. The only foreign countries I’ve been to are Canada and Mexico
97. Walking to and from California to Tijuana was the most frightening thing I’ve ever done
98. I was 12 and my father wanted us to appreciate our country more
99. I can’t believe how boring I sound in this list--maybe I’ll have to do another X-rated one
100. I’m still a little embarrassed

Day of the Military Spouse

Today is national Military Spouse Appreciation Day. So, you know...appreciate me. I've heard it said before that the toughest job in the military isn't even in the military. It's being a military wife. Yeah. I can relate to that.

And with all that has been going in the world lately, I'm feeling especially sympathetic of my sister military wives. And husbands and parents too.

I've been complaining about my friend AH a lot lately. Because she's driving me batty. But, her husband is deploying to Iraq next month, and as much as I want to scream at her, I still feel, well, protective of her.

The jobs that our husbands do are inheritantly dangerous. But usually, even when they are deployed to combat, because of the nature of their jobs, they still sleep in a nice bed with a real roof over their heads every night. But that isn't necessarily true in Iraq.


Combat Sleep 


Combat Sleep 


Combat Sleep 


Combat Sleep 

None of us like to think of the ones we love in harms way. And I know that my friends and I are pretty blase about their jobs. We are so much more focused on keeping our families together, keeping the bills paid and the car running, and keeping our children emotionally healthy that we just don't have time to worry.

But I know, that in those very lonely hours, after the kids have gone to bed, the phone has stopped ringing, and the world is dark we start to think. And we start to worry. And we wonder if it's worth it.

But we know...we have to believe somewhere deep in our hearts, that it is the service, the sacrifice, the love that makes our guys tick.

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS

by: Richard Lovelace (1618-1658)

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As thou, too, shalt adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honor more.

Those last two lines are ones that I've kept tucked in my heart since college. Even when he is at his darkest hour, questioning why he is putting us through all this, I know the answer. Because he has to. He has no choice. It is in his heart. It is who he is.

And me? Well, I am a military wife. I take my own service to this country just as seriously.

No matter what you think of conflict. No matter what you think of politics. No matter what you think of war. You have to respect the service of those who give it so freely. Even when such service is sullied by a few evil souls.

And no matter what you think of service men and women, you have to respect their spouses. Especially those who stick it out. And as much as my friend drives me crazy, I'll keep my mouth shut, and be her friend. Because right now she needs me. She needs the support of the only people who could possibly understand what she is going through, other military wives. And all while I offer my support, in the name of friendship, solidarity, and love of freedom, I will remember one inescapable fact.

My own husband can be next.

Ooh, iPod. Oh, Baby.

I think I have a crush on my iPod. He's so sleek and shiny. And sexy too. I'm developing quite an obsession.

He's come to bed with me every night this week. And this morning, I even woke up to his embrace. He was wedged under me, ear bud wires splayed, ear bud covers strewn about, battery run down to nothing. (I've been known to drain a guy.) He even had one little knot in his wire. We must have had some kinky fun last night.

Ah. Now I just have to keep my husband from finding out. He'll want to trade in his cheap, little hussy MP3 player for his own hot little number.

I'm all about the good things in life.

Mom's Brushes with Celebrity Sandwiches

My mother told me last night that she sat next to a celebrity on her flight home. She didn't have the slightest clue that she was sitting next to a Boston Celtic until she heard people whispering about a celebrity. He was wearing a Celtics shirt and when she got home she looked him up on the internet. It was Paul Pierce.

"I felt so bad for him," she said. "Everyone was staring at him and whispering to each other. I felt like they were staring at me too. That must be so awful."

I agree. Even if I could have all the money in the world, I wouldn't want to have to be a celebrity to get it. My mom said that he was very nice and sort of ignored it all. She said that at one point he gave her a grin when people were talking loudly about him.

"And then he offered me his turkey sandwich," she said. "That's the second time a celebrity has offered me their sandwich."

"Who was the first one?" I asked.

