When Good Bloggers Come Back

I love it when good bloggers come back.

First it was Brent, formerly of Coptalk, now of Law and Disorder.

Then it was Cass of CWill's Pen, now of Spindletown.

Then Jourdan Lane made another appearance.

And now, yay! Shamus is back thinking again.

Is there anyone else out there who has resurfaced? I get attached, you know?

It's a Straight, Straight World

Sometimes I forget.

I forget a lot.

I forget what the real world can be like.

I ran into a friend at the BX this weekend. When I told her that we'd be going to the Cape this summer she started telling me all about her and her husband's trip to New England last year.

This is a woman who I really like. She is beyond sweet and completely selfless. When our husband's attended the same school in Alabama, she supported me tremendously.

She told me how much they love Boston and Maine. How they want to retire to a little piece of property in the Maine woods.

And then she said, "And we took a drive out to Provincetown. Nobody told us it was *dramatic whisper* gay! We were walking around and I said to my husband, 'Something isn't right here.' We just had no idea."

And my response... "Oh yeah."

God I hate myself. Think of the myriad of things I could have said to her.

She went on. "I think I was just so shocked because I'm from the South and I've never really traveled out of the South and I've just never seen that before."

I actually think she's right about that. She's a good person. A very religious one, but a good person with a good heart none the less. All she needs is a little education.

But what did I say? "Oh yeah."

God I hate myself even more.

I immersed myself in gay culture for one week and I forgot what the real world is like.

My missed opportunity conversation with my friend is only the tip of the ice burg. But the other stories aren't mine to tell. Let's just say that there is one restaurant on the Cape the I won't be patronizing ever again.

And just as I was starting to feel despair about the world I live in, I caught just a tiny ray of light.

I have a secret. I like to read romance novels. I started reading historical romance when I was about ten-years-old. Where do you think I learned all about sex?

One of my favorite authors is Suzanne Brockmann. She writes a series of novels about the Navy SEALS. But she has a recurring gay FBI agent character throughout the series. He's always been a background player before, but in her current book Hot Target, he has his own main romantic story line.

When I cracked open Ms Brockmann's book a couple of nights ago, I read her dedication to her son. Her eighteen-year-old gay son.

It was simple, and heartfelt, and sweet, and honest.

I suppose she could lose readers over her gay story line. In fact, the novel is set around a movie being made about gay soldiers in WWII. But she obviously could care a less.

She's a mom. A mom who loves her son. A mom who is proud of her son and wants to share who he is.

And she made me remember. Maybe I drop the ball sometimes, but I'm doing the most important thing I can. I'm raising my kids to be loving and accepting.

And if there comes a time when one of my kids comes out to me, well, I hope I can follow Ms. Brockmann's lead. Actually, I know I can.

But I've got to live in this straight, straight world for now. And I need to work on my responses. Because I refuse to answer, "oh yeah," again.

Welcome Home Part 2

I skipped my normal blogging time today in favor of a nooner with my husband. I'm sure you all understand.

In fact, I've been skipping out on a lot of things these last few days, like calling my friends to thank them for my birthday gifts, in favor of having sex and sleeping (a lot).

But I've promised myself that once I've gotten this final blog out about my trip, I'll get right back to my normal routine.

So I believe I left you yesterday with the stripper boys.

Well, on Friday, we actually started to do some work. But Patrick also insisted that we go to the local tanning salon for a spray-on tan. Do you think he might have been embarrassed by my pasty white skin?

I ended up being more tan than I ever have in my life. But, I had an unfortunate incident with the little booties they give you to cover your toenails and I ended up with the dorkiest tan line ever on my feet. (I'm not the only one.) But, I am the only one with a dark brown cleavage stain. Apparently, some of the tan spray sort of settled there. Lovely!

On Friday night we joined a couple of Patrick's friends for dinner at the restaurant that he had been working at. The guys were great and I was so glad to meet them. I lived up to my reputation of ordering the most expensive meal on the menu. I had a lobster-stuffed filet mignon and it was orgasmic.

