The Best Laid Plans

It's a damn good thing I had done all of my Santa shopping online before I got sick. Because there was no way I could have made it out to the stores before Christmas day. It would have been better if I had picked something up for my husband too. I felt awful that he was presentless on Christmas morning. But there just wasn't anything I could do about it.

I had lots of plans that didn't get fulfilled. I hate that. Tons of gifts I didn't buy. Boxes of decorations I never put up. Letters I didn't write.

Even now, I'd love to blog about this and that, but I have to pack.

Yes, that's right. Tomorrow I'm off to New York City for just a few days. Like Mardi Gras in New Orleans, New Year's Eve in Times Square is something you should do at least once in your life. Even if it sucks. Right?

Besides, the rest of my trip won't suck. I get to see Patrick and his new swanky apartment. My first order of business is to buy a box of tampons to leave way back in his bathroom closet. Every gay man should have some Tampax buried deep in their closet, don't you think?

I won't have any idea of my schedule until I get there, but if you're in the city and you have my cell phone number, give me a ring.

And have a happy New Year. If you're watching the ball drop on New Year's Eve, keep your eye out for us on the streets. We'll be the two very sober people looking confused at all the hub-bub.

Update: There are two things I've forgotten, and I want to mention them before I go away.

First, I just love Christmas cards from bloggers. They're always the best, sweetest, most creative kind. (Except for mine, of course. I just slap on a picture of my kids and call it a day.) Thanks, you guys!

Second, I know some of you were wondering about the decision I cryptically mentioned a few days ago. Well, we've made the decision on our part. Now everything is in the hands of the two separate entities that have a stake in the outcome. And I can't even cross my fingers one way or the other. It is just too complicated. Either way, something major is going to suck. And it will affect the blog, so you'll be the first to know. Or maybe, like, the third or fourth. Either way, keep a good thought.

You can call me Ross.

I was sick enough last night to actually contemplate showing up at a doctors office and demanding treatment.

But I had a 9 a.m. appointment this morning for my son's annual check-up. And then my daughter woke up at 5 a.m. just as sick as me.

So I used that 9 a.m. appointment for all three of us.

In the time it took the doctor to do my son's well check, the boy started running a fever too.

So after having our fingers pricked and our noses swabbed, we have all officially been diagnosed with the flu.

The flu really sucks.

But isn't my kids doctor great?

When I was picking up our prescriptions I realized that in the last four years, I've only seen a doctor twice. And both times it was a pediatrician.

I'd make some really great joke about it now, but I'm too sick to think. So feel free.

Oh, wait! I have something about a gay man and a gynecologist. You guys make it work.

Bad, Mother. Bad.

Yesterday was my son's birthday. He turned four-years-old and I marked the occasion with a snarky little blog post about TiVo.

It's okay though, because for once I planned and executed a birthday party that went off without a hitch.

The theme of his Saturday party was Tuna Boy's Super Quick Birthday Party. The invitations I sent had a picture of a train flying by with both birthday balloons and Christmas decorations trailing behind. We invited his classmates and my friends' kids for ice cream at the parlor right smack in the middle of the shopping district. The idea was that people could just stop by while they were finishing up their holiday errands.

Almost his entire preschool class showed up. They are an especially sweet group of kids and I really like the parents this year. I am making a conscience effort to be outgoing and make friends with them.

We let him open his gifts with each child as they came in the door. So we avoided that present-opening chaos that usually ends a party. And each kid got a really good look at him opening what they brought.

One thing I have to say for my kid is that he is an extraordinary present receiver. His cries of "Oh thank you so much! I love it!" (and on and on) had the parents so tickled.

It's hard to believe that he's four. That means we've lived in this house for five (unheard of!) years and it's been four years since are first deployment experience.

He was in his first Christmas program today. He was a reindeer in a "modern dance" recital. It was too adorable for words. And my daughter was an angel. She sang songs in French and Latin.

When the hell did they get so old?

I could go on and on, but the husband and I are in the midst of making a very serious decision. It is superseding everything else in our lives.

Suddenly, annoying friends (and if I still blogged about AH I'd have some stories), obnoxious strangers, bratty kids, and tons of shopping just aren't so important. The two of us have been able to go out after his hockey game every night this week and just talk about the pros and cons.

Life all comes down to our marriage and how very much we love each other, our children and how they are growing, and the people we love. (In that order.) I married an amazing man. He's far from perfect (aren't we all?) but he's perfect for me.

And in all of the hardships and separations of the last four years we've been able to raise a pretty awesome kid.

Happy birthday, baby boy! We love you. Whoo hoo!

What are you trying to say?

In the last two days, my TiVo has recorded at least a dozen consecutive episodes of What Not to Wear.

Is someone trying to tell me something?

*****

To my New York friends:

Isn't it a lovely day for a walk?

One Big Happy

Currently, my parents are one state away.

Yesterday morning, they hopped in their grandparent-mobile (a tan minivan, which is even worse than my blue one if you ask me) and headed South, enroute to the land of Tuna.

The amount of stress this causes me is hard to explain.

They're my parents. I love them. I do.

But I find it hard to fit them into our lives here in my own home. I wonder if this is a common feeling for thirty-something family women.

Before my son was born we had a guest room. My parents would come and they'd have a place of their own. And my mom would help so much with the baby that it was like I was getting a vacation.

Now, my son is displaced to his sister's bottom bunk. My father takes my son's bed. And my mother sleeps on a mattress on the floor near the kids because they "expect" it and she "has come to see them, after all."

My mother still helps, but the kids aren't babies anymore. The grandparents disrupt their routine and their sleep and they get cranky and disobedient. To sum up, they get spoiled.

Which is fine. No really. It is. I swear!

I'm glad that my kids are close to my parents. Being a military family can make maintaining family connections hard. But I don't think my kids are missing out when it comes to their grandparents at all. And that is a credit to my parents.

But it is hard to just be me when my parents are around.

They worry constantly that my husband isn't happy. They think he is moody and brooding. I think he does pretty well, considering. But he is a man who is used to having his own space and time. When he goes to bed at 9 p.m., they think it is because they're driving him crazy. And they may well be, but he goes to bed at 9 p.m. most nights anyway.

They worry that I'm avoiding them because they're driving me crazy. And they may well be. But I go to my room at 10 p.m. now (even though I stayed up until midnight as a kid) because I need a few minutes to unwind, catch up with my friends, and maybe write a little something or other.

I don't know when being around my parents got so hard. But doing the simplest things, like paying my bills and sending my Christmas cards, becomes impossible when they're here.

And you can yell at me all you want about being more assertive, but I have to pick my battles with my family, and getting my father to stop spouting racist comments when the kids are around is a top priority to me. (Forget trying to shift his actual ideals. I've been working on that since I was 8-years-old.)

So tonight I need to hot glue a halo (It's Christmas Program time and I suck at making costumes.), pay my bills, mail my Christmas cards, make beds, fold laundry, and complete a myriad of tasks that I won't be able to get to when they're here. Which means I'll be up all night. Which means that I'll run to my room to have a nap as soon as I get a chance. Which will make them think I'm avoiding them. Which will start the whole stressful mess.

Or I could say, "Fuck it all!"

I wonder how other adults deal with their parents' visits. Am I alone in this? Have I let my relationship with them get out of control?

It's so hard when your relationship with your parents shifts. Don't you think?

At least I have a very supportive and understanding husband. We're a team. But his half of the team has flights and hockey games scheduled back-to-back all week.

Hmmm. I wonder if that is a coincidence.

I told you to shoot me.

We've become one of those couples.

I've been very sick. I was planning on going to a brand new doctor today, but instead I slept late. My husband got up with the kids and took them to school for me.

But he woke me up at about 9:30 a.m. and told me to meet him at the car repair shop. He had just made an appointment for my van.

I stumbled out of bed. Threw on the clothes that were on the floor from yesterday, and jumped into his truck to go meet him.

When I hopped down from the cab to switch places with him, I noticed something.

We were wearing the same outfit. Jeans, and grey hooded sweatshirts. We've become one of those couples.

I bet he wasn't going commando, though.

Like Mother, Like Kids

When we became parents, one of our priorities was to raise empathetic children.

Man, have we succeeded.

Or maybe they were just born with big hearts. Either way, I'm very proud of them.

In the last couple of weeks, my husband has commented quite a few times that they are both just like me. I always scoff. But he may be right.

My daughter can be just a tiny bit of a drama queen. I'd normally never admit it, but...yeah, okay. I can lay on the drama too, if I think it makes for a good story. So, check!

My son is extremely imaginative. He "tells stories" constantly. So much so, that you never know when to respond to him. "He's going to be a writer," I tell my husband. And he says that he gets it from me. That someday there may be a Little Tuna Boy blog. Let's hope he doesn't follow in my footsteps. But, overactive imagination? Yeah. Check.

She can be lazy. Check.

He can be stubborn. And obstinate. Check. Check.

