Lesbians are everywhere.

Aaron asked that I post again, just to move the masturbation metaphor a little further down the blog. And since Aaron's wish is my command (and since he enjoys cliches), here I am. Talking about lesbians.

When I first moved here to the bayou, I saw absolutely no indication that gay people may actually exist. I'm not even talking about rainbow flags and gay bars. I'm just talking about my humble ole' gaydar picking up any vibes.

Then I joined a softball team. The coach's name was Bubba, and he explained to me on the phone that some of the players may be *dramatic whisper* gay. He quickly went on to explain that he didn't have a problem with no gay girls. Now, gay guys he might have to run out of town, but gay girls were okay by him. Upon hearing that I played softball in college, he quickly switched the subject to ask if I was married or not. I mean really. Gay softball players. Who's ever heard of such a thing?

Even when I got to know the other woman on the team pretty well, they rarely talked about their girlfriends or their social lives. Maybe they felt that the handful of housewives on the team wouldn't appreciate it, or maybe they were very used to hiding their sexuality in this backwater social climate. But it was all very hush hush.

Lately, I've noticed a plethora of lesbian couples. I think it is great that a seemingly younger local group of lesbians doesn't feel the need to hide so much. I do worry about them a little though. I can't help it. This place still is what it is and I'm afraid that they will find themselves the victims of petty crimes, harassment, or worse.

This reminds me of my college friends. As much as I supported their right to be out and proud, I would worry about them putting rainbow stickers on their cars and then driving through the worst sections of the city to go to gay bars. It only takes one person filled with hate and armed with a gun to end the life of someone I love. They used to tell me that I was "such a mom." I just can't help it.

So I started this post planning on telling a little story about me trying to covertly let all the other soccer moms know that our photographer was a woman. "No, look, right there. He's a man," they said. Um, no. That's a woman.

It bugged me more than it should that they couldn't see past the short hair and manly clothes. I spent four years consoling my best friends because they were sick of being mistaken for men. There was one horrible incident in a ladies room in an airport.

My husband said, "How could they not see that she was a woman. It was obvious to me."

I told him that it's because we live in the real world, where people don't come in nice neat little packages. I love my daughter's school, but the parents can be so snooty.

Anyway, the photographer started telling stories about her and her partner's twelve-year-old daughter and I thought the other mothers would convulse.

Ha! I wanted to yell. Good for you. Make them think.

And then I felt bad, because I should be making them think.

Furtive Tuna

Do you remember when you first discovered masturbation?

You were probably living with your parents at the time. And you became like a superspy, finding ways to conduct your covert operations. You may have used everyday objects to experiment. Shower massagers, aquariums, (in my case) electric razors.

Where is she going with this?

Do you remember how it felt, both exciting and dirty at the same time?

That's how I feel about blogging right now.

My father is only a few rooms away. But I can't help it. I'm addicted. It feels soooo good.

I haven't really blogged in days and days. I have a lot of shit stored up.

But much like a teenager sitting in the living room with her parents, this stuff is going to have to wait to come out. Satisfaction is still a few days away. Oh, the peace and satisfaction of solitude. Sweet, sweet privacy. Oh, how I miss you.

In the meantime, I've actually responded to some comments. Look back a few days if you're at all interested in what I have to say in reply to your wit.

And as for the 10,000th visitor...yeah...ummm. No one's come forward as my number 10,000. And I think that may be because *ahem* it was me. Yes, I was my own 10,000th visitor. How pathetic and embarrassing is that? I'd set my counter not to track my own hits, but then I couldn't keep track of my inquisitive life mate.

So, it seems that Pua came the closest. What do you want, Sister? And no, I can't buy you tickets to NYC. If the rest of you want to put in your two cents, go to The Abyss and be nice to Pua.

Where in the blogworld was Tuna Girl?

Have you ever been so nauseous--I mean writhing in pain kind of nauseous--that you try to force yourself to throw up, just for some relief? Except that you can't. So you get all of the retching fun without any of the cookie-tossing relief.

That's how I spent my weekend.

What Makes Me Shake My Ass

You know that I have an inappropriate relationship with my iPod.

You know that my iPod tells me to do inappropriate things at the gym.

Have you ever wondered what music could possibly hold such power over me.

Here's my iMix at iTunes.

Revel in my crappy/housewifely taste in music.

Bring on the Hits

Oh hey! I didn't even realize. Sometime today my wee little blog will be hitting 10,000 visitors.

It's amazing what a little sex talk will do.

I guess it's a milestone, of sorts. There was a time when I was amazed to have 1,000 hits. I didn't really expect to stick with the blogging. Like with most things in my life, I thought I'd grow bored quickly (scrapbooking anyone?). I had no idea it would be so addicting.

Mostly I'm just incredibly flattered that so many people have enjoyed my daily writing.

And I'm amazed at the friends I've made. I love you guys. You make it so worth it.

I'm incredibly busy right now. I haven't had the time to respond to comments (and you've left some great ones!) or e-mails (and you've sent some wonderful ones!) in a week. I wasn't even planning to blog. But I wanted to say thanks from the bottom of my heart.

Okay, enough mushy shit. It seems to be blogger tradition to offer something to the 10,000th visitor.

What to offer...what to offer? Hmmm. Well, what do you want? You could have the honor of rewriting my crappy tagline. You could request a post on a specific topic. You could have the honor of buying me a drink in NYC this December (in which case you may get to enjoy a drunk Tuna Girl).

