Another year, another Halloween said and done. Man, I hate this stupid holiday.
I had a third as many Trick-or-Treaters as I usually do. Which means the Tuna Man will be bringing a lot of candy to the office tomorrow. I think less people were out because Halloween fell on a Sunday.
And of course tomorrow is a Catholic holy day. Did you know that? It is All Saints' Day. A holiday conveniently scheduled to disrupt the pagan celebration of Halloween.
When I was a child in Catholic school, they made us dress up as saints at Halloween time. We had to do research. There were always a bunch of kids with animals on their shoulders dressed as St. Francis. And which saint did I choose to emulate? Oh, that would be Mary, Mother of God. I mostly chose Mary because I already had the costume. I must have been a natural virgin, because I played The Virgin in many a nativity.
Okay, who's laughing out there?
Speaking of girls in costume, I have to admit that I'm sort of proud of my daughter. Since her brother was going as a cow, she decided that she would be a farmer. Which is sweet and cute. But every other girl in her class, and seemingly every other girl in existence, was dressing as a princess, ballerina, or fairy.
I can't tell you how many girls asked her derisively, "Why do you want to be a farmer?' But she stuck to her guns and kept telling them that is just what she wanted. I even brought a spare ballerina costume, just in case. But she stuck with her farmer idea. And she was the most adorable farmer I've ever seen.
And what about next year? She wants to be the Statue of Liberty. How cute is that? I think I'll order a flight suit for my son and he can be the Little Tuna Man. We'll be a Patriotic family.
Like we're not patriotic enough already.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Friday, October 29, 2004
I Hate Halloween
I know. I'm sorry. I've just never liked Halloween.
First of all, costumes creep me out.
Second of all, my parents had us so scared of poisoned candy and disappearing children, that I could never relax and enjoy Trick-or-Treating.
Third of all, I've never been good with costumes. Even as a little kid I went as a witch every single year. While my brother and his friends were being The Fonz, I'd don my black hat and scraggly dress, and wish I were a boy.
I do make a kick-ass witch, though.
Halloween is a big deal around here. People decorate their houses and everything. I'd never seen that in New England. The weather is mild enough that the kids don't have to wear coats over their costumes. And every church in town--and there are a hell of a lot of them--has a "Fall Festival" of some sort. (Notice my sarcastic quotation marks.)
And even Trick-or-Treating has survived here. Because I live on base, where people assume they can Trick-or-Treat safely, I am inundated with little monsters--I MEAN--children. They come through the base gates in vans overloaded with little Barbies and Ninjas. Every year I buy enough candy for 500 kids, and every year I run out.
But the topper of Halloween crappiness this year is that I have to go to a party at AH's house in just a couple of hours. She told me flat out that she is having the party to show off her new room. Nice.
I just convinced my husband to go with me, though. It will be nice to have reinforcements. But with the way people are pissing me off lately, I just may go insane and have to be carted off.
So if you see a little farmer with her little cow wandering the countryside, please keep them for me. I'll be by to pick them up as soon as my sanity returns.
Thank you.
First of all, costumes creep me out.
Second of all, my parents had us so scared of poisoned candy and disappearing children, that I could never relax and enjoy Trick-or-Treating.
Third of all, I've never been good with costumes. Even as a little kid I went as a witch every single year. While my brother and his friends were being The Fonz, I'd don my black hat and scraggly dress, and wish I were a boy.
I do make a kick-ass witch, though.
Halloween is a big deal around here. People decorate their houses and everything. I'd never seen that in New England. The weather is mild enough that the kids don't have to wear coats over their costumes. And every church in town--and there are a hell of a lot of them--has a "Fall Festival" of some sort. (Notice my sarcastic quotation marks.)
And even Trick-or-Treating has survived here. Because I live on base, where people assume they can Trick-or-Treat safely, I am inundated with little monsters--I MEAN--children. They come through the base gates in vans overloaded with little Barbies and Ninjas. Every year I buy enough candy for 500 kids, and every year I run out.
But the topper of Halloween crappiness this year is that I have to go to a party at AH's house in just a couple of hours. She told me flat out that she is having the party to show off her new room. Nice.
I just convinced my husband to go with me, though. It will be nice to have reinforcements. But with the way people are pissing me off lately, I just may go insane and have to be carted off.
So if you see a little farmer with her little cow wandering the countryside, please keep them for me. I'll be by to pick them up as soon as my sanity returns.
Thank you.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
The Agenda
I wasn't going to write today. I have a blinding headache. But then I read this (the part about the political signs) and this, and it reminded me of something that I want to go on a screaming, tearing, woman-on-the-edge rant about.
As you know, one of the women I cruised with is the anti-christ. Okay, maybe Big K is the anti-christ's sister-in-law or something. But let's suffice it to say that she rubs me the wrong way. Like she rubs me raw.
Anyway, we were walking back to the bus after a show in Playa del Carmen and just chit chatting.
CB wants to surprise her husband with tickets to the Les Mis touring production when it comes through town. This led us to talk about the other productions that have come through recently. Just as I was about to say that I had wanted to see Rent but missed it, Big K chimed in that she had seen it.
"We left about half-way through," she said. "I really didn't like the gay agenda." The others all nodded their agreement.
What? What! Gay agenda? What the hell is that? Do you all have meetings and plan a big agenda? Is it a secret plot to take over the world?
I was truly speechless. Why do I forget that most people are either ignorant or hateful? How come I keep missing out on that fact of life?
So anyway, I said, "I'd love to see Rent." Which they sort of ignored.
The conversation turned to NYC theater and I told them that I have tickets for Avenue Q in December. "Oh! What is that?" they asked.
"Yeah. You wouldn't like it. It doesn't promote family values." I think they missed my sneering sarcasm.
So I spent the rest of the cruise casually sneaking in references to my friend so-and-so and his boyfriend. Or telling stories of my college friends and their discrimination or happy same-sex relationships. Yes, it's passive aggression, tuna-style.
But I figure this. They get to know me. They like me. They think I'm a good person. They are slowly introduced to the fact that I actually think gay people can be my friends. Maybe they think twice. Maybe?
Or maybe it's just my cop out to having a big blow out on some Mexican street.
Either way, Big K is stiring up trouble again. It's all about her monster child and stepping into mine and CB's territory. CB's on the run. But fuck that. There is no way I am running from the hateful bitch and her demon spawn. So I'll be a hateful bitch myself and systematically use my influence (and my mother-in-law's money) to take her down a few notches.
I know I seem all sweet, but cross me, my friends, or my kids and watch out. You may not realize that I'm on to you, but I SO am.
Wow. You can really tell I have a headache when I start using the B word.
As you know, one of the women I cruised with is the anti-christ. Okay, maybe Big K is the anti-christ's sister-in-law or something. But let's suffice it to say that she rubs me the wrong way. Like she rubs me raw.
Anyway, we were walking back to the bus after a show in Playa del Carmen and just chit chatting.
CB wants to surprise her husband with tickets to the Les Mis touring production when it comes through town. This led us to talk about the other productions that have come through recently. Just as I was about to say that I had wanted to see Rent but missed it, Big K chimed in that she had seen it.
"We left about half-way through," she said. "I really didn't like the gay agenda." The others all nodded their agreement.
What? What! Gay agenda? What the hell is that? Do you all have meetings and plan a big agenda? Is it a secret plot to take over the world?
I was truly speechless. Why do I forget that most people are either ignorant or hateful? How come I keep missing out on that fact of life?
So anyway, I said, "I'd love to see Rent." Which they sort of ignored.
The conversation turned to NYC theater and I told them that I have tickets for Avenue Q in December. "Oh! What is that?" they asked.
"Yeah. You wouldn't like it. It doesn't promote family values." I think they missed my sneering sarcasm.
So I spent the rest of the cruise casually sneaking in references to my friend so-and-so and his boyfriend. Or telling stories of my college friends and their discrimination or happy same-sex relationships. Yes, it's passive aggression, tuna-style.
But I figure this. They get to know me. They like me. They think I'm a good person. They are slowly introduced to the fact that I actually think gay people can be my friends. Maybe they think twice. Maybe?
Or maybe it's just my cop out to having a big blow out on some Mexican street.
Either way, Big K is stiring up trouble again. It's all about her monster child and stepping into mine and CB's territory. CB's on the run. But fuck that. There is no way I am running from the hateful bitch and her demon spawn. So I'll be a hateful bitch myself and systematically use my influence (and my mother-in-law's money) to take her down a few notches.
I know I seem all sweet, but cross me, my friends, or my kids and watch out. You may not realize that I'm on to you, but I SO am.
Wow. You can really tell I have a headache when I start using the B word.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
We Win!
The curse is broken.
We woke our daughter up to watch, because it just might be another lifetime before this happens again.
Thanks a ton, you bunch of hippies.
We woke our daughter up to watch, because it just might be another lifetime before this happens again.
Thanks a ton, you bunch of hippies.
Back in the Mom Zone
Today was all about motherhood for me.
For starters, I'm on potty watch. My son has decided that he isn't wearing diapers at all anymore. Which is great. But which also makes me feel like I can't be away from him for a second. We've had two accidents so far, but I prefer to think of them as learning opportunities.
Potty watch really cuts into my blogging time.
And today my husband and I went to my daughter's school for parent-teacher conferences.
I think I've mentioned before just how challenging I find it to raise my daughter. I have a very hard time understanding her motivations. But that doesn't mean that she isn't excessively sweet, happy, and bright.
It's very nice to have your parenting skills confirmed by a teacher.
I knew that she was doing well in school, but I had no idea just how well.
Yeah. Woo hoo. I rock. Well, she rocks actually, but I'm taking all the credit. Especially since as we were leaving her teacher said, "What a sweet, little family you are." Well, fuck yeah!
My husband and I grabbed a quick lunch after the conference. It was fun to be out with him in uniform in the middle of the day. It was also nice to realize that we're very much on the same page.
When my daughter was born, we made some very conscience decisions and plans about how we would raise our children. Everything we do, everything decision we make is value-based.
