Sew Me Something!

It is 5:46 p.m. on New Year's Eve and my husband is already asleep.

I'm sure he'll wake up in a half hour or so to put the kids to bed, but I expect him to be back asleep by 10. That's just him.

But I can't blame him, because we have to have him at the airport at 5 a.m. tomorrow morning for the first leg of his flight to the desert and four months away from home.

With the earth's rotation and the distance he needs to travel, he won't be arriving at his destination until January 3. He'll be making stops in Baltimore, Germany and Saudi Arabia.

Poor baby.

For the last two nights, I've been watching him pack. It's been pretty interesting. Since he isn't flying in his own aircraft this time, he has to pick and choose the things that he really needs to take and fit them into just two bags.

He has a whole new set of uniforms and equipment in desert camouflage-print. Except for his flack jacket.

Me: You're taking your jungle-print rain coat.
Him: Yeah. They told us to. It does rain there, you know.
Me: You'll make a great target in your jungle cammo Gor-Tex.
Him: That's okay. The flack jackets are jungle cammo too. And you actually wear those when someone is shooting at you.
Me: You're kidding me?
Him: Nope.
Me: So you're bringing a jungle cammo flack jacket to the dessert.
Him: Nope. I'm not bringing a flack jacket at all. I haven't been issues one.
Me: Oh great. That makes me feel so much better.

So I'm sure you've heard that whole thing about how it will be a great day when the military has to hold a bake sale to buy more bombs. But how about getting a sewing circle together to make some desert camouflage-print flack jackets, huh?

He did manage to get a flack jacket yesterday though.

Anyway, yes. He will be leaving tomorrow morning. I'm sort of looking forward to getting the hard part over with. My daughter will cry her eyes out when he says goodbye at the airport, and she won't stop until we get back to our house. This is standard for her.

But I have no idea how my son will act.

We'll see.

Happy New Year, everyone. And a very special thank you and happy new year to my fellow military spouses whose own hearts are far away tonight.

Please be safe.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

The Good

I saw my orthodontist yesterday. He says I may be out of braces by the time my husband gets home.

I am going to kiss him like he's never been kissed before. And then, after the kids are asleep, well, I'm going to kiss him some more.

The Bad

I think I have a sinus infection. Which really sucks since my face is still swollen quite a bit. (Maybe I should file that under Ugly.)

And I should have my bite splint off by now, but I don't. My doctor is on vacation.

Which would be fine if this splint were designed to last seven weeks. But it's not. And mine is falling apart piece by piece. Which makes eating painful.

So I'm back to soft foods, at least until next Tuesday. Oh pizza. How I miss you.

The Ugly

Last night while I was talking on the phone, my husband was on the computer.

After I got off, I mean hung up, I went to use the computer myself.

As I moved the mouse to clear away the screensaver, up popped a horrendous picture of me on the wall paper.

It actually caused me to jump in my seat. Ack! My heart did that adrenaline pumping thing.

I almost scared myself to death.

Damn husband. He thinks he's so cute.

And I Give Birth

This is a continuation from yesterday's post.

*****

So my December 7 due date slid right on past without any indication that my son was ready to be born. Well, there were those contractions I was having at the squadron Christmas party. But they didn't move anything along.

I remember that party very well, not because of my contractions, but because I quietly cried through most of it. There were hardly any men in attendance. I found it so touching and wonderful that many, many waiting spouses of deployed squadron members attended the party. When the acting commander made a little speech and thanked them for coming, the waterworks started for me.

They also showed slides throughout the party, of our guys in OEF. That just killed me. I sat there, one of the only women with my husband by my side and I felt so guilty. There were so many babies born in the squadron during that deployment, and the many more to come. I wasn't special just because I was breeding. But still, I was glad he was there. Who wouldn't be?

My doctor just kept pushing my due date back, but at some point we had to decide to induce labor. Christmas was fast approaching, and since he was late already, we planned his birth so that we could be home before the holiday.

This time, my poor mother had been at my house for over two weeks, just waiting for the special event. She babysat my daughter while my husband and I left for our December 19 date with a cervical ripener.

And it figures. My contractions started just as I was stepping out the door. And continued during the car ride to the hospital.

When I was all checked in and they attached all of the monitors to me, they were surprised to see my contraction reaching the 30 range. I was too. They just didn't hurt that much. It was nothing compared to the extremely painful oxitocin-induced labor I had with my daughter.

So when at about 1 a.m., the nurse offered me a pain killer, I decided to take it. I figured it would help me sleep and I could be well-rested to push that big baby boy into the world the next morning.

That was a pretty bad decision. The medication did make me sleep, but not enough to sleep through a contraction. But because I was waking up every five minutes at the height of a contraction, I wasn't breathing right or preparing for the pain in any way.

At 4 a.m. the nurse said I was ready for my epidural. Oh thank all that is good! My labor still wasn't anywhere near as painful as when I had my daughter, but I was looking forward to being pain-free and being able to sleep, just like I was when I had her.

And that's when the hell started. I should have waited a few hours for the day shift anesthesiologist. Rather than dropping down the bottom of the birthing table and letting me sit up and lean over with the nurse's support, they just bent me in two on the bed. That's not exactly comfortable, especially when your child is being squished and your womb is contracting.

Now, epidurals are painful, but they are nowhere near as painful as labor, so I was pretty stoic at first. Until the doctor couldn't seem to insert the needle right. He tried six times. Six times. Six times he stuck a needle in my spine and wiggled it around trying to find the right place. He also used the heel of his hand to thump on my back repeatedly. Hard. I think I still have the bruises.

After an hour of this hell, he decided that he had done the best he could.

The pain was lessened. At first. But within an hour, I was in just as much pain as before.

The nurse did what she could. She sat me up. She lied me down. She insisted to the doctor that something wasn't right. But he insisted right back that I should still feel "pressure" so that I would be able to push.

Pressure my ass, buddy. This was full blown labor pain. I'm not stupid. I'm not a first time mother. Just because I handle my pain well and you can't see that I'm writhing in agony on the inside, does not mean that I'm not hurting.

But okay. I can handle that. Tons of women have their children naturally. It isn't something I would choose to do, but I could handle it.

After an hour of pushing, the doctor said, "We can try pushing a few more times, or we can use the forceps now. I really suggest the forceps. This is a big baby. You're doing great, but his shoulders just need to be turned a little to help him out."

To which my husband replied, "We'll push a few more times."

What? We'll push a few more times. Now I understand that my husband had promised his mother that he wouldn't let them use forceps, but fuck that shit. I wanted that baby out, right then.

"No we won't!" I gasped out. "Get him out, NOW!"

So, he used the forceps, which hurt like hell, and I pushed with all my might.

This doctor didn't believe in episiotomies (asshole), so as I pushed I could feel myself ripping my own flesh. I swear I was torn to shreds.