But they are the most caring children I have ever met, and I say they get that from their father. And he says, "Bullshit. They get that from you."

My daughter is very concerned that Uncle Patrick doesn't have a bed to sleep on. She's excited about his new apartment, but is concerned that he won't get his mail. She worries that he works too late at night. And she's upset that he has to walk home on dark streets. That girl thinks too much.

Hmmm, I wonder where she gets that from?

I had no idea how concerned I was for my friends, or how it was affecting my mood, until I reread some of my blog. And now that things are working out so well for my friends, both Patrick and CB and even some other friends I don't blog about, I'm feeling the relief right down to my bones. My friends are great, deserving people.

Now I feel like I'm getting my shit together too.

So, my kid's caring and concerned and dramatic and sensitive and a worrier.

Um...yeah...shit...damn...

I hate to admit it, but...

Check. Check. Check. Check. And check.

All I want for Christmas...

The Clothes I'm In

If one more straw comes to rest upon this camel's back, she is going to crumple like her bones were made of porcelain.

As is always the case with me, it's not the big things that get me down. It is the myriad of small things that pile up to make me feel like I'm suffocating.

Today it was a jacket.

When I want to feel close to someone who is far away, I will often wrap myself in their clothes to feel more connected. When I was a kid, I'd take my mom's t-shirts to camp with me. When my husband is deployed, I wear his thermal t-shirts to bed.

These last couple of weeks, I've been wearing an old suede jacket of Patrick's that he gave to me when he moved. I've been stressed for him (not worried for him...there's a big difference) and wrapping myself in his comfy suede made me feel just a little bit closer to him.

And tonight, while I was berating my kids for leaving their back packs behind once again, I left it behind in the waiting room at music class.

Damn it.

Yeah, I can get it back no problem. But it's one more stop I have to make in my already overpacked week. And it is just more proof that I suck. And I'm not my old self. And I think there might be something wrong with me.

My night only got worse from there. No amount of apologizing can undo the damage you do when you yell at your kid for no reason.

Now, I've wrapped myself in the huge nightgown that I bought when I was pregnant with my daughter because it was the only thing I was comfortable in. It's the only nightgown I own.

Maybe I'm trying to feel closer to her. Or maybe I'm trying to feel closer to the mom I used to be. The one who didn't yell. Or forget to turn in lunch orders. Or have such a messy house that her kids can't find their homework.

I'm running out of other people's clothes to wear. But I'm afraid to face myself.

Playing with Fire

Speaking of blow jobs...

I have a tendency to goad people into doing things without even realizing it.

Last night, my husband broke out the sewing machine to put some new rank on his winter gear. As he was using the seam ripper to pry off the old rank he commented, "I'm turning into your mother."

I know a lot of military wives take care of their husband's uniforms for them, but I don't play things that way. He is the military member. It is up to him to take pride in his appearance and be responsible for his uniforms. I won't always be around anyway.

Of course, that's assuming that I could even sew. Which I can't.

As he was poking, poking, poking with the seam ripper, he remarked in mock exasperation, "Why aren't you doing this for me?"

"You know, hon," I told him. "When you get a wife who gives blow jobs like I do, you don't get a wife who sews. It's a fair trade."

(Now truth be told, I didn't just mention blow jobs. I have a lot of other special talents too. But believe it or not, some things aren't for sharing on a blog.)

"Ack!" he exclaimed. "Do you know how long it's been since you did any of that?"

"Not that long," I replied.

He thought for a moment and then insisted, "It's been almost a month."

"That's not that long," I scoffed.

His jaw dropped in disbelief.

Do you think I goaded him into what transpired in our bed last night?

Speaking of which, why can I always remember to put my retainer back in after I eat but never after I have sex?

My husband is a saint.

But you knew that already. He is married to me after all.

I think every long-term relationship has its ups and downs.

We've been married for ten years, and we've taken our bumps just like everyone else. We've had our days of miscommunication. We've had our days of misunderstandings and hurt feelings. But in the end, he's the only man I've ever loved and the absolute right man for me.

We're a team. But there are times when he's my hero.

Take these last few days for example.

I need a break. Not from the kids, or the dog, or him. But from myself. I'm sick. Not just with a cold, but so, so sick of myself. I need to be stopped before I completely turn into my father.

He said he understood. And then he proceeded to systematically make my life easier. He made phone calls I've been dreading. He even fired the cleaning ladies for me.

He offered to fill in for me and substitute in my daughter's classroom. I said, "Really? I'd love you for life!"

He said, "You love me for life anyway."

I said, "True," but what I thought was, I so owe you a blow job for this!

He's gotten up early the last two mornings and driven the kids to school so I can sleep later. He's made lunches and brought me home Diet Coke instead of ice cream as a treat because he knows I'm trying to be healthier.

And he's just been so damn cute. He makes me laugh. Sometimes too much.

Just last night we were watching television while we were getting ready to get busy. (When you're in your thirties and have been together for sixteen years you'll know what I mean by that.) Something on the show made me laugh, and I couldn't stop.

When he rolled on top of me I laughed really hard. And when I laugh really hard I make this really pathetic, almost silent wheezing sound.

"You sound like a ten-year smoker," he told me. Which only made me laugh harder.

So there we were. Him trying to get going and me laughing until I couldn't breathe.

"Ow! It hurts. Wheeze. Wheeze. Wheeze. I can't breathe! Wheeze. Wheeze. Wheeze."

Finally he rolled off me. "Shall we try again later?"

"Okay. Wheeze. Wheeze Wheeze."

When I finally subsided into giggles, he put the moves on me again. Only a man who is damn sure of himself could get laughed at like that and still be able to do his duty.

He's a saint, I tell ya. A saint.

Heck. Being married to me can't be a walk in the park. Unless you're talking about a walk in the park after midnight when you might be dragged into the bushes to be mugged, but you might be dragged into the bushes to be ravished.

Either way, it's one hell of a ride.

(Love you, Hon!)

A View from Here

I told you things were about to get exciting.



This is my default view: a sea of mini vans and SUV's (luxury ones in most cases) lined up as far as the eye can see.

Want to trade lives?

A real post is forthcoming.

Christmas came early!

Now, let's see if this works.

For Christmas this year, my husband bought me a fancy shmancy Treo phone from Sprint. This was a present for Patrick as well, since it should reduce his phone bill by a couple of hundred bucks a month. You've got to love free PCS to PCS calling, especially when your friend is as talkative as mine.

And now I can blog from the place where I spend the majority of my time--the front seat of my mini van in carpool line. Exciting, huh?

It's a good thing I'm a master of two-fingered typing.

Maybe I'll post a picture of the view from here as well.

Hold onto your seats, boys and girls. Things are about to get wild.

Rock Bottom

A while ago, I commented at Stale Betty's site that while dreaming about blogging is bad, composing blog posts during sex is even worse.

But I think I've hit rock bottom with this one.

Last night I dreamt that a delivery person brought me food (of course, I dream about this all the time). The handsome thirty-something delivery man insisted on bringing the food into my home and setting it all up for me. I started eating and he flirted with me for a while.

I began to feel really warm and he explained to me that he had stuck around to deliver the most important part of my dining experience. The massage.

I was feeling languid and oddly sleepy and while I kept wondering if it was strange for him to make such an offer, I let him do what he would.

Things got rather, well, heated, but I couldn't resist the urge to fall asleep.

When I awoke, half of my stuff was gone. And what was left was vandalized and stabbed with a large knife.

I was still feeling sleepy and dazed, but as I wandered around our house from place to place I realized that he had drugged me, had his way with me, and then raped and pillaged my home.

This was also when I suddenly came to realize that I was married. And I was going to have to explain what I had done to both the police and my husband.

And my primary and recurring thought through all of this? Wow. Now I really have something to blog about!

Not only did I dream about blogging, but I dreamt about composing blog posts while having sex.

That's fucked up.

Know what I hate?

When I'm taking a late night shower to prepare to go to my husband's late night hockey game so that his late night friends won't think I'm a late night skanky whore.

And I pull open the curtain and step out of the shower to find that my towel isn't hanging in its customary place.

Because it was used as a cum rag after a late night tryst.

And all the other towels are in the linen closet. In the hall. Across from the six-foot-high window that looks out over the enlisted housing complex.

And I'm freezing.

So I wrap myself in the robe my husband has had since high school and washed as often as his jock strap.

And I'm instantly right back to smelling like a late night skanky whore.

Is it just me?

Or is this mortgage company advertising their low rates by using fifty little erect penises?

I mean, I was a marketing major. I know sex sells. But a penis-eating bird (he actually hops around chomping up the little buggers)? That just seems wrong. Oh! And they turn all red and get a little bigger when you "click" on them.

By the way, check out my happy, happy horoscope in the screen capture. Woo fucking hoo.

Snapshots of My Mundane Life

Today I substituted in my daughter's first-grade class for about an hour. I was responsible for taking twenty-one little hellions to lunch so that the teacher could have a break.

