Lizard Hockey Anyone?

It's become like fucking Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom around here.



And that's only the front half of my little friend.

Sometimes, when I let the kids play in the backyard, I'll leave the back door open and work in my kitchen. Not any more. At least not until I have a man around the house again.

He is clearly too big to squish with my practiced (and fabled) combat boot maneuver, so I had to find an alternate way to eject him from my house.

And, thus, lizard hockey was born.

Lizard hockey is a game involving me, a broom, my humongous lizard friend, and an open back door.

I use a wrist shot to fire him toward the door. He lands and runs away. I screech.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

I've been married to my hockey player long enough to have the skill to win this battle. But now I will never venture into the backyard barefoot again.

*ShIvEr*

So a friend recently said to me that sex is something everyone can understand. We all have isues with sex, whether we're having it or not, so sex makes for good comedy fodder. At the time, I agreed with him. But I think I have found a more unifying topic.

Pests. Bugs. Lizards. Rodents. Any animal that is small enough to be silent and creepy.

But in fact, it is fear that really unifies us. We're all afraid of something.

Some of us are afraid of (or at least creeped out by) some pretty strange things. For example, I am totally grossed out by buttons.

Yes. Buttons. You read that right.

I'm speaking of the kind that fasten clothing. I gag even just to type the word, and you will rarely hear me say it.

Over the years, I have been able to learn to tolerate them on clothing. This was mostly through my torturous experience with my sixth-grade school uniform.

But to see one of those things just lying there, seperated from its garment--or even worse--in a bin at a store. Oh gag! Gag! That makes the hair on my arms rise up and I have to close my eyes and look away.

They have a box of those things at my daughter's school and for a while she was bringing them home as presents. I didn't want to pass along my freaky fear, but I did not want to touch them either. I think I convined her to save them for Grandma.

*ShIvEr*

So what are you afraid of?

*****
Update:
Are you all insane? That lizard is not cute! It's demonic looking.

Tuna Girl vs. the Winged Creature of Death

I talked on the phone with my husband for almost an hour last night. It was great. We laughed and teased each other. It was exactly what I needed.

During our conversation, I was sitting on my bed. At one point, something happened to catch my eye in the attached bathroom. It looked like something brown had flown out of the air vent and into the shower.

I kept right on talking with the man I love and told myself that a piece of leaf, or maybe even a moth, had just dislodged itself from my vent.

But as much as I wanted to believe it, I'm not so good with self delusion.

"I have to go in the bathroom and check for a bug," I told the hubby.

"A big one?" he asked.

And I spied my nemesis on the floor just along the baseboard.

"Fuck yeah."

There was then an uncomfortably long silence while I stared down the winged creature of death (better known as a bayou cockroach).

"I have to kill it," I told my husband. "I cannot live in this house until I know it as been vanquished. Did you leave any boots here? Is there a boot in your closet? I'm getting a boot. Oh my god!" A mere shoe wouldn't do it. And my speech was accelerating and accelerating.

I dove into my husband's closet and snatched out a boot before he could even tell me if there was one in there or not.

"I hate this! He's in the corner. I'm never gonna get him in one swat."

I raised that boot high, keeping an unwavering eye on the hissing bug of doom and despair for fear that it would sense danger and fly in my face.

"Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god!"

I swung and hit him, but he was saved by his evil genius plan to hug the angle of the wall. But he was also stunned enough to fly a few feet in the air and back behind the toilet.

This is when I screeched and flapped my hands like a little girl.

"Eek! Eek! Eek! He flew behind the toilet. Now how am I going to get him? I can't just leave him there. Oh my god! I hate this!"

This is when the sound of laughter penetrated my terror-gripped brain. He was laughing at me. My very own bug-killer, who is half a planet away and of no use to me now, was laughing at me. Fucker.

"Are you laughing at me? It's fucking huge. I fucking hate this. This is your fucking job! Oh shit! Am I going to get you in trouble for swearing on this line?"

More laughter.

Fucker.

"I'm going to fucking shut it in the bathroom and go get some fucking spray," I declared as a closed the grotesque prehistoric bringer-of-evil in the bathroom. Except that there is a two-inch gap between the bottom of the door and the floor.

"Shit. Fuck. Damn. If I don't stand guard by the door he might get into the bedroom. What am I going to do?"

"Don't take you eyes off it," was my beloved's brilliant advice.

So I opened the door to see if he had moved into a more squashing friendly area. And I couldn't find him at all.

"Oh my god! I can't find him! What if he made it into the bedroom already? We'll have to move unless I find him!" I threw the boot into the middle of the room to see if I could startle him enough to reveal his position. But he must have been trained in fucking stealth, because I couldn't find him anywhere.