Some of the details get a little fuzzy from here. I think we parked back at Patrick's house and walked to the bar again. I seem to remember drinking three Cosmos and five Cape Cods. I definitely remember one of Patrick's friends grabbing my breast from behind. I don't think I had even met him yet at that point. Later, while Patrick was ordering us more drinks, he motioned me forward as if to say something in my ear and then poured some of his drink down my cleavage. Lovely! His friends dragged him home soon after. If he even remembers doing any of that stuff to "Toona Girl!" I'm sure he's embarrassed about it now.

We took way more pictures than we should have at the bar. We really didn't need photographic proof of my intoxication. And then somehow Patrick was able to talk me into going to a diner. He insisted it would help keep me from having a hangover, but really, I think he just wanted to embarrass me a little more. Because, of course, we ran into friends at the diner.

We walked home and crashed for another night.

When that damn annoying alarm went off the next morning, I really could have killed Patrick with just one look. But we got up and got ready for his moving sale.

I have to say that the moving sale was just an awful time for me. I didn't like having all of Patrick's stuff up for grabs, and I didn't like strangers traipsing in and out of his house. I was not a happy camper. I did the best I could to help, but I also stayed out of the way and cleaned as much as I could. Patrick's friends Ann and Kat helped out tremendously that day, and I could just hug them for it.

Saturday night was definitely the most surreal night of my trip. I felt like I was in a sitcom.

One of Patrick's friends is new to the area and threw a party to get to meet some people. It was a pajama party. It was thirty or forty gay men in their p.j.s and me. As Aaron put it, "That is definitely, Oh my gay hell!"

I had a blast. The food was amazing and I got to watch cute guys wrap themselves around each other playing Twister. I was smart enough not to drink that night. I've now had enough alcohol to last me for a few decades.

The guys kept staring at me, which was weird. But they also complimented me on my pajamas and pig tails, so I'm going to assume that they were staring at me because I'm just so fucking cute. Right?

Sunday was spent packing and cleaning. But I did get to meet Patrick's masturbating neighbor.

The guys were moving Patrick's coffee table to Shamus' pace next door. I was holding the glass door open and they had to stop with the glass-topped coffee table half-way through the threshold.

I was stuck holding that door or it would have banged the corner of the table. And this is when skanky neighbor man started talking to me.

I ignored him at first, but you know how crazy people get when you ignore them? So I tried to placate him with just a few words. Do you know what I mean?

Somehow, him asking me how I got to be so beautiful degenerated him to him declaring, "If you lost thirty pounds, I'd do you."

Great. I'll keep that in mind, drunk crazy neighbor man.

Of course, whenever I tell this story now I change it to, "If you lost thirty pounds, I'd fuck you."

And let's all just ignore the fact that drunk crazy neighbor man made me cry.

So we worked our asses off all day Sunday. I was exhausted from all the fun, partying, and drinking and that made me way too emotional. We were finally ready to leave just before 10 p.m. Patrick drove the rented van and I followed him in his car. And shhh. Don't tell him, but I cried my eyes out for him as we pulled away from his neighborhood.

By midnight we were ready to crash and we stopped and got a hotel room. The hotel clerk was laughing at me for trying to answer my phone by flipping it open even though I had the earpiece plugged in, and Patrick decided to try and make him laugh at me some more.

"So what do I get for 10 bucks?" he asked me. Fucking comedian. The clerk stood up for me and declared that I was worth at least 13 bucks. What would guys do without me around to use as comic fodder?

Very early the next morning we set off for Cape Cod.

When we passed the sign that says, "Welcome to Massachusetts" I told Patrick, "Welcome home, Baby."

When we got stuck in Boston traffic for the first time I told Patrick, "Welcome home, Baby!"

When we pulled into the driveway of the house he's staying in I told Patrick, "Welcome home, Baby!"

But I wasn't really welcoming him to any of those places. Because the truth is that he isn't really home. He's staying some place temporarily, trying to make money, and getting set to move on to the next phase of his life.

But I was welcoming him home. Because now, more than ever he is a member of my family and he has found a home right here in my heart.

And if this post is choppy and boring, I know you'll excuse me. Because I had to stop twice while writing it to have sex with my husband.

Welcome Home

This isn't the first time I've started to write this post. In fact, I've been home from my Cleveland to Cape Cod adventure for two days and I've started writing at least a dozen times.