Be number 10,000 and we'll work it out!

Hell Yeah

I don't know if he's been doing research or watching videos or what. But, my god, my husband has gotten damn good at fucking.

I'm just saying.

Ramble On, Tuna Style

Strap in, boys and girls. ( I said strap in, not strap on. Get your minds out of the gutter.) I have quite a lot on my mind today. It may be a bumpy ride.

At 4 o'clock yesterday afternoon, I had an appointment with our insurance agent.

Did you know that from a financial point of view, the only monetary worth I have to my husband is childcare? That's it. So when I die, he needs to cover my funeral expenses, and childcare. And I guess he can play with the rest. (Note to self: reconsider why he likes to have a radio near the bathtub.)

My husband was supposed to come home early from work and take care of the kids. At 3:50 p.m. he wasn't home yet. Which meant I would be late. So I called his office.

What I Heard
Random coworker: Capt mumble mumble. Mumble mumble office.
Me: Hi! Is *my husband's name* there please?
Random coworker: I think he's in the hall. May I ask who's calling?
Me: Oh. This is his wife.
Random coworker: Oh hi! How are you? Let me just go grab him.
*pause*
Random coworker: unintelligible
Tuna Hubby: unintelligible
Many men: uproarios laughter
Tuna Hubby: Hey, hon. I'm on my way home.

What I Imagined
Random coworker: Capt mumble mumble. Mumble mumble office.
Me: Hi! Is *my husband's name* there please?
Random coworker: I think he's in the hall. May I ask who's calling?
Me: Oh. This is his wife.
Random coworker: Oh hi! How are you? Let me just go grab him.
*pause*
Random coworker: Tuuuuuna! Your wife is on the phone.
Tuna Hubby: Oh! Fuck!
Many men: uproarious laughter, whipping noises, taunting
Tuna Hubby: Hey, hon. I'm on my way home.

So, he finally showed up and I went to my appointment.

Insurance Man: And is your husband going to pay for this policy?
Me: *laughing* Oh yeah. *more laughing*
Insurance Man: Does he know he's paying for it?
Me: *laughing* Oh yeah. *more laughing*

There is no his and her money. It all goes in one big pot, baby.

Then I got to go to the gym. The scenery is much nicer after work than at 10 in the morning.

In fact, I was avidly watching a hot man running around the track, when I caught a glimpse of his face and realized it was my friend's husband. That's creepy, even for me. I feel the need to call my friend and both apologize and congratulate her.

Here's a note for the other man I was staring at.

Dear hot gym man,

Yes, you did catch me staring at the nape of your neck while you were doing pull ups. And yes, you did catch me staring at your ass while you were doing pull downs. But that does not give you the right to stare at my crotch while I do hip abductors.

Speaking of pull downs...have you ever noticed that as you lift, the pin rod pumping in and out of the weight stack very much resembles the sex act?

Maybe I'm better off going to the gym with the other housewives and old men.

Speaking of housewives, for the first time ever, CB made a girly remark to me. We were talking about a guy our husbands work with and she called him total military man. "Do you know him?" she asked. "He's hot!"

I kind of like that side of her. But, I don't think that guy is particularly hot. Which is good because it helps if you and your friends aren't after the same guys. Not that we're looking or anything.

When I told my husband about this conversation, he said, "Great! and I'm sending you on a cruise together."

I don't know about the other three we're going with, but CB and I could be a guy pick-up force to be reckoned with. Not that we're looking or anything! (I love you, Honey!)

And to end this ramble on a sweet note, during the same conversation, CB said to me, "You're the only friend I can really talk to. You're the only one who really gets me."

And that is very cool.

We Are Family

When it comes right down to it, my blog is really about my family. Because my life is about my family. My life is family-based in a way that most of us only see it sitcoms based on 1950s housewives.

And I'm cool with that.

In fact, I very much love my life. And I think it is quite plain to see that I love my family. Or at least it is plain to see that I love my family of choice. My family of origin, however...oy. They're a handful.

My mother called me a few weeks ago and asked me to invite my father for a visit. She said that he was going through grandkid withdrawals. And since this is my mother we're talking about, we had to have a top-secret plan in place to fool him into thinking that it was my daughter's idea and that my husband and I were paying for the whole thing. Meanwhile, my mother sent me a money order from her secret stash of cash.

My family is like the CIA. Except that if it were my father's job to hunt Bin Laden, he would have been nailed up to the door of the White House by now.

So my father arrives on Thursday afternoon, and leaves on the 30th. I may not survive the week. I certainly won't be blogging much, anyway. He's very high maintenance.

Between having my father visit, which inevitably leads to lots of talk of my nephews, and the many, many times that I've enjoyed reading about your nieces and nephews, I have my brats--I MEAN--nephews on the brain.

My husband and I were the first ones in this generation of both of our families to have children. That means that I was a mom before I was ever an auntie. I really think I missed out. Once you're a mom, you're always a mom. I can't be the fun, crazy aunt who lets the kids away with stuff, because my own kids are always part of the mix.

And unfortunately, my sister-in-law is a bitch. Woops. Did I say bitch? I meant that she's a modern, independent woman, which means that she ignores her kids and treats my brother like crap.

And even more unfortunately, my brother lets her treat him like crap, and the children are little monsters.

And it gets even more unfortunate still, because my mother, with the help of my father, takes care of these kids during the day.

My mother once said to me about my sister-in-law, 'I love her but..."