Unlike my daughter who quietly slipped out into the world, taking me by surprise, my son was ripped from my womb screaming and crying.

And so was I. Screaming that is. That is the first and only time in my life I have ever screamed. Oh horrible, horrible pain. Apparently, six pound babies are easier to deliver than 8 pound, 11 ounce babies. Who'd have thought it?

But wait. It actually gets worse.

Now remember, my doctor didn't believe that my epidural hadn't worked. I had been in no position to argue with him.

So as they tended to my new baby boy, he started to stitch me up. With no pain relief. At all.

I barely remember but I must have winced and gasped. He paused and started again. And this time I know I yelled out in pain.

"Oh. Huh," he said. "You can really feel this."

I think I may have actually said, "No shit!"

So he injected a local and started again. Just as painful. He injected more local and started again. Just as painful. This went on for a half hour. Him trying. Me crying out in pain. He finally called the anesthesiologist. He also was called away to two emergencies during all this repair work. He kept apologizing to me. It didn't help me feel better one iota.

My husband handed me the baby during that time. I don't remember that though. I was pretty much like yeah...whatever...so we have a baby...cute kid. I was afraid to hold him because I was so weak.

Finally the day shift anesthesiologist came baring Demerol. The rest of that day is a blur.

I do remember seeing my son getting a bath in the nursery as I was wheeled by. I remember thinking that he looked just like pictures I had seen of my brother when he was a baby.

So at 8:59 a.m., on December 20, 2001 my son came roaring into this world, and my husband was there to be terrified through it all. My husband would then be gone to war for at least half of his first two years of life. Sometimes I think I would rather have had him on that first post-9/11 deployment. Seeing your baby born is one thing. Raising him and knowing him as a baby is another more important thing completely.

But when it comes right down to it, my husband was with me for the three most important days of my life. Just barely, in each case, but he was there.

And as for my baby boy, he is my life's joy. He's so much like me. Considering how he was born (and I swear I suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder for months after), we have always been especially close. I understand him. I get him in a way that only a mother can get a son. He is beautiful, sweet, smart, and funny.

And he turned three last week with a very small party and a trip to Edaville Railroad.

I hope my kids never read my blog, but just in case I'm sending this out there:

I love you, baby boy. With all my heart. Happy birthday, little man.

*****

Speaking of military stuff and things that make me cry, go read this. This is one small part of why I love Aaron. How could anyone not adore him?

The Start of Another Birth Story

On December 20, my son turned three years old.

I'm a little surprised at just how profound his birthday is to me, especially this year. Because now that I have a three-year-old and a five-year-old, I really am not the parent of babies anymore.

Which is wonderful. I know that many moms wish their little ones could stay little forever, but not me. I'm ecstatic that my kids are growing into the people I want them to become, and I'm enjoying every moment of it.

But the passing birthday of one of my kids means that my blog readers are subjected to--I MEAN--treated to one of my birth stories.

*****

Since we were married, my husband and I always knew that we wanted two children. It was never a sticking point for us. So when my daughter was a toddler, we started talking about planning for the next one.

In fact, since it took us a year to get pregnant with out first, we were playing a little loosy-goosy with the birth control as we started talking about a second. We figured it would take a while to get pregnant and our kids would be three years apart.

But, in fact, I believe that on the day we started officially trying, we were already pregnant. If not, then we were extremely successful on that very first try. I told you my husband has gotten better as he's gotten older.

My pregnancy proceeded pretty normally until that September. I was seven months pregnant on September 11, 2001. My husband had just happened to have been away for a couple of weeks, and then returned to base for an exercise.

During an exercise, the guys actually "deploy" to the flight line. They may only be minutes from home, but they may as well be half a planet away. So on that awful Tuesday morning, I hadn't seen my husband in about three weeks and I hadn't talked to him in days.

The calls from the commander's wife started coming almost right away. We were told not to expect to see our husbands for a while. We were told to start preparing for deployments, and we were told to expect those deployments to last "until the job is done".

I was pretty much a wreck. I held it together on the outside for my daughter's sake, but inside I was grieving. I just knew that I would be having this baby alone and that my husband wouldn't even get to know him until he was a year old.

It didn't help that my mother kept calling to tell me about another friend or family member who had died. Since the flights that hit the towers originated in my hometown, my family knew dozens of people on board, including one of the pilots.

The one that hit me hardest though, was one of my high school boyfriends. He, his wife, and his two-year-old daughter were on the American flight. They managed to call back home to his dad before they died. Can you imagine that phone call?

I could. All to well. How many times had my husband, and my daughter, and I flown out of Logan heading back here? The scenario kept playing over and over in my head.

And here I sat. In my base house, totally closed off from the outside world (Thanks for the visit Mr Bush.) without even mail delivery, pregnant and completely alone with my two-year-old daughter.

I think it was on Wednesday that they let the guys come home. For a half hour.

When he walked in the door my relief was physically palpable. Until he said, "I'm not staying. I'm just picking up my deploy gear."

After a few days we were able to leave base. But the gates were completely surrounded by media. I refused to be the poster child for pregnant military wives left all alone, so the cameras really pissed me off. Yes, it was a news worthy story. No, you're not helping us by turning our lives into a media circus.

My husband did get to return home within a week. But we waited every day for the call to deploy. It was expected to be very short notice.

And then one day in late September, my husband's commander asked him to come into his office. He had bad news, he said. He somberly told my husband, with great apology, that they were going to leave him behind from the deployment to run the squadron from here.

But he was still on alert on a daily basis, because they might need one more person, or someone might get sick. The not-knowing really sucked.

By my December 7 due date I had gained about fifty extra pounds. That was my answer to the grief and stress. Food. I knew that the extra weight would make my birth experience far worse. But I had no idea how bad it could be.

*****

Wow. I got amazingly off-topic here. But that's okay. I think it was something I needed to write about. But I think I'll wait another day before I tell the birth part of the birth story. I can only take so much pain at once.

Kissing the Ground

I'm back home.

Oh thank the good lord god and all that is holy.

Because when I flew out of here 10 days ago, I didn't go back home, I went back in time!

In fact, at one point I was standing in front of the mirror in my mother's black and gold decorated bathroom, curling my hair, and I just had to call out to my husband, "Hey! Come here. Look at me. This is what I looked like before every date we had in high school. I've gone back in friggin' time."

I don't really have much to say about my trip except that I am glad that it is over. Too much family in too small of a space over too long a period of time is just a recipe for frustration. Add to that my painful teeth and an extended family who has no sympathy, and I actually cried one night because I wanted to be home so badly.

But a lot has happened in my absence.

My son turned three years old. And you know what that means! Another birth story. Ooh! Ooh! I bet you can't wait for the gruesome details.

My blog also slid right past its 20,000 visitor. Which is quite cool.