This caused me undo amounts of stress. I'm not good with kids. At all. I hate other people's kids and I'm a little bit scared of them. It can't take much for them to realize that there are twenty-one of them and only one of me. They could overpower me so easily.

But I was a little extra stressed today because I was pulling away from the house on my way to school, I saw a typed note on my mailbox.

Those of you who have lived in base housing know exactly what I'm talking about here.

A note on Housing Office letterhead in never a good thing. The last time I received such a note I was written up because my American flag was faded. And the time before that, I was written up for not trimming our tree branches.

I think after three write-ups you get put on housing probation. I know that you get reported to your commander.

But I drove away from the house without checking to see what the note said because I was running a tiny bit late.

The kids were actually pretty good. Though I did have to use my mom voice to stop one kid from burping the alphabet. I'm not used to rude humor. My kids know that would never fly around here.

When I got back home, and while my son went through the ritual of hugging and kissing all of the eight-foot tall blow-up Christmas figures in our yard (pictures forth-coming to my ultimate shame) I read the note.

I wasn't written up for anything. But this may be worse.

Housing maintenance has selected our garage to be remodeled. We have to clear out an eight-foot area back from the door for the contractor to have room to work.

Ummm. Great.

Does anybody remember the great garage investigation back in January? (I deleted the actual post after a few weeks which I almost always do when I post pictures. Also, I didn't want to antagonize my man any more than really necessary.)

Clear an eight-foot swath out of that packed to the rafters mess? I think I would have rather been written up.

There is a vortex.

There's magic here on the bayou. Black magic, or so I hear.

I don't put much stock in the mystical realm. Science is what I believe in. Pure, cold, hard facts. But even a skeptic like me has to believe that there are mysterious forces about when the evidence is straight in front of my face.

I used to have a cabinet full of travel coffee mugs. This mortal occasionally needs some magic of her own (in the form of a chocolaty, caffeinated treat on the way to carpool) to escape the grip of Morpheus in the morning. But this morning, I brewed and brewed my heavenly concoction, only to find that I have no vessel in which to transport it.

I believe there is a vortex here. A place where objects go and never return. A magical travel mug-eating vortex. And I believe it may originate at the entrance to the husband's pick-up truck. Or maybe it has even infiltrated the confines of his office.

It is no fault of his. I believe this to be true. Occasionally, he will break the grip of the mug-loving bayou gods to return a treasured mug to me. But it will reek of the black magic.

Oh sure, it may just smell of moldy coffee to you, but I recognize it as the smell of death and betrayal. It is a smell, and taste, which cannot be washed away. Not with a thousand dishwasher cycles. Not with a rinse of boiling water and bleach.

It is a smell I am familiar with. For I live with the death smell everyday, as the husband has so gallantly captured it in his hockey bag.

Ah, my warrior. He is traveling this week, off to the far off place where we first consummated our union. But he leaves behind for me these scents to remember him by.

And if his cohorts at work should find a way to dispose of the tainted mugs piling up in their shared office before he returns, so be it. And if his loving wife should find a way to dispose of the death infused jock strap and protective cup before he returns, so be it.

For when he makes me an offering of replacement travel mugs, only then I will feel it is my duty to find a replacement jock strap and cup. Until then...

He can let the gods of the bayou protect his jewels, with their distinctive smell alone.

Alternate Plans. Grey Goose Required.

My kids have the entire week off of school. I thought I'd make it until Wednesday before I'd start pining for school to start back up. I made it until 9 a.m. on Monday.

Okay, I'm exaggerating. Well, sort of. We're having fun, though I always spoil them and spend a lot of money when they're on vacation.

My husband has an idea though. He said, "Let's make a small turkey and have Thanksgiving dinner for just the four of us. Then after we put the kids to bed, let's get drunk."

I had to laugh at that, because we never drink together. Before last year (December 3 of last year to be exact) I never really drank at all. The only time I can ever remember drinking together was in New York last summer, while my parents had the kids.

My fear is that we'll be having an evening cocktail, and one of the kids will fall out of bed and crack his or her head open. And we wouldn't be able to drive them to the emergency room. We'd have to call 911 and get an ambulance. And then at the ER, the doctor would notice that we're both tipsy and call Social Services on us. And we'd lose our kids.

Yes, that is really how my mind works.

Maybe I'll just have one Cosmo. Enough to loosen up but not so much that I wouldn't sober up immediately in an emergency.

In the meantime, I'm going to sign off until after the holiday. The kids take a lot of energy to entertain.

I hope you all have a wonderful (and sober) Thanksgiving. Remember, family is what you make it. Speaking of which, for my family who reads this, I love you guys, and I'm thankful for you.

Be safe.

Be happy! Damnit!

My husband claims that I am not a happy person. Of course there is nothing in the world that makes me unhappier than his saying that. But he hasn't seemed to catch on to that little tid bit yet.

I wholeheartedly disagree with him.

Yes, I don't sleep well. And sleepless nights leave me cranky and lethargic. But in general, I am very happy.

But I've learned something. When you're in a relationship, you can only be as happy as the least happy partner.

Does anyone know what I'm talking about?

And so I've realized that in these last couple of year of hearing over and over again from the man I love, "You're never happy," and "Why don't I make you happy?" maybe what he is really saying is, "I'm not happy," and "Why don't you make me happy?"

So fuck that shit. I'm sick of it. I have bags under my eyes that droop to my chin and more stress-induced acne than I sported at 16.

I can't make everyone happy. I can't make my mother happy with my choices in friends and plumbers (It's a long story.) I can't take care of my friends' every problem. I can't force my children to be happy with every parental decision I make.

And I can't make my husband happy just by willing it so.

But I know what I can do.

I can stop trying to struggle through his problems with him. I know this sounds counter-intuitive to good relationship skills, but I think it will work better for us.

If he's struggling with his weight and health issues. Fine. I can't fix that for him. But I can fix it for me. On my own. I can go to Weight Watchers every week. I can take the kids out for "fun runs". I can cook myself healthy dinners even though I know he won't be home to share them with me. And I can eat ice cream guilt free, secure in the knowledge that I've planned it all into a healthy meal plan.

If he's struggling with a bunch of crap going on at work. Fine. I can't fix that for him. But I can get organized myself and take the stress out of my "work" life. I can be on top of things enough to do the things I enjoy. Like writing. Oh, and going to the gym. See how it all works together.

For too long I've been projected my insecurities on him. And letting him project his insecurities on me. No more. I'm done with that.

But here's the zinger. I know, for a fact, that if I'm getting healthier, happier, and more productive, he will too. He follows my lead. I've known this for a long time. But I think I just didn't want to admit it.

Because, you know what? Being happy for the both of us is a big freaking responsibility. And I'm not sure I can handle the pressure.

Quick!

I have a question.

So suppose you stop and pick up a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts for you and yours. You take them home and are the first to arrive.

How many doughnuts do you cram into your mouth while standing over the sink before anyone can catch you?

I just want to know that I'm not alone.

Typical

It bugs me when people say things about my son like, "Oh, He's all boy," or "He's just a typical boy, isn't he?"

He's a very deep and complicated character. Don't try to sum him up in a few flippant words, because you will be so wrong.

My son is empathetic, brave, strong, and imaginative. Unlike my daughter, who only had a brief one-day relationship with an imaginary friend, my son has developed the dynamic Brick. Brick has moved from Cape Cod to New York, has lots of friends and money, and has a birthday almost every day.

My son is sensitive, nurturing, and fun. He has befriended the girls at school, who gush about him to their parents. When his special girl friend tells him that she only wants to play with other girls, he cries for a bit and then says, "Fine! I'll play with a boy until you figure out what a good friend I am." She came running back to him in two minutes flat.

My son is smart, and musical, and sweet, and beautiful, and...and...

Okay. I admit it. He can be a typical boy.

He found a ruler the other day and set about measuring things. He measured his train. Three inches. He measured his bed. Eighteen inches. He measured his pillow. Ten inches. He took one look down at his body and pulled off his pants to measure his...ahem.

Twelve inches!

Freaking typical.

Some of these are just for me.

Patrick is fond of saying, "Never piss off a bitchy queen!" And he's right. I've seen it first-hand.

But you know what is even more true?

You should never piss off a bitchy queen's best friend. Ever.

I'm so mad right now I'm actually shaking.

I'm generally pretty easy to get along with. There are only two things that will make me fly off the handle: Treat me like a child, or do anything at all to hurt someone I love.

And if you manage to do both of those in one fell swoop, well, damn. First I'm going to get all superior and bitchy with you. And then I'm going to blog about you.

So right now I'm on a mission to make a certain business person's life a living hell. And he might not know it yet, but Patrick is going to help me. First I get mad, then I get even. If I don't get even enough, I'll use my blog as a weapon.

I have to. Using sex as a weapon only works if you sleep around.