Our goal is to raise conscientious, empathetic children who other people enjoy being around. When you raise thinking, caring, respectful children all of the other stuff falls into place. Children who are secure in their parents' love and their parents' love for each other will do the best they can in school, regardless of their intelligence level.
Wow. I really got on a parent soapbox their. But my point is this. My man and I sat in a deli today and had a revelation.
It's working. All the stuff we've done is working.
Oh, thank god! Because there are times, like when she's standing in the middle of the soccer field crying her eyes out, that we have our doubts.
But you know what? We love those kids with all our might. And we love each other just a little bit more than that. And it works. And no amount of popcorn or Pez can ruin that.
For starters, I'm on potty watch. My son has decided that he isn't wearing diapers at all anymore. Which is great. But which also makes me feel like I can't be away from him for a second. We've had two accidents so far, but I prefer to think of them as learning opportunities.
Potty watch really cuts into my blogging time.
And today my husband and I went to my daughter's school for parent-teacher conferences.
I think I've mentioned before just how challenging I find it to raise my daughter. I have a very hard time understanding her motivations. But that doesn't mean that she isn't excessively sweet, happy, and bright.
It's very nice to have your parenting skills confirmed by a teacher.
I knew that she was doing well in school, but I had no idea just how well.
Yeah. Woo hoo. I rock. Well, she rocks actually, but I'm taking all the credit. Especially since as we were leaving her teacher said, "What a sweet, little family you are." Well, fuck yeah!
My husband and I grabbed a quick lunch after the conference. It was fun to be out with him in uniform in the middle of the day. It was also nice to realize that we're very much on the same page.
When my daughter was born, we made some very conscience decisions and plans about how we would raise our children. Everything we do, everything decision we make is value-based.
Our goal is to raise conscientious, empathetic children who other people enjoy being around. When you raise thinking, caring, respectful children all of the other stuff falls into place. Children who are secure in their parents' love and their parents' love for each other will do the best they can in school, regardless of their intelligence level.
Wow. I really got on a parent soapbox their. But my point is this. My man and I sat in a deli today and had a revelation.
It's working. All the stuff we've done is working.
Oh, thank god! Because there are times, like when she's standing in the middle of the soccer field crying her eyes out, that we have our doubts.
But you know what? We love those kids with all our might. And we love each other just a little bit more than that. And it works. And no amount of popcorn or Pez can ruin that.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Ramble Alert! And this one is about looks!
I have a lot of junk on my mind lately. And I'll call it junk because it is just that. Between the kids and I having a bad/sick week, and spending too much time watching the Red Sox, I just can't seem to get things together.
And I've noticed that my blog is very maternal lately. Where's all the talk about penises and sex that keeps y'all coming back?
But believe it or not, I've found a way to connect it all.
If you're over 18, not easily shocked, and aren't Aaron's mother (and aren't at work), you should go read this. Just ignore the GIANT member and read the words.
Ignore it! I said IGNORE IT! Concentrate on the words.
Okay, are you back with me? Or did I lose you all completely.
(I momentarily worried that Aaron wouldn't want me linking to that. But heck! He put it out there! Way out there.)
I loved what Aaron said. Like most everyone, I have my good and bad days when it comes to appearances. There are times when I feel really beautiful and times when I feel like a troll. And I know without a doubt that it has nothing to do with how I look on the outside and everything to do with how I feel on the inside.
But my looks have been on my mind lately. A few weeks ago I had a consultation with my surgeon. He systematically measured my face, searching for the best way to correct my jaw alignment, with the least amount of pain, while still remaining true to aesthetic form.
So now I know exactly how my face measures up to the average (and quantifiable) perception of beauty.
And that is just weird!
But (follow me here) seeing really cute pictures of my kids reminds me of something that I have learned as an adult.
I look at those kids. I see their little faces and I just drink in their beauty. (I'm their mother. Of course I think they're beautiful.) And I know that they are the personification of the love my husband and I have for each other. They are the physical manifestations of us as a couple.
We must be pretty beautiful too than, right? I mean, sure, our kids seem to have lucked out and inherited the best of us both, but a troll couldn't have had those kids.
But even the things that I count as imperfections in me, like gap teeth and thick thighs, I just find adorable in my kids.
And there isn't a single one of you who I've seen pictures of and haven't thought that you are beautiful. Because I can see the person shining through. (Well, that and you are all pretty damn beautiful.)
So why do I always make sure to be behind the camera and never in front of it?
In fact, when I do end up in a picture with the kids, I make sure to stand behind them.
And you know what. Fuck that! This is me, for now. This is how I look in the moment. I may hate the braces and the extra pounds, but I love the mouth that bestows kisses (both maternal and wifely) and I love the body that gave my children life.
I've been fretting a bit about meeting a bunch of you. Nobody wants to shock people with their looks. But I've decided to let it all go. I can't wait to see all the pictures that will show up on blogs after my New York trip.
Because I know that you will all see me and say, "Damn. She looks happy!"
And I've noticed that my blog is very maternal lately. Where's all the talk about penises and sex that keeps y'all coming back?
But believe it or not, I've found a way to connect it all.
If you're over 18, not easily shocked, and aren't Aaron's mother (and aren't at work), you should go read this. Just ignore the GIANT member and read the words.
Ignore it! I said IGNORE IT! Concentrate on the words.
Okay, are you back with me? Or did I lose you all completely.
(I momentarily worried that Aaron wouldn't want me linking to that. But heck! He put it out there! Way out there.)
I loved what Aaron said. Like most everyone, I have my good and bad days when it comes to appearances. There are times when I feel really beautiful and times when I feel like a troll. And I know without a doubt that it has nothing to do with how I look on the outside and everything to do with how I feel on the inside.
But my looks have been on my mind lately. A few weeks ago I had a consultation with my surgeon. He systematically measured my face, searching for the best way to correct my jaw alignment, with the least amount of pain, while still remaining true to aesthetic form.
So now I know exactly how my face measures up to the average (and quantifiable) perception of beauty.
And that is just weird!
But (follow me here) seeing really cute pictures of my kids reminds me of something that I have learned as an adult.
I look at those kids. I see their little faces and I just drink in their beauty. (I'm their mother. Of course I think they're beautiful.) And I know that they are the personification of the love my husband and I have for each other. They are the physical manifestations of us as a couple.
We must be pretty beautiful too than, right? I mean, sure, our kids seem to have lucked out and inherited the best of us both, but a troll couldn't have had those kids.
But even the things that I count as imperfections in me, like gap teeth and thick thighs, I just find adorable in my kids.
And there isn't a single one of you who I've seen pictures of and haven't thought that you are beautiful. Because I can see the person shining through. (Well, that and you are all pretty damn beautiful.)
So why do I always make sure to be behind the camera and never in front of it?
In fact, when I do end up in a picture with the kids, I make sure to stand behind them.
And you know what. Fuck that! This is me, for now. This is how I look in the moment. I may hate the braces and the extra pounds, but I love the mouth that bestows kisses (both maternal and wifely) and I love the body that gave my children life.
I've been fretting a bit about meeting a bunch of you. Nobody wants to shock people with their looks. But I've decided to let it all go. I can't wait to see all the pictures that will show up on blogs after my New York trip.
Because I know that you will all see me and say, "Damn. She looks happy!"
Monday, October 25, 2004
What's that smell?
This weekend, my house smelled like shit.
You know how sometimes you walk into your own house and are dismayed to find that it smells bad, only to spend a few hours in your home and completely get used to it.
Yeah. That's not what happened.
This was a shitty smell that there was just no getting used to.
So I spent my weekend on the hunt for the source of the smell. My son is still working on potty training, and he still wears diapers to bed, but I couldn't find an improperly disposed of diaper anywhere.
My daughter had a mysterious wet spot on her bed. She's a little old for accidents, but you never know. Except that it seemed like just clear water. She was evasive when I questioned her.
But this smell seemed to emanate from the upstairs bathroom. It was when I finally decided to check the trash for used toilet paper that I found it.
A piece of poo.
Just sitting there in the bottom of the trash bin.
No one is claiming it. But I have an idea of where it may have come from.
I've decided that this mysterious piece of poop is a metaphor for my life.
You know how sometimes you walk into your own house and are dismayed to find that it smells bad, only to spend a few hours in your home and completely get used to it.
Yeah. That's not what happened.
This was a shitty smell that there was just no getting used to.
So I spent my weekend on the hunt for the source of the smell. My son is still working on potty training, and he still wears diapers to bed, but I couldn't find an improperly disposed of diaper anywhere.
My daughter had a mysterious wet spot on her bed. She's a little old for accidents, but you never know. Except that it seemed like just clear water. She was evasive when I questioned her.
But this smell seemed to emanate from the upstairs bathroom. It was when I finally decided to check the trash for used toilet paper that I found it.
A piece of poo.
Just sitting there in the bottom of the trash bin.
No one is claiming it. But I have an idea of where it may have come from.
I've decided that this mysterious piece of poop is a metaphor for my life.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Quick!
Ask me what I fed my kids for dinner.
Popcorn and Pez.
Yup. That Mother of the Year Award should be arriving anytime now.
Popcorn and Pez.
Yup. That Mother of the Year Award should be arriving anytime now.
Friday, October 22, 2004
The Newlyweds
When we reported to our muster station during the first hour of our cruise, we followed tradition and donned our snazzy lifejackets. One of us has a picture of that, but I'm not sure which one.
Our muster station was on the pool deck and it was raining. Most passengers huddled under the eaves. This is where we met our next-cabin-neighbors, the newlyweds.
The newlyweds were still dressed in their wedding attire at that point. Some of the ships' crew helped the bride slide her lifejacket over her up-do and onto her gown. She was quite the spectacle there in the rain. But her husband was the real eye catcher. Very hot. Very, very hot!
They had been married on the ship earlier, and they and about 20 of the guests would be cruising with us. Of course most of their guests were in the tiny cabins downstairs, but the bride and groom got to spend their wedding night puking out their wedding feast with the rest of us.