Usually, as I live my life, I am very much inside of my head. I'm constantly creating stories, reliving my past, dreaming about my future, or composing blog posts in my head as I go about my day. I live very inside of myself.

But this past week, I've been living very much in the moment. I went days and days without even thinking about blogging. I was thinking about bloggers, but not blogging.

And now I find myself with an album full of pictures, a head full of caught moments, and a heart full of bipolar emotions and no words to express them.

So I've decided to brain dump. I'm going to start writing about my trip and you can come along for the ride. And if I start to embarrass myself or my friend, just look away until I compose myself and than we can all continue on like nothing happened. Okay?

On the morning of my birthday, after attending a completely useless board meeting at my daughter's school, my husband and son dropped me off at the airport for my trip to Cleveland to meet this beautiful man. My phone rang before I could even get off the plane in Cleveland and in true Patrick-style, he talked to me all the way through my walk through the concourse.

And I have to tell you guys, though he'll probably give me guff over it, Patrick is looking good! And you better believe I'm not the only one who noticed.

We headed right over to his softball team's practice and I got to meet a bunch of his friends all at once. As we pulled up to the field I had to ask Patrick, "Where are all the mini vans and SUV's?" Every single car in the lot (including the one we were driving in) was cute and little. What the hell?

Then Patrick took me out for my birthday to a really nice restaurant with amazing service and excellent food. They also had Sangria and we split a pitcher. And don't tell Patrick but I didn't really drink all that much of it. We probably split it 75-25, and we left a good third of the pitcher behind.

But, apparently, this place is known for their complimentary shots. They gave us each a traditional Portuguese almond liquor shot. Now, I have never done a shot before in my life. And I had never planned to. But I couldn't not drink it. And I didn't want to make Patrick drink it since he was driving. And it is the traditional shot of my native people. So I did the best I could. It took two swallows to get it down. And somehow, I feel like my reputation has been forever tarnished.

We parked back at Patrick's house and walked over to the closest gay bar. Where Patrick proceeded to pour Cosmos down my throat. I think we had three. And Patrick, of course, just had to tell the owner that it was my birthday. And the owner just had to give us two more complimentary shots. They were blue. They were twice as big as a shot should be. And I have no idea what was in them. But, once again, I couldn't not drink them. Ugh.

I think it was at this point that we called Rick. I honestly don't remember. At some point Patrick bought me a chocolate cake shot (which isn't brown). I do remember how all the boys were checking out Patrick. And I do remember one freaky man trying to get in good with me when Patrick went to the bathroom.

Weird Man: "So are you sad that he's leaving?"
Me: "Well, I'm not from here."
Weird Man: (laughing at me) "I asked if you were sad that he's leaving."
Me: "Well, I'm still not from here."

Considering how much I drank, I wasn't actually that drunk. I was able to walk down the stairs and find the ladies room with no problem. We walked home to Patrick's house and crashed.

When Patrick's alarm went off at 6 a.m. the next morning, I could have cheerfully killed him. He dragged me out of bed, made me walk to the the Starbucks, and then marched me on a five mile hike along the lake edge. What is it with Patrick torturing me with physical exercise?

Then, after all this walking, we took off for Cedar Point amusement park.

I had a blast at the park. Though Patrick did try to starve and freeze me. It was a cold and rainy day, but the lines were short and we rode every coaster there. We met Shamus there too, and that was fun. It's been about seven years (since my first pregnancy) since I was able to ride a roller coaster. And I love them. And Cedar Point has the best. As Patrick noted on his blog, I did scream on the Top Thrill Dragster (or something like that), but this ride is indescribable.

We stayed until the park closed and then made haste for some food. And then...oh dear lord...and then we met up with some of his friends (including Ann) at a bar with strippers.

This freaked me the hell out. It wasn't the strippers who freaked me out, even when they were completely naked. Oh no, it was the audience. I think the girls can back me up here. When we go to a male strip show we act like it's a party. We hoot and holler and whistle and scream. We dance and tip nicely. (Well, I don't, but you know what I mean.)