I could just picture him enduring Navy SEAL-type training with a little pair of six-legged camos and a tiny M-16 strapped to his back. Sir, yes, sir!

"Walk in there and look around," the love of my life advised.

"Fuck that! You do it. He might be waiting to attack me!" In desperation, I slammed the door shut again and stuffed my dirty sweatshirt in the gap at the floor. And I scrambled to replace my sacrificed weapon with the other boot from the pair.

"Okay. I'm sorry." I told my husband while trying to regain my equilibrium. "So, you're at war and all. How's that going?"

More laughter.

I talked to my husband for about ten more minutes, all the while keeping my eyes glued to the bottom of the bathroom door. I was a sentry, damn it, and I took my duties seriously.

As we said goodnight I told my husband, "Okay. I'm off to do battle with my winged foe."

"Goodnight my huntress," he teased me.

The enemy had made the mistake of taking up position under a cart with wheels. I ever so slowly rolled the cart aside, and finished off the little satanic bugger with one mighty swipe with my combat boot.

But now came the worst part. I had to scrape the carcass up off the floor and flush it down the toilet.

I actually considered leaving my defeated friend under the boot for the cleaning ladies to find in the morning, but I do have some shame. I wrapped my hand in enough toilet paper to cushion the fall of the Roman empire and I screeched a war cry (it may have sounded like "eek eek eek" or "oh my god oh my god oh my god") and I flung that fucker in the toilet.

Where he proceeded to spin around and around through three toilet flushes. I got to see his dismembered corps slowly disintegrate and become transparent.

It wasn't until I hummed taps that he gave up the ghost.

It is this. THIS! THIS is what I hate most about my husband being deployed.

Overheard

TunaDaughter: Hey, buddy! What are you going to get me for my birthday?
TunaSon: I don't know. *pause* A Bratz doll.
TD: A Bratz doll?
TS: Yeah. A Bratz doll.
*pause*
TD: I don't know about that, Buddy. Mom might throw it away.
TS: Why?
TD: Because we're not allowed to have Bratz. Mommy says they only care about make-up and clothes.
TS: So?
TD: So I don't think Mom would let me have one.
TS: So. It's your birthday. You can have whatever you want.
TD: Yeah. You're right!
TS: Yeah!
TD: Yeah!
TS: Yeah!
TD: Maybe I'll even have a Bratz party!
TS: Yeah!
TD: Yeah!
TS: Yeah! *pause* You ask Mommy.

Ah! What a classic set-up. The youngest sibling strikes again.

My Little Mia Hamm

My daughter has been playing soccer for two years. And in those two years, she has never scored a goal. Never.

She is the only one on her team who has never scored a goal.

Now I should mention that it doesn't seem to bother her too much. She's busy picking flowers after all. But she does want to score a goal.

Yesterday was our last game of this season. Since it is Spring Break and a holiday weekend, very few kids showed up for the game. So my little soccer star got to play for all of the first three quarters.

When the coach sat her down at the end of the third quarter, I have to admit that I was depressed. Two whole seasons and not a single goal to show for it. She was fine with it, but I knew how happy she would have been to score a goal.

With about two minutes left in the game, the coach (AH's husband) asked my future World Cupper if she wanted to play again. Miracle of miracles, she said yes.

So she went out on the field for a kick off.

I looked away for a moment to tend to my son, and when I looked back up I saw her boot the ball so hard off the kick-off that it rolled right into the goal.

I was admittedly happy. Really happy. She jumped up and down a couple of times, yelled, "I scored my first goal!' and went right back to the center for another kick-off.

But the crowd was going wild. The other parents had been rooting for her all season. Woo hoo! She did it! She scored a goal.

And then the coach sort of walked toward me. And I began to feel that something wasn't right.

He started to say, "You know it wasn't our turn..."

"...to kick off," I finished for him. I knew it was too good to be true.

"Please let her believe she scored a goal," I implored him.

He kind of laughed and said, "It's fine."

So the other team took their turn to kick off and we ended up scoring again.

Now I should mention that we don't keep score yet at their age level. Not really, anyway. So whether or not she really scored really doesn't matter. But I'm too much of a competitor myself not to feel like it really didn't count.

After the game, the coach of the other team made a point to come shake my daughter's hand and tell her that she scored a beautiful goal.

"Thank you, ma'am," my little future Olympian replied. It was pretty cute.

To celebrate her big goal, I let her choose the restaurant for dinner, and I let her order dessert. Everyone we came in contact with for the rest of the day--the host, the waitress, strangers in the parking lot--they all got to hear about her "game winning goal."