Poor babies. That has to be one sucky honeymoon.
But a couple of nights later, they were making up for it.
I had gone back to our room early, too ill to enjoy the cheesy show. At about 11:30, I heard a knocking. I thought my cruise-mates were returning, but there was no one at the door.
It took me a few minutes to realize that the newlyweds were finally getting it on. But there wasn't a whole heck of rhythm happening over there. Force, yes. (Our wall was shaking.) Finesse, no. And it was all over in about three minutes. Poor girl, I thought. Oh, well. Maybe she can teach him something.
I didn't feel too bad for her for long though. Because at 12:05, they started at it again. Still not much rhythm, and still barely over three minutes, but at least he was going for quantity.
I was sort of grinning over the whole thing, until the next morning when their thumpa-thump-thump-pause-pause-thump-pause-thumpa-thumpa-pause-thump woke us all up. Morning sex is fine and all, but do it in the shower or something and let the housewives next door sleep in.
Before lunch that day, we took the opportunity to enjoy the brief stint of nice weather on our balcony. There was only a thin divider between our balcony and the newlyweds'. And apparently they were being interviewed for a video tape or something.
The interviewer asked them, "How do you feel now that you are married?"
And I answer, "Horny."
Apparently I said that louder than I intended, because people three balconies down started laughing. Oh well. If you're gonna bang the walls on a cruise ship, your floor-mates are gonna know about it.
My friends were both amused and shocked at me. "K!" they exclaimed. "We never would have expected that from you."
"What?" I asked. "You thought I was sweet and innocent? Where the heck did you get that idea."
Which only goes to show you that I have them all fooled, eh?
Our muster station was on the pool deck and it was raining. Most passengers huddled under the eaves. This is where we met our next-cabin-neighbors, the newlyweds.
The newlyweds were still dressed in their wedding attire at that point. Some of the ships' crew helped the bride slide her lifejacket over her up-do and onto her gown. She was quite the spectacle there in the rain. But her husband was the real eye catcher. Very hot. Very, very hot!
They had been married on the ship earlier, and they and about 20 of the guests would be cruising with us. Of course most of their guests were in the tiny cabins downstairs, but the bride and groom got to spend their wedding night puking out their wedding feast with the rest of us.
Poor babies. That has to be one sucky honeymoon.
But a couple of nights later, they were making up for it.
I had gone back to our room early, too ill to enjoy the cheesy show. At about 11:30, I heard a knocking. I thought my cruise-mates were returning, but there was no one at the door.
It took me a few minutes to realize that the newlyweds were finally getting it on. But there wasn't a whole heck of rhythm happening over there. Force, yes. (Our wall was shaking.) Finesse, no. And it was all over in about three minutes. Poor girl, I thought. Oh, well. Maybe she can teach him something.
I didn't feel too bad for her for long though. Because at 12:05, they started at it again. Still not much rhythm, and still barely over three minutes, but at least he was going for quantity.
I was sort of grinning over the whole thing, until the next morning when their thumpa-thump-thump-pause-pause-thump-pause-thumpa-thumpa-pause-thump woke us all up. Morning sex is fine and all, but do it in the shower or something and let the housewives next door sleep in.
Before lunch that day, we took the opportunity to enjoy the brief stint of nice weather on our balcony. There was only a thin divider between our balcony and the newlyweds'. And apparently they were being interviewed for a video tape or something.
The interviewer asked them, "How do you feel now that you are married?"
And I answer, "Horny."
Apparently I said that louder than I intended, because people three balconies down started laughing. Oh well. If you're gonna bang the walls on a cruise ship, your floor-mates are gonna know about it.
My friends were both amused and shocked at me. "K!" they exclaimed. "We never would have expected that from you."
"What?" I asked. "You thought I was sweet and innocent? Where the heck did you get that idea."
Which only goes to show you that I have them all fooled, eh?
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Too Sick to Blog
Awww. Poor me. But I do have to mention a couple of things.
First, Patrick has the honor of being the first blogger to actually speak with the Tuna Man. I don't know why I find that so entertaining, but I do.
Oh, and thanks for the advice about garlic, Patrick.
And second, my son is wearing his Sox jersey. In fact, he's sleeping in it right now. If they win again tonight, he just may be wearing that shirt everyday for the foreseeable future. You have to teach the kids to hate the Yankees from a young age.
And lastly, thanks to Jeff's unsolicited compliment (just ignore the fact that I had to Google Erma Bombeck), I now have a snazzy new tag line. Thanks, Jeff!
First, Patrick has the honor of being the first blogger to actually speak with the Tuna Man. I don't know why I find that so entertaining, but I do.
Oh, and thanks for the advice about garlic, Patrick.
And second, my son is wearing his Sox jersey. In fact, he's sleeping in it right now. If they win again tonight, he just may be wearing that shirt everyday for the foreseeable future. You have to teach the kids to hate the Yankees from a young age.
And lastly, thanks to Jeff's unsolicited compliment (just ignore the fact that I had to Google Erma Bombeck), I now have a snazzy new tag line. Thanks, Jeff!
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Important Things I Almost Forgot Today
Go here and wish him a Happy Birthday! If you're not visiting Aaron's site on a daily basis, you are so missing out. Great phlog, better man.
My cleavage sunburn is pealing. Pretty.
The husband says he is retired from blogging. I tried to get him to start his own, but he said he doesn't have enough funny things to say. Well, neither do I, Honey!
My daughter got a pet worm as a birthday party favor this weekend. How fucked up is that? Shall we take bets on how long it will take me to kill it?
As I mentioned over here, my son wore his Red Sox shirt for the last two games. I think he is responsible for lifting the curse. If the Sox lose in New York, it's because his shirt is still in the laundry. God! I hate the Yankees!
The kids and I went to my husband's hockey game this weekend. So. Friggin. Hot.
As you were.My Head May Explode
Actually, it will just be taken apart piece by piece and welded back together.
I so need a hug right now.
Yesterday, I went to my pre-surgery consultation. (For you new folks, I'm having my jaw realigned.) You should know before reading any further that I am completely worn out and ditzy right now.
Dr: We need your wisdom teeth.
Me: Huh?
Dr: We're taking them out. Remember that?
Me: I have wisdom teeth?
Dr: Yes, we need them out for your surgery. I think we decided to do it all at once. Remember?
Me: Ummm...I think so.
Dr: Well, this is big stuff. They say that people can only retain about 20% of important information when you talk to them. There's a lot to remember. It's understandable.
Later on...
Dr: So it will cost you more to do your wisdom teeth at the hospital because they actually charge you in fifteen minute increments. Maybe we should take them out at the office first.
Me: Wait. Go back. You took my wisdom teeth out. Remember? They were really high.
Dr: You have wisdom teeth in your x-ray. Are you sure?
Me: I have the teeth at home!!!
Dr: Oh...well! Let's look again.
Me: You know...you have another patient with the same name as me.
Dr: Your husband's name is *his first name*?
Me: Yes.
Dr: Hmmm. Maybe we have two charts for you. Hold on.
He comes back in a few minutes.
Dr: Okay. Now we have the right person.
Me: But, see...this is why I think the insurance turned us down. They had the wrong files!
Dr: Oh, I'm sure we sent the right ones. But maybe you should check with the insurance company again.
Argh! Argh! Argh!
I'm so going to end up with this other girl's face!
Regardless, I scheduled my surgery. I'll let my husband go ballistic on the insurance company and the doctor's office tomorrow.
And the big date is November 12.
So all of you who I will be meeting on Dec 3-5 will see a completely new me. Hopefully the swelling and pain should have abated somewhat by then.
This also means that all that delicious NYC food will be eaten through a straw.
Damn, I'm so nervous about all of this. And the cost is stressing me out.
Did I mention that I'm sick?
Did I mention that I need a hug?
I so need a hug right now.
Yesterday, I went to my pre-surgery consultation. (For you new folks, I'm having my jaw realigned.) You should know before reading any further that I am completely worn out and ditzy right now.
Dr: We need your wisdom teeth.
Me: Huh?
Dr: We're taking them out. Remember that?
Me: I have wisdom teeth?
Dr: Yes, we need them out for your surgery. I think we decided to do it all at once. Remember?
Me: Ummm...I think so.
Dr: Well, this is big stuff. They say that people can only retain about 20% of important information when you talk to them. There's a lot to remember. It's understandable.
Later on...
Dr: So it will cost you more to do your wisdom teeth at the hospital because they actually charge you in fifteen minute increments. Maybe we should take them out at the office first.
Me: Wait. Go back. You took my wisdom teeth out. Remember? They were really high.
Dr: You have wisdom teeth in your x-ray. Are you sure?
Me: I have the teeth at home!!!
Dr: Oh...well! Let's look again.
Me: You know...you have another patient with the same name as me.
Dr: Your husband's name is *his first name*?
Me: Yes.
Dr: Hmmm. Maybe we have two charts for you. Hold on.
He comes back in a few minutes.
Dr: Okay. Now we have the right person.
Me: But, see...this is why I think the insurance turned us down. They had the wrong files!
Dr: Oh, I'm sure we sent the right ones. But maybe you should check with the insurance company again.
Argh! Argh! Argh!
I'm so going to end up with this other girl's face!
Regardless, I scheduled my surgery. I'll let my husband go ballistic on the insurance company and the doctor's office tomorrow.
And the big date is November 12.
So all of you who I will be meeting on Dec 3-5 will see a completely new me. Hopefully the swelling and pain should have abated somewhat by then.
This also means that all that delicious NYC food will be eaten through a straw.
Damn, I'm so nervous about all of this. And the cost is stressing me out.
Did I mention that I'm sick?
Did I mention that I need a hug?
Monday, October 18, 2004
My Tale of Woe
I just can't seem to get back into the swing of things. I'm unreasonably tired and I think I've contracted Estrogen poisoning.
I truly wonder if anyone even wants to hear about my cruise at all. I think I'll just tell a few stories here and there, to try and resist going completely insane.
Okay. So first let me introduce the cast of characters.
First on the list in CB, my best friend and neighbor.