Oh, wait. Paaatrick! I need your help.

I can swallow!

For some reason, lately whenever I pop my retainer out of my mouth, it makes me gag.

Yeah, yeah. Okay. Let the gagging jokes commence.

But this morning, I suddenly realized just why that is.

I have the feeling back in my mouth! Whoo hoo. (I guess. It was sort of nice not to have a gag reflex for a while. And yes, those gagging jokes can re-commence.)

Can you believe it has been a year since my jaw surgery? I can't. That means it's also been a year since I was crazy enough to let Patrick guest blog. Which also means it's been a year since I was almost divorced.

Kidding aside, I think that if it weren't for my very bad experience in the hospital that night, I wouldn't really think much about it now. But I really thought I was going to die that night. And I'm not really sure that I'm completely over it.

Only the two closest people in my life know how I really felt that night. I don't want to seem too overly dramatic to anyone else. Well, except a handful of blog readers, of course.

Even though the surgery was probably much safer than giving birth, the experience itself was far worse. And considering how long it took me to stop having flashbacks of my son's delivery, I guess it is no wonder that I still can't get the night of my surgery out of my mind.

And this leads me to a question. How many of you have ever really and truly thought you were going to die?

I wonder how many people come close to death before they finally die. And I wonder just how much the experience might change a person.

I'm going to have to go back and read my blog from the last year, and see if I really have changed in any fundamental way.

*****

In other news, I had a very involved dream about Rob Byrnes last night.

Quick!

Someone send me some porn.

Coming soon, to a Babylon near you...

I've been seeing billboards all over town for weeks advertising the local appearance of Franklin Graham and Friends.

Considering where I live, I immediately assumed that Franklin Graham was some relation to Billy Graham, and that he would be coming to spread the word at our local arena.

Knowing only that much, I was having fantasies of organizing my own little group to stand by the entrance to the arena with Marriage = Love signs, and such. But, not only is that not the kind of thing I would do, I also needed to do a little research to find out just what kind of message Mr. Graham and Friends would be spreading.

It's wrong of me to assume that just because he is a Jesus freak, he is also a hate monger. (Funny, though, how those two things go hand in hand. I wonder how Jesus would feel about that.)

Then, I saw a commercial for the festival on television. I happened to be speaking to Patrick on the phone when it came on. So he got to hear my complete and utter shock.

"Oh, my god! Patrick. This...is...oh my god. They are actually advertising Bibleman on T.V. Did you hear me? I said Bibleman! That makes me want to go stand in front of the arena and scream!"

I had to go to the website and investigate this Bibleman.

I really did try to do a little research about the Franklin Graham festivals too. But I just couldn't bare the website.

But I found this. This is Bibleman.

By the way, before you click on the link you should know that:

"Please NoteYou are visiting a site outside of the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association. Outside sites are not endorsed by BGEA. Click here to continue or close this new browser window to return to www.grahamfestival.org."

Because, God forbid you should have to think for yourself!

Bibleman is the main character in a Fight for Faith video game. If you can stomach it, click the View Clip button to see just what the right is teaching their children with now-a-days.

For just $19.95 your children can be filled with the spirit of Jesus Christ (as it battles for faith with advanced weaponry) too. It is also important to note that admission to the festival is free. God's love is for everyone after all. But please note, "A love offering for Festival expenses will be received each night, if needed."

Aww. A love offering. To cover expenses. How...lovely.

Mother/Son Moments

Yesterday, my son asked me what my breasts were.

That was a first for me. I don't think my daughter has ever asked that question.

I should have been expecting it, but for some reason, I was still a little tongue-tied,

Or maybe it was just the way he asked that set me back a bit.

"Mommy?" he asked, looking at my chest. "What are those big things?" He lifted his own shirt and patted his chest to illustrate. 'Right here?"

Big things? Big things!

Why do I see a subscription to Jugs and a therapist bill in his future?

The women will get this one.

Wham! Bam! Whoosh! Crash!

No, that's not the Foley track of our sex life.

That's how our life has been lately. Good news flying in. Bad news slamming me down. Great news sneaking in under the radar. Bad news slamming back in to keep us humble.

I'm getting whiplash and so many things are up in the air.

And how do I respond?

I got my hair chopped off.

'Cause that will fix all my problems. Right, ladies? Can I get a whoop, whoop?

Script of Life

My husband and I often joke about our script.

One time, years and years ago, we were arguing about something. And all I really wanted was for him to say one very specific thing. All he had to do was say that one thing and I would have been happy.

So I told him, "You're not following the script. Just follow the script and we'll be fine. When I ask, 'Am I weird?' you say, 'Honey, you're the most special and unique person in the world and I love you.' Okay. Got it? Now you'll know that for the rest of our lives."

Because so many times when I ask him something, I'm not really looking for an answer. I'm looking for reassurance. Or affection. Or just a simple compliment.

After all these years, he should know the script forward and backwards. Am I right?

When I ask him in an exasperated tone of voice, "What are you doing?" what I really want is for him to be doing what I'm doing.

When I ask him, "Do you have plans for dinner?" what I really want is for him to go buy me dinner. Preferably something with cheese.

When I ask him, "Are you tired?" what I really mean is, "Do you want to have sex?"

When I ask him, "Are you tired? Are you in a good mood?" what I really mean is, "Do you want to have kinky sex?"

And when I yell at him, "This house is a mess. Why don't you ever help out around here? Are you seriously just going to sit there? How can you do this to me?" what I really mean is, "I'm so sad that my friend is moving away. Won't you just hug me?"

I mean, come on! How can he not get that by now?

Friends

I always get the worst news in the most casual settings.

Today, we had a squadron picnic on the lawn in front of the Officers' Club. While we kept an eye on my son playing in the "jumpy thing", my husband was chatting with a friend.

This friend happened to mention, "Hey! Did you know that Slick (not his actual call sign, but half the guys around here are named Slick, so let's pretend) just got short notice orders? He's going Command and Staff. Isn't that just like the military. They make you wait and wait, and then all of a sudden they tell you, 'You're late. Be there yesterday!'"

I was only half paying attention as there was some little girl monster tackling my kid in the inflatable house. But I suddenly thought to ask, "Wait. Who's Slick?"

Slick is the husband of my best friend, commonly referred to here in the pages of this blog as CB.

Damn it all to hell. CB is moving. Right away.

I guess it is good news for them, but I'm going to really miss them. And not just for the babysitting services they provide.

We've lived next door to each other for almost four years. That's the longest friendship I've ever had. We cruised together and celebrated holidays together. We were family for each other when our families were far apart.

Damn it again. This is one of the crappy things about being a military wife. And it comes at a time when I'm feeling like I have very few friends anyway.

Fuck.

Oh, and by the way, she doesn't even know about it yet. So, shhhh.

Attention to Detail

I have been worrying myself sick about something I was expecting in the mail for weeks now.

Everyday, I'd check the mail numerous times. And everyday when the envelope I was expecting wasn't there, I would feel ill.

Today, it came.

Very good news. Not great, as I was unrealistically hoping. But still very, very good. We are extremely fortunate people.

But now that my envelope is here, I feel...almost...let down. It's anti-climatic. I still feel compelled to check my mailbox over and over, even though it is safely in hand.

It was addressed incorrectly. And that makes me want to scream. For weeks I've been consumed by stress. All because of two transposed numbers.

Does no one pay attention to detail anymore?

He doesn't love me for my stories.

I was telling my husband this story last night.

I didn't think he was paying attention to me because the hockey game was on. He has this way of fading out and staring slack-jawed at the television when I talk to him.

But I lamely wrapped up the story by saying something like, "And he said a lot of other stuff too. I can't remember everything he said. You know my memory sucks. But I know it included words like pussy."

And then he exploded.

Apparently, he was listening, and he was pissed off. All I can say is that it is a good thing we don't live in New York, or ignorant waiter boy would have been facing down both a PMSed Tuna Girl and her testosterone pumping husband.

But that's not the point of my story. (See what a great story teller I am!)

I've had marriage on my mind these past couple of days. It seems like everywhere I turn, someone else is getting divorced. Luckily, it hasn't been friends or close relations of mine, but the friends and close relations of theirs seem to be splitting up left and right.

And this one little episode of my husband feeling just as strongly about something and someone as I do really reaffirmed the strength of our marriage.

It hasn't exactly been an easy year for us. There has been so much going on with money and, well, the blog has been an issue from time to time. And with my surgery last year and his subsequent deployment, things haven't been as easy as they usually are.

The little things that I can usually overlook (or even find kind of endearing) have been driving me crazy. And I know it's not all him.

But ten years after I chose him, I'd still choose him all over again.

It's not the piles of laundry, or lack of money, or annoying habits that make or break a marriage. It is a shared vision of where you are going and who you want to be on the journey. It is the fundamental sharing of values and priorities. That's what makes two people partners.

My husband has a generous heart. He is faithful and committed. Even if it is a struggle, he accepts me for what and who I am.