And I interrupted to ask, "Do you really love her, Mom? I mean, really."

My mother admitted that she didn't love her at all. In fact, she doesn't even like her very much. She tolerates her for my brother's sake.

I find myself feeling the same way about my nephews. Isn't that awful? They're just children. But, for one, I don't really know them. And for two, what I do know of them is mean, nasty, and downright disrespectful.

Two of them are twins, and they gang up on smaller kids to beat up and torture them. And I've never even met the one-year-old.

There will always be a part of me that regrets not knowing my nephews better. But there will always be a much bigger part of me that regrets that I didn't have a better relationship with my brother. Maybe if we were closer, he would have had more self-confidence and wouldn't have married such a bitch. Woops. I said it again. I meant, well, I meant bitch.

Take care of your brothers, girls. We're the only women who will.

So, I guess what I'm really thinking here is that as much as my family drives me insane, I really do love them very much. I worry about my parents. I feel bad for my brother. And the rest of them, I don't really think much about at all.

The word family can mean many, many things. One of the best gifts I've been given is the ability to develop family on my own. Whether it be my own husband and kids, my military family, or even my blogger kin. I take love for what it's worth.

*****

And speaking of love, go shower Mark with as much love as you can. It's his *ahem* 39th birthday today. Happy birthday, Unka Mawk!

And while you're at it, BoBo could use a few squirts too. He doesn't seem to be divulging his age. Happy birthday, Sweetheart!

Soccer Mom

Hello. My name is Tuna Girl. And I'm a soccer mom.

I'll admit it. I'm a soccer mom. And I have the mini van to prove it.

This weekend was my daughter's first soccer game of the year. It was also my husband's first time on the soccer field as a coach. I was nervous for him. He was pretty nervous too. But he did really well. Of course, he couldn't do much worse than the other team's coach who came out on the field talking on her cell phone.

The only iffy moment was when he sent my daughter off the field because she was crying. It was really hot, and she doesn't do well in the heat. I'm not looking forward to an entire season of father/daughter struggles. As a friend who coaches his own kid says, "You're always hardest on your own kid."

It would have been okay of he had subbed for her. But he just kept playing with two kids on the field. Even after a goal, he just kept right on going without subbing anyone in. The parents started to freak a little. So I yelled at him once, and he ignored me. Than I used my own coaching voice and he finally stopped and put a kid in.

I felt really bad that I yelled at my husband in public. But I also wanted to avert a crisis with the parents. I apologized later and he made it seem like it wasn't a big deal, so that was good.

I was a little disappointed in the parents, though. This is the last age at which they don't keep score. But the parents were encouraging the kids to count the goals and try to win. Some of the kids are ready for that, but some aren't. But regardless, the rules for the under 6 league say no scorekeeping, and I think we should follow the rules.

But, ummm, we won. By a lot. We have one little boy on our team with amazing talent. At one point his father said, "That's enough, son. Give someone else a turn."

I can't believe I just wrote this long of a post about a kid's soccer game. But I actually do have a point. And my point is this:

I'm a dumbass.

I didn't put any sunblock on, because, you know, it's September. I sat under a golf umbrella with the kids to try and keep them cool in the 98 degree heat. Except that I let one arm hang out in the sun. And now I have a stupid ass one-armed farmer's sunburn that will look just lovely on my cruise.

"Since when do you like tattoos?"

A few days ago, my husband read my blog from beginning to end.

Now, he's known about my blog from almost the very beginning, and he's always been supportive of it. He's read a little here and there, but never more than a few posts at a time. And he's never read the comments.

I guess reading it all in one sitting like that gave him a very different impression. He wasn't happy.

Ironically, it wasn't the stuff that you would think might shock him that he was upset about. I mean, think of some of the things I've written in the last month. I've written about our sex life and where he hides porn. But that didn't bother him.

He thinks that he comes off like a real jerk. A "prick," to use his words. I think that's insane. If anything, I think I often get too gooey and sentimental when I talk about him. I've even tried to talk more about his faults, just to present a balanced picture of our real life.

But, I think it's like a photograph. You never really can see yourself objectively.

In fact I explained this to him by using our engagement portrait as an example. There was one shot that he absolutely loved. I thought I looked like Miss Piggy. But he insisted on at least getting a 5X7 for himself. He kept it in his room in college. He thinks I look beautiful. I loathe that picture.

There was one particular post where he thought I was saying something that I wasn't that really bothered him. Luckily, once I figured out what he was talking about, we were able to clear that up.

He also questioned why I would want to blog at all. I think he feared that I felt like something was missing from my life. It was hard to explain, but I basically asked him to think of my friends and my lifestyle. And then think about how complex I am. I told him that I just need to share more of myself than is possible with my ultra-Christian, officer wife friends.

But talking about my blog, our insecurities and our life has really seemed to move us into an even closer and more mature place in our relationship. I didn't think that was possible. I still feel bad about the whole situation. But he calls it, "Water under the bridge."

In the midst of our talk about it, I was completely sure that I would be deleting the whole blog the next morning. There is just nothing in the world that is more important to me than him. But he asked me not to. In fact, he ordered me not to. I think he sort of gets it now, in a way that he didn't before. And that's good.

But the whole situation has caused me to have a serious case of writer's block. I just don't want to piss him off again right now. I know him pretty well, and I doubt that he'll be reading again for a while, but still.

Tonight he sat down with the TiVo remote and started watching car shows. He turned to me and said, "Are you going to go blog?"