Next is Big K (CB actually calls her that because she's too BIG for her britches). Big K is the biggest control freak I've ever met. She always knows better. She couldn't ever possibly be wrong. And she is the queen of indecisiveness, excuses, and bitter complaining. She's married to an absolute freak and her two-year-old son is such a monster that I won't let my kids ever be around him.
Then comes S1. S1 is CB's college friend and hails from the mid-west. She's married to a seemingly great guy and has three little boys ranging in age from 2 to 7. She's supermodel thin and fairly attractive. And most importantly, although she also has trouble making decisions, her friendly demeanor more than makes up for any other personality flaws.
And finally there is S2. S2 is CB's friend from her first base. Her husband is an up-and-comer in the military world and they have two sweet little children, a boy and girl aged 7 and 5. S2 was born and raised in Texas and you can tell. She has the big hair and accent to prove it. She is admittedly indecisive too, but as sweet as the ice tea in Texas.
Our trip started with a six-hour long drive to New Orleans, where CB, Big K, and I would be meeting the 2 S's at the terminal. Did you know that if you put three women in a car, they can talk non-stop for six-hours? I had no idea.
Between the two of them, Big K and CB must have called and checked up on their husbands a couple dozen times. "Don't you want to call your husband?" they asked me. Ah, no. I'm pretty sure he is an adult and capable of handling anything on his own. Of course, at the time, I didn't know that he and the boy were puking non-stop.
There was some debacle with trying to grab lunch in New Orleans which ended up with me and CB trying to translate some unknown language in a Popeye's while Big K impatiently idled in her car at the curb. We ended up carrying two bags of fried chicken all over New Orleans and into the cruise terminal, where we had our own little picnic when we met up with the two S's. Because, you know, who knew if they'd have any food on the boat?
The nice thing about traveling on an older and smaller cruise ship is that our status as Verandah deck passengers (cabin V2) provided us with VIP service. There was a separate line to embark and everything.
Which seemed really cool, until we got on the ship and saw our room. It turns out that Big K had switched our room a couple of weeks before sailing, because our original room had a partially obstructed view. She oh-so-wisely ended up switching us to a handicapped room. Which meant no jaccuzi tub. (There was one of those shower heads that just sits next to the toilet, turning your entire bathroom into a shower.) There was one less bed. And there were no wells on the doors.
Let me explain some cruise ship physics for you. When it rains out, your balcony may fill with water. Those little sills that hold up the doors keep this water from surging into your room. And boy did it rain. Same with the bathroom. When your entire bathroom fills with water, and the ship rocks so hard that the water makes it's own little ocean, without a well on the door, the water will run into the room and soak the carpet.
Imagine, if you will, just for a moment, just how a wet carpet will smell in a closed up room and tropical heat.
To make matters worse, our room wasn't actually ready for us. There were dirty socks on the floor, dirty glasses strewn about, dirty sheets on the bed, and most appalling to Big K, handprints on the doors. Now okay. That sort of sucks, but I would have calmly called the front desk and explained all of this, asking for resolution. Oh no! Big K had to throw a hissy fit. I think she may have even demanded to speak to the captain. We were so embarrassed. And we were already making a name for ourselves as the V2 Girls.
Cut ahead a few hours, we've already eaten dinner (the late 8:30 seating because Big K thought that would be better...even though the other three girls are usually in bed by 9), and we're sailing into a tropical storm. The rocking got worse and worse as the night wore on. And as bad as that was, the smell in the room made it even worse. S1 got the puking started, poor baby. At that point I was still feeling fine. CB played the mom and did all the puke bucket emptying and consoling.
Then S2 started to feel queasy too. After about an hour, a just couldn't take it anymore and had to run to the bathroom too. I think I may have actually had more of a virus than anything else, but it doesn't really make a difference when you're in cruise ship hell.
Our room was in the worst possible place for rocking and the smell was overpowering, so we moved ourselves to the pool deck where we could get fresh air and a cool breeze. It was when the water in the pool started sloshing over the sides in great rolling waves that I really lost it. Thank god for my ice/puke bucket.
There were a few other poor souls (also from the Verandah deck) on the pool deck with us. We asked the husband of a puking woman to take our picture. Nothing like photographic evidence of pukey girls in pjs.
I spent most of my time alternating between the restaurant bathroom, pool deck, and a table in the restaurant itself. I just couldn't stay put.
S2 and Big K eventually went to bed. At some point while I was throwing up some lettuce I ate in college, S1 and CB made little beds for themselves out of deck chairs in the restaurant.
At about 5:15 a.m. I fell asleep sitting at a table with my head in my arms. The clanging of plates woke me up fifteen minutes later and I pulled myself up off the table and tried to wake CB. I yelled. I tapped. I tried to roll her but to no avail, so I left my cruisemates wrapped up like beach towel burritos, sleeping on deck chairs in the restaurant that would soon be serving breakfast.
At about 7:30 a.m., the assistant Maitre d' found S1 and CB. He told us later that he had spotted them and gone to ask his restaurant manager if he had seen the two girls sleeping in the dining room. "He laughed at me like I was joking," he told us. "I told him to go look for himself, and there you were." We were cruise ship legend at that point.
The Maitre d' awoke my poor friends with his Croatian accent, "Ladies, ladies! You must return to your rooms. We are serving breakfast."
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the start of our fabulous cruise to Mexico!
Have you ever noticed how much I talk about puke?
I truly wonder if anyone even wants to hear about my cruise at all. I think I'll just tell a few stories here and there, to try and resist going completely insane.
Okay. So first let me introduce the cast of characters.
First on the list in CB, my best friend and neighbor.
Next is Big K (CB actually calls her that because she's too BIG for her britches). Big K is the biggest control freak I've ever met. She always knows better. She couldn't ever possibly be wrong. And she is the queen of indecisiveness, excuses, and bitter complaining. She's married to an absolute freak and her two-year-old son is such a monster that I won't let my kids ever be around him.
Then comes S1. S1 is CB's college friend and hails from the mid-west. She's married to a seemingly great guy and has three little boys ranging in age from 2 to 7. She's supermodel thin and fairly attractive. And most importantly, although she also has trouble making decisions, her friendly demeanor more than makes up for any other personality flaws.
And finally there is S2. S2 is CB's friend from her first base. Her husband is an up-and-comer in the military world and they have two sweet little children, a boy and girl aged 7 and 5. S2 was born and raised in Texas and you can tell. She has the big hair and accent to prove it. She is admittedly indecisive too, but as sweet as the ice tea in Texas.
Our trip started with a six-hour long drive to New Orleans, where CB, Big K, and I would be meeting the 2 S's at the terminal. Did you know that if you put three women in a car, they can talk non-stop for six-hours? I had no idea.
Between the two of them, Big K and CB must have called and checked up on their husbands a couple dozen times. "Don't you want to call your husband?" they asked me. Ah, no. I'm pretty sure he is an adult and capable of handling anything on his own. Of course, at the time, I didn't know that he and the boy were puking non-stop.
There was some debacle with trying to grab lunch in New Orleans which ended up with me and CB trying to translate some unknown language in a Popeye's while Big K impatiently idled in her car at the curb. We ended up carrying two bags of fried chicken all over New Orleans and into the cruise terminal, where we had our own little picnic when we met up with the two S's. Because, you know, who knew if they'd have any food on the boat?
The nice thing about traveling on an older and smaller cruise ship is that our status as Verandah deck passengers (cabin V2) provided us with VIP service. There was a separate line to embark and everything.
Which seemed really cool, until we got on the ship and saw our room. It turns out that Big K had switched our room a couple of weeks before sailing, because our original room had a partially obstructed view. She oh-so-wisely ended up switching us to a handicapped room. Which meant no jaccuzi tub. (There was one of those shower heads that just sits next to the toilet, turning your entire bathroom into a shower.) There was one less bed. And there were no wells on the doors.
Let me explain some cruise ship physics for you. When it rains out, your balcony may fill with water. Those little sills that hold up the doors keep this water from surging into your room. And boy did it rain. Same with the bathroom. When your entire bathroom fills with water, and the ship rocks so hard that the water makes it's own little ocean, without a well on the door, the water will run into the room and soak the carpet.
Imagine, if you will, just for a moment, just how a wet carpet will smell in a closed up room and tropical heat.
To make matters worse, our room wasn't actually ready for us. There were dirty socks on the floor, dirty glasses strewn about, dirty sheets on the bed, and most appalling to Big K, handprints on the doors. Now okay. That sort of sucks, but I would have calmly called the front desk and explained all of this, asking for resolution. Oh no! Big K had to throw a hissy fit. I think she may have even demanded to speak to the captain. We were so embarrassed. And we were already making a name for ourselves as the V2 Girls.
Cut ahead a few hours, we've already eaten dinner (the late 8:30 seating because Big K thought that would be better...even though the other three girls are usually in bed by 9), and we're sailing into a tropical storm. The rocking got worse and worse as the night wore on. And as bad as that was, the smell in the room made it even worse. S1 got the puking started, poor baby. At that point I was still feeling fine. CB played the mom and did all the puke bucket emptying and consoling.
Then S2 started to feel queasy too. After about an hour, a just couldn't take it anymore and had to run to the bathroom too. I think I may have actually had more of a virus than anything else, but it doesn't really make a difference when you're in cruise ship hell.
Our room was in the worst possible place for rocking and the smell was overpowering, so we moved ourselves to the pool deck where we could get fresh air and a cool breeze. It was when the water in the pool started sloshing over the sides in great rolling waves that I really lost it. Thank god for my ice/puke bucket.
There were a few other poor souls (also from the Verandah deck) on the pool deck with us. We asked the husband of a puking woman to take our picture. Nothing like photographic evidence of pukey girls in pjs.
I spent most of my time alternating between the restaurant bathroom, pool deck, and a table in the restaurant itself. I just couldn't stay put.
S2 and Big K eventually went to bed. At some point while I was throwing up some lettuce I ate in college, S1 and CB made little beds for themselves out of deck chairs in the restaurant.