And speaking of my blog and visitors, well, I know I say it from time to time, but you guys are the best. Four of you even cared enough to take the time to write guest entries. I'm flabbergasted. (Oh hell. I'm talking like my damned father.) By the way, I know who they all are, and I could totally guess who they were from what they wrote.

I try really hard not to get too sappy in my blog. (Yeah, yeah. I know. Believe it or not, I actually hold back a lot of sap!) But I can't help it now.

In the few short months that we've been getting to know each other, Patrick has become one of my all-time best friends. I like to tease him that I know his secret. He has a gooey, marshmallow center. But the truth is that anyone who has met Patrick, or even knows him through his blog can tell that he has a friggin' gigantic heart.

Patrick has become someone that I can turn to to share the good and the bad, and I only hope that I am there for him as well. I also like to tease him that he is so very pop-u-lar, so the fact that he has taken the time to be my friend is very much appreciated.

And my husband appreciates him too, because when I'm in a bad mood, Patrick can turn me around with one phone call. And that saves the Tuna Man from having to deal with a cranky me.

So Merry Christmas my friend! Thank you for guest blogging for me. I love you.

And the hubby says that your ass kicking is in the mail.

Mystery Guest Blogger

Gay Tuna Pet here. Tuna is still donning on her gay apparal, so we have another mystery guest blogger.

This guest blogger is shooting for the stars with this post:

Really, though, what is so special about tuna?

It's the chicken of the sea. Well that says it right there if you ask me. It comes in a can. I'm sure it's been processed beyond recognition. You can get it with oil or with spring water. It's cheap. A dime a dozen, as they say.

And I have never used "tuna" as a euphenism for a lady's nether regions. Fish, yes. Carp, maybe. But Tuna? Not so much.

Tuna makes a right tasty sandwich. With bread. And lots of mayo, lettuce and more mayo.

Tuna can also liven up a casserole like nobody's business. With lots of vinegar, mayo and lettuce. And peas. And pasta.

It used to be that there was only one kind of tuna. Now there's chunk light, Albacore, Ahi, tuna in pouches, tuna in snacky-size cans, and tuna in your frozen food section. Tuna has multitasked. Tuna has become fruitful and multiplied.

My favorite is the slightly less cheap Albacore tuna. (Ever notice how Albacore rhymes somewhat with the name of the guy that lost against Bush [another euphenism for a lady's nether region] the first time?)

And if you like to spend lots of money, there's that Ahi stuff that you eat raw, or nearly raw. That's expensive as all hell. Nothing like paying top dollar for the chance at catching Salmon-ella (a much better fish if you ask me) or E Coli (which might be related to Walleye. Go look it up. I have no idea.)

Some people are addicted to tuna. They eat tuna for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I call those people sick. But they seem to enjoy it. To each their own.

So what, then is so special about tuna?

Well, I haven't a clue, but I do know this. The girl named Tuna is pretty darn cool. And I miss her when she's gone. So hurry back, Tuna Girl. Fly like a Bumble Bee and get your Star-Kist butt back home so we can Chicken of the Sea what you have to tell us next.

God that was lame. No wonder I've never guest blogged before.

Who is this guest blogger?

A Christmas Story!

'Twas the night before Christmas
and in Tuna's home on the base,
The TunaPet decided,
"It's time to gay up this damn place!"

He took down the stockings hung by TunaGirl with care,
and replaced them with jock straps and 2xist underwear!
"Those stockings were cute, but slightly out of fashion,
Once the Tuna Hubby puts this jock on, Tuna will be full of Passion!"

He went through their closets,
his mouth all aghast,
"Girl get yourself shopping!...
your wardrobe is so Christmas past!"

When outside the front door, came such a loud noise,
TunaPet opened the door to see the Fab 5 boys!

Ted Allen took over the kitchen right away,
One look in the fridge and all he could say,
"She let her kids drink juice?" he said with a face,
"Some parents would chastise and call her a disgrace".

Carson shrieked from the boudoir,
as I badly put this in prose,
"Oh the humanity!
Have you seen this man's clothes?"

I motioned to Thom,
the living room is there
Give it more color,
but they have kids...Allow for wear and tear.

Young Jai Rodriquez just stood by
He pouted and looked blue.
Please take no offense," I said,
"but what the hell do you do?"

Kyan looked into my eyes,
"Tunapet? How can I please"
"Oh don't worry baby,
just drop to your knees"

The men worked through the night,
and Kyan's jaw was sore,
The house completely remade,
and "whose TunaPet's little whore?"

The boys left quietly
out the window of the den.
Off to the barracks,
to snag some military men.

The house was immaculate,
so merry and gay.
Strict to a color scheme,
pristine for Christmas day.

The TunaPet slept by the fire and it's heat
Knowing full well
that when Tuna Hubby reads this...
TunaPet is dead meat!

Tuna Pet Plans

The GayTuna Pet has decided that he doesn't want the TunaHubby deployed to Iraq. TunaGirl needs him (Hey...the TunaPet does not do everything) and since an unhappy TunaGirl makes an unhappy blogging community...I'm putting a stop to TunaHubby's leaving. Desperate times call for desperate measures! Behold TunaHubby in his civilian clothes.

Tuna's having a Gay Old Christmas

A picture of Tuna Mother-In-Law with a neighbor decorating the tree.
***ducks from TunaHubby***

The Gay TunaPet wishes to congratulate Lee for Guessing that Mark wrote Monday's guest post. Let me know where you are Lee...I've got a package you can unwrap. Nobody has guessed yet who wrote yesterday's guest post. This guy can be really clean!


Today's guest poster can be found haunting Tuna's link list.

How I came to give up Tuna



Now, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t do Tuna. Or any kind of fish, for that matter. I haven’t touched Tuna since about 1990. I swear, I wouldn’t know what to do with it now. I came to the conclusion that I would have to give up Tuna—and fish in general—while I was in college. It was the final step in a long process that began with giving up, egad, Beef. I just lost the taste for it around the end of my first semester; the Beef they served at college was so rare it was almost tartare, and I really didn’t like my Beef raw. (I never did much care for ham either, and lamb always tasted like a bloody knife to me, but I sometimes enjoyed a good Pork, but nevertheless, I gave all that up too.)



So it was circumstance that led to my giving up Beef, and then, to make matters worse, I had a bad run-in with Chicken. You’d think Chicken is a nice, safe choice—healthy, and so versatile—but it left me doubled over and heaving my guts in the emergency room.



Take it from me: Chicken is nothing but trouble.



So that left me with only Fish, and to be honest, there was not much about Fish that I liked anyway. It was expensive (and I was a poor college student), it was difficult to prepare, and it made the whole house just rank. The neighbors could always tell when you had Fish; the smell lingered for days.



So, I haven’t had Fish since then—but you know, if I’d thought about it at the time, I might not have given up Tuna: convenient, healthy, canned. But it’s been too long. I just couldn’t go back. What a godsend, though, that I can now get my Tuna online: full of wit, and no lingering odor.