I've never seen her quite so proud or happy with herself. But every time I look at her I have to chuckle. My little audacious one who kicked the ball when it wasn't even her turn. The same little girl who held the coaches hand through her entire first season. The same little girl who got sent out of the game for crying at least three times while my husband was here to coach.

It's hard to slide into depression when your daughter is just so happy.

Now my little Mia Hamm wants to go to soccer camp for the summer. She wants to play on an all-girls team next year. She wants to see if she can get a college soccer scholarship. She is the "best soccer player ever!"

Because she kicked the ball when it wasn't her turn.

I swear she gets it from her father.

Sliding Again

I have been happily floating along in my little life here, assuming that the depression I felt during the first month of my husband's deployment was a thing of the past. I was chalking it all up to the aftereffects of the anesthesia from my surgery and the very valid concerns for my family.

But now, I feel myself sliding again. This time, I've learned enough to stop and evaluate. What is going on with me? Why do I feel like all I want to do is sleep? Why is it so hard to drag myself out of bed just to change a diaper or make a meal?

And I've realized something. I'm not depressed. I'm exhausted. Emotionally exhausted.

I think there is a fine line between the two.

When I was depressed in January, I felt like it was chemical--like I wanted to be happy, but my brain chemistry just couldn't pull it off.

Now I just feel like I've been feeling too much. There is too much going on. But not with me. It's dealing with everyone else's emotions that is making me so tired.

The kids. God. They miss their Daddy. It is affecting their personalities. And they're both still sick. Yes, still. They feel like they're stuck here in our filthy house, missing out on everything fun in life.

The husband. Well, he misses us. He wants to provide solutions for all of our problems, and that just isn't possible. And he's frustrated.

The family. All I can do is shake my head at this one. My parents and my brother's family have all these conflicts. My parents have all these health concerns. There is nothing I can do for any of them. And they all walk on verbal eggshells around me.

The friends. Even this thing with my husband's friend's wife has got me feeling too much. I feel like I'm chained down here on this damn bayou, when all I want to do is teleport around to hug my friends.

Okay. I may be a little low on adult human contact right now. And it makes me shut down a little.

It felt like the time was just flying by, but now time has thrown on the breaks and come to a screeching halt.

Maybe it is only slowing down so that I can catch up.

My Smile

I bought some Crest Whitestrips Premium at the BX for $23. I'm unaccountably excited to use them. But I have questions.

Is it bad if I fall asleep while wearing my Crest Whitestrips?

Is it bad if I've apparently swallowed one of the strips in my sleep?

Am I the only one who can screw up something as simple as whitening my teeth?

This post will go away.

Yesterday, I got a DVD copy of my daughter's Kindergarten play. I wanted to make copies of it for my husband and family.

So, I started digging in the bottom drawer of my desk where we keep DVD-Rs and CD-Rs.

There is a whole stack of CDs sitting upsidedown in the drawer. I've been assuming that they were blank, but I decided to check them out.

And let's see...I found Best Butt in the West, Secret Lives, and Bad. I also found a DVD case for Crammed. I'd quote some of the copy from the cover, but I don't want to get Tuna Girl banned at your workplaces. But there was a lot of stuff about "holes" and "stuffing".

Why didn't I know about this stash. I could have been watching it. How could I have been missing it right there in my drawer for the last two months? It's a good thing I didn't let my father use my office when he asked.

At least it didn't hit me in the head.

The Poop Post

I just spent a good five minutes begging my son to poop on the potty.

My son is a good kid. In general, we get along very well and I understand him. He's pretty easy going. But sometimes...well, sometimes, he gets an idea in his head and there is just no changing his mind.

For instance, he would not believe that boys could pee standing up. He just laughed and said I was being silly. But he also refused to sit on a public toilet. So clearly, teaching him to stand was the only way I'd ever be able to leave the house.

I had to beg my husband to prove to him that boys could pee standing up. Luckily, physical proof solved that problem.

But now he insists that boys do not poop on the potty.

"No, Mommy," he tells me. "Boys don't poop on the potty. Only girls poop on the potty."

So he holds it until he gets his nighttime diaper on. Or he just has accidents. And then he gets diaper rash. Right now he is absolutely red and raw.

"Boys do poop on the potty," I tell him. "Daddy poops on the potty. Grandpa poops on the potty."

"No! Mommy!," he insists. "Boys don't poop in the potty!"

How exactly am I going to prove him wrong.

When Patrick was here, CB embarrassed the hell out of me by asking him, "So, how good of a friend are you? Are you a good enough friend to show the boy that boys do poop on the potty?"