"Young Joe Kennedy. Remember that? We were at a ski lodge and I didn't know who he was until Father Flynn said, 'Do you know who just offered you his sandwich?'"

I do remember that, actually. At the time I wasn't exactly sure who Young Joe Kennedy was. And I'm still not sure. I mean, Joe Jr. was killed in WWII. Now, John John I know. Especially since my older brother was often mistaken for him.

By the way, that was the same ski trip when my father was mistaken for Newt Gingrich. People must have been wondering why the hell old Newt was hanging with John John.

What's that smell?

I was just watching a repeat of the Queer Eye with Warren the composer. And I stand by my choice of Ted as the Queer Eye guy that I would choose to marry. There's something sort of Geeky Chic about him that I like. And again, for me it all goes back to the food.

Tonight's Tuna Related Quote:

Carson: It smells like tuna in here.
Warren: It doesn't smell like tuna in here.
Carson: You have a girlfriend, don't you?
Warren et al: Har har har

From My Mouth to God's Ear

I'm feeling a little out of sorts today. Sort of weird, embarrassed, and antsy. Do you know the feeling? A series of weird things has happened that make me feel this way.

First, on Mothers' Day I was taking a lovely little nap when my husband came and woke me up. "Your brother's on the phone," he said. Now my brother only calls me on my birthday, when someone has given birth, or when someone dies, so I asked, "Who?"

"Your brother," he replied. "He wants to talk about your father and another family member." He said it in this gruff way that he sometimes has of talking. I just assumed that someone had died.

It turned out to just be my nephews who wanted to wish me a Happy Mothers' Day. But, whew. For a moment there, I was steeling myself to do that strong daughter thing that I'm so good at.

Next, my mother and I took the kids to Applebee's for lunch. A group of people sat behind me, and one guy was just obnoxious. I figured that he must be the boss, and the other's let him be so obnoxious because they'd like to keep their jobs. It turns out that he was a "preacher" and all the people with him were also preachers or "educators" at his congregation.

They talked about nothing but god and jesus for the next half hour. Some of the hateful things they said, couched in religious right, made my temper ignite. I rarely talk religion, because my beliefs are so far from what most of the people in my life believe. I'm fine with that, but getting into a religious discussion always leaves me feeling, well, queepy (as my husband would say).

But, their talk got my brain going. And last night I had a terrifying dream. I woke up with gooseflesh and that feeling that my hair was standing on end. I don't remember details, but I had told someone I didn't believe in their god, and their god proved he existed by picking me up and slamming me into the ground.

Next, I got one of those hateful comments that people like to leave on my blog. I think it concluded with something about how jesus rocks their world. Now, considering I've never spoken of religion in this blog before, I assume they were being hateful because I am gay-friendly. (I hate that term but I'm not sure what else to say.)It made me feel oddly embarrassed. I've had some hateful things done and said to me over the years, because I have gay friends, and it always sucks. But, DAMN. If I get this much flack, how much flack do my gay friends get?

I get so angry on their behalf. And, well, on my own behalf too. Because I don't want my kids to grow up in a world ruled by hate. And this might sound weird, but my gay friends always seem to be especially wonderful people.

Lastly, I have this friend AH who has been driving me insane. You'll all be treated to a nice little ranty post about her soon. But her main crisis right now is that she is trying to choose a school for her daughter. This women couldn't make a decision to stand up if she were drowning in a bathtub. Anyway, it caused me to make the comment, "I didn't want to send my kids to a religious school, so we only had one choice." And as soon as the words left my mouth, I felt like I was being judged and found pathetically lacking.

There's nothing I hate more than this out of sorts feeling. I hate having to watch everything that I say. But I know from experience that the best way to get over it is to vent and move on.

Breathe

I feel like I have been going non-stop for days and days. I guess I really have. It's always like that when we have family visit. We put my mother on a plane back home today, and now I feel like I can breathe again.