The guys in this bar were just standing there. Watching. Not saying a word. Not cracking a smile. And they didn't hand over the tips just to be nice. They had to grab, fondle, tweak, or worse before they handed over their tip. Or worse, they would stand behind the strippers and grind into them. The strippers would stand there talking to someone, or just looking bored, while they ground their ass for some extra cash.

Creepy.

Oh, and by the way, Patrick got a very serious offer from the owner of the bar to be a stripper. I told you he was looking good.

And on that note...I think I've written enough for today. Join me tomorrow when I'll talk about tanning, packing, flirty boys, pajamas, and my cleavage.

(Oh, and I'll get around to the title of the post too.)

Thirty-two Years Young

I'm not a big fan of my birthday.

Ever since my Sweet 16 party was a big honking flop, I've had a love/hate relationship with my birthday.

But I don't hate my birthday because I am aging. Seriously. I have never had a birthday where I was depressed because I was another year older. I've actually kind of liked getting older and older. It has been nice to start to look my age for once in my life.

This year, I get to be with my husband on my birthday. Or at least sort of. Tomorrow I will turn 32-years-old while I am winging my way to Cleveland. Which is cool because I'll get to spend at least part of my birthday with both of my best friends.

I'm really excited.

But even though I'm experiencing those pre-birthday woes as usual, this year hasn't been quite so bad.

Yesterday when I was getting my hair cut, my 25-year-old hairdresser (she's hot, sweet, and single boys!) said, "You're about the same age as me, right?"

"Um, no. I'm thirty-two. But I love you for thinking that."

And on my way out of the DMV today, with my newly renewed driver's license in hand, a stranger stopped to congratulate me on getting my first license. Umm, okay. "Thank you," I nodded as I hurried away.

"What high school do you go to?" the stranger asked.

"Not one around here," I called back to my new best friend.

I don't know. These people are clearly insane. I've aged more in the last four months than the last four years! But if they want to give me these little birthday presents early, they are more than welcome to.

I've decided to have a positive attitude this year, even if it kills me.

So happy birthday to me. I'm another year older and deeper in love.

Reunions are hard. At least the sex is good.

I always forget just how hard reunions are until I'm smack in the middle of one.

Each time my husband returns from a deployment, I tell myself that this time will be different. This time we'll ease into the transition. This time we'll communicate better. This time I won't read into his every expression and comment.

Yet every time he returns to me after months apart, it is hard.

This time was especially hard.

I don't know if it is because his jet lag was especially bad. Or if it is because the kids are older. Or if it is because this deployment was different from the others he's been on. Or if it is because I struggled through this deployment more than any other. Or maybe it is even because he made closer friends on this deployment than ever before.

Whatever the reason, it has been very hard.

And I didn't exactly start it off with a bang either.

This time, because he deployed alone, he came home on a commercial flight. His commander and a few of his friends wanted to meet us at the airport to welcome him home. As well-intentioned as this was, I would really have preferred to greet him in private. This was to be his first homecoming where we wouldn't have to hide from news cameras. (I hate that the media uses us to make a nice headline for themselves.)

In the end, his friends weren't able to make it. But his commander was there.

And it's a good thing, because I wasn't there!

He had made it to the airport in Baltimore early enough to catch an earlier flight home. So, I had to quickly pick my daughter up from school to make it to the airport on time.

As I was ready to leave the house, my son announced that he had already pooped in his pants. Ten minutes later, we were out the door.

When I got to my daughter's class, I hoped to be in and out as quickly as possible. But her classmates had made a Welcome Home banner (adorable), and I had to talk with them about it.

I thought I might still make it on time. I jumped on the highway. I only had to go up one exit to jump on the next highway. And then I saw the Detour signs. The ramp was closed. I had to go up an exit and use back roads to get to the airport.

The kids and I raced into the terminal. Just as I entered the door, I spotted my husband and his commander waiting by the baggage claim. And my cell phone started to ring.

So I waved and his commander caught sight of me.

The kids ran up to him for hugs and kisses. And I got mine too.

Then I had to thank his commander for meeting him. "Well, one of us had to," was his jocular reply.

Nice, huh? Four months and 11 days, and I can't even meet him on time.

And the sad thing is that this isn't the first time this has happened! I'm never late. What's the deal with that?