And if this last year has been harder than normal, it is only the growing pains of a marriage that will mature into something we both want. When it comes right down to it, we still like each other. We'll always love each other. And we're teaching our kids what a real relationship looks like along the way.

Besides any man who brings me home Cheetos and a Kit Kat the night before I get my period deserves my undying love.

Come to think of it, any man who comes home at all the night before I get my period deserves my undying love. And a medal.

Not Just for Lesbians Anymore

As part of my never-ending quest to get the kids exercising more, we went for a walk this weekend.

We walked down to the "orange playground" which is situated right in the middle of the lodging buildings (that's like a hotel on base). The kids like to play there because there are usually a few kids to play with.

This Sunday, just after we arrived, a family came and joined us. They had two blond kids.

You couldn't help but notice the blond hair because the two-year-old had a huge blond afro, and the three-year-old had a mullet.

Yes, I said a mullet.

It was a really, really long mullet too.

And I realized that my kids had never seen a mullet before. Because they couldn't stop talking about it.

"Those little girls have blond hair."

"Her little sister has really curly hair."

"She has really long hair."

"That little girl is chasing me."

"Why is the little girls' father calling them son?"

I kept trying to get my kids attention. Finally, I grabbed my daughter and quietly told her, "Honey, those are little boys. You know that people look lots of different ways and some boys have long hair and some girls have short hair."

But she was fascinated.

"But why does that girl think she's a boy?"

"Does she even know that she's a boy?"

"Are those boys sisters?"

Jesus! She's seen men kissing in Provincetown and was less confused.

It finally got to a point where I said, "Honey. Stop talking about it. You're making the little boys uncomfortable. We'll talk about it at home in private. Don't say anything else."

I felt really bad. The parents were...well...pretty stereotypical of parents who would give their kid a mullet. Frankly, I didn't want to piss them off.

But after my son repeatedly asked the little boy what his name was, only to be ignored, he announced to me, "I don't think she talks!"

At which point the kid announced. "See. That's why I need a haircut. They think I'm a girl. I'm getting my hair cut."

And the mother said, "What you blabbering on about, boy?"

Yup, that's my kid. Ridding the world of mullets, one little boy at a time.

Celebrate the Day of the Buffy

I hate Halloween. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

Costumes creep me out. I can't control myself around chocolate. And I hate visiting neighbors.

The only good thing about Halloween is the really little kids in adorable costumes. And I got my fill of those today at the kids' Halloween program.

So I declare today, the Day of The Buffy!

Today is Buffy's birthday, a much more auspicious occasion than Halloween.

If you must wear a costume, you can dress up as a little white shit, who poops wherever she deems fit and chews whatever she can reach. And don't forget to worship any man in sight, tease every child, and, well...

In order to be Buffy for Buffy Day you must hate me.

Cost analysis keeps me up at night.

After I put the kids to bed last night, I was so tired tired that I could not even function.

I couldn't even form words. I felt almost like I was drunk.

But I do that sometimes. I go for weeks or even months without enough rest and then one day, bam. It hits me hard.

So after attempting to argue with my husband about it for a while, I finally decided that it just might be best to go to bed at 8 p.m.

I fell asleep right away. But I had weird dreams. And I woke up at 11:00 p.m. and could not go back to sleep.

My husband came home from his hockey game at about midnight, and there I was, just lying in our bed staring wide-eyed up at the ceiling.

"You look miserable," he told me. "Can I get you anything?"

I shooed him off to the shower. "No, I just can't sleep."

When he got out of the shower he stood beside the bed looking down at me.

"You have a lot on your mind, don't you?" he asked.

I looked at him for a moment, thinking it over.

"Do I?"

I do.

I hadn't even realized just how much I had on my mind until I saw it reflected in my husband's eyes.

It's the little things and the big things, all swirling together in my mind and heart, keeping me awake and keeping me scared.

I've been thinking about returning to the freelance writing world. Not because I really want to. But because I crave the financial security it could provide. I made a lot of money writing before my son was born.

But what would it cost me to start working again? It hardly seems worth it.

"I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do," my husband told me. "But if you want to go back to writing, you should. Just don't do it for the money. Unless the money is that important to you."

Money is about all I have on my mind lately. Not just our money situation, but the money situations of people I love. Money, money, money. I'm so sick of feeling like I've lost control of our financial life.

It would be so easy to start working again. I've got the contacts and the portfolio to get started right away. But dealing with the clients almost drove me insane the last time around. And I don't think it is worth it again.

I've got to remember, it's not just money that matters, but the cost.

I won't let my kids pay for my financial fears even one little bit.

They go to a private school. It's all paid for. They live in a nice house in a wonderful neighborhood. That's all paid for too. They have enough food to eat and clothes to wear. What more could they need?

I'll tell you what they need. They need a mother who has enough energy to nurture them. They need a mother who has enough time to play silly games. They need a mother who practices violin with them, and cheers at their soccer games, and sings with them, and cooks with them, and reads to them, and...and...and...

...and who makes them the priority in her life.

There's only one thing more important to me than my kids, and that's my marriage.

I guess that's my answer, huh? No freelancing for me. Not now anyway.

Now if only I could stop obsessing about money.

Screw politics. Let's talk SEX!

Okay, guys.

Picture the biggest load you've ever made.

Now dilute it with about a cup of water.

And throw it on your bed.

That's the wet spot I slept in last night.

Just saying...

How would Jesus feel about my blog?

Some of you may have noticed that I rarely get political in my blog.

I consider myself intelligent, but I refuse to opine on topics of which I am uninformed. And in the past six or so years I have grown more and more grossly uninformed on an ever-broadening range of topics.

But if there is one thing I know about, it is Catholic school. And I'm pretty familiar with the responsibilities of being a parent. And I even know a thing or two about blogging.

So I just couldn't pass up the chance to comment on this news story about a Catholic school in New Jersey that has ordered its students to remove their personal blogs from the Internet.

The school sites the students' own safety as the impetus behind this directive.

Bullshit, I say.

If they were so concerned about the cyber safety of their students they would educate them on the subject. Or educate their parents to be responsible for their children. Not decree an immediate cease of an activity that is both widespread and natural amongst their age group.

Oh wait. What the hell am I thinking? This is a Catholic school! They believe in teaching (drum roll please)...

ABSTINENCE.

So forget about teaching kids to wear a cyber information condom.

I just have to shake my head.

Near the end of the article, the legal director for the ACLU of New Jersey states, "The rights of students at private schools are far different than those of public schools because administrators at public schools are agents of government. That's not the case here."

He's right to say that private school students do not have the same protection of rights as their public school counterparts. I faced that quite a few times back in Catholic school myself.

But that is only true at school! Or during school events. Or in school-sponsored media.

They're talking about My Space and Xanga and Blogger and the freaking Internet here people. These kids' rights are being trampled on. If it were my kids, well, I'd be raising the freaking roof off the chapel over there.

Ah, Catholic school. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I hope I don't have to send my kids to one. (It may come to that considering some of the bases to which we may soon move.) But if I do, Sr. Mary Katherine So-and-So is going to wish I had never walked through the door. I'm going to be watching them with an eagle eye.

Next thing you know, they'll find a way to label blogging as a mortal sin. And then bloggers can join the gays, and the boys who masturbated, and the girls who gave it up too soon in our own special place in hell.

It will be quite a party. With a hell of a lot of gossip.

Good, Bad, Worse

The good news is that my fat jeans are way too big.

The bad news is that my regular jeans still don't fit.

The worse news is that I just ate an entire bag of fun size Kit Kats. So my chance of fitting into my regular jeans has gone down exponentially.

I fucking hate Halloween.

Today's post is brought to you by the letter "F"

Was it my imagination, or did I just see John Tartaglia on Playhouse Disney?

Someone had told me that he was doing a children's show, but somehow, I wasn't expecting Johnny and the Sprites.

I mean, it's the story of a musician who moves into his uncle's secluded treehouse, who then finds himself singing and cavorting with fairies.

Okay, so they don't call them fairies. They call them sprites. But they have wings and are therefore the same damn thing in my book.

I figure at some point, some good little republican/Christian mother is going to Google John Tartaglia and find pictures from Broadway Bares and descriptions of the puppet sex in Avenue Q, and she's going to have herself a fine righteous time organizing against Disney for the havoc they're reeking on our children's souls.

Hell, this is the company that allows Gay Days (unofficial though they may be) to happen at their theme parks and offers domestic partner benefits. (Do they, actually? I'll have to check into that.) Robert Iger must be sitting at the right hand of the devil for sure! (For those of you who only skim...you know who you are...that was sarcasm, people.)

As for me, well, is it wrong that I'm trying to sneak a peak at John's ass or package while my kid is singing along to "I Can't Wait"?

It seems wrong. I've seen what this guy did with that puppet on stage.