I'm not sure that I heard Patrick's answer through the blood rushing to my ears

Moment ago, my son and I were rehashing the same old argument.

Me: You need to poop in the potty so your bum won't hurt.
The Boy: No! Mommy! I don't poop in the potty.
Me: Everyone poops in the potty. Only babies poop in diapers.
The Boy: MOMMY! NO! Boys don't poop in the potty.
Me: Yes they do. Daddy poops in the potty. Grandpa poops in the...
The Boy: NO! NO! NO! Daddy doesn't poop in the potty. Grandpa doesn't poop in the potty. Patrick doesn't poop in the potty. Mr. Mark doesn't poop in the potty.
Me: Well, Honey. *sigh* Then where do they poop?
The Boy: In their pants!

What the hell am I going to do?

New York Bound Again

Wow! I am in a good mood. And I don't even know why.

My daughter is sick now. I spent the morning at the doctors office. My house is a mess. I mean a real mess. Like I'd be condemned by the health department if they happened by. I'm suddenly very, very stressed about money. My husband is far away. And I'm so horny I could just die!

But I'm happy!

This deployment is half over. And this is the time in a deployment when I start making plans for my beloved's return. Besides using the knowledge I've gleaned from my gay friends in the last couple of months to totally rock my husband's world, we're also planning some vacation time.

According to my husband's boss (CB's husband), his return date is May 6. According to my husband, he won't be home until the 10th or later. I'm going to plan for about the 16th, and that way I won't feel burned.

This means that I can't attend the aptly named GB:NY2 Muppets on Crack Take Manhattan or my college reunion. As much as I would have liked to attend both of those events, being here when my husband gets home is obviously the priority.

BUT! The tuna family will be spending at least three weeks in July at our summer home. And the tuna kids will spend a few days with the tuna grandparents, and the tuna parents (that's me and my husband, just in case I'm being vague) are going to Manhattan!

Woo hoo! I'm so excited. The hotel is booked and the tickets to Avenue Q are bought. Aaron promised me a picnic in Central Park. I'm dragging Patrick there come hell or high water. (It's about time for Patrick and my husband to meet.) And I'll get to see all of the NYC blogger boys again. (I seriously owe MAK a hug for this.)

And they'll all get to meet my husband. Eek.

So if you can't make this May's GB:NY2 and you really, really want to check out my husband, you better be in NYC July 7-10. I'm not above pimping out my friend to get you all there. (I'll let you guess which friend I mean.)

In the meantime, I'm going to assuage my horniness the best I can and just dream about four whole days away from my kids! Woo hoo! Mama needs it bad!

Update

My husband's friend's wife called me back.

That poor, poor woman. Everything that could possibly go wrong during a deployment has gone wrong for her. She had to rush home for a family emergency, her car died, her hot water heater died, she can't find a job, and she has absolutely no support from the base.

I think she really needed someone to talk to. And I'm glad she was able to talk to me. But my script was in the other room and there were a couple of lulls in the conversation where we both just giggled. But all in all, we had a good talk.

I told her to call me again, anytime if something else bad happened. And I told her to call if she just felt like talking again. And I will probably give her a call in a week and check up on her.

But I was telling Patrick, I wish I could send her some of you guys. You're support helps me so much. Even when things are fine, I know that if they weren't fine, I'd have a bunch of you at my back. I'd be getting phone calls, and E-mails, and comments. I wish I could share you with her.

But I can't. That's just the way the situation is. Because I chose to be completely candid and somewhat anonymous in my blog, I just can't go sending my URL to people in my real life.

But I can ask you guys to send some positive vibes her way. Or maybe if I can just take the energy that you guys infuse in me, and share it with her, that will help in some small way.

Oh, god. I feel for this woman. I really do.

*****

Speaking of military wifedom, my post from yesterday was quoted and linked in a VFW ladies auxiliary blog. That is very cool, but it also makes me very nervous. If my blog came back to bite my husband's career in the ass, I would never ever forgive myself.

By the way, one of my favorite blogs, Great Googly Moogly, was quoted too.

*****

Speaking of saying things that will bite my husband's career in the ass...

For all of you who asked, when I said that I made my own lubricant, I was referring to the natural kind. Ummm. You know. The natural kind.

And now that I'm blushing...

****

I've gotten a little behind in answering comments and E-mail. Oh, who am I kidding? I'm drowning in comments and E-mail. But I'm working on replies. Don't give up on me.

But let me take this opportunity to thank you guys for all the congratulations you heaped on me for my blogoversary.

Take care, y'all.

Tuna's Good Deed

My husband has made one good friend during this deployment. And this friend was married just a couple of months before he left on this deployment.