At about 5:15 a.m. I fell asleep sitting at a table with my head in my arms. The clanging of plates woke me up fifteen minutes later and I pulled myself up off the table and tried to wake CB. I yelled. I tapped. I tried to roll her but to no avail, so I left my cruisemates wrapped up like beach towel burritos, sleeping on deck chairs in the restaurant that would soon be serving breakfast.
At about 7:30 a.m., the assistant Maitre d' found S1 and CB. He told us later that he had spotted them and gone to ask his restaurant manager if he had seen the two girls sleeping in the dining room. "He laughed at me like I was joking," he told us. "I told him to go look for himself, and there you were." We were cruise ship legend at that point.
The Maitre d' awoke my poor friends with his Croatian accent, "Ladies, ladies! You must return to your rooms. We are serving breakfast."
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the start of our fabulous cruise to Mexico!
Have you ever noticed how much I talk about puke?
Saturday, October 16, 2004
What I Learned on my Not-So-Fabulous Tropical Cruise
Number 1) I am a bad mother. A bad, bad mother. I let my kids drink juice. See. Bad mother!
Number 2) People often think I am a lesbian.
Me: That guy looks like Matt Damon.
Incredibly Annoying Cruise Mate: Where? I didn't notice.
Me: I spend a lot of time looking at men. You should know that.
Incredibly Annoying Cruise Mate: Well, I guess that proves you're not a lesbian.
Me: Was there a question?
Number 3) People assume I am a lesbian because I don't wear make up or spend more than two minutes on my hair.
Number 4) People who know I am actually straight assume that I don't wear make up or do my hair because I just don't know any better. These people will feel sorry for me and try to educate me.
Number 5) Standing in a swaying hallway and yelling at your best friend, "You just don't get it! I DON'T CARE how my hair looks. Leave it alone!" will shock your friend.
Number 6) Other stay-at-home moms actually consider it their "jobs" to do housework. I am the only stay-at-home mom in existence who doesn't believe this. Saying to your stay-at-home mom friends, "My job is to raise my children, not be a maid," will piss them off.
Number 7) My friends are stupid. They will spend a day on a Mexican beach with absolutely no sunblock on and then be proud of their sunburns. Until they realize that the mesh and wave designs on the cleavage area of their suits is now burned into their skin.
Number 8) I am stupid. I will walk and walk to buy a bottle of Mexican sunblock (where the highest SPF they have is 15) when I already had a bottle of SPF 50 stuck in my bag.
Number 9) When wrapping yourself in a beach towel while walking to buy sunblock to avoid getting sunburned, you should try and cover your cleavage.
Number 10) When submerging yourself in a 62 degree underground river, it is best to just jump right in. But you should push your girly friends in first so that they don't hem and haw for upwards of thirty minutes.
Number 11) I have truly learned the meaning of high maintenance.
Number 12) When traveling with four high maintenance female friends, it is best to befriend the service staff and pass out tips like candy.
Number 13) My friends may become infamous shipwide for being high maintenance, dressing like rich women, and staying in a luxury suite...but they are hopelessly cheap.
Number 14) When cheap women want to make a tip seem impressive, they package it like this.
Number 15) I may not look it, but I have a lot of class.
Some (hopefully) entertaining stories to follow.
Number 2) People often think I am a lesbian.
Me: That guy looks like Matt Damon.
Incredibly Annoying Cruise Mate: Where? I didn't notice.
Me: I spend a lot of time looking at men. You should know that.
Incredibly Annoying Cruise Mate: Well, I guess that proves you're not a lesbian.
Me: Was there a question?
Number 3) People assume I am a lesbian because I don't wear make up or spend more than two minutes on my hair.
Number 4) People who know I am actually straight assume that I don't wear make up or do my hair because I just don't know any better. These people will feel sorry for me and try to educate me.
Number 5) Standing in a swaying hallway and yelling at your best friend, "You just don't get it! I DON'T CARE how my hair looks. Leave it alone!" will shock your friend.
Number 6) Other stay-at-home moms actually consider it their "jobs" to do housework. I am the only stay-at-home mom in existence who doesn't believe this. Saying to your stay-at-home mom friends, "My job is to raise my children, not be a maid," will piss them off.
Number 7) My friends are stupid. They will spend a day on a Mexican beach with absolutely no sunblock on and then be proud of their sunburns. Until they realize that the mesh and wave designs on the cleavage area of their suits is now burned into their skin.
Number 8) I am stupid. I will walk and walk to buy a bottle of Mexican sunblock (where the highest SPF they have is 15) when I already had a bottle of SPF 50 stuck in my bag.
Number 9) When wrapping yourself in a beach towel while walking to buy sunblock to avoid getting sunburned, you should try and cover your cleavage.
Number 10) When submerging yourself in a 62 degree underground river, it is best to just jump right in. But you should push your girly friends in first so that they don't hem and haw for upwards of thirty minutes.
Number 11) I have truly learned the meaning of high maintenance.
Number 12) When traveling with four high maintenance female friends, it is best to befriend the service staff and pass out tips like candy.
Number 13) My friends may become infamous shipwide for being high maintenance, dressing like rich women, and staying in a luxury suite...but they are hopelessly cheap.
Number 14) When cheap women want to make a tip seem impressive, they package it like this.
Number 15) I may not look it, but I have a lot of class.
Some (hopefully) entertaining stories to follow.
Friday, October 15, 2004
My Husband Rocks...
...and so did my cruise ship.
I have lots of stories to tell about my cruise, but I'm not really in the mood yet. Despite being very sick for the first 24 hours, I did have a really good time. But I have found that as I talk about it with my husband, I sound very negative. But I think that's mostly just because I am so different from the other women.
Picture if you will, just for a moment, that Jessica Simpson has been cloned four times. That's who I went on a cruise with.
But today I want to talk about my husband, which in my opinion, is always the better topic.
How friggin' adorable is he? Is it just me?
I was really curious about what he would write. And except for the couple of moments I took to dash off a post on my second day aboard the ship, I was determined not to go online again.
So, when I got home yesterday and had a few minutes to myself, I got to read all of his posts at once. And I had a blast doing it.
He always obsesses about what a terrible writer he is. But I keep trying to tell him that the talent of a writer isn't measured in grammatical mistakes, botched spelling, and missing punctuation. The real talent of a writer is in what he says and how he says it. I think he is a wonderful writer.
I can't resist going back and refuting and/or commenting on some of the things he wrote. It's my blog after all. If he wants to have carte blanche he can write his own damn blog.
First of all, I must tell you that the house is now cleaner than it was when I left it. He did a lot of work. And I'm glad he posted about laundry, because that's the only way I was able to find stuff when I got home.
Isn't it all hot when he talks about hockey? What he didn't tell you is that it seems like he'll be a real playmaker on the team this year. He's scored at least one goal in each of his games. And he looks good in orange.
And ooooooooh! You're all in trouble. He thought my e-mail inbox would be flooded with commands to fill out that hall of fame information. But I came home to one lonely e-mail about something completely different. What he doesn't realize is that the deadline isn't until March. How sweet is that, though. He really wants me to be recognized.
Okay. And the books. I know you were all a little worried, but I'm actually glad he did it. I wanted to get rid of those books. I had shelved the special ones that I wanted to keep. I just couldn't carry those boxes down the attic stairs. So he's not in trouble. But thanks for sticking up for me!
And it really, really bugs him that I chose Tuna Girl rather than Tuna Woman or something similar. Yes, for years I would correct anyone who called a woman a girl. Yes, I still feel strongly about it. But really. Doesn't Tuna Girl just sound better? It's all about branding, Baby.
And nice try with the X Box game request. We'll see. Do you all think he deserves a present? He had a lot of fun on that London trip. And I puked most of my cruise. (And I have a feeling that if I let you guys have your way, I'd be puking through NYC too.) Oh, and he didn't mention his annual trips to Las Vegas. Strip clubs anyone? Oh hell. And there were Guam strip clubs too. Fuck a gift. I think he still owes me.
Once I got wind of that surprise party for CB, I told the other friends, who called RB the first chance they got and convinced him to cancel. I'm glad because I spent most of the afternoon on the toilet.
Tuna Man did go out and buy her a present though. And a card. And a gift bag. And the tissue paper to go with it. How sweet is that?
And okay. Who the HELL gave him permission to let you ask questions? I made some guidelines for a reason. I will not be ignored.
He didn't really dish much though, did he? And you know, when he says that all of the juicy details about me are already in the blog, he's right. I can't think of a single story that he could tell about me that you didn't already know. Well, at least not any that wouldn't reflect worse on him than me.
Here's a little conversation for you:
Me: You couldn't come up with one romantic thing you've ever done for me?
Him: *laughing a little* No. And I really sat there for a long time and thought about it too.
Me: There must be something. *thinking* *for a long time* You're right. There's nothing.
He's just not really romantic in the traditional sense. See my engagement story for confirmation. I have a very vague memory of coming home to a bedroom full of lit candles once, but that was about getting laid, and therefore not really romantic.
But don't you think that guest blogging for me is romantic in its own way? And hauling away boxes of books. And doing laundry. And he sent me those roses on our anniversary. And we take baths together and talk about our days.
I learned this past week that by comparison, we really don't have a traditional relationship. And thank god. We're partners in a way that most married people never are. And that's romance.
To set the record straight, he is SO NOT a breast man. He said Patrick only gave him two choices, so he went with the expected one. He said it was too hard to explain what he really is. And what he really is, is an abs man. He's all about hot abs. I had killer abs once. Once upon a time, B.C. (before children).
And yes he did ignore the question about my own rack. His response to me: "I'm not even going there!"
Now he wants to know what I found so special on September 23. I'm not even going there.
And the question about the "private" box cracks me up. He has no idea what you were talking about. His answer was supposed to be funny, but even I didn't get it.
He's been dying to tell that story about Dick for months. I think he thinks that it makes me look bad. I don't really think it does. I never understood why that whole thing upset him so much, and I still don't get why it still bugs him. but I'm glad he got to get it off his chest in the blog.