But mostly I'm just glad that he's doing something. And he has a nice voice. And the songs are irritatingly catchy. (Though for some reason, I've been singing "I wish I could go back to college..." all afternoon.) And he's cute. Though he was a lot cuter from row J.

It's all good to me. If my kid hasn't been corrupted so far by sleeping with a Human Torch doll (Flame on!), his preference for Princess fruit snacks, or his Uncle Patrick, I think he's safe.

Come to think of it, those are Disney Princess characters he's chewing on.

Damn evil empire.

P.S. I love you, Disney company. I think you're keen. Would you like to turn my blog into a movie or television series? Thanks for your support.

Mystery Solved

I'm not a morning person. At all.

Saying I'm not a morning person is kind of like saying that Pamela Anderson does not have small tits.

It's a massive understatement.

So my daughter and I have a deal. Every night I set her alarm clock for 6:30 a.m. When her alarm goes off, she's supposed to come knock on my door and wake me up, then start getting ready for school.

Since she's my kid, and I love her, I don't bite her head off. I can't say the same for when my husband wakes me up. Somehow, he just seems to deserve the full brunt of my morning disposition.

But it has been weeks since this plan has worked correctly.

I keep hitting the snooze button on my own alarm until it finally decides to just reset itself for the next day. Just before 7 a.m. I wake up in a panic and run to my daughter's room, to roll her out of bed and start her on her belated morning routine.

And we eat breakfast in the car.

My son usually wakes up at some ungodly hour, though not before 5:30 a.m. when my husband usually leaves for work. He spends the first hour of his day, sister and mother-free, playing with the train set in his room.

On Friday, I overslept, as has become the norm. I rushed to my daughter's room followed closely by my son. I checked her alarm clock and wondered out loud, "How come this didn't go off? I know I set it last night."

To which my son innocently replied, "I shut it off, Mommy. I didn't want it to wake up my sister."

"Buddy?!" I had to laugh. "Why did you do that?"

"So I could play longer, Mommy," was his simple reply.

Well, duh. So it turns out that my son has been turning my daughter's alarm off every morning for the last couple of weeks. And none of us were the wiser.

Some woman is going to be in big trouble when she marries him.

Barrett Foa is a Great Guy

There. I said it. Maybe that will assuage the guilt I've been feeling.

This summer, I wrote about a trip to NYC. In that post I lamented that I did not suffer from genital herpes. I really wished that I did, because the people in those Valtrex commercials look so damn happy.

And while criticizing a performance of Avenue Q (which was kind of bitchy of me; it wasn't that bad) I supposed that maybe Barrett Foa had genital herpes, since he was really vivacious.

Ah, shit. I just did it again.

The problem is that since then, this blog has received an inordinate number of links from web search tools asking the question, "Does Barrett Foa have herpes?"

So let me set the record straight. No. Barrett Foa does not have herpes.

Or at least not that I know of.

Barrett Foa is adorable and healthy and nice and rich and talented and smart and a great lay.

Or so I assume.

I'd feel worse, except that I screwed myself with the very same post.

Admixed all that talk of genital herpes and coldsores, I linked to a picture of Aaron, my husband, and me. And now every Google image search for "genital herpes sufferers" or "coldsores" or "sick twisted fucks" comes up with a picture of the three of us.

Great.

Just put me on a poster for VD and call it a day.

And if Mr. Foa's lawyer calls, tell him I've left the country.

(And a word of warning: Do not, EVER, under any circumstances search Google images for the words genital herpes. Believe me.)

Tuna Boy vs. The Nut Barer of Doom

I think the lizards and roaches have been talking about us. The Tuna family has become an enemy to the beasts of the bayou and they're starting to take their revenge.

The kids' new favorite afternoon pastime is to ride their bikes around the tree-lined lanes behind CB's house. The girl can now make it all the way around the quarter mile circle without her training wheels. And the boy pedals his heart out on his little 12" bike. I walk around the circle burning off some extra calories while they ride and everyone's happy.

Except for the squirrels.

They like to dart back and forth across the lane from tree to tree, avoiding the neighborhood kids but knocking acorns on their heads.

Until today, when a furry little dervish decided to cut across the road right behind little tuna boy's back tire.

Now I don't know if the boy's unfathomable speed tricked the squirrel, or if said squirrel had his sites on my son all along, but the little tree rat darted into the street just in time to jump through the bike's spinning back tire.

And get spun through the air by the spokes.

"Rrrrrrh!" he screeched, sounding eerily like a frightened cat.

Bits of gray fur and mangled nuts cart wheeled through the air and landed like cluster bombs on the gravel. But the squirrel landed on his two front feet and took off for the nearest tree like his tail was on fire.

And it might have been. I'm not sure. It's also possible that me screeching, "Oh my GOD!" scared him more than his impromptu flight.

And the Tuna Boy? Well, he just pedaled on like nothing happened.

It took me a few seconds to regain my breath and stop pumping adrenaline to every last point in my body. Then I yelled to my son, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, Mommy!" he yelled back. "That squirrel ran into me, that's all."

Well, okay then. As long as nothing out of the ordinary happened.

The squirrels seemed to steer clear of us after that. But as the adults gathered to say goodnight, we kept gasping out little eeps and ows as we were pelted on the heads by acorn after acorn.

Those fluffy little tree rat shits. Don't they know that they're no match for a Tuna?

Single Malt Jock Strap*

Sixteen year's ago today, my husband and I went out on our first date.

And trust me, since then, we've had our ups and downs. We've had our arguments, our make-ups, our special moments, and our issues. But in all that time, there is only one thing about him that I just cannot forgive, forget, or let go.

My husband is an athlete. Twelve years ago, he was playing for his college hockey team. I remember at the time that his dorm room smelled like, well, it smelled like sweaty, moldy jock straps. After every practice and game, he would heave his hockey bag full of sweaty equipment up on a shelf, and forget about it until his next time on the ice.

And while the smell wasn't pleasant, I guess I got used to it.

Okay. That's a lie. His friends demanded that he get rid of the smell because it was stinking up his whole floor. And I demanded that he keep his bag in his car, if he wasn't going to air it out. At least we could use my car to get from place to place.

But then, well. We got married. And somehow, that hockey bag got into my home!

For a long time, he kept it in his Explorer. But when his truck got to be unbearable, he moved the bag into the attic.

But that smell, I tell you, it wafted right down those stairs.

So last year, while he was deployed, I decided to break out his bag, clean all of his equipment, and solve the Conflict of the Stinky Hockey Bag once and for all.

And that is when I learned something about my husband that is so horrific, I'm not even sure I can share it here.

Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I can.

You see, the thing is...he only owns one jock strap. And he's owned the same jock strap since at least college. And it is the only one he's ever worn. And he's never washed it.

Never.

I pulled that thing out of his bag with a pair of kitchen tongs. I gingerly fished out the cup. And I flung the disgusting mess into the washing machine.

I used detergent. I used softener. I used bleach.

And you know what? None of those things will remove the twelve year's of accumulated sweat of one Tuna Hubby.

Hockey season starts next week. He's bought new skates and a new jersey. But has he purchased a new jock strap? I doubt it.

The War of the Jock Strap has begun anew.

*Title courtesy of Patrick, who knows about these things.

How About a Picture?

Tunagirl Photography
Originally uploaded by iilgemini.

I'm stealing this photo from Jase's Flickr account.

Yup. That's me. It's been a while since I posted a photo of myself.

This is one of my favorite recent photos. And I can't thank Jase enough for taking it.

I've finally gotten around to messing with my Flickr account. I can already tell that it can be extremely addictive.

Especially when you have as many embarrassing pictures of your friends as I do.

Switching Roles

Speaking of the accident (I refuse to call it my accident), it has been the topic of conversation among my friends and acquaintances quite often lately. Mostly because people were shocked that I was driving a rented Ford Freestar. (What a giant piece of crap that thing is.)

Inevitably, someone will ask me, "But why did that woman just run right into you like that?"

And I would always answer with, "Well, she was old," as if that is some kind of excuse.

But then when I got the police report, I found out that she was the same age as my parents.

I thought it was funny. Shocking, but still kind of funny. And I told everybody my little, funny, my-parents-are-old story.

And then my parents showed up. And it wasn't so funny anymore.

My parents enjoyed my little story just as much as everyone else. So much, in fact, that they shared it with everyone back home. But I failed to see the humor, once I realized just how freaking old my parents have really become.

When the hell did that happen?

My parents had us when they were relatively young, so throughout my life, my parents have been younger than those of my peers. And my mother's parents are still both alive and relatively healthy. So it is hard for me to think of my parents as old people.

My mother keeps telling me how old her mother is getting. And I want to scream at her, "Yeah! I know the feeling!" My mom can't seem to grasp the simplest plans or remember the most mundane facts. And we've lived here for seven years, but she keeps referring to this base by the wrong name.

My father has always been a very intelligent man. He holds a Master's Degree, worked for an Admiral in the Navy, and ran a police department for many years. Now he can't understand the intricacies of a Visa Check Card.