Yeah, sure. He wants me to blog when it fits his purposes. Like when he wants to get rid of me so he can watch Trucks! in peace.

So I've decided to stop censoring myself. It's back to the old me here at the blog. It's just something I have to do. And if he doesn't get it now, he will. Because I discovered something while I was sobbing in his arms a few night ago.

Our love really can conquer anything. Even a blog.

Passing the Buck Again

I was just IMing with Mark and informed him that I have nothing for the blog today. I asked him to say something funny, but he couldn't come UP with anything. (Well, you know...he's older.)

But that reminded me of something else I saw in blogland today.

So for now, I'm going to send you here, to read this. (Scroll down a bit for the good stuff)

I told him he'd regret it.

Ice Cream Coffee

With all the excitement over fag hags yesterday, I completely forgot about my Wives' Coffee.

Yes, folks, another month has come and gone. Since you all seemed so interested in my monthly spouses' coffee last month, I thought I would convey the highlights of this month's meeting.

• CB and I were a half hour late because she had to breastfeed her son.
• The theme was Make-Your-Own Sundaes.
• They actually served coffee.
• I didn't see anyone drink it.
• I was standing across the table from the hostess as she was scooping ice cream and was suddenly sprayed in the face with ice cream droplets.
• No one noticed until I said, "Ah! Jess, you got me."
• Then they realized that I even had ice cream in my hair.
• I flirted with the only male in attendance.
• Okay, he was 10-weeks-old and could barely keep his head up, but I had fun making him smile.
• Which distracted me from their droning on about car accidents, Christmas parties, and babies.

See. Glamorous. Isn't it?

The true highlight of the night for me was listening to CB tell everyone about our cruise. Her husband surprised her with the tickets a couple of nights ago. She is absolutely ecstatic over it. It's all the two of us can talk about. She announced to everyone, "We won't be at the next coffee, girls. We'll be out of the country!"

Oh, and I wore jeans.

*****

In other news, my cruise won't be the only independent traveling I do this year. Come hell or high water, I will be in NYC for the first weekend in December. Woo hoo! This will be my first real trip to New York. (A day trip with my high school class doesn't count.) Who's going to hold my hand?

Gaf Gah (Picture my tongue in my cheek, please!)

Okay. You guys are forcing me to do this. I wasn't going to. I was going to avoid it. But you had to go and invoke the fag hag thing.

I've been called a fag hag (in a loving way, mind you) about a dozen times this past week.

Let me state for the record that I have absolutely no problem with people using this term to describe themselves or their friends. I know that it is said in all affection. I also think that it makes sense in a very complicated way for straight women to befriend gay men.

But I am not a fag hag. And I can prove it.

First, go to Shamus' blog and read this.

See.

I don't enjoy oddly-named drinks. I barely drink at all.

I rarely bitch. (Really! What? You don't believe me?)

I've never crapped at a gay man's house. Ever. Nor would I.

I love football. I played football. I love all sports, except golf (which, come on, isn't really a sport anyway.)

I hate to be the center of attention. Except with my blog. (Okay. Maybe I enjoy attention just a little bit.)

Ummm...yeah. You'll have to read Shamus' post carefully and see why the next one doesn't apply.

I hate drama.

I LOVE heterosexual males.

I already have babies and don't want yours. At all!

I HATE pink.

And as far as I know, all of my prom dates were straight. Even the guy who stood me up.

Okay. As Patrick points out, many of these seem to point to me being a lesbian. But I'm not (of course). He further points out that I have lesbian friends. In his opinion, fag hags and lesbians do not get along. I'll have to bow to his expertise on that one.

So see. No fag hag here.

But to be completely serious, my problem with the term fag hag stems from the words themselves. Fag is one of those words that only the members of the group can use. I will just never be comfortable with that word. In fact, I even had a hard time typing it here. I understand why people use it, but I just can't go there myself.

And then, well hell. No woman wants to be called a hag. Especially a woman who has sprouted her first gray hair and (tiny) eye wrinkle.

(For someone who is willing to be identified as Tuna Girl, I have an awful lot of opinions about fag hag, don't I?)

Call me a fruit fly, a FOG (friend of gays), or even a Grace (yuck)...but just don't call late for dancing.


*****

By the way, have I mentioned how much I love you guys lately? Yesterday's post wasn't so much about my ego as it was about my family. I really appreciate all of your comments. In fact, you probably have no idea how much they mean to me.

Love you!

My Blog About Blogging

Do you guys go through cycles with your blog? It seems like there are times when I feel really good about my blog and the whole blogging experience in general. And there are times where I feel really awful about it.

I mean, this is my life, you know? And I'm putting it out there for the whole world (okay, maybe not the whole world, but all of you at least) to read daily. These are the people I love. How do they come across in the blog as a whole?

I think the worst thing about blogging is how it immortalizes a fleeting moment's emotions for all time. But that's the best thing too. I've never kept any kind of journal before and I find it sort of nice to have a record of my thoughts and feelings.

Right now I feel really, really awful about my blog. But yet, here I am, typing away, sharing my crappy feelings with you. Why? Why the hell do I feel compelled to do this?

I wouldn't give up the people for anything, though. I've met some wonderful people through blogging. I've even made some great friends.

But the way I feel right now--if I could chuck the blog and keep the people, I would.

I know it's a cycle. I'm not going to stop blogging, for now anyway, and I know that a few days or weeks down the line, I'll feel great about it again. But for now, you get to read whining posts like this.