And as far as his list goes. Holy crap. I never thought he'd admit that to a group of strangers. And ropes.? Umm yeah. Ropes. I'm a diligent teacher.
I think it is pretty evident that he loves me a lot. I am a very lucky woman. Thanks for being so nice to him. I don't think I'm going to talk about the fact that my average daily hits went UP while I was away.
When the earth stops rocking for a moment, I'll write more about my trip.
I have lots of stories to tell about my cruise, but I'm not really in the mood yet. Despite being very sick for the first 24 hours, I did have a really good time. But I have found that as I talk about it with my husband, I sound very negative. But I think that's mostly just because I am so different from the other women.
Picture if you will, just for a moment, that Jessica Simpson has been cloned four times. That's who I went on a cruise with.
But today I want to talk about my husband, which in my opinion, is always the better topic.
How friggin' adorable is he? Is it just me?
I was really curious about what he would write. And except for the couple of moments I took to dash off a post on my second day aboard the ship, I was determined not to go online again.
So, when I got home yesterday and had a few minutes to myself, I got to read all of his posts at once. And I had a blast doing it.
He always obsesses about what a terrible writer he is. But I keep trying to tell him that the talent of a writer isn't measured in grammatical mistakes, botched spelling, and missing punctuation. The real talent of a writer is in what he says and how he says it. I think he is a wonderful writer.
I can't resist going back and refuting and/or commenting on some of the things he wrote. It's my blog after all. If he wants to have carte blanche he can write his own damn blog.
First of all, I must tell you that the house is now cleaner than it was when I left it. He did a lot of work. And I'm glad he posted about laundry, because that's the only way I was able to find stuff when I got home.
Isn't it all hot when he talks about hockey? What he didn't tell you is that it seems like he'll be a real playmaker on the team this year. He's scored at least one goal in each of his games. And he looks good in orange.
And ooooooooh! You're all in trouble. He thought my e-mail inbox would be flooded with commands to fill out that hall of fame information. But I came home to one lonely e-mail about something completely different. What he doesn't realize is that the deadline isn't until March. How sweet is that, though. He really wants me to be recognized.
Okay. And the books. I know you were all a little worried, but I'm actually glad he did it. I wanted to get rid of those books. I had shelved the special ones that I wanted to keep. I just couldn't carry those boxes down the attic stairs. So he's not in trouble. But thanks for sticking up for me!
And it really, really bugs him that I chose Tuna Girl rather than Tuna Woman or something similar. Yes, for years I would correct anyone who called a woman a girl. Yes, I still feel strongly about it. But really. Doesn't Tuna Girl just sound better? It's all about branding, Baby.
And nice try with the X Box game request. We'll see. Do you all think he deserves a present? He had a lot of fun on that London trip. And I puked most of my cruise. (And I have a feeling that if I let you guys have your way, I'd be puking through NYC too.) Oh, and he didn't mention his annual trips to Las Vegas. Strip clubs anyone? Oh hell. And there were Guam strip clubs too. Fuck a gift. I think he still owes me.
Once I got wind of that surprise party for CB, I told the other friends, who called RB the first chance they got and convinced him to cancel. I'm glad because I spent most of the afternoon on the toilet.
Tuna Man did go out and buy her a present though. And a card. And a gift bag. And the tissue paper to go with it. How sweet is that?
And okay. Who the HELL gave him permission to let you ask questions? I made some guidelines for a reason. I will not be ignored.
He didn't really dish much though, did he? And you know, when he says that all of the juicy details about me are already in the blog, he's right. I can't think of a single story that he could tell about me that you didn't already know. Well, at least not any that wouldn't reflect worse on him than me.
Here's a little conversation for you:
Me: You couldn't come up with one romantic thing you've ever done for me?
Him: *laughing a little* No. And I really sat there for a long time and thought about it too.
Me: There must be something. *thinking* *for a long time* You're right. There's nothing.
He's just not really romantic in the traditional sense. See my engagement story for confirmation. I have a very vague memory of coming home to a bedroom full of lit candles once, but that was about getting laid, and therefore not really romantic.
But don't you think that guest blogging for me is romantic in its own way? And hauling away boxes of books. And doing laundry. And he sent me those roses on our anniversary. And we take baths together and talk about our days.
I learned this past week that by comparison, we really don't have a traditional relationship. And thank god. We're partners in a way that most married people never are. And that's romance.
To set the record straight, he is SO NOT a breast man. He said Patrick only gave him two choices, so he went with the expected one. He said it was too hard to explain what he really is. And what he really is, is an abs man. He's all about hot abs. I had killer abs once. Once upon a time, B.C. (before children).
And yes he did ignore the question about my own rack. His response to me: "I'm not even going there!"
Now he wants to know what I found so special on September 23. I'm not even going there.
And the question about the "private" box cracks me up. He has no idea what you were talking about. His answer was supposed to be funny, but even I didn't get it.
He's been dying to tell that story about Dick for months. I think he thinks that it makes me look bad. I don't really think it does. I never understood why that whole thing upset him so much, and I still don't get why it still bugs him. but I'm glad he got to get it off his chest in the blog.
And as far as his list goes. Holy crap. I never thought he'd admit that to a group of strangers. And ropes.? Umm yeah. Ropes. I'm a diligent teacher.
I think it is pretty evident that he loves me a lot. I am a very lucky woman. Thanks for being so nice to him. I don't think I'm going to talk about the fact that my average daily hits went UP while I was away.
When the earth stops rocking for a moment, I'll write more about my trip.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Where's Tuna Boy?
Ack! Where is he? Probably either being shy or he can't remember how to log in.
I'm having just a lovely time. Not. There's nothing like cruising into a tropical storm.
I think I threw up something I ate in 1985.
CB's two out-of-town friends are a blast. The four of us are having fun between trips to the bathroom. Notice I said the four of us. (There are 5 of us on this trip. Oh well.)
Last night I slept for about a total of 15 minutes while hunched over a table on the rainy deck.
Do you feel bad for me yet?
I miss my family.
Feel bad for me now?
I'm sure it will get better tomorrow. It better.
I'm having just a lovely time. Not. There's nothing like cruising into a tropical storm.
I think I threw up something I ate in 1985.
CB's two out-of-town friends are a blast. The four of us are having fun between trips to the bathroom. Notice I said the four of us. (There are 5 of us on this trip. Oh well.)
Last night I slept for about a total of 15 minutes while hunched over a table on the rainy deck.
Do you feel bad for me yet?
I miss my family.
Feel bad for me now?
I'm sure it will get better tomorrow. It better.
Friday, October 08, 2004
Play Nice
Well, boys and girls, I'm off to exotic locales. But fear not. I will not leave you tuna-less for the next week. No, I have a special treat for you. This week's very special guest blogger will be...(drum roll please)
Tuna Hubby.
I thought it would be great fun for him to blog. And he really seems excited about it too. But now I'm freaking out a little. Payback is a bitch, you know.
So, much like when I leave my kids alone to play, I'm going to establish some ground rules.
1) Be nice to each other. Please. Thank you.
2) Please don't abandon the blog. He'll feel all bad that he either scared you away or bored you to tears. He won't be pinging blogroll, so please check back from time to time.
3) No asking for naked pictures. I know how you are! I'll turn my back for one second and you'll be flirting with him.
4) No talk of my rack! Seriously. No boob talk at all. This means you, mister!
5) No asking him embarrassing questions about me. He just might answer them.
When I asked him what he would blog about, he answered with a succinct, "You." I'm getting a little nervous here. I just may regret this.
I'll miss you guys. I'll have so many blogs to catch up with upon my return. Have fun while I'm gone.
Okay, I have to go start packing!
MWAH!
****
Oh, and by the way...
I love you, Honey. Welcome to my blog world.
Tuna Hubby.
I thought it would be great fun for him to blog. And he really seems excited about it too. But now I'm freaking out a little. Payback is a bitch, you know.
So, much like when I leave my kids alone to play, I'm going to establish some ground rules.
1) Be nice to each other. Please. Thank you.
2) Please don't abandon the blog. He'll feel all bad that he either scared you away or bored you to tears. He won't be pinging blogroll, so please check back from time to time.
3) No asking for naked pictures. I know how you are! I'll turn my back for one second and you'll be flirting with him.
4) No talk of my rack! Seriously. No boob talk at all. This means you, mister!
5) No asking him embarrassing questions about me. He just might answer them.
When I asked him what he would blog about, he answered with a succinct, "You." I'm getting a little nervous here. I just may regret this.
I'll miss you guys. I'll have so many blogs to catch up with upon my return. Have fun while I'm gone.
Okay, I have to go start packing!
MWAH!
****
Oh, and by the way...
I love you, Honey. Welcome to my blog world.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Neener Neener Neener
Cozumel
Holiday
Our Room
So, have I mentioned that I'm going on a cruise?
Two days and counting. And I haven't even started packing yet. So far, I have a new bathing suit and a new toothbrush sitting out on my dresser.
I need to get my butt in gear.
Oh, and I need to apply some self tanner to that lily white butt while I'm at it.
I'm too excited to think straight today. I'll see you all tomorrow!
**Update**
It has occurred to me that what I really need is for the hubby to apply the self tanner all over me.
It has also occurred to me to wonder if my gym is a hot pick up joint for the elderly. Do old people really find other old people attractive? Or do old people really just lust after hot young flesh like the rest of us? I'll have to ask him about that.
Holiday
Our Room
So, have I mentioned that I'm going on a cruise?
Two days and counting. And I haven't even started packing yet. So far, I have a new bathing suit and a new toothbrush sitting out on my dresser.
I need to get my butt in gear.
Oh, and I need to apply some self tanner to that lily white butt while I'm at it.
I'm too excited to think straight today. I'll see you all tomorrow!
**Update**
It has occurred to me that what I really need is for the hubby to apply the self tanner all over me.
It has also occurred to me to wonder if my gym is a hot pick up joint for the elderly. Do old people really find other old people attractive? Or do old people really just lust after hot young flesh like the rest of us? I'll have to ask him about that.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Can you feel the love?