A couple of days ago, my husband sent me the name and number of his friend's wife and he asked me to call her. He wanted me to check in and see how she was really doing.

I appreciate the fact that my husband is the kind of man who is concerned for his friends. And I feel for this woman who must be going through emotional hell. And I like to think of myself as the kind of military wife who can reach out to others out of the kindness of my heart.

But I dreaded making this call.

As much as I can play the officer's wife roll in social situations, I really am painfully shy underneath it all.

Before I called her, I talked to my husband on the phone. I asked a few questions. He told me he appreciated what I was doing. And I sighed and told him, "I don't mind, but, well, I'm really shy, you know."

And he replied, "Yeah right."

This dichotomy in my personality--this pull between being painfully shy and yet very outgoing--is something that has bothered me for years.

I want to be outgoing. But when I'm among other people and I'm keeping small talk going or even being witty and making people laugh, I feel like I'm in a show. It's the I'll Make a Great Commander's Wife Someday show. And I'm the star, producer, writer, and director.

So in keeping with that, before I made this call, I wrote myself a little script.

Hi, is ____ there?

Hi! My name is _______ and my husband is deployed with your husband.

I'm just calling because ____ said this was your first deployment and I wanted to see how you were doing.

I even wrote an alternate script in case I had to leave a message.

And I wrote down a few questions to ask, just in case I had to keep the conversational ball rolling.

So, where are you from originally?

How did you guys meet?

What kind of job are you looking for?

So clearly, I'm a freak. But a well-intentioned one

I know what it is like to be separated from your brand new husband. I know what it is like to be searching for a job during that time. I know how the hours stretch and stretch and how desperately miserable it is possible to be.

I want to connect with this stranger. I want her to start her Air Force life out on the right foot. Because it is a great life, if you have the right attitude.

Mostly, I want her to know that she isn't alone.

I ended up leaving her a message. Who knows if I'll work up the courage to write out another script and call her again. But I want to.

You know, it would be a lot easier just to send her my URL and let her see what I'm all about. It's really too bad that can never happen.

One Year Down

One year ago today, I started blogging here at Tuna Girl.

For one full year I've been writing about my life on an almost daily basis.

That's pretty fucking amazing to me. Mostly because there are very few things in my life that I have done consistently for any stretch of time.

In fact, in honor of my blogoversary, here is a comprehensive list of the other things I have done on an almost daily basis in the past year.

Grown hair in inappropriate places
Removed hair from inappropriate places
Eaten
Eaten too much
Inhaled and exhaled
Done something that will mess my kids up for life
Talked or E-mailed with my husband
Thought about sex
Made my own lubricant
Brushed my teeth
Worn braces
Slept
Daydreamed about smacking AH
Hugged my kids
and Masturbated

*****

Thanks to all of you for coming along on the ride with me. This has been one of the most dynamic years of my life. I appreciate every one of you, those who are my friends, those who comment, even those who lurk.

And a very special thank you today goes out to my blog daddies, Nicky, MAK, and Mark. I love you guys.

Now that's some Tuna!

I've decided that my husband can get a tattoo. As long as it looks like this one. 

I want my DVD!

When we flew to visit family over the holidays, my husband brought his laptop and some DVDs for the kids. One of them was my son's favorite Thomas the Tank Engine.

A few days after my husband deployed, my son asked for his Thomas DVD and I couldn't find it anywhere. I have a feeling he may have taken it on his deployment with him by mistake. It was in a leather case with a bunch of other DVDs.

So I told my son, "When Daddy calls, we'll ask him if he knows where it is."

As soon as he got on the phone with his daddy, he asked, "Where's my DVD?"

Of course, my husband has no clue where it is, and I still haven't found it here at home. And now, every single time my husband calls, the first thing out of my son's mouth is, "Where's my DVD?" Every. Single. Time.

My poor husband. A few weeks ago he said, "Would you get that kid a replacement DVD, please? He's killing me!"

But even though I took him to the store and let him pick out any Thomas DVD he wanted, last night, he still said to my husband, "Daddy. I want my DVD! You have to come home and bring it to me."

And it finally dawned on me. He doesn't really care about the DVD. He just wants his Daddy to come home. And in his wonderful three-year-old logic, if he has his DVD, he'll have to come home to bring it to him.

Isn't that sweet? If only the world worked that way.

Now, let's see. What does my husband have over there with him that I can't do without? Oh, I know.

"Honey! I want your dick! You have to come home and bring it to me."

Can I trade my life on eBay?

Gee. I hate to post today. Today's post will knock my pictures of hot guys right off the front page of my blog.

Goodbye, hot men. I'll be seeing you in the archives.