Am I alone in this? Does everyone else go through cycles? Or is it just me?

You can take the girl out of the blog...

But you can't take the blog out of the girl.

I decided not to blog this weekend because...well...just because I couldn't. But then it seemed like a million stupid, little, blogworthy things happened to me.

It all started on Friday afternoon, when my husband took us to his squadron for First Friday. Most squadrons hold First Friday socials once a month. It's usually just a time to grab something to eat, plop all the kids in front of a video, and chit chat with your fellow squadron-mate's families. But they ended up having a presentation in the theater, and just as we were walking in, the speaker started swearing. (Nice.)

So my husband turned us around to leave. Apparently, this wasn't on my son's agenda. He threw a fit. An embarrassing, run-away-from-Daddy fit.

We got to endure a screaming ride home, and an evening of punishing our two-year-old. Big fun!

Two tantrums later, we finally got him to bed, and my husband took the Chevelle out to Home Depot to pick up some stuff. I used the time to chat on my cell phone.

About an hour later, our home phone rang. It was my husband. His car wouldn't start. I had to wake up the kids and go and rescue him.

It took me a half hour to wake up the kids. My daughter kept turning around and crawling back into bed. So, I finally pulled the mini-van up next to his car and rolled down the window, just as he got in his car and started it up. Grrrrr.

Late that night, after midnight in fact, I went over to CB's house to sit with her kids so she could go pick up her husband. He's home from his deployment, along with most of our neighbors and friends. I'm so happy for all of them. (And it was a fitting start to September 11, 2004.)

I fell asleep on her couch and she couldn't wake me up. She finally had to shake me awake and push me out her door. I got back to my bed at about 3 in the morning. Needles to say, I slept in the next day.

Saturday afternoon, I let my husband have a nap and took the kids out. Our first stop was the library. While we were checking out, my daughter was dancing around like she had ants in her pants. Suddenly she gasped, "Look Mommy! My underwear fell off."

Sure enough, a pair of My Little Pony underpants were falling out the legs of her pants. I guess they were stuck inside the leg when she put them on.

Being the wonderfully indulgent mother that I am, (gag) I took them to the food court at the BX. Dinner went fine and then I let them play in the indoor play area.

I sat sipping a diet coke and watched parent after parent have to drag their kids out of the play area when it was time to leave. I gloated. Incompetent parents. My kids would never act like that.

Payback is a bitch.

I gave the kids the normal two-minute warning that it was time to leave, and got two good, "Yes, Mommy"s in return.

Then I called out, "Time's up!" and got a "Nope" in return from my son.

What the...we don't play it like that in this family. But he told me in no uncertain terms that he was not leaving. At this point he was in the tunnels at the top of the play structure.

First, I cajoled, and then I threatened. Then I sent my daughter after him. He wailed her and screamed. I called my husband on the cell so he could enjoy the experience vicariously. Finally, I gave my daughter the cell and my purse and climbed my big ass up the tower and through the tunnels.

When I reached him he gave me a big smile and a hug. "Hi, Mommy!"

As I tried to remove him, he flipped out. He fought and screamed. I had to push him inch by inch out of the tunnels, and then sit him on my lap and scoot him down the tower stairs.

Did I mention that the whole play area is surrounded by glass and looks out over the food court.? I'm surprised nobody called the SPs on me.

The good news is that after his punishment (which basically consisted of exile to his room and absolutely nothing fun or enjoyable for two days) he has been an angel. He damn well better be.

If anyone notices a formerly bratty child acting like a little angel, please let me know. Obviously my son is possessed. I'd like his personality back please.

And to top it all off, I saw a college cheerleader get seriously injured at my gym on Sunday. She fell off the top of a three-tiered pyramid, flat onto her back. The ambulances were taking her away just as I was leaving. There's a sport my daughter will never join.

Whew! It was good to get that all out!

Welcome to my life. Anyone want to trade?

Watch where you put that thing!

Fifty Bonus Tuna Points to Groove, who had the closest guess. But that's not gum in my mouth. That would be my tongue.

Yes, I was sticking my tongue out in my senior picture. Either the photographer was making me laugh, or I thought he was cute and was coming on to him. I didn't notice the tongue until after graduation, when our yearbook was published. I'm a dork. I guess it's better than an exposed nipple.

Here's an interesting tuna fact. Even with my jaws shut as much as I can get them, I can still slide my tongue between my teeth. Handy.

Groove can redeem his points for, hmmm, well...I guess he'll have to make a request and we'll see what we can work out. Now, see. Don't you wish you worked harder to make a guess?

And special props to Rossie for her guess of a hicky. I like the way she thinks.

*****
So anyway...

I slept for two hours last night (Damn TiVo. Damn blogs. Damn Redbook magazine.) And this morning I babysat CB's kids. Whew! I need a break. I think I may climb up on top of the toilet and find some reading material to relax with.

And since this week was all about porn here at Tuna Girl, I'll top it off with this:

Tuna Man: Did you know you were a porn star?
Me: With large, natural boobs? Oh yeah. Have you been reading my blog?
Him: No. Wait! What is that supposed to mean? I was just bored and I googled you. Maybe I should be reading your blog now.
Me: Ummm. Maybe now wouldn't be a good time to start reading my blog again.

Balancing Down Memory Lane

I try to keep my blog balanced.

Sometimes it's silly, sometimes it's serious. It's even been morbid. Sometimes it might even be sweet.