So I discovered a few things this weekend. First, there is a real benefit to having your husband read your blog. I can flat out tell you all what gifts I'd like, and I actually receive them. My husband got me an iPod for Mothers' Day. Well, it's also for my birthday and as a thank you gift for helping him get through the work program he's in right now. (Speaking of which, he passed his paper in today. Woo Hoo! As long as he passes, my work is done!) But that's okay. Although I did remind him that my friend got a diamond ring when her husband graduated, and she didn't even help him with his paper.

Hmmm...you know what. I can't even remember the other thing that I was going to say I discovered. That's how drained my brain is.

Some day soon I'm going to have to post a huge rant about that aforementioned friend. She's been driving me insane, and my husband has got to be sick of hearing about it. Although, I think he secretly enjoys when I get all gossipy.

Well, I have to get through a few more hours of this day. Then I can put the kids to bed and...well...clean the house from top to bottom because the cleaners are coming tomorrow. Then, I can actually relax for a moment.

Much more interesting blogging to come. ;-)

Razzle Dazzle 2004

I'm too tired after my day of dress rehersal and dance recital to form complete thoughts in words. But I just have to say...

Monthly dance class fees: $30
Dance recital costume: $80
Dance recital fees: $30
Dance recital tickets: $20
Airfare to fly Grandma in for dance recital: $350
Hearing your little girl say, "This was the most special day of my life.": Priceless

Edward Strikes Again

I'm going on a date with my husband!!! Woo Hoo! When you only go to the movies once every few months you hope to be able to see something really good but our choices seem pretty limited. We're going to see The Punisher (his choice). At least we'll have a few hours alone without the offspring.

On a completely different note...you'd think that with all the penis talk I've been doing lately that I would get some interesting google searches. But mostly the google searches that find me are related to breastfeeding. Until today, when someone found me searching for Edward Penis Hands. Nine years later and Edward Penis Hands is still going strong!

Sneaky Boy

Late Wednesday night, I happened to check out my site meter stats, just to see what was up. And I noticed that I had been at my site at about 10:30 p.m. Except, wait. I wasn't online at 10:30. My husband was on the computer at 10:30. You see where this is going, don't you?

But, as is usual with me, there's a story.

So I mentioned to him earlier that day that I had hit 1,000 visits on my blog. His response was, "When am I going to get to read it?" We ended up talking about it for a while, and he admitted that it bothered him that I didn't want him to read it. Now, if truth be known, I think he's just curious, but he doesn't want to break his word, so he was giving me a compelling reason to tell him to read it.

In the end, I told him my address. He thought Tuna Girl was a pretty funny title for me. He's the only one who probably thinks it's funny though.

Then he said he was going to work on his paper and wouldn't have time to read it tonight anyway. When I heard him go to bed, I went up and asked him if he had checked out my blog. He said, "No. I told you I wouldn't have time. I'm busy with my paper."

Okay. I understand that. I'm a little relieved. Then I go and check my site stats.

He lied to me. He LIED to me. We don't do that.

So I went right to the bedroom and informed him that I knew he was looking at my blog. He turned bright red and gave me some excuse about not wanting to stress me out over his reading it.

He LIED to me.

Now, that sounds pretty dramatic (at least dramatic for our standards) but mostly I was just teasing him about it. I thought I would feel like I am "writing on egg shells" as Mark put it. But I actually feel kind of free. I'm not used to keeping things from him.

I think as a punishment for lying, I'll make him guest blog sometime. Would you find that interesting? He'll have to decide about posting his own naked pictures though. (Sorry, David.)

Oh, by the way. His opinion of my blog: "You sound just like you do when you can't sleep at night." I think he means that I'm rambling. Hmmm. He only read this week's posts though. Oh! And he said I'm a freak. Why? "Did you read your own fucked up dating history?"

Hey! I don't think it's that bad.

Have a great weekend everyone!

My Little Angel

Today was crazy, but wonderful. There are times when I am just pure Mom. Today was one of them. I don't think it is possible to express parental pride in words. I was so proud of my daughter today. She did well in the May Pole and she was absolutely adorable. All of the parents and teachers had compliments for me. But that's not why I'm proud. I'm proud because she is so irrepressibly herself. She's one of a kind and she is all mine. And I love her.