I just put my son down for a nap. As I was closing his door, he called out, "I love you."
Yeah. My heart. In a puddle. All over the floor.
This tops off a five day love fest from my daughter who keeps saying things like, "I love you so much, Mommy," and "You're the best mommy ever."
And I'm leaving them for five days. Maybe it's Daddy's turn to feel the love.
Speaking of Daddy. I've told my husband this a couple of times, but I was reminded of it again recently.
When I was a kid, every time my mother pulled the car onto our street and saw my father's cruiser sitting in the driveway, she'd say, "Oh damn. He's home." Or if we were in the house and she heard his cruiser pull up, she'd say the same thing.
When I pull down my street and see my husband's fading SUV sitting in front of the house, I think, "Oh yay! He's home." Or if I hear the distinctive sound of his car pulling up, I think, "Oh thank god!" I almost always open the door for him to say hello.
I just love him. I like to be around him. As much fun as I know I'll have next week on my cruise, I'd really rather be going with him.
Yeah. My heart. In a puddle. All over the floor.
This tops off a five day love fest from my daughter who keeps saying things like, "I love you so much, Mommy," and "You're the best mommy ever."
And I'm leaving them for five days. Maybe it's Daddy's turn to feel the love.
Speaking of Daddy. I've told my husband this a couple of times, but I was reminded of it again recently.
When I was a kid, every time my mother pulled the car onto our street and saw my father's cruiser sitting in the driveway, she'd say, "Oh damn. He's home." Or if we were in the house and she heard his cruiser pull up, she'd say the same thing.
When I pull down my street and see my husband's fading SUV sitting in front of the house, I think, "Oh yay! He's home." Or if I hear the distinctive sound of his car pulling up, I think, "Oh thank god!" I almost always open the door for him to say hello.
I just love him. I like to be around him. As much fun as I know I'll have next week on my cruise, I'd really rather be going with him.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
As Close to Drunk Blogging as I Get
What was a saying about sleep?
Last night I crashed. I was supposed to be joining my husband in the tub, but I never made it there. He came downstairs at 9 p.m. and found me sleeping in the chair. Oops.
But he somehow talked me into taking a bath of my own. And I feel asleep. I sort of remember drifting out of consciences but thinking, "Whoa! Potential drowning hazard. Wake up, idiot." But I slipped away.
So I climbed out of the tub, threw on a bathrobe and crawled into bed, without doing the myriad of tasks that I had to do by 7 a.m. this morning. So I set my alarm for 5:30 a.m.
I was outside in the dark this morning, cleaning my van. Who the hell let my kids have so many crackers in the car? Oh yeah. That was me.
And how did I spend my morning? On a field trip to a Pioneer Village with 40 5-year-olds and my own 2-year-old. Dear. Holy. Lord. Whoever had that bright idea?
So have I mentioned that I didn't volunteer to be a room mother this year? That was the best decision I ever made. But AH is one of the two room mothers.
Boys and girls, can you say, "Cluster fuck?" Disorganization in, say, a business setting is one thing. But five-year-olds are like animals. If they see you floundering, they're going in for the kill.
And I just sat back, with one tuna kid in each hand, and laughed a little inside. I can be a vindictive witch. Especially when I've been up since 5:30 a.m.
At this point, I am too tired to even function. If this post makes sense at all, it will be a minor miracle.
And so I'm off to spend some money on the web. Theater tickets. Plane tickets. Hotel reservations. Let's hope I don't fuck it all up. Come December I could find myself watching a production of Cats in Chernobyl and staying at a Red Roof Inn.
Last night I crashed. I was supposed to be joining my husband in the tub, but I never made it there. He came downstairs at 9 p.m. and found me sleeping in the chair. Oops.
But he somehow talked me into taking a bath of my own. And I feel asleep. I sort of remember drifting out of consciences but thinking, "Whoa! Potential drowning hazard. Wake up, idiot." But I slipped away.
So I climbed out of the tub, threw on a bathrobe and crawled into bed, without doing the myriad of tasks that I had to do by 7 a.m. this morning. So I set my alarm for 5:30 a.m.
I was outside in the dark this morning, cleaning my van. Who the hell let my kids have so many crackers in the car? Oh yeah. That was me.
And how did I spend my morning? On a field trip to a Pioneer Village with 40 5-year-olds and my own 2-year-old. Dear. Holy. Lord. Whoever had that bright idea?
So have I mentioned that I didn't volunteer to be a room mother this year? That was the best decision I ever made. But AH is one of the two room mothers.
Boys and girls, can you say, "Cluster fuck?" Disorganization in, say, a business setting is one thing. But five-year-olds are like animals. If they see you floundering, they're going in for the kill.
And I just sat back, with one tuna kid in each hand, and laughed a little inside. I can be a vindictive witch. Especially when I've been up since 5:30 a.m.
At this point, I am too tired to even function. If this post makes sense at all, it will be a minor miracle.
And so I'm off to spend some money on the web. Theater tickets. Plane tickets. Hotel reservations. Let's hope I don't fuck it all up. Come December I could find myself watching a production of Cats in Chernobyl and staying at a Red Roof Inn.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Who needs sleep?
Man, it's one of those days. I think Mark sent me his bad day right along with the stormy weather. It doesn't help that my sleep is all messed up.
One of my all-time favorite songs is Who Needs Sleep by the Barenaked Ladies. It's an anthem for my life.
Who needs sleep?
Well you're never gonna get it.
Who needs sleep?
Tell me what that's for.
I can go an amazingly long time without sleep, but I'm not usually happy about it. I end up falling asleep at the very worst times and just generally act like a cranky ditz.
But I discover some of the most interesting things in the middle of the night. Things besides my crazy, chatterbox psyche, that is.
My lack of sleep started on Saturday night. At about midnight I started watching Bringing Down the House on TV. I love Queen Latifa, but this movie was pretty much just crap. Yet it kept me from going to bed for two more hours.
Then, like the blogging addict I am, I decided to check on my comments. Which led me to catching up on some of the 100 blogs from my blogroll. (Ack! That's too many! I need a better system.)
From God of Biscuits, I found this blog. Awwww. Baby pictures. I love picture. Family, friends, strangers...it doesn't matter. I just want to look at your pictures. And these ones made my womb ache. NO! There will be no more babies in the Tuna House. But, I defy any mother to look at newborn pictures and NOT feel her ovaries clench.
And speaking of pictures, from (one of my favorites) Feisty Girl, I found Zoot. Who had found this boobie blog. That's one hell of a way to raise money for breast cancer research. By the way, I hear that Just a Girl's picture is on there. Can you find her?
And the next thing I know, it's 6 a.m. and I haven't had any sleep yet.
Sunday's are my mornings to get the kids. So I rolled out of bed at 8 a.m., fed them (I think) and turned on the TV. Bad mother. Bad!
But my daughter was complaining of "gas pains" in her tummy. Suddenly she shot off the couch and flew into the bathroom. Poor baby girl. At least she was able to puke and get some cookie-tossing relief. She's better than me because she always makes it to the toilet to hurl. I fight it and fight it until I can't fight it anymore and hurl wherever I happen to be. My poor husband has washed more pukey sheets and rugs than any person should ever have to.
She seemed fine after that, but was up in the bathroom again at 11 p.m. last night. There is nothing worse than watching your kids throw up. Poor baby! I feel so helpless to make her feel better. And I can't even moan, "Oh God! Kill me. Kill me now!" like I do when I'm sick.
So I let her sleep in this morning. When I went into her room at 8 a.m., her and her brother were playing with her Leapster. She was as happy as can be. Then I told her that I had let her sleep late and that I'd take her to school but that she'd missed their monthly flag ceremony. And she was pissed. Really pissed. She let me have it. She didn't ask me to let her sleep late. She never said she was too sick for school.
I actually felt bad, but that's not how we talk in this house, so we had a little set to. I think I just got my first glimpse at how her teenage years will go. I need to start preparing for that now.
So, ugh. I've rambled enough. My iPod isn't working right. My arms are sore from lifting. It's pouring out and I have to clean my car so I can drive kids on a field trip tomorrow. I need to book my hotel for NYC. I need to pack, get a tan, and lose 10 pounds before my cruise this weekend.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. My life sucks.
One of my all-time favorite songs is Who Needs Sleep by the Barenaked Ladies. It's an anthem for my life.
Who needs sleep?
Well you're never gonna get it.
Who needs sleep?
Tell me what that's for.
I can go an amazingly long time without sleep, but I'm not usually happy about it. I end up falling asleep at the very worst times and just generally act like a cranky ditz.
But I discover some of the most interesting things in the middle of the night. Things besides my crazy, chatterbox psyche, that is.
My lack of sleep started on Saturday night. At about midnight I started watching Bringing Down the House on TV. I love Queen Latifa, but this movie was pretty much just crap. Yet it kept me from going to bed for two more hours.
Then, like the blogging addict I am, I decided to check on my comments. Which led me to catching up on some of the 100 blogs from my blogroll. (Ack! That's too many! I need a better system.)
From God of Biscuits, I found this blog. Awwww. Baby pictures. I love picture. Family, friends, strangers...it doesn't matter. I just want to look at your pictures. And these ones made my womb ache. NO! There will be no more babies in the Tuna House. But, I defy any mother to look at newborn pictures and NOT feel her ovaries clench.
And speaking of pictures, from (one of my favorites) Feisty Girl, I found Zoot. Who had found this boobie blog. That's one hell of a way to raise money for breast cancer research. By the way, I hear that Just a Girl's picture is on there. Can you find her?
And the next thing I know, it's 6 a.m. and I haven't had any sleep yet.
Sunday's are my mornings to get the kids. So I rolled out of bed at 8 a.m., fed them (I think) and turned on the TV. Bad mother. Bad!