Tuna Girl is on Jerry Springer

The Gay TunaPet here. TunaGirl is currently out of town and does not know this, but I am taking her on the Jerry Springer show! I'm going to surprise her by saying that the Tunapet and the TunaHubby are having an affair. Although it isn't true...yet (hey...I like men who know how to handle their pistol!) I figure I'll get to see the big fish sooner than we would originally have planned. Like all those other guests on Springer are totally honest!

Today's Guest Blogger:

Today's guest blogger is a clean city boy:

Tuna: She loves a man in uniform, and really, what more do you need to know?

Who wrote it?

Tuna Menace!

What's better than an original movie, but a tuna sequel? Guest Tuna Blogging, the Tunapet Menace! Since TunaGirl is off visiting her family, and very busy, she's asked for a little guest blogging. Now before you think that she is having a great time, she actually asked that I trade lives with her. She will work my last two weeks at my job and I'll get to play with the Tuna Husband and Tuna Kids while visiting the Tuna Inlaws. Hmmm...maybe not.

That being said...I'd thought it would be fun if you all were the guest bloggers and she had to figure who wrote what. So if you email me a guest posting at my address of (first come, first served...or is it the other way around?) I'll make sure to post your entry, and let her guess who posted what.

---

This first guest post, comes from a blogger under her daily reads column.

Something Fishy this way comes…

Is she really the Tunaslut she tries to portray herself
as? Is she really THAT good at Tunablowjobs? Does she
really have an arsenal of Tunaleather and Tunatoys tucked
away under her Tunabed to enhance the Tunaforeplay?

Does the nickname Tunagirl really have to do with the area
of a woman’s privates that have eluded so many of her
readers? Or does she just really love tuna to the point
of an obsession and is using that as an excuse?

We love the Tunagirl with all her quirks. Her
Tunasarcasm. Her Tunaprementrualsymdrom. Her Tunawit and
charm. Her Tunatenderheart.

Will the Tunagirl one day become the Tunawoman? Her
tunachildren will grow up and swim away to Tunacollege and
her Tunaman will retire from Tuna-armed forces and they will live
happily ever after in Tunaresthomes.

But we all have to wonder, what will happen to Tunapet?

I'm sure he'll be tunaneutered.


So...who wrote this?

Bed Mates

My husband slept on the couch last night.

Would anyone like to guess why?

Did my hormones finally cause me to snap?

Did my marathon phone session with my friend piss him off?

Did we have one of those massive kind of useless flights that we haven't had in years and years?

Nope.

Our bed was piled high with at least seven loads of clean but unfolded laundry. Because in order to pack for a trip, you have to have clean clothes to pack in the first place.

At 11 p.m. he left me to my folding and went to sleep on the couch. And I, well, I procrastinated as long as I could, and at 4 a.m. I pushed the laundry onto his side of the bed and finally fell into a fitful sleep. Because that laundry, and those empty suitcases are still facing me today.

So, I'll be traveling for a while, assuming I ever pack. I don't know how often I'll be able to post, because my parents are like cruise directors. They never ever let us stop. But behave while I'm gone, hmmmm?

Oh! And by the way, to the person who Googled What does the name Tuna mean? and found my blog...

Tuna means pussy, sweetheart. Tuna is a derogatory term, often used by gay men, to refer to stanky pussy.

Any other question I can answer for you?

But then I really must go pack.

I Feel Pretty

Check me out!

Well, actually check out what Pony so graciously designed for me.

When Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven first unveiled his new Pony design I was insanely jealous. My blue and tan Blogger template worked well enough to get my words across, but I was getting a little tired of seeing the same template over and over again.

So what's a girl to do to coerce a talented man to do her work? Could she flirt? Hint? Flatter? Cajole?

Well, this girl just blatantly begged for a little Pony loving. *ahem* Not that type.

But don't take my word for it. Here's the scoop on the new design, straight from the horse's--I MEAN--pony's mouth.

*****

When Tuna Girl first hinted at me doing a Blogger template for her, I was a bit at a loss as to what to say, much less what to actually design. So often, as a designer, I need to sleep with the person to get a feel of their personality. Tuna Girl is very attractive but also very female and very married, so this research method was very useless.

I asked her how she started using the name "Tuna Girl". It was a boring story that I don't even remember.

I really wanted to do this for her, but hadn't any idea what to design.

Then, one day in the grocery store in the canned food section, I knocked over an entire shelf of StarKist tuna cans onto the floor. Besides creating an amazing racket and mess, I created inspiration.

Before you say it: Yes, I know that it looks more like a dolphin than a tuna. I tried to draw a tuna fish, I really did. I couldn't get it right. I left it as the dolphin because it's much cuter than a tuna and therefore more fitting given the radiant beauty of our hostess. Besides, I suppose it's darkly ironic, given that tuna nets are a dolphin's worst nightmare.

So, welcome to Tuna Girl's new look, inspired by a can of StarKist tuna.

--Ugly Pony

*****

Hmmm. Cute, radiant, beautiful, and darkly ironic? Yeah. I can live with that.

In all seriousness, Pony is an absolutely wonderful man. To have put his time, effort, and substantial talents into designing something that was just for me is above and beyond the call of friendship. And I didn't even have to sleep with him.

Thank you, Pony. You get a Tuna Girl seal of approval. MWUAH!

Christmas Letter 2004

I get quite a lot of Christmas cards each year, and many of them include an Annual Christmas Letter.

I've never done a Christmas Letter. I usually just enclose a picture of my kids in my Christmas cards. I figure all these people really need to know is that our kids are still alive and smiling. The rest is just details.

But with all that is going on this year, and all the changes I've been through, I thought it would be a good year to start a new holiday tradition.

So here's my Christmas Letter 2004. What do you guys think?

****

Dear friends and family,

Happy holiday everyone! Let me start by saying that it has been a wonderful year. And if you're just getting to find out the details of our lives through this letter, well, it doesn't mean that we don't love you. It just means that we don't care enough about you to actually visit, call you on the phone, or send an occasional e-mail.

As you may know, I spent a great deal of time last year mastering my masturbation techniques. The $50 we invested in a Hitachi Magic Wand was well worth it. I suggest you go right out and buy yourself one too. The sling, though, wasn't as much of a hit. It may have helped if we hadn't installed the ceiling bolts so close to the wall, but it only took one trip to the ER in January for a concussion to realize our mistake.

The little tuna girl started Kindergarten this year. We are awfully proud that she is the only one in class who can't write her name. We think she is a very creative spirit, and being stifled with the alphabet is just too limiting for her. She also played soccer this year. She never scored a goal, but we think it was just adorable to watch her dance in the field. The rules of soccer don't stifle her. She does what she wants and is a more creative creature for it.