And my boy's not so bad either.

Tuna List #2

My mother is flying in tonight. She's here until Monday and it is just going to be a whirlwind of activity. Tomorrow, my daughter has a big May Pole program at school. She has three lines, plus all the group songs, poems, and dances. I spent $130 on her dress and shoes, $45 on flowers, $350 to fly grandma in, and a week's worth of my time preparing the reception. All I really hope is that she's happy and doesn't cry.

Then Friday is music class graduation. Then Saturday is her ballet dress rehearsal and recital. Then Sunday is Mother's Day. (I'm hoping for an iPod!) Ooh. And best of all, since we paid $350 to fly grandma in, we might as well use her as a babysitter. We're going to a movie Friday night. Yippee! I can't remember the last time I went out with my husband.

All of this is leading up to the fact that I'm tired and frazzled. I can't think of anything interesting to say. So yup. Sorry guys, but it is time for another Tuna List.

The Loves and Lusts of the Tuna Girl

Unknown boy--6th grade--My first make out session. We were at a roller rink. He was 18.
B.F.--7th grade--First official boyfriend. I started young. We held hands. Ooh!
K.M.--8th grade--Let him get to second base on the ski bus.
C.C.--10th grade--First real boyfriend. Lost my virginity to him when I was 15. Damn that's young! He had a serious obsession with my best friend. Now he's a doctor.
B.K.--10th grade--Best kisser ever. Most fun I ever had. My best friend dated his brother. Died on 9/11 on the American Flight.
TUNA BOY--11th grade--Future husband. Told me he loved me after 3 weeks. He denies that! Broke up after 3 months on New Year's Eve because he misheard something I said.
TUNA BOY's Best Friend--11th grade--TUNA BOY set me up with him. Total geek.
M.T.--11th grade--Met when we both won a dance contest. Went to his prom. Complete cutie.
B.--11th grade--Grabbed my ass on our first date. Dad made me break up with him when he ran his records and found out he had raped someone. He later fathered a baby with a friend of mine.
T.C.--11th grade--23 years old. Dated for 14 months. He was impotent. He tried to kill himself when I broke up with him.
M.G.--12th grade--Also 23 years old. My best friend's boyfriend. Slept with him while he was hanging out with me to protect me from last boyfriend. It was phenomenal. Oops. Don't judge me. Teenage hormones will do that to you.
TUNA BOY AGAIN--Summer before college until present--finally convinced him to sleep with me after two weeks in college. I think I always knew he was THE ONE!

Hmmm. So what do we learn from this. I started young. I was a slut. I was perfectly happy being a slut. I was really busy in the 11th grade.

** Update: Whoops. I forgot to add the one girl I fooled around with. But you guys don't want to hear about that!

Beautiful Words

Someone said the four most beautiful words in the English language to me today.

"Have you lost weight?"

Why, yes! Yes I have! In an effort not to sound like Bridget Jones, I won't talk numbers. But, Yay!

I am exhausted today. I slept for a total of one and a half hours last night. Believe it or not, I'm still working on my husband's paper. It is now completely free of passive voice. I'm not sure why it has to be free of passive voice, but it is.

Speaking of language...I saw a billboard for a new bank here in town. It is called CBT. I'm sure it stands for Citizen's Bank and Trust or something similar, but to me it will always be the "cock and ball torture" bank.

Man. If I make any more penis references, people are going to think I'm writing porn. I told you I love men.

Okay. Obviously it is time for me to go take a nap. Nighty night everyone.

Big Smoochy Kisses

I had my 1,000th hit here on my little blog tonight. That's pretty amazing to me. So thank you. (Special thanks to the AOL user who linked on over from a comment I made at Patrick's blog.) You guys have been wonderful.

Parlez Vous La Porn?

Sometimes my daughter amazes me. On the way home from school today she was singing a song in French. She has French class at school twice a week for fifteen minutes. Her French vocabulary already far surpasses mine, and I took three years of Honors high school French, and an entire year of college French.