But my daughter was complaining of "gas pains" in her tummy. Suddenly she shot off the couch and flew into the bathroom. Poor baby girl. At least she was able to puke and get some cookie-tossing relief. She's better than me because she always makes it to the toilet to hurl. I fight it and fight it until I can't fight it anymore and hurl wherever I happen to be. My poor husband has washed more pukey sheets and rugs than any person should ever have to.
She seemed fine after that, but was up in the bathroom again at 11 p.m. last night. There is nothing worse than watching your kids throw up. Poor baby! I feel so helpless to make her feel better. And I can't even moan, "Oh God! Kill me. Kill me now!" like I do when I'm sick.
So I let her sleep in this morning. When I went into her room at 8 a.m., her and her brother were playing with her Leapster. She was as happy as can be. Then I told her that I had let her sleep late and that I'd take her to school but that she'd missed their monthly flag ceremony. And she was pissed. Really pissed. She let me have it. She didn't ask me to let her sleep late. She never said she was too sick for school.
I actually felt bad, but that's not how we talk in this house, so we had a little set to. I think I just got my first glimpse at how her teenage years will go. I need to start preparing for that now.
So, ugh. I've rambled enough. My iPod isn't working right. My arms are sore from lifting. It's pouring out and I have to clean my car so I can drive kids on a field trip tomorrow. I need to book my hotel for NYC. I need to pack, get a tan, and lose 10 pounds before my cruise this weekend.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. My life sucks.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Let's Embarrass the Tuna Girl Again
I told this story, albeit very badly, to Patrick the other night. He laughed. He laughs at me a lot.
I thought I had told it before here on the blog, but I can't find it. If I'm repeating myself, well, maybe it's worth repeating.
In the first four years that we were in the military, we moved seven times. I got to be quite an expert at the packing and unpacking process.
One of the nice things about moving with the military is that they actually pay movers to pack your stuff. This horrifies my mother, who can't imagine a stranger touching her things. But if you move that often, it can become like a part time job, and you quickly lose any sense of privacy.
But there are some things that nobody should ever see. And those things always go into a special box. We pack these things up (the things you wouldn't ever want your kids to find) and stash it in one of our cars before the movers ever arrive. (I bet most of the Queer Eye victims do the same thing.)
Usually, they send women and old men to be packers. But on this one particular move, they sent three big, burly, scary guys. I was always glad to have my dogs on hand when I spent these days alone with the movers. I mean, I'm sure they are very nice people, but I was completely alone with them and all of my belongings.
Everything went fine on that move. Our things actually had to go into storage for a while because he was heading to a training course, and I was heading to my parents' house for a month or two. I carted that damn "private" box all over the country.
I was so looking forward to moving back together that I was even looking forward to the unpacking. I was overjoyed to have my own stuff back again.
I stashed the "private" box in the closet and got to work.
These packers had wrapped every little thing in paper. Think of all the stuff you have in your junk draw. And then think of it all individually wrapped in packing paper. That's the kind of stuff I was unwrapping when a box of condoms fell out.
Okay. I didn't realize those were in there, but condoms aren't so embarrassing. They are as common now-a-days as, um, lotion and tissue.
And out of the next paper fell a small vibrator. Okay. I was blushing then. But it was the type of "massager" that you could buy at Brookstones, so I wasn't completely mortified.
And out of the next paper fell a big ole' dildo.
Now I'm mortified. It was huge, red, with bumps and a "jelly" covering.
I quickly started thrashing through all that wrapping paper to see if I could possibly get any more embarrassed. I won't mention some of the other stuff, but the topper? A butt plug.
It's a good thing those three big, burly, scary guys are a few states away. Can you imagine what they were thinking? If I had ever run into them I would surely have expired on the spot.
If I ever move from Florida again, remind me to get a different moving company.
I thought I had told it before here on the blog, but I can't find it. If I'm repeating myself, well, maybe it's worth repeating.
In the first four years that we were in the military, we moved seven times. I got to be quite an expert at the packing and unpacking process.
One of the nice things about moving with the military is that they actually pay movers to pack your stuff. This horrifies my mother, who can't imagine a stranger touching her things. But if you move that often, it can become like a part time job, and you quickly lose any sense of privacy.
But there are some things that nobody should ever see. And those things always go into a special box. We pack these things up (the things you wouldn't ever want your kids to find) and stash it in one of our cars before the movers ever arrive. (I bet most of the Queer Eye victims do the same thing.)
Usually, they send women and old men to be packers. But on this one particular move, they sent three big, burly, scary guys. I was always glad to have my dogs on hand when I spent these days alone with the movers. I mean, I'm sure they are very nice people, but I was completely alone with them and all of my belongings.
Everything went fine on that move. Our things actually had to go into storage for a while because he was heading to a training course, and I was heading to my parents' house for a month or two. I carted that damn "private" box all over the country.
I was so looking forward to moving back together that I was even looking forward to the unpacking. I was overjoyed to have my own stuff back again.
I stashed the "private" box in the closet and got to work.
These packers had wrapped every little thing in paper. Think of all the stuff you have in your junk draw. And then think of it all individually wrapped in packing paper. That's the kind of stuff I was unwrapping when a box of condoms fell out.
Okay. I didn't realize those were in there, but condoms aren't so embarrassing. They are as common now-a-days as, um, lotion and tissue.
And out of the next paper fell a small vibrator. Okay. I was blushing then. But it was the type of "massager" that you could buy at Brookstones, so I wasn't completely mortified.
And out of the next paper fell a big ole' dildo.
Now I'm mortified. It was huge, red, with bumps and a "jelly" covering.
I quickly started thrashing through all that wrapping paper to see if I could possibly get any more embarrassed. I won't mention some of the other stuff, but the topper? A butt plug.
It's a good thing those three big, burly, scary guys are a few states away. Can you imagine what they were thinking? If I had ever run into them I would surely have expired on the spot.
If I ever move from Florida again, remind me to get a different moving company.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Man Lover
Has everyone caught on to the fact that I love men? All kinds of men.
Last weekend, we took the kids to CB's son's first birthday party. We actually had a very nice time. At one point, I was walking through the house and just had to announce, "Look at this! All the men are in here watching football. And all the women are in the kitchen feeding the kids. That's just wrong!"
And a half hour later I found myself sitting with the men watching football while the rest of the women were in the playroom playing hide-and-seek with the kids.
For the most part, I just fit in better with men. I enjoy their company so much more. And I could be completely wrong, but men seem to accept me and enjoy me without any problem.
AH's husband brought their kid to soccer practice last week and left AH at home. (I'm surprised she let him off his leash.) AH's husband is really a very nice man and I enjoyed talking with him during practice.
A couple of days ago, I dropped CB's whole family off at the airport. Her husband, RB, sat in the third row seat and he and I kept trading quips during the ride. When I was standing by the car door, ready to leave, he came up to me with their itinerary, just to let me know when they'd be back. Then he sort of growled my name, crouched down a little and gave me a bone crushing hug. He ran away laughing maniacally. CB asked him, "What?" and he replied, "I just hugged her. He he he!"
What the heck?
I guess I am kind of known as a non-hugger. He made me really laugh though. He's a cutie for sure.
When I casually mentioned these little incidents to my husband and sort of wondered what was up with them, he said. "Hon, you're a very likeable person."
I swear that's one of the sweetest things he has ever said to me. We all feel like dorks in social situations. I mean, don't we? I sure do. It's nice to know that people enjoy being around me.
So , we went on to talk about how I seem to connect better with men. To which my husband replied, "Yeah, I know. It's really starting to bug me."
"Are you talking about my blog friends?" I asked.
"Yeah. Name one female friend who you don't know from college, work, or the military."
Well, how the hell else am I supposed to meet people? But I knew what he meant.
"I have women on my blogroll, you know," I told him. I went on to list y'all. I gave him a little background on each of you. He was actually interested in your stories.
But my blogroll reflects my real world in that I'll never feel like one of the girls. I really enjoy my close female friends (of the blogger variety too) and I can certainly hold my own in the hen house.
But when it comes right down to it, I just want to be one of the boys. Can that be arranged?
Last weekend, we took the kids to CB's son's first birthday party. We actually had a very nice time. At one point, I was walking through the house and just had to announce, "Look at this! All the men are in here watching football. And all the women are in the kitchen feeding the kids. That's just wrong!"
And a half hour later I found myself sitting with the men watching football while the rest of the women were in the playroom playing hide-and-seek with the kids.
For the most part, I just fit in better with men. I enjoy their company so much more. And I could be completely wrong, but men seem to accept me and enjoy me without any problem.
AH's husband brought their kid to soccer practice last week and left AH at home. (I'm surprised she let him off his leash.) AH's husband is really a very nice man and I enjoyed talking with him during practice.
A couple of days ago, I dropped CB's whole family off at the airport. Her husband, RB, sat in the third row seat and he and I kept trading quips during the ride. When I was standing by the car door, ready to leave, he came up to me with their itinerary, just to let me know when they'd be back. Then he sort of growled my name, crouched down a little and gave me a bone crushing hug. He ran away laughing maniacally. CB asked him, "What?" and he replied, "I just hugged her. He he he!"
What the heck?
I guess I am kind of known as a non-hugger. He made me really laugh though. He's a cutie for sure.
When I casually mentioned these little incidents to my husband and sort of wondered what was up with them, he said. "Hon, you're a very likeable person."
I swear that's one of the sweetest things he has ever said to me. We all feel like dorks in social situations. I mean, don't we? I sure do. It's nice to know that people enjoy being around me.
So , we went on to talk about how I seem to connect better with men. To which my husband replied, "Yeah, I know. It's really starting to bug me."
"Are you talking about my blog friends?" I asked.
"Yeah. Name one female friend who you don't know from college, work, or the military."
Well, how the hell else am I supposed to meet people? But I knew what he meant.
"I have women on my blogroll, you know," I told him. I went on to list y'all. I gave him a little background on each of you. He was actually interested in your stories.
But my blogroll reflects my real world in that I'll never feel like one of the girls. I really enjoy my close female friends (of the blogger variety too) and I can certainly hold my own in the hen house.
But when it comes right down to it, I just want to be one of the boys. Can that be arranged?
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