When my husband left on this deployment, I wondered what would become of my blog.

I figured it would get extremely horned up, as it often does when he is away. But I haven't really had the energy for that.

I figured it would get less funny. Because our interactions seem to be the fodder for my funniest posts. (Not that I'm really funny, mind you. Nope. I'll deny it with my last breath!)

I figured it would get more sappy and whiney. Check and check.

I didn't figure that it would get more angry. But, damn, I am angry today.

But how can I blog about it? I'm not about to air my dirty laundry for everyone to see. Some things are too private for even me to blog about.

But I can't stop being angry. And it's hard to be horny, funny, sappy, or whiney when you're pissed off.

So let me deal with this the classic military wife way and bury, bury, bury it deep.

My son is still sick. Actually, he is very sick and now has a host of infections to deal with too. And the base chose today to replace my heating and air conditioning systems.

Okay. That's it. Who wants to trade lives? Mine's pretty good when it isn't falling to crap.

Ralph! Can I have Ice Cream?

Apparently, I didn't have food poisoning. I had a bug. Because today, in the most public way possible, my son started puking too.

There's another establishment I can never show my face in again.

The last time he threw up like this, it was all over the lady behind us in line at the pet store.

Today, he chose to project his Mexican lunch all over the floor of a restaurant.

As awful as it is to spend an entire night all alone puking your guts out, it is worse to have to watch your kids go through the same misery and be helpless to make them feel better.

Kids are resilient though. As we were walking (dashing actually) out of the restaurant, he asked for ice cream.

*****

By the way guys, thanks for your sympathy. I really do appreciate it. But I do have to point out that my post with pictures of shirtless guys got more comments. Priorities, people!

What's a blog really for?

Right now, my blog is for one thing and one thing only. Garnering sympathy.

I think I have food poisoning. I managed to get the kids to bed last night before I started vomiting. And I threw up all night.

These are the times when it really, really sucks to be a military wife. I'm here, all alone. With two kids to take care of. And I can barely function.

CB isn't home to help me. I have no one else to turn to. I couldn't even cry to my husband in the middle of the night because I have no way to get in touch with him.

This sucks.

Let the sympathy commence. (I'll feel guilty tomorrow.)

The Gay Activist Meets Suburbia, Part Deux

***continued from yesterday

Saturday morning saw us awake bright and early again. Damn offspring! Don't they know that they can sleep in on Saturdays? Patrick had wised up and not answered their knocking at the door, but they entered anyway (punishment time!) and whispered above his mock-sleeping form. "He's still sleeping. Lets' go wake up Mommy."

We then went to my daughter's soccer game, where Patrick spent all of his time checking out the hot soccer dads.

That afternoon we attended CB's little girl's third birthday party, where Patrick spent all of his time checking out the hot military dads.

Actually, it was quite surreal to introduce Patrick and CB. They're from two parts of my life that were never supposed to intermingle. But they liked each other. And they embarrassed me by both talking about how great I am. Pshaw. You guys!

And by the way, it was incredibly cute to see Patrick in that environment. He really is very good with kids. Even if he was drooling over my one particularly hot neighbor.

After loading the kids up with as much sugar as humanly possible, we returned home to deal with the fallout. We decided that the kids needed at least a little bit of real food before going to bed. And this is when Patrick discovered just what a truly bad mother I am.

Between the spoiled eggs, lack of milk, and my children behaving worse then they ever have in their entire lives, I have no idea how Patrick made it through the evening without killing one of us.

We tried to make it up to him by taking him to brunch on Sunday. We saw more "family" there then I ever have at one place in this city. And when I took the kids to the restroom, strangers took the opportunity to compliment him on how well-behaved his children were.

Later Patrick made the kids grilled PB&J on tortillas with bananas and then we took off for a minor league hockey game. We had fun and the kids absolutely loved being there with Patrick. They also loved the sno cones, cotton candy and M&Ms. See, my mother-of-the-year award should arrive anytime. And it will be sticky with syrup when it gets here.

Sunday night was cooking lesson for Tuna night. And yes, if you haven't already heard, Patrick made me bacon-wrapped beef tenderloin with herb stuffing. How wonderful is he? I still have half of it in my fridge.

We got to talk to a drunk Rick while we worked. (Okay, while Patrick worked and I watched in awe.) That was fun!

And by the way, Patrick may have made fun of my "choppy choppy thing" and my "slicey slicey thing", but he wasn't opposed to using them when cutting the onions by hand got to be too much for him.

On Monday morning, my daughter begged Patrick to come into school with her for a few minutes. As soon as we walked in the door, her teacher called out, "You must be Patrick!" I guess my little girl had been talking about someone she loves, huh?