He tells me the same stories over and over again. Which isn't too surprising since I do the same thing to my husband and friends. But he'll change the characters each time he tells it. So the story of the parade where my kids got caught in the rain has involved into a story about how my nephews got to ride in the parade. They weren't even there!

It's scary to see your parents getting older. And I'm not quite sure when we switched roles. But now I'm worried about their lack of life insurance and their amount of debt. Especially since they're still responsible for my grandparents.

You know, I always jokingly say that it will be my brother's duty to take care for my parents when they are old, since they have been caring for his children for the last five years. But I don't really see that happening.

I sit back and look at four generations of my family. And all I can do is try to make the best plans so that my kids don't ever have to worry for us the way we have to worry for them.

There may be no way to stop aging, but I swear I'll take better care of myself than my parents have. I don't want my kids to have to switch roles with us for a long, long time.

I'm Just a Girl

It's been a month since my van and I were broadsided. And I just finally got my van back last Friday.

When we dropped it off for the estimate, I kept telling everyone that something was bent. The steering and alignment were just so far off, that something just had to be bent in that mysterious land of things too complicated for my little girly brain to understand under my vehicle.

They mmmmed at me, and I was sure that I'd be bringing my van back time and time again to get things right.

So my husband went to pick it up, and it looked beautiful. He turned in the rental, hopped in our van and drove away. Only to find that the steering wheel still had to be held at a 90 degree angle to get the van to drive straight.

So he turned that wheel right back around and returned to the collision center.

There he was in his flight suit with his new rank all shiny, and they hopped right to it to get it fixed right this time. They even gave him a loner car for the afternoon.

Fuckers.

I had a bent tie rod. I could have fucking told them that!

But I'm just a girl. And I must have been all shook up from an accident that must have surely been my fault. How could I possibly know what might be wrong with the car that I've driven every day for four years?

It's time to put some Gwen Stefani, or Melissa Etheridge, or oooh, some old Alanis Morisette on the iPod. I can feel the estrogen boiling over, and it ain't gonna be pretty.

The Hundred Acre Wood

I'm not a big fan of Winnie the Pooh.

There. I said it. You can start hating on me now.

The recent adaptations on Playhouse Disney and in the movies aren't so bad, but the original text bugs me. I never thought much about Pooh at all, until someone gave my daughter the book when she was a baby. But when you start reading it to a three-year-old and have to explain why Pooh refers to himself as a bear of very little brain, well...it's an annoying book.

That being said, I feel very much like I'm living in the Hundred Acre Wood right now.

I feel like my life isn't real. I feel like I'm living in someone else's imagination. Some little boy has thought up this place, and these characters, and we exist only for his amusement.

I've decided that my husband is Pooh. It fits. He sort of rolls with it all and has a thing for honey.

And my daughter is Piglet. She's always too small (or too young, or too shy) to do the things she wants to do. Until we push her. And then she sees heffalumps around every corner.

My son is clearly Roo. (Was Roo even in the original?) He's full of boundless hopping energy and curiosity. And although he's the littlest, he's the bravest.

And right now, I'm Eeyore.

Every night as I volunteer at the food booth, I meet a bunch of new people. And I have to be in charge of them. I don't get to fade into the background like I sometimes like to do. And I'm too shy and too slow and too disorganized and too stupid and (most of all) too fat to do anything right.

And goddamnit, my tail keeps coming off. (That's what happens when you trust a button to do a seams job.)

It's only Pooh, Piglet, Roo and all the others that keep me going. And Tigger too. (And who plays the roll of Tigger in my life? Oh! I know! He's resilient to the end.)

But I still end up all alone in my lean-to every night. With my nose and my ass in the rain.

It's time for that bitch Christopher Robin to give over the keys to this life. I'm sick of my role. I'm moving on. No more sad donkey for me.

I want to be a My Little Pony instead.

Sorry Guys

But once again, this is not me. Pity that, eh?

Into the Who?

Since we had so many parents hanging around, my husband and I went to a movie last weekend. We saw Into the Blue (Told ya I'd see it as soon as it came out.)

We went to the brand new, super nice, river side movie theater. We bought tickets online beforehand because they always sell out. Except we were sitting waiting for the movie to start with only about twenty other people.

"This isn't a good sign. Especially on a Friday night," said my husband.

But I was optimistic. Any movie with Paul Walker and Jessica Alba in bathing suits can't be all bad.

My husband would disagree. He said it was the worst movie ever!

I disagree. I've sat through Starship Troopers more times than I can count, just so he could see that curly-haired chick's boobs.

But Into the Blue isn't exactly Gone With the Wind.

Still, on the way out, I announced to anyone within ear shot, "That was totally worth it!"

I'd pay $9 to see Paul Walker brush his teeth for two hours, as long as he was wearing the same low slung board shorts. There were a couple of times during that movie when I couldn't even breathe. Damn, that boy is hot.

And what did my husband announce to anyone within ear shot as we exited? "They didn't even show her boobs."

That's what he gets for seeing a PG-13 movie.

Don't worry for him though. He got to see some boobs later that night.

The Handy Man Can

When I came home from the Cape this summer, I noticed that my husband had installed a lock on our bedroom door. That's probably a good idea.

Tonight I was sprawled on my bed talking on the phone and I noticed something.

There are two eye hooks in my ceiling now.

Hmmm. Those weren't there before.

So I asked my husband, "Where did those hooks come from?"

He blushed bright red and answered, "No comment."

I think someone had plans. I wonder what they could be?

"Were you planning on hanging some plants?" I asked.

"No comment," he replied.

"Did you buy us a sling?" I wondered.

"You think those two hooks could hold you?" was his incredulous question in response.

I think he should have stuck with the, "No comment."

Cute Little Meme

My fellow military wife friend, Rhiannon tagged me with this meme.

The Rules:
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same.

And mine is:

I think I might be weird.

That really figures.

I'm not going to tag anyone, because I've made enough blenemies (like that one, Mark?). But if you'd like to share in the comments, feel free.

By the way, do you think I'm weird?

I Love Being a Housewife

There's a reason that I am a housewife.

Actually, there is more than one reason. There are many, many good reasons for me to not work so that I can take care of my family. But only one of those reasons matters right now.

When I work, I'm miserable.

I've been working for a few days now. It's volunteer work, but it is grueling none the less.

Part of my duties as a chair on the school's parents' association is to run a fundraiser at a local art fair. We have two food booths and we sell fair food and Icees.

It's been 90 degrees here for the last couple of days and I've been manning fryers and ovens in an outdoor booth. I've been running back and forth between the two booths delivering pizza and dealing with emergencies. I've had to listen to scores of volunteers bitch, and that's when they actually show up. I'm sunburned and I smell like corn dogs.

If I was getting paid to do this, I'd quit.

But bitch, bitch, bitch. Blah, blah, blah.

The bigger news in my life right now is that my husband has been promoted!

Woo hoo. It's a pretty big deal. A big enough deal that my parents and his flew out for the occasion.

I'm very proud of him. His commander gave an excellent and very flattering speech. And my husband spoke very well too. The kids pinned on his new rank and they did awesome. The commander told them to pound the pointy ends of the rank into his shoulders to make it stay and they made adorable little faces while they banged away.

And we celebrated with Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

But wait. Go back. Did you catch what I said up there?

My parents AND HIS flew in for the occasion. And I'm miserable from working. That all adds up to one fucking cranky me.

But crank, crank, crank. Blah, blah, blah.

By tomorrow morning they'll all be on their way home. I have five more days to work and then I get a year off. I'll eventually work off the Krispy Kremes that adhered straight to my ass. And we'll have a couple more hundred dollars a month in our checking account.

I think I know just what I'll do with it. Does anyone want to be my personal assistant? This housewife needs some help.

I did it all for the cookie!

Eighteen months and 444 posts later and it still all comes down to the same thing.

Me: You know, the kiddo is already up so late anyway. Maybe I should just take her with me to pick up Grandma and Grandpa at the airport.

Him: That's fine, but can you put her down for just a little while so we can have a cookie?

Me: *all excited* You bought me a cookie?

Him: *shaking head* Not a cookie. A quickie!

Me: Awww, man. I really wanted a cookie.

A Challenge

It's a damn good thing they evacuated those aircraft for the two inches of rain and whopping 15 m.p.h. winds we suffered through here. And I'm glad they're not attempting to fly through the partly sunny skies of the Midwest to return to base now. Who knows what hell might befall these combat-veteran fliers when they encountered those fluffy white clouds.

As you may have guessed, my husband still hasn't returned home.

Which would be fine, normally.

But my parents arrive tomorrow night. And my in-laws arrive Thursday afternoon. They're all on their way to celebrate my husband's promotion on Friday morning.

Much like my wedding day, we won't know if he'll actually be here until the last minute.