Lately it's been silly, and so I wanted to write something poignant about my life today. But it's not going to happen, my friends. I am in an incredibly silly mood. I want to blow kisses to the world. Mwah! Mwah! Mwah! (Ha. I feel like a beauty queen.)

Yesterday I ended up being alone in my house for a while. This is a very rare occurrence. We've been on a cleaning sweep, so I tackled a box of "memorabilia" (or so I labeled it).

I used to save every little ticket stub and love note. But over the years, a lot of that stuff has seemed less important to me and I've pared it all down to one small box. I haven't opened it since before our last move. Opening it up yesterday was like taking a walk down memory lane.

There were t-shirts inside. My softball coach made one for me. It says "From twirling to hurling!" She once said that her greatest accomplishment as a coach was taking a baton twirler and turning her into an intimidating pitcher.

There was a t-shirt from my last year of playing intramural volleyball in college. It has my maiden name across the shoulder, and my present last name in parentheses beneath. I think that's pretty cute.

There were awards, scholarship certificates, and plaques that I never remember winning.

Apparently, I am a member of two honor societies from college. I have no recollection of that. I need to google them and see if they do anything worth while.

I found my class book from college. My quote was, "To be perfectly honest with you...do you know what I mean?" Okay. That sounds like something I'd say. Some of the other things I mentioned are men in uniform (with an exclamation point) (ummm..typical), and partying with C and J and E. Now I know who C and E are. But I have no idea who I meant by J. Maybe it was C's girlfriend. But I hated her. (And vice-versa) Maybe I was just keeping C happy by mentioning her. Who knows.

I found my college recommendation letters from my high school. It is amazing to me how well those teacher and coaches really knew me. At the time, I was just making sure that they mentioned all the important stuff I had done. But now, looking back, I am impressed that they saw me for who I now realize myself to be. Ah, growth. You gotta love it.

Okay, guys. I'm out. Hugs and kisses to every single one of you!

An Illustration

I'm killing a bunch of birds with one stone here.

First, I'm fulfilling Aaron's request. I think we should all do our part. (That's mother speak for get off your ass and do what you're told.)

Second, I'm sending Birthday Wishes (albeit weird ones) to Pua.

Third, I'm fulfilling his request for a picture of my hair.

Fourth, I'm paying homage to the master.

Fifth, I'm keeping myself sane. If I don't do something silly and dorkish, I just might begin doing my own injuring.

So, without further ado...an illustration of my earlier post.

















Poor Tuna Girl.

Tee hee! This was fun. Try it.

And please note: It's my cartoon. I'll draw myself as skinny as I want.

I was injured by porn.

No, I wasn't injured in porn. I was injured by porn.

So I have a new haircut. This is my favorite topic of conversation lately. It's the biggest change I've made in my life since I had kids.

I really liked it at first. Okay, for all the girls out there, I have really thick, straight hair. I decided long ago to just go with it. Screw the perms and curlers. But it's been one length, long, and straight for a long time. (Which is best for my daily ponytail.)

I decided I wanted something sexy and kicky. CB (who has sexy and kicky hair) suggested her stylist. She cut in long layers and angled it along my face. She did the whole, girly, scrunch-blow dry-curling iron thing. And viola! Sexy, kicky hair.

For a day. Then I had to do it myself. As my husband said, "Well, Honey. It's just really flat."

So, I put it in a ponytail to head to the gym. And I discover that I have one renegade chunk of hair that used to be bangs, but now just falls right into my right eye. It's a mutant chunk-o-hair. It must be severed.

I climb up on the toilet to reach the top shelf of the cabinet in search of scissors. I pull out the box that has my husband's hair cutting kit...

And I'm bonked in the face with a porno mag.

OH! So that's where he does it.

*****

Note to my husband: I love you. I really, really love you. I am the mother of your children. Come on. You know it was funny. Did I mention that I love you?

Nobody Loves Me

Nobody loves me,
Everybody hates me,
Sitting in the garden eating worms.

Does anyone else remember that childhood song? My mother used to sing it whenever we had a poor me attitude.

That's how I felt this weekend. Not all weekend, mind you. I got to talk on the phone to good friends for a good while on Friday night. We had a nice date on Saturday. I slept away most of Sunday. But Monday...yeah. I was sitting in the garden eating worms.

When we were younger my husband and I used to fight quite a bit. Not, knock-down-drag-out fights, per se. It was more like bickering. My father used to say that we were like Paul and Jamie on Mad About You.

It took me years to realize that my husband was actually enjoying those fights. We had been married for at least three years when it occurred to me to say to him one day, "You know. I don't think it's fun when we fight."

I think he just likes to get a reaction out of me. I suppose it makes sense. I'm pretty even keeled. But I know that he loves my passion and independence, and I think he liked to set me on fire just to see the sparks.

It was around that three year mark in our marriage that I convinced him we'd both enjoy the sparks more if they were in bed. That's really when our sex life took off. Thank god.

But yesterday he started again. At one point I asked him, "Do you just want to argue with me?"

To which he responded, "Yeah. I do."

Whatever, but by the time the kids were in bed, I was ready to explode. That's when he decided that I was "cracking on" him too much. I may have crossed the line when I said, "You know. You're great at starting things. You suck at finishing them."

I spent the rest of the night avoiding him. Do you know how small a three bedroom house gets when you're trying to avoid your husband? At one point I was actually sitting on the floor in our tiny little downstairs bathroom, reading a book, and just staying away from any other human life.