We then headed home to complete the most important task of his visit. Does anyone remember the dead bird in my attic? Yes. It was still there. Yes, it has been months since I found it.

Patrick was kind enough to remove it for me and take it out to the trash. My hero! Except that the trash guys must have noticed our dead little friend and left her and her box behind. And then we had a wind storm, and last I saw, some kids were playing in the box behind my house. I certainly hope some animal took off with the bird before the kids decided to make the box their play house.

All in all, it was a wonderful visit. We also were able to talk to a few bloggers including MAK, Ryan, and of course a drunk Rick. All of whom are sweet men with sexy voices. And also Pua, who is a sexy woman with a sweet voice.

I couldn't possibly explain to Patrick how much I appreciate him, so I won't even try. But next time I see him, I'm leaving the kids at home and he's taking me on some rollercoasters. That couldn't be half as terrifying for me as dealing with my kids and my world was for him.

The Gay Activist Meets Suburbia

I'm not one to post weekend recaps. Mostly because my weekends usually consist of nothing more exciting than a five-year-old's soccer game and grocery shopping. But this past weekend was different. And I thought some of you might be interested.

First of all, I should state for the record that I hate Thursdays. There's just something about making a mad dash from school to ballet class, where I get to sit and wait with a bunch of stage mothers and AH, that makes me cranky. But this past Thursday, I followed up my ballet dash with a dash to the orthodontist and then the airport to pick up Patrick.

While we were waiting in the orthodontists office, the kids both had to make numerous trips to the restroom. Let's just say that they weren't feeling well. By the time we left, the orthodontist's trash was holding two pairs of soiled kids' underwear.

We made it to the airport with a few minutes to spare. The kids sat in the chairs by security and pointed at every passenger who emerged, asking, "Is that him?"

Just as I was expecting Patrick to appear, my son had another bathroom issue. As we started walking toward the restroom (again) Patrick came through security. The kids ran up for hugs and I warned Patrick, "Careful! He's got a little poop problem."

As it turns out, the kids weren't the only ones who needed to clean up. Patrick's first flight had to make an emergency landing because of the landing gear. He got to slide down the slide and everything. Poor baby. I think I know why that happened though. I think maybe God was trying to punish someone. You'll have to read this to see what I mean.

So sans undies and after lots of wipe downs, we were on our way for dinner at a local pie shop. We then whisked the kids home and into bed. Patrick read them bedtime stories with voices and everything. My son seemed to enjoy it but my daughter whispered to me that Patrick was "weird" and informed him that he didn't need to do voices like that.

We spent the evening chatting and watching a TiVoed Amazing Race.

The kids knocked on Patrick's door and woke him up at some ungodly hour on Friday morning. He hadn't learned to feign sleep and ignore their knocks yet, but he would. We dropped my daughter off at school and headed for the gym.

Then Patrick tried to kill me. Quite literally.

What the hell was I thinking to let him take charge at the gym like that? I'm afraid to show my face there again. He made me jog! Me! Jog! He made me sprint! Can you believe that? He made me do lunges and curls. He damn near made me heart explode.

Next time he visits I'm taking him to the batting cages and inflicting my own brand of torture.

After desperately needed showers, my son and I took Patrick to the hallowed halls of the BX food court on base. This is one of my favorite palces to eat lunch because of all the hotties on their lunch breaks.

I left Patrick alone in line at the sandwich shop for about thirty seconds while my son and I bought a slice of pizza. And somehow, in those thirty seconds, he was able to find someone to gay bash him. Jeeze. I can't leave him alone for a second.

I left Patrick and my sleeping son at home and went to pick up my daughter. We then played t-ball in the backyard. Woo hoo! Little Tuna Girl can hit. All of my dreams are coming true.

We also played on the trampoline. Well, the kids and Patrick played. I covered my eyes in abject terror while Patrick bounced the three of us six feet off the trampoline. After only suffering two or three injuries, we called it a night.

I ordered the kids and the babysitter a pizza and Patrick and I took off for my first adult night out in months.

We had dinner at a local Mexican place. The waitress made Patrick's year by asking to see his ID when he ordered a margarita. I think she maybe just didn't have her contacts in, but whatever.

We then headed to the movies. I waited in line to pick up my Fandangoed tickets while Patrick went to fetch us some snacks. Suddenly my cell phone rang. It was Patrick informing me that the group of guys behind me were "family". Ah, yeah! I could tell by the way they were talking about trying on Elton John's clothes.

We saw Be Cool. It was actually pretty good. Then we headed for ice cream. I'm suddenly realizing just how much we ate this past weekend. I think I'll be avoiding the scale for a while.