She took swim classes in the summer, and although the other kids learned to swim across the pool and back, we think it is wonderful that she just hung on to the edge and cried. No one will force her to do something she isn't ready for. We know that she is building a healthy fear of the water, and that makes us proud.

The little tuna boy did not start school this year, though many of his peers did. But he was still wearing diapers, and that fascist school just can't see the health benefits of having mountains of dirty diapers to change every day. We've decided it is best to let him roam free and naked in the back yard. He has the freedom to eliminate wherever he wants, and the carpets don't get dirty. This poses a problem in the winter months, but we'll just hire a nanny to deal with that when the weather gets cold enough.

Speaking of nannies, I started dropping the little tuna boy off at Mother's Day Out every morning. I just need some "me time" and I know that his spending time with other unsupervised children will prepare him for the real world.

I spend my "me time" writing on the Internet. I have a bunch of readers who think that I am this sweet, little housewife, but you, our friends and family know the truth of that. I even met a lot of these readers on a recent vacation. I had them all fooled into thinking I was 31-years-old. If they knew that I trapped Tuna Man into marriage by lying about my age, putting holes in the condoms, and having my first child at age 12, they would think it was so funny.

And as far as the Tuna Man goes, well, you know that I only married him for his money. And what money he's made for me! I'll be set for life. This year I was able to afford some plastic surgery. I went in to have my face reconstructed, but decided that it would make sense to have a breast augmentation at the same time. Pictures are enclosed.

I don't know what the Tuna Man does all day to earn that money, but he wears some fancy uniform so I think he might be a stripper at an upscale club. If you want to know more about him you'll just have to call him. Or tell him to write his own damn Christmas Letter. I just can't be bothered.

So have a wonderful holiday and a happy 2005. Remember that we love you, just not enough to contact you more than once a year.

All our love,

The Tuna Family

Not Alone

I'd really like to have something funny to say today. I'm sitting here wracking my brain, trying to think of a funny conversation or an embarrassing antidote. But I'm drawing a blank.

The truth is that I've been unaccountably sad lately.

You have no idea how hard that is for me to admit.

To me, admitting that I am sad is like admitting that I am weak. And feelings of sadness bring about tremendous feelings of guilt. What do I really have to be sad about? So many people have more of a right to be sad than me? I have everything I've ever wanted. What kind of juvenile, malcontented, spoiled brat am I?

So I take those sad feelings, and I turn them into anger. It's what I learned to do from my father. And do you know how much it kills me to admit that? Frankly, it pisses me off when I can draw comparisons between me and my father.

I've found myself in the last week being pissy with just about everyone. I'm short with the kids. I'm critical with the husband. But I found myself driving home today, with tears running down my cheeks.

I am sad.

And I can't even pinpoint why.

I'm sick of my freaking jaw. I'm sick of not being able to kiss my husband. I'm sick of not being able to eat normally. It's making me tired and frustrated.

I socialized at the squadron Christmas party and all I could think was, "These women are so superficial. I have nothing in common with them. Nobody here really knows me."

I look to my trip back home this Friday and I dread it.

This year's trip back home will feature the 25th Anniversary Party of my husband's father and step-mother. I dread attending that party with all the fiery hate burning in hell. I hate that woman. That woman who inflicted so much pain on the man I love. I hate her so much, and she's berating me to be sure to dress my husband and kids nice enough for pictures. She can burn in hell for all I care.

My closest friends live far away. I'd rather take my precious time and the money for this trip and spend it on seeing them.

And frankly, the thing I don't want to admit is bothering me at all, but is probably the main reason for my sadness is the fact that we will return from this trip, and within days my husband will leave for four months. I don't want to admit that it is making me sad.

I am supposed to be the strong one. I am supposed to be supermom, keeper of peace and bringer of love. I can't show my weakness.

My husband has already asked me, "Are you going to be alright during this deployment."

I responded with an, "Are you serious?" but I honestly wanted to punch him when he asked me that.

I'll be fine because I have to be fine. I have to be better than fine. I have to be supermom, provider of strength and giver of kisses. I can't show my weakness.

But I am sad. Unaccountably sad. And I know I'm not the only one.

Honey Do

While I was in New York, my husband did a ton of work around the house. He even tackled Mount So-Much-Laundry-It's-Mocking-Your-Efforts-to-be-a-Domestic-Goddess. It was really nice to come home to a clean house.

But he also left a Honey-Do list for me on the table. It read:

• Drop my suit off at dry cleaners
• Buy new underwear
• Change calling plan

Whoa. Wait. What?

Now I know that something like 90% of men's underwear is bought by women. (Okay, I made that up. But it's probably true.) But I can't recall a single time that I bought my husband underwear. So I asked him about it.

Me: Your list says, "Buy new underwear." You want me to buy you underwear?
Him: No. YOU need new underwear.

I guess it's time for a trip to Victoria's Secret, huh?


*****

After re-reading last night's post, I can see that I am doomed to live at least half of every month in a PMS-induced bitchy tirade.

Ugh.

Even I don't like me now.

For the record, I have a tremendous amount of respect for mothers who can raise a handful of kids to be nice people and good citizens. It's just that none of these mothers seem to live near me.

***Warning. I'm not fit for human interaction.***

Today, while sitting in the gym bleachers for my daughter's Christmas dance recital, my husband and I had this whispered conversation over my son's head.

Me: I am turning into my father. I hate people.
Him: Just remember that you said that and not me.
Me: Or maybe it's just Southern people.
Him: Honey, it's all people.
Me: Or maybe it's just parents.
Him: You're a parent.
Me: Yes. I am quite aware of that.

I think we're good parents.

But after this weekend, my faith in the future of this world is severely shaken.

***Warning. Snotty parenting opinions ahead.***

My weekend started out with music class graduation. My daughter was sick, so she and Daddy stayed home while my son and I braved the melee.

Why do Southern mother's dress their little boys in pastel blue, embroidered jump suits? You'd think a culture so afraid of gay people that they erect huge billboards denouncing them would dress their sons a little more butch.

Our music teacher has a very soft place in her heart for my son. And I must say ***proud mom moment*** he is absolutely in his element at music class.

But what amazes me most is his ability to block out the siblings choking each other in the corner, the kid banging his head against the door until he falls over, and the sugared-up brats running in circles enough that he can be the only child to actually follow along with the teacher.

Ooh. I also think he is going to be a male model. When it was his turn for his graduation picture, he ran right in front of the camera and struck a cheese pose. We're going to be in big trouble when this kid hits high school.

That Saturday night, we had my husband's squadron Christmas party. It was held in a casino at the race track. It's all class for us, people.

Actually, the room was quite nice.

My husband was in charge of planning the party and was the MC for the night. I know it stressed him out to have to do all that extra work and to try and keep a lot of higher ranking people happy. But it stressed me out even more.