To say that I'm a bit cranky would be an understatement. My daughter practically flew out of the van and into school this morning, just to escape my mood.

"I just love my school, Mom," she told me. She might as well have said, "I can't wait to get away from you, Mom."

I can't say that I blame her. If I could, I'd get away from me too.

So I've decided to be self-serving. (Like that's something new for me.) In the interest of sparing my kids, husband, and closest friends from the wrath that is a Tuna Girl mood, and in the interest of preserving family harmony with those that gave us birth, I issue you, my faithful blog readers, a challenge.

Cheer me up. You can do it. You've done it before. Let's see how well you know me.

What do you think would cheer me up?

And just to get you started, here's one: A postcard from an exotic locale. Thanks, Jase!

My Apologies

I'm sorry. I had so much to write about today, but I've been distracted.

I stayed up way too late last night. Yes, I can get into bad sleeping habits when my husband is away. And yes, I stayed up way too late talking on the phone to Patrick as he drove home from work.

But what really kept me up late last night was a Wet and Wild South Park marathon. It's not that I'm a huge fan of Mr Hat, Big Gay Al, Evil Cartman, or tunneling hamsters. I enjoy crude humor from construction paper cut-outs as much as the next girl, but there was something more keeping me up all night.

Paul Walker and Jessica Alba hosted the marathon with lead-ins promoting their new movie Into The Blue.

Oh, all that is holy in this world! Paul Walker and Jessica Alba? Together? In bathing suits? It's more than my poor heart can stand.

I could have spent the few hours I was sleeping last night dreaming of six feet of blond gorgeousness wrapping himself around me and Ms. Alba as we rub lotion on each other's...um. Where was I?

Oh yes, I could have spent my night dreaming and then moved on. But today I caught just a glimpse of a magazine that my husband left lying around, and it brought it all back.




I could just slide down those abs and right into those trunks.

And he has a nice smile to boot!




So I apologize.

I know you come here for stories about puke, cockroaches, shit and spew. But this is all I have to offer you today.

Can you forgive me?

Not tonight, honey, I have an overdraft.

Last night I refused sex.

I know. I know. When does that ever happen?

But I was in the middle of something big. Last night I went back over our finances for the past year. I've been letting things slide for quite a while. In fact, I've let things go to hell in a handbasket ever since my surgery last November, and it is starting to bite us in the ass. Actually, it's taking huge, gnashing chomps out of my ass.

So I went over and reconciled every single financial transaction we've made in the last year. One by one. It was excruciating. But I was committed to getting it all done in one night so that I could finally shake my financial panic and move forward.

So when my husband asked me if I wanted to "take a break" while he winked and made that little come hither clicking noise that he does, I just couldn't tear myself away from our impending financial ruin enough to participate.

"Tomorrow," I told him. "While the kids are at school."

It's a damn good thing I got my nooner nookie today, because I don't think I'll be seeing him for a while. He and his aircraft are being evacuated out because of the storm. So he gets to go somewhere safe, and the kids and I are going to be weathering this thing on our own.

He damn well better be back before all of our parents arrive for his promotion ceremony. If not, he might not have a wife to come home to. I just might implode from stress.

**On a related note, why do I find it impossible to masturbate while the lawn guys are mowing my grass.

Sometimes being a military wife isn't so freaking fun.

Buffy Ain't Just a Puppy!

It's 100+ fucking degrees in fucking September. I have to babysit. And I still haven't gotten any.

So I'm doing a fucking quiz, damnit.

You scored as Buffy Summers. You are a very strong individual. You do, however, have some trouble admitting how you truly feel. You've experienced a lot during your life, but you more than manage. Always willing to help, you're a great friend. Buffy Summers 75% Rupert Giles 58% Dawn Summers 58% Spike 50% Tara Maclay 46% Anya 46% Xander Harris 42% Willow Rosenberg 38% Which Buffy The Vampire Slayer Character Are You Most Like!? created with QuizFarm.com

Well, fuck yeah. I could have told you that.

So, Jeff, if we could just find a Willow, Xander, and Spike, we could really put a dent in some of your rage. I'll bring the hard spike. If I can just find one.

An Ode to My Blog

Oh, blog of Tuna green and blue
Why have I deserted you?
Where once there was sex and randy muse
Now there is nothing but blog abuse

What happened to the funny stories
Of puking kids and horny fairies
Of critters taking reign of my house
And attics filled with poop of mouse?

There was raunchy sex and porn on cue
Hot guys and asses and boobs for you
There were trips to Mexico and N.Y.C.
Shows and movies and plays to see

But now, dear blog, just like me
You sit in obscure lethargy
Car pool, bills, parents and such
Boring, boring but still so much

It's time to take things back, I think
To innuendo, wit, and poignant kink
After all, dear blog, you've given me
I owe you big, I'm sure you see

But sometimes I just have to breathe
Good stories take some time to weave
Very soon now, I'll try my luck
I'll have more to write once I fuck

Daddy's Little Girl

Sometimes I wish that I could be the dad. I said to my husband yesterday, "Someday our little girl will be in her twenties. She'll be getting married and living on her own. And she'll still call you Daddy."

"Hmmm, probably," he replied. "And what will she call you?"

And in unison we answered, "Bitch!"

If you ignore that pesky earning-a-living-and-putting-bread-on-the-table thing, dads have it pretty good. They get to be the fun ones who are greeted with cheers and hugs every time they come through the door. With daughters especially, I think that the kids don't have to put so much time and energy into pulling away from a dad. So they can be closer as they get older.

Dads also seem to get to have these great teaching moments. Like today. We took the kids outside and finally got them riding their bikes. After some discussion, my husband got out the wrench and began that classic right of passage...teaching your kid to ride a bike without training wheels.

Now, truth be told, while he was doing that I was teaching my son to ride his "big kid" bike for the first time and silently begging my husband not to lose his temper and start yelling.

My daughter can be very hard to teach. And my husband and I are both a little wanting in the patience department. But after one rather harsh, "Why did you let go?" he reigned it in and was absolutely awesome with her.

It was the kind of scene that you see on television, and it was both sweet and poignant in its own way. But lately my husband has been struggling a little with his aging and his daughter's growing up.

In fact, we were watching The War at Home tonight. It's a new sitcom that deals with parenting teenagers. I shouldn't ever let him watch these types of shows, because he starts thinking about what it will be like when our daughter is a teenager. And he starts planning to get some time in at the firing range.

He seems to have trouble with the fact that I lost my virginity when I was 16. And I don't seem to regret it. He wants to know what I'm going to tell our daughter about sex when she's 16.

And since the sitcom was alluding to oral sex, he wanted to know when I gave my first blow job. He wasn't happy when I told him I was 16. No, he wasn't happy to say the least.

"And what are you going to tell her about that?" he asked in total exasperation.

"Well, honey. At least she can't get pregnant that way."

That's when he swallowed his tongue.

So I continued, "Besides, I'll teach her about women's rights." I banged my fist into my opposite palm. "I'll tell her to demand that she gets hers first before she dishes it out."

He found his tongue then.

"Get out. Get the fuck out. Get out of my house."

Aww. Poor baby can't take a joke.

So I went and bought him ice cream. And I promised that the first and only time he will ever know about her sex life is when she makes us grandparents.

I guess there are some good things about being the mom.

Earning His Call Sign

My husband has been in and out of the house all day today. And it reminded me of something he said last month.

When the kids started school, he asked me for all of the scheduling details. I thought maybe he was going to help me out with all of the picking up and dropping off. But, oh no.

He just wanted to know when I'd be alone in the house and available for nooners.

Some carpooling help would have been nice, but nooners are nice too.

Except here we are, a month into the school year, and I haven't gotten a single nooner yet.

Promises, promises. What happened to all that enthusiasm?

I suppose it's okay though, because I can only imagine what the guys in the office would think if he showed up back at work every afternoon all relaxed and happy. He might just earn a new nickname.

Wouldn't Nooner make a great call sign?

Someone throw me a line!

I'm drowning here.

I'm gasping for breath and flailing my limbs, just trying to get my head above water long enough to see where I am.

But it's not water I'm drowning in. It's obligations, and commitments, and annoying friends who won't go away, and money concerns, and all the same old shit.

And I call out for help, but all anyone does is throw some ballet shoes, or a violin, or a whole mess of soccer balls into the mix. And they're drowning me and I can't breathe.

I see startling rays of light from time to time. The kids hug each other and say "I love you" and suddenly I see blue sky. Or the husband does something nice and I feel like my fingertips have found the edge of a life preserver. Or a friend calls and just for a moment I can feel myself floating.

But they are all too fleeting glimpses and my head is under the muck again. And I can't see my way out.

Until today. Today the oppressive weight I've been struggling against parted like the Red Sea. I could breathe, and see, and even dance a little.

Everything is still waiting to crush me again, but right now I feel invincible.

This week I lost 7 and a half pounds.

With the help of a couple of people who love me...

I ROCK.