We also went to Barnes & Noble where Patrick freaked out yet another suburbanite by leafing through the Joy of Gay Sex. I think he might have also told a man in a hot pink shirt who was perusing bibles that he was "kidding himself" but I'm not sure.

We finally went home to overpay the babysitter and watch part of the Bourne Identity. (Matt Damon. Mmmm.) I got to see Patrick fall asleep and make these cute little snoring sounds before I sent him off to bed.

****more tomorrow

I'm Alive, but Barely

When Patrick flew out of here yesterday afternoon, he left behind two tired kids, one spoiled puppy, one exhausted housewife, enough leftovers to feed my entire neighborhood, and an incredible stench of garlic and onions.

I'm still too tired to process Patrick's visit into words, but it was wonderful and exactly what I needed right in the middle of this deployment.

But I know most of you just want to see pictures anyway. So here they are.

In other news--no--in other great big fucking news...

I got my braces off!

Anyone want to kiss me?

Too Busy

Patrick will soon be on his way here and I have a million things to do before his arrival.

I need to put away the laundry, clean the bathrooms, clean my van, attend my kid's school play, shave my legs, water pic my teeth, masturbate, drop off a donation to Goodwill, make a bed for Patrick, put some spider's eggs in Patrick's bed, post some posters on base warning of Patrick's arrival, curl my hair, take my daughter to ballet, go to the orthodontist, hide my sex toys, get a tan, lose 10 pounds, clean and organize my closets, wax my bikini line, throw away all the junk food in the house, and take out the trash.

Oh well, I guess I could skip the bikini line waxing.

Ooh. And I need to remember to pick Patrick up at the airport.

So rather than a real post today, I'm going to direct you to Rick's blog.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to talk to me in the middle of the night? Rick has the scoop.

I love you guys. We'll see if Patrick lets me near my computer long enough to post tomorrow. I have a feeling I may have some pictures to share.

What have I become?

Wow. The blog has been a little sappy lately, huh? Well, it's heartfelt sap, and it's a pretty true representation of how I feel right now.

But I think it's time to get back to the basics here on Tuna Girl.

You know those tan minivans that you see, with the yellow "Support Our Troops" ribbon magnets and the cutesy vanity license plates? Yeah.

I drove one of those last week.

You know those people who push their kids around a store in a cart while incessantly chattering on a cell phone? Yeah.

That was me yesterday.

You know those people who buy their kids toys and Pop-Tarts just to keep them quiet so they can keep chattering incessantly on a cell phone. Ayup.

That was me yesterday too.

And worst of all, you know those people who can't think of anything interesting to post to their blog, so they post pictures of really hot nearly naked men? Hell yeah.

That's me right now.











Oh dear lord! What have I become?

I blame the van on my parents, since it was theirs.

I blame the cell phone chattering on the person with whom I was conversing.

I blame the spoiled kid on my parents, too.

And I blame the posting of shallow pictures of hot men on my husband. If he were here, my hormones would be getting their proper exercise.

What, oh, what have I become? Don't you just hate people like me?

For the Love of Pua

I wish I was crafty.

Well, that's not true. My mother tried to get me interested in knitting, sewing, and quilting for the better part of my childhood. But I'd rather swing bats and swish balls *ahem* than do all that girly stuff.

But right now, I wish I had the skill to make something with my own hands and send it along to Pua to show my love.

Pua first commented on my blog when I linked to a gallery of Brendan Shanahan. We first connected over our love of hockey and then through our shared experiences in motherhood and our shared love of our blogger buddies.

She'll probably shake her head when she reads this, but Pua is my idol. Really.

It is very hard to find a mentor in motherhood these days. But Pua is mine. Right now she is the kind of mother I hope to be in *ahem* ten years.

And right now she is going through a hard time.

I've had my own share of hard times lately. Nothing like what Pua is dealing with, but still. She was there for me.

Just days after my jaw surgery--when I still couldn't talk or eat--my hot pink Pua scarf arrived in the mail. I immediately recognized it for what it was: a hug across the miles.

It was so cool to go to New York and see a bunch of us, from all across the country wearing our Pua scarves with pride. She might not have been able to be there, but she was a part of our hearts the whole time.

I was just talking the other day about how much I am loved. But I know that there is a woman out there who is even more loved than me. It's Pua, and she deserves every single tiny last drop of that love, and bucketfuls more.

If you don't read Pua's blog already, you need to. Go over and share some love.

I might not be able to knit her a scarf or sing her a song. But I can tell her I love her all the same.

I love you, Pua. We all do.

*****

See. Case in point here, and here, and here and here and here.