I only remember two things about college French. I remember our insane little teacher (I think she was from Venezuela) yelling "Vite! Vite!" and snapping her fingers at us to answer more quickly. And I remember playing 20 questions.

I had a couple of friends in that class. One was named Becky, and she was a character. She was very smart and funny. One day we were playing twenty questions in class and Becky was the one who supplied the subject. We asked her question after question and all we could figure out was that it was a movie. When it was finally time for her to reveal the answer, she said, "I can't believe you guys didn't get this. It's Edward Penis Hands."

Nobody said anything at first. I'm not sure how much attention they were paying. But I was staring at her with my mouth open. Then I said in a drawn out voice, "What did you just say?"

"I said Edward Scissor Hands," Becky replied.

"Ah. No you didn't." I said back.

Her face turned red. She leaned over and whispered to me, "Did I just say Penis Hands?"

That's when the teacher let out a huge guffaw and started laughing uncontrollably.

Becky tried to make some excuse about friends who rented a porn movie as a joke, blah, blah, blah. But I don't think we ever let her live it down.

Of course it was Becky who figured out that the video I had in my room marked The Outsiders wasn't really The Outsiders at all. So she got me back. Of course, I think I still have the video of her stripping down to her skivvy's at a party, not that it was a pretty sight.

Ah. College. There's a time and place for everything, and it's called college.

J'adore vous! Or something like that.

I *Heart* Boys

I love men. I really do. All kinds of men. It doesn't matter where they come from, what they do, or who they love. I'm fascinated by men.

I've spent so many years with friends who either idolize men and define their lives by their husbands, or who really seem to hate men and do a great deal of husband bashing. Either attitude drives me insane.

I had a lovely afternoon yesterday, sitting in a garage and sharing a meal with the men my husband serves with. The other couple of wives who were there stayed in the house, baking and chatting. So it was just me, a lone woman, privy to that exhilarating phenomenon we call male bonding.

They talked about work. They called each other by call signs. (I referred to my husband by his name and one of the guys asked me, "Who?") They cooked food gathered from the local land in huge stainless steal pots. And they picked that food apart with their bare hands. They drank beer and talked sports. Ahhh. Men. You just gotta love them.

I'm always asking my husband for the details of his men-only world. "What do you guys talk about?" I ask. "What do you do together?" "How do you feel?" And he looks at me like I'm crazy, not understanding in the least the fascination I have with how men interact.

When I was growing up, I so badly wanted to be a boy. Life seemed so easy for them. They could rough house and get dirty and nobody seemed to care. I didn't have an imaginary friend, I had an imaginary alter-ego who was, of course, all boy.

When I became a teenager I realized that it wasn't so much that I wanted to be a boy, as that I wanted to love a boy. I wanted one of those guys for my very own. I wanted a real man who could be strong, yet tender. It took me a while to figure it all out, but I got exactly what I was looking for.

As for my childhood alter-ego, I swear he returns from time to time. But mostly now I just enjoy talking to men. I love getting to know them. I enjoy gaining a peak into their world.

What can I say, I just love men! Don't you?

Food on the Brain

Last night we went to one of those restaurants where you throw peanut shells on the floor. I know it's supposed to be fun and casual, but I can never feel comfortable there. All I can think about is the mess everyone is making. I imagine those poor busboys going home every night with peanut shell dust in every crevice. I obsess over how long it must take to clean the floors every night. And that sound! Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch as everyone walks over the crushed shells. Not to mention the fact that my son keeps pointing and saying, "Uh oh. Messy." How sanitary is that, people? Ugh.

My prime rib was excellent though. I rarely eat like that anymore.

And the culinary extravaganza continues. One of my husband's co-workers invited us to a Crawfish Boil this afternoon. This guy is from Louisiana so he pronounces it Crawfish Boll.

I will never understand how anyone can eat those things. They call them "mud bugs" for good reason. People keep telling me they're like little lobsters. They're not even close.

Ah. The boy is crying and the husband is yelling. I have to run and do the mom thing.

Have a great weekend everyone.