Yes. He did ask me to do a lot of last-minute stuff for him. But he was also very appreciative. While I was greeting guests with him, he kept telling me that I'd make an awesome commander's wife someday.

Well, hell Baby. I know that. Now let's make sure you get to be a commander, huh? Next time I tell you to make sure the food is ready, go make sure the food is ready!

His commander and his commander's wife were both very happy with the party, and most of the DVs had very good things to say. So it's all good.

***Warning. Personal sappy moment ahead!***

Truly though, you did great, Honey. And I'd be proud to stand by your side when you command your own squadron. Or group. Or, hell, wing for that matter. I love you and I'm proud of you.

***Whew. Okay. Moving on.***

And then, today continued our weekend of parental fun with my daughter's dance recital. I can't even explain to you the chaos that results from a gymnasium full of ignored children. It's just too traumatic for words.

But does anyone remember my diatribe against people who have too many kids?

There was this one woman there, with her six (yes I said six) spastic children. Five boys, and one little girl. And you know what? She was pregnant.

Which caused my husband and I to have this mean-spirited exchange:

***Warning. You'll think less of me when you read this!***

Me: She's like a walking stereotype.
Him: For Catholic motherhood?
Me: No. For, "We can't afford birth control here in the trailer park."

Okay. You all hate me now. Which is okay. Now that we have three (yes I said three) giant, inflatable Christmas figures in our front yard, we're one step away from the trailer park ourselves.

*****

Housekeeping note: (and if you're still reading after all that crap, you deserve some sort of prize)

Check me out! I got all ambitious and planned to e-mail responses to all of my comments from the last week. But it was just a lot easier to go back and post comments in response to yours.

By the way, I probably don't say it enough, but thanks for reading and thanks for commenting. You guys have really enriched my blog with all of your humor, insights, kind words, and sharing.

Missing: One Tuna Man

RB (my husband's boss and husband of CB, my best friend and next-door-neighbor) called me early this morning. Apparently, they are surprising my husband with some big award at work today. They even got a big muckity-muck to present it to him.

Except they can't find him anywhere.

I have no clue where he is.

I tried to call his cell phone but it went straight to voicemail. I left him a message and even text messaged him to call home. But I haven't heard from him yet.

Throughout the day, I have been getting calls from higher and higher ranking people looking for him. This cannot be good.

He's under a ton of work stress now as it is. He doesn't need to be known as the office phantom.

So if you happen to see my man out there looking lost, point him toward home, would ya? Or at least force him to call his office.

*****

Update: Found him. He called at 3:30 to let me know he'd be home late tonight. My best guess is that he's doing some Mandatory Fun (AKA Heavy drinking with the bosses) at the O Club.

Tuna Girl Embarrasses the Guys

I slept like the dead Saturday night, only to be awakened at 7:30 a.m. by my damn internal/maternal clock. I tried to go back to sleep, but apparently the couple in the room next to mine were morning people, because the thump, thump, thumping kept me awake. At least they had more rhythm than the newlyweds on my cruise.

What is it with me getting rooms next to horny people? And what is it with morning sex? That's the last thing I'd want to do first thing in the morning.

So I took another orgasmic shower (Herbal Essences included) and just hung out and relaxed. Until my stomach started demanding attention.

I called Patrick to hurry him up and he called MAK and we all met at my hotel. Patrick was nice enough to carry my bag down the stairs, since the elevator wasn't working.

I went up to the desk to check out, and the woman there directed me to a gentlemen who would check my bag and get me a car for later. I stepped over to the man and Patrick was standing a few feet behind me. But this guy never even made eye contact with me. Even though I did all the talking and was holding the bag, he directed all of his questions to Patrick and even handed him my receipts. After the guy walked away I turned to Patrick and said, "That's what it is like to be a woman. I've been treated like that my whole life."

Can I get an "amen" from the ladies? When I'm alone or with other female friends, everything is fine, but throw just one man in the mix and we might as well be invisible.

So Patrick, MAK, and I took off in search of brunch. And then we braved the crowds to walk down to Macy's. I wanted to see the famous Christmas decorations there, but I wasn't really very impressed. We subwayed back up and walked through Times Square again to try and find some little trinkets for my kids.

I happened to look into a shop window and see a purple hair bow that I knew my daughter would love. I glanced up and noticed that it was a Clare's, and I asked the guys to stop.

You should have seen the looks on their faces. Tee hee. I hadn't really realized that the place was completely full of tiaras and feather boas. But they bravely entered the store with me and stood near the door with their hands in their pockets. They couldn't have looked more out of place if they tried. So much for their big talk about playing Pretty, Pretty Princess.

After enjoying coffee together and buying my son a snowglobe, we headed back to the hotel to meet my car.

I stood on the sidewalk and hugged those guys and I just didn't want to leave. As much as I wanted to get home to my husband and kids (so much so that I turned down a $400 bump) I just wanted one more day to spend with my new friends.

It was a whirlwind weekend. One that included conversations about everything from fisting and blood-red pee, to surrogate motherhood and sign language.

I suppose whenever you get that many people together there is going to be some drama. But I was completely immune to that, probably just by virtue of being both female and straight.

I have two regrets though. One is that I didn't get to spend more time with some people. And the other is that...well...some people said some amazingly sweet things to me (one certain someone in particular), and I didn't really respond. Now I'm thinking of all the things I should have said.

But, hell. I have a blog. I can say whatever I want here. Right?

So...I love you guys. Thank you for making my rare weekend away from my kids, and my last weekend of freedom before my husband's deployment so much fun. Thank you for being you.

Tuna Girl Drinks Like a Fish

First things first. I know how you are. Patrick has some more pictures up.

Between MAK, Aaron, and Patrick (if you like a little tongue in your cheek) you probably all know how I spent my day Saturday. But let me put my unique, girly spin on it, huh?

If you're going to visit a tourist-filled city for the first time, it is best to do it with a couple of locals. between MAK and Aaron I never felt lost (or hungry). I never actually knew where I was relative to anything else, but I could just follow along like a little baby duck after her mamma. Quack, quack.

I woke up pretty early on Saturday and took the longest shower of my life. Showers are something you all probably take for granted. But not me. There are days I never even get near my shower. To be able to stand in that spray with no responsibilities was heavenly.

MAK and Patrick fetched me from my hotel and we headed off to brunch and my first NYC subway ride. Which was the same as every Boston T ride I've ever taken. We walked about for a while and took some pictures. If I broke out my camera every time one of those guys was on the phone, I'd have a whole album filled with pictures. They're so popular.

MAK kept asking me what I wanted to see in New York, and the truth is that all I wanted to see were people. I was just enjoying soaking up the ambiance that is New York and spending time with my friends.

We ended up relaxing in this little place with the best dessert ever. Between scrambled eggs at brunch and my black and white chocolate mousse cake, I ate better in New York than I have since my surgery. And I still managed to lose two more pounds. Jealous?