On the up side, we now have TiVo, which I bought and he doesn't like. So, yeah...great.

First you bite the heads off,
Then you suck the juice out,
Then you throw away the skins.

Namesake

I got just a tiny bit nervous the other day when I saw that someone found my blog by googling for a very specific post. It was one that involved my mother, and since it certainly wasn't one of my best, it made me think.

So I decided to do a little vanity googling, just to see what might be out there.

I learned that my husband shares a name with a high-altitude climber and an actor.

We apparently named my daughter after an author of lesbian fiction and a rather well-known collegiate soccer player.

And my son may someday be confused with a rock star. (We had no idea.)

And me? Me...well...I may be taken for a porn star known for her large, natural boobs.

Great. Like my boobs aren't well-discussed enough as it is.

Babies No More

Does anyone remember my own personal Independence Day? Well, today we've taken it to a whole new level.

As of about an hour ago, when my husband carried a changing table down the stairs, my household is completely free of baby paraphanalia.

No more highchairs. No more baby seats. No more changing tables.

I've given away the crib and all the baby clothes. There may be a few baby toys hidden at the bottom of the toy box, but by the end of the weekend they'll be on their way to charity.

To celebrate, we hired a babysitter and we're going on a date. We can't decide if we want to go to a movie or shopping for a new truck and a new diamond ring. I'm all for the ring shopping, but we'll see. We have to save for college, you know. It seems like they'll be moving into the dorm in the blink of an eye.

Oh, and all you drunk boys. Please try not to scare my babysitter, hmmm. We really like her and we'd like to keep her around.

What I learned at school yesterday

First (and it does make sense...follow me) I'm going to repost a comment from our own lovable Hot Toddy here:

I love that you said, "Y'all is not polite..."

You are prejudicing your child against everyone she will come into contact with on a daily basis. She will think everyone is being rude to her all day long. She will be so depressed that her relationship with Alex will crumble, and he will tell her, "I need to be with someone happy. This isn't working." To placate her grief, your daughter will steal your credit cards and go on a spending spree that would make Rob Byrnes look like a miser.

But at least she won't sound Southern.

That made me laugh. After all, the important point here is that she not sound Southern. And telling her that something isn't polite is the only way she'll listen to me. She has a highly developed sense of propriety.

So in the last few days, she's said "y'all" at least a dozen times. She even said it to my parents on the phone. As soon as she handed the phone to me, I got a good talking to.

I figured one of her friends at school said ya'll. Or maybe her teachers said it occasionally.

Then I got this note:

Dear Mr and Mrs Tuna,

Did ya'll accidentally get another students take-home folder? Ya'll can let me know any time."

Ack! A two-fer. And what's worse, she spelled it wrong! Does this woman not understand contractions? The apostrophe replaces the o and u, lady.

Then we went to the Back to School program last night. Every other word out of her teacher's mouth was y'all. Is this really what we're paying $6200 a year for? Egad!

Other than that though, she really is a wonderful teacher and we are very pleased.

But, noticeably absent were the parents of Alex. There was a picture board in the lobby with a photo of each child. My husband and I perused this board to try and find our future son-in-law. How curious. There is no Alex. We checked the other classroom, just in case, but there was no Alex to be found there either.

So, our little drama queen either completely fabricated this future spouse or she's inherited my husband's bad-with-names gene.

I learned a few things after school today too. First, my daughter is quite the sales person. She asked her Daddy, "Can we please go out to dinner tonight?" she added a few more "pleases" and a huge hug. He told her we'd think about it.

Five minutes later she's back. "Where did you and Mommy decide to take us to dinner, Daddy?"

I burst out laughing. She's quite the little closer.

When we were eating dinner, she suddenly said, "Today was the last day for my boyfriend to be the star of the week." My husband almost choked on his shrimp.

We had learned the night before that the star of the week was Andrew. Andrew really is a precious little child. My daughter has good taste.

"What happened to Alex?" my husband asked.

"There is no Alex, silly," she scolded him.

Yup. Damn that bad-name-gene.

And finally I learned that when your two-year-old doesn't want dessert and says that he is tired, has to poop, and has a tummy ache it actually means that he is going to throw up all over you when he gets home. And it won't phase him in the least. But your five-year-old will start crying. "I feel so sad for him."

Yeah great. Who feels sad for me, the mother covered in corn dog puke?

Two Posts in One Day

Shocking, I know. But I feel the need to talk a little bit more about the post I wrote earlier today.

First of all, thank you for the comments, e-mails, IM and text messages (and just moments ago a lovely drunk dial from these two). I can't tell you how much that means to me. And thanks especially to Jenn. Let me tell you guys, as an Army wife, she has it way harder than me. Army deployments are longer and the conditions are much worse. While my husband sits in his nice comfy plane and sleeps in a nice comfy bed, those Army guys are really putting themselves on the line. And their families are true heroes.

And I should also tell you that I don't feel that way on a daily basis. In fact, I hardly ever feel that way. One of my new favorite people asked me just the other day how I do it, and I told him that it is just a part of life. I don't think about it. And I don't, most of the time.

But there is something about seeing or reading about POWs that just gets to me. I can watch a hundred planes go down in flames, and it doesn't bother me. I can even watch military funerals with only a few sniffles. But I think having someone I love become a Prisoner of War is my absolute worst nightmare.