We headed back to catch Avenue Q where I learned that anyone could have used my name to pick up our tickets. You'd think they'd check your identification.

Apart from meeting everyone, Avenue Q was the highlight of my trip. It was just too brilliant to explain. I told my husband that we're going to have to leave the kids with my parents and drive down to NYC to see it before the original cast moves on. By the time we left the theater, my cheeks were bleeding from laughing so much. It was fun to hear Patrick and MAK laugh like that too.

We did more tourist stuff then, and took more pictures. The guys got even more phone calls and this time The Executive and Hot Toddy were looking to meet up for pre-drinking drinks. As we were walking toward the bar we happened to see Toddy in a coffee shop window. Well, the guys spotted him. I was completely oblivious. Toddy can be hard to spot, what with being so diminutive and wearing a shirt with his blog name on it and all.

At the bar, MAK bought me another raspberry stoli and ginger ale. But I think they may have slipped some actual alcohol into this one because I had to chug water after just one sip. Open wounds in my mouth, plus potent alcohol, equals fiery pain. I need to stick to my girly drinks. So someone bought me some Evian.

I'm glad I was sober though, because I met a few more people, including Jess and Marc. At least they got to see what I was really like before the giggling started.

By this point I was starving. MAK, poor sleepy baby, headed back home for some rest and Aaron took over Tuna babysitting duties.

Patrick, Aaron and I walked over to a noodle shop. Their entrees were immense, and I enjoyed some egg drop soup. We hung out there for a while just talking and getting to know one another. Of course, eating out with me means a forced leisurely pace no matter what. But getting to know those guys like that was truly a gift.

We decided to walk back through Times Square for some photo ops and a quick stop at my hotel to pee before heading to Therapy.

And what can I say about that. Well, first let me start by saying that it was so fun to meet everyone. I think I managed to at least say hello to everyone. Someone needs to make a comprehensive list of who was there. I think I remember everyone but I don't want to leave anyone out.

Second, let me say that we're all a bunch of freaks. But in a good way. Someone would be introduced and the first question asked of them was, "Who are you?" or "What's your blog?" We're a unique breed I tell you.

Patrick later told me that he was proud that I got drunk. But I wouldn't say I was drunk. I wasn't sober either, but I wasn't weaving around making bad decisions drunk.

So, lastly, let me say that I swear I am not normally that giggly.

If you look at the pictures from this weekend, you can see how I am steadily getting more and more tired. We packed a lot into just a couple of days and I was wiped out.

Aaron and Patrick walked me back to my hotel. Or, well, Aaron and I walked Patrick back to my hotel. I had flash backs of college when I was always the most sober and would walk the cadets back to their rooms. At least I didn't have to pick Patrick up off the ground or peel him out of a snow bank. Actually, he was just really friendly. Really friendly.

Okay, so he may have accosted the tourists in the elevator. As the tourists and I (me and my two male escorts) were all getting off at the same floor, the English woman called out, "Have a fun night. I hope your room isn't near ours. Don't be too loud!" I'm sure I have quite the reputation at that hotel.

After doing my mom-thing and making sure everyone had a safe place to sleep that night, I pretty much passed out.

I have a couple more stories about the brief time I spent with the guys in the morning. But they'll keep one more day.

And then I'll be done with talking about the New York stuff. I promise.

The truth is that I'm feeling pretty down and my New York story is at least keeping you from having to read my hormone-driven angst.

*****

More tomorrow...

Tuna Girl Meets the Bloggers

I've felt a little shy about blogging these past couple of days. I met so many people who read my blog. And really. Now that you know me, do you really want to hear about the amazing sex I had last night?

But as is typical of me, I'm just going to say "fuck it" and blog away.

And now I'm sitting here staring at my monitor trying to think of something to say. Not about my sex life, mind you. We've been over that plenty of times before. (I'll just say that my jaw is killing me and let you draw your own conclusions.) But about all these blogger folks I met in New York. I'm not sure if I have anything to add that hasn't been written already.

*****

Hot Toddy asked me before I left if I was nervous or excited. Although I had been nervous when I first booked the tickets, in the few days before I left, I was really just excited.

On Friday, I flew to New York via Houston and the George Bush International Airport, which I got to spend some time in since my flight was delayed. Which sucked. My time in New York was short as it was.

But I did get to talk to Aaron on the phone while I waited. I had to ask Patrick, "Who was that?" but I had guessed that it was Aaron. I couldn't wait to meet him.

I got into NYC just after 7:15. I was still feeling just excited, until I was in the jet way. Suddenly, my heart started to race. I don't think I can put a name on the emotion. Maybe nerves, excitement, fear, more excitement.

Patrick was nice enough to come fetch me at the airport. In fact, I think that was part of the agreement when he ordered me to go to New York. (I can't tell you how much I appreciate that, honey.) He had threatened to wear leather chaps and just stand in the airport screaming, "Fishy!" (you think I'm kidding?), but he was actually just standing there looking quite adorable.
In fact, that was my first thought. Cute!

I broke into a cheek-splitting grin and hurried over to get my first of many hugs. I wonder what he thinks of my first reaction. Because to tell you the truth, there was an alarming part of me that just wanted to stand there and hug and cry, so I sort of quickly started chatting and moving toward the cabs. I'm from New England. We don't show emotion in public.

Once we were in the cab and on the way to the hotel, we were talking just like we do on the phone and it was like I had known this special guy my entire life.

Speaking of special guys, MAK called while we were in the cab. He didn't sound anything like I expected. (ummm...HOT!)

We got to the hotel and checked in. The clerk obviously assumed we were a couple and even gave Patrick a key to the room.

I dropped my bags and we were off to Posh to meet up with the local bloggers (Aaron, Michael, Crash, and Rob) along with The Executive and Hot Toddy.

Those guys cracked me up. I'm not sure who I met first, but it was kind of nice that I was meeting people one at a time, as everyone was still arriving. I was easy to spot in that crowd, and I kept hearing "Toona!" and getting hugs. Except for Famous Author Rob Byrnes who actually called me by my name. And just about everyone of them said some version of the same thing. "How old are you?"

I thought my days of looking younger than my age were behind me, but apparently not. I'm sure the ponytail (I didn't want to make Patrick wait for me while I broke out the curling iron to achieve kicky hair) and braces helped to make me look younger.

So one after one I met people, and one after one I was struck by the first impression of , "Whoa! So cute." I can't explain to you how beautiful all these people were. It really struck me.

But, more importantly, the other thing that struck me was how comfortable I felt with everyone. In fact, a few people asked me if I was overwhelmed. But I never once felt like I didn't fit.

Everyone also asked me what I was drinking. And I've discussed this on the blog before. I have no clue when it comes to alcohol. I don't drink. You should have seen their jaws drop when I said that. They thought I was a lamb to the slaughter.