But here's what is amazing to me. In my pre-blogging days when I got something in my mind like this, I would think about it, and think about it. It would keep me up for a few nights, and then I'd move on.

Now, I sit down for just a few minutes, type out the way I feel, send it out to the blogging cosmos, and I'm moving on so much more quickly. Add to that the heap of positive vibes from all of you, and man. I couldn't stay melancholy if I wanted to.

I actually thought about deleting that post, even though I've never done that before, because I really don't feel that way anymore. It sounds so blah, blah, blah, poor me, poor me, poor me. Yuck. Blech. I'm so sick of myself.

But I guess that it is still a pretty good representation of how I was feeling at that moment in time. It was a fleeting moment in time, but it was still real.

So yeah. More blah, blah, blah.

So, AH's husband is coming home this weekend. And CB's (and a bunch of others) is coming home next week. But a bunch more of our friends will be deploying this week, and the cycle goes on. My husband got left out of this cycle. Um...yay! He'll be up for a holiday deployment, but we'll deal with that if and when it happens.

Right now, all I really feel is lucky, happy, and hopeful. Taps is playing across the base right now. It always comforts me.

Damn Television

I had a bunch of things I was thinking about blogging today. Some of them cute, some of them ironic, and one that was just plain gruesome. But none of them sweet. Brent's slipping into a sugar comma and even I feel some cavities coming on.

But it's all flittered away from my brain like so much fluff.

My husband came home for lunch today just as I was getting my son ready for his nap. So they snuggled up in the rocker together, my man in uniform and my little guy, and read a story. I took the opportunity to sneak downstairs and channel surf.

And I'm an idiot. There happened to be a show on about my husband's aircraft. I actually own it on video tape but I haven't watched it yet. I figured I'd tune into the last ten minutes or so, and see if I could spot my husband or any of his friends.

What I ended up watching was the story of a certain mission that, while successful, ended with many casualties and crew members taken as POWs. One pilot was telling his story, interspersed with historical footage of the POWs and reenactments by current military members.

They were wearing my husband's uniform. They were flying my husband's aircraft. And they were huddled in tiny cages with a bucket to defecate in, with their fingers in their ears to drown out the sounds of the bombs raining down around them.

And I cried.

I'm such an idiot. Change the channel, dumbass! But I couldn't help but watch.

I watched these men suffer, while I listened to my husband read my son Thomas the Tank Engine and sing his bedtime song.

The show finished with the story of our shock and awe campaign in Iraq. So many dead. So much suffering. But none of it ours. And that is all I care about.

All I care is that my husband will be coming back to read a bedtime story and sing his bedtime song. And I don't feel sorry about it. I can't. I won't. I refuse to.

I just can't think about it anymore.

Notable Quotes at the Tuna House

My family is cracking me up lately. Here's some of the highlights.

Last night in the kitchen while my husband is cooking a lobster dinner:

Me: So, all my blog friends say, "Happy birthday!"
Him: That's really nice. Tell them, "Thank you."
Me: I will. And they say you're lucky.
Him: How am I lucky?
Me: You're lucky to have me! *pause* Okay, only one person said that, but still.
Him: Honey, they don't know how lucky I am.

All together now: Awwww!

A little later in the kitchen while my husband is using a huge knife to crack lobster shells for me.

Me: Ooh. That was a good one. You split that tail right in half. *pause* Split that tail, Baby! *giggle*
Him: *blank stare*
Me: Oh come on. I'm funny. I crack myself up.
Him: Yes you do. At least you think you're funny.
Me: Yeah. *pause* Hey wait! Some people think I'm funny.

Ack. He doesn't recognize pure comic genius when he hears it.

Earlier this week in a public restroom, my daughter is sitting on the toilet:

Her: Mommy, what would it be like if I was the only one in my class?
Me: It might be pretty lonely and not much fun.
Her: But then I'd always be the leader. Maybe it could just be me and Caroline. Or just all the girls. Well, all the girls and Alex. He's a nice boy.
Me: That's nice. Is Alex your friend?
Her: Yes. He's nice and he doesn't say mean things, and he doesn't hit. I really like him. Maybe I should marry him.
Me: Maybe. When you're a grownup you can marry whoever you like.
Her: When I'm a grownup I'll marry Alex. But I'll ask him to sleep on the nap mat next to mine for now.

Alex...a lady's man in the making.

And earlier this week, my daughter in the car:

Her: Daddy, can we go out to dinner?
Him: Not today, darling. We don't have any money.
Her: But you can just use a credit card like Mommy always does.
Him: Mommy always uses a credit card, huh?
Her: Yup. She just shows the card and then we get stuff for free. We don't need money.
Me: But Honey, when you pay with a credit card, it's like promising that we'll pay later. We pay for all that stuff we buy when the credit card bill comes in.
Her: Oh. But that doesn't matter. As long as we don't have to think about it today.

Yup. I pity poor Alex in the future. I hope he lands a well-paying job.

And, my daughter in a store last week:

Her: But what are we buying, y'all?
Both of us: WHAT?!
Me: Did you just say, y'all?!
Him: Oh no! It's starting.
Me: Don't say, "y'all" Honey. That's slang. It's not polite.
Her: It's not slang, Mommy. It's Southern.
Him: We have to move!

And not to leave out my son:

Him: I love you, Mommy.
Me: Awwwwwww!

and
Him: You're so cute, Mommy.
Me: Awwwwwww!

and
Him: Double cwick, Mommy. Double cwick!
Me: Awwwwwww!