Patrick suggested some sweet, girly drink that I can't figure out how to spell so I won't, and that was probably a good thing, especially since I hadn't had anything but a glass of orange juice all day.

Soon MAK arrived with Steven in tow. MAK was the only one I didn't recognize right away. At the risk of embarrassing him, he is one gorgeous man.

MAK had the good sense to take me, Steven and Patrick for dinner, and later more drinks.

I had a blast. The most fun thing about that evening for me was all the boy watching. And I'm not talking about my three escorts checking out the men (although that happened too. Patrick may need a neck brace.) but all the other men watching those three. Tee hee. They seemed pretty oblivious but I got to stand back and watch all the drooling.

In fact, I told Patrick as we moved through the crowd at Barrage that he should have "Fresh Meat" written across his forehead. And, ah, Barrage, where MAK got me a raspberry stoli and ginger ale. I think he was trying to corrupt me.

Steven had to head home and MAK and Patrick walked me back to my room (such gentlemen). I had to giggle wondering what the hotel staff thought of me coming home with two men.

I had told myself that I wouldn't smile my real smile too much in New York. I'm sort of proud of myself for going to meet all these people, even though I'm still recovering from surgery. I'd like to think that means I'm not vain. But I couldn't help being somewhat self conscience. And smiling and laughing still really hurts. But I also couldn't help smiling my real smile and laughing until my cheeks bled. I just had that much fun.

So I retied my teeth together, swallowed a fistful of Motrin, watched the sex scene in the Bourne Identity on TV, and got some rest to start my adventure all over again the next day.

Saturday would see me meeting some more wonderful people and getting to know some of the ones I already love even better.

*****

More tomorrow...

Back home and...

My family has this little tradition. Every time we come home from a trip, when we pull into our driveway, we all intone, "Back home and broke."

But last night, I came home with a wallet full of money. I had to force those guys to let me pay for my own food. And it may have only been because they were trying to get me drunk enough to dance on tables, but I didn't buy myself a drink the entire time I was in New York.

I had an amazing time. An absolute blast. Everyone I met far exceeded my expectations. Everyone was nicer, sweeter, funnier, and more fun than I could have imagined. And cute too. I was just amazed at how very nice-looking everyone was. All those blogger pictures floating around on the web just don't do those guys justice.

Pictures? Pictures? Did someone say pictures? Yeah, yeah, yeah. Pictures, pictures, pictures. That's all anyone wants. I actually took very few. I was just too busy having fun and getting my picture taken like a million times.

Here are mine.

There are tons more (and better) ones out there. Start with Aaron and go from there. He has some. He has one of me that I actually like. Who else?

I'm sort of overwhelmed with blog fodder at the moment. And the hubby is home for lunch. So look for more from me later.

New Yawk, New Yawk

I'm back home, safe and sound. Much to my husband's and mother's relief and due in no small part to my friends. (Okay, so they tried to get me drunk, but it didn't work.)

Tuna Man says I have to go to bed, so I'll be quick but I'll post more soon.

I didn't take a lot of pictures in New York. I get sort of shy about whipping out my camera. (Okay. Maybe not so much when I was standing on a bar stool and being held up by bloggers to try and get a group shot, but still.)

But for tonight, before I go to bed, I just have to leave you with these images.

Before...


...and after.


I love you, Sweetie. MWUAH!

That is not NICE!

Someone did not log off her blog today!!

YES I AM AN ASSHOLE

TM

You better watch out!

Well, boys and girls, let's look back one month in the 'ole blog.

Clockwork, I tell ya. My hormones are like clockwork.

I have the overwhelming urge to use the word "fuck" in my blog today.

So here goes.

What's the first fucking thing that my fucking husband (okay...I feel bad for saying that, but it's PMS so fuck it) said to me when he came home for lunch today?

"Wow. You're really swollen."

Fuck yeah. What happens when you combine fucking rampant female hormones with recovering from fucking maxilofacial surgery? You get these fucking chipmunk cheeks and one pissy female blogger.

So maybe it's a good thing that I won't be blogging this weekend. But the boys in New York better fucking watch out. Or maybe they should just get me fucking drunk.

But I'm still fucking excited. So my mood will be swinging faster than his bedroom door for a few days.

So...fuck.

****Speaking of females...

Since I started blogging I've been looking for women like me. But I think maybe we're a rare breed and few and far between.

But in the last few months I've found these blogs. If you like me, you'll love them. (They don't say "fuck" a lot when they have PMS.)

Sour Lemon: Sweet and sexy.
Jourdan Lane: Who I want to be when I grow up. (Not that she's older than me)
Loxy Fady: A mom after my own heart.

And of course, most of you already read Pua. I think she probably comes closest to my definition of an angel. (And she loves Brendan Shanahan as much as Jeff and I do.)

I leave for New York City early tomorrow and I haven't packed a thing yet.

See you all on Monday with plenty of incriminating photos of our blogger pals.

Sex Talk

The other night, my husband and I were watching A Man Apart in bed. I told him that he looks a lot like Vin Diesel.

He really does, actually. He has the same shaped head, the same facial structure, the same lips. My guy's nose is smaller, though. And his smile is completely different. And he's only 5'8".

My husband was skeptical, at best. "You don't gasp when I take my shirt off," he told me.

Okay. He's never ever going to let me live that down. We saw XXX in the theater. There is one scene in the movie where ole Vin gets out of bed to answer the phone and he's near-naked. And I let out a very audible gasp.

Well, can you blame me? There's something about that place on a man's body between his naval and his goods that is so enticing (almost as much as the nape of the neck). And Vin has a great one.

Have you ever played that game with your mate where you list the five celebrities that you'd be allowed to sleep with?

For the record, even if Brad Pitt was performing my own personal striptease AND his name was on my list, I'd still send him back to his wife. Yes. I love my guy that much.

But I'd have to say that, hypothetically, if I ever had a list like that, Vin would be at the top of it. Can you imagine how rough yet gentle he could be in bed? And that voice! Mmmmm. I better move along.

Wanna know who else would be on the list?

We were watching television on Monday night and talking about varying degrees of hotness. And I asked my husband, "Do you know who I would do in a heartbeat?"

He's been a little jealous lately thanks to someone leaving messages about blow jobs on my cell phone, so he gave me one of his furrowed brow, military officer looks.

I ignored it and told him, "Emily Procter. Don't you think she's hot?"

"She's fucking hot," was his reply.

Yes, I'd totally switch teams for Ms. Procter. I have no idea what that woman is like in real life, but her character on CSI:Miami is the perfect combination of hot, smart, sexy, loyal. I could go on and on.

It's amazing how quickly I can make my husband's brow unfurrow.

As for the three other spots on my list...I'm currently taking applications. Do hockey players count as celebrities?