Anyway, he's been home for five full days now, and things are finally better. We did some normal, everyday things together today and it was nice.

I have to admit that I talked to a friend last night, and it helped immensely. I knew that I was projecting my insecurities onto him, but to have someone call me on it, made a huge difference. I woke up this morning with a new attitude.

And soon I'll be getting my much-needed break.

Since Patrick blogged about it today, I guess I can share. (Sheesh. I haven't even told my parents yet.) About a month ago, my husband insisted that when he got home and had leave time to watch the kids, that I would take a trip to see Patrick.

I am really excited. I'll be helping him move and having fun. And my kids will get Daddy all to themselves for a few days.

Now I have a day and a half to launder every piece of clothing I own and strategically pack. What does a straight woman wear to a gay bar? How about a gay bar filled with foam? Could I be farther out of my element?

And when I get back home, we'll get to do the reunion thing all over again, this time sans PMS and jet lag. And with a lot more sex.

Because if you're going to do a reunion, you should do it right.

Overheard at the Tuna House

"Oh my dear lord! Oh. My. Dear. Lord!"

No, this wasn't me exclaiming in ecstasy from the ground zero of sexual gratification that we call our bed.

This is what I scream out when I realize that I've stepped barefoot on the tail of a lizard. A still squirming tail. A severed, still squirming tail.

So where the hell is the rest of him?

This is what I've been waiting four months and 11 days for. Not the sex. Not the closeness. Not the domestic help. Not the wonderful fathering.

No, I've been waiting for the killer of all things insect, reptile and rodent to return.

I had to drag the poor man out of a hot bath just to dispose of the severed tail and the mangled body. The poor lizard had been split in two by our Three's Company-style kitchen door.

(Jesus. You people must thing I live in a fucking slum with all the animals I have coming in and out.)

The other thing that I have been saying over and over again for the last four months and 11 days is, "I need a break." Sometimes I even say, "I need a fucking break."

Apparently, I got one. You can read all about it here.

What the hell happened to, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." Huh?

(It's the boobs, I tell you. These things are fucking powerful.)

You know what's really bad?

When your gay male friend who you barely ever see in person can tell just from your phone conversation that you are PMSing. Again.

When your husband is coming home after months of being away and you get to greet him with raging hormones, acne, bloating, and well...tampon stories. PMS: The gift that keeps on giving.

When you try to get some laundry done before said husband gets home and you find an entire load of his laundry at the bottom of your hamper. That stuff has been there since January 1. At least.

When you pull a muscle doing battle with another winged-bringer-of-doom (a.k.a. a bayou cockroach) who you had to chase around your dining room with a can of Raid and a combat boot. The fucker couldn't have waited one more day to put in an appearance!

When you want to thank and hug all of your supportive readers for everything they have given you during a difficult time, but you can't find the words. And you're too happy about your husband's imminent return to really think about it now. But I love you guys! I'm not sure I would have made it through even half as sane if it weren't for you.

***See you in a few days***

Flighty Girl

You'll excuse me if I'm a little too flighty to blog today, won't you?

My man is on his way home. It will take him more than two days to get here. But he's on his way home.

I teasingly told him a couple of days ago that while I was excited that he would be home in a week, it didn't leave me enough time to lose all the weight I had gained while he was gone. "It's too bad," I told him cheekily. "Because for a while there, I was getting pretty hot."

He replied, "You're always hot in my book."

Awwww.

I have to run now. I'm all a flutter. I've got to get ready for my husband's return.

And hot plumber boy is an hour late for our appointment. I've got to go clean out my pipes.

Playing the Fairy

I'm a mom. I need a set of wings. (And some privacy.)

Last night, around midnight, I was enjoying some private time in my bedroom when I heard the pitter-patter of little feet in the hallway.

I did some quick cleaning up, and raced to get to the door before one of my children knocked.

And even though I knew she would be there, when I opened the door and my daughter was standing right in front of it, I almost had a heart attack.

She was beaming and holding something out to me. "Look, Mommy! Look!"

"What is it, Baby Girl?" I asked her.

And she placed the tiny thing in the palm of my hand. "My tooth, Mommy! I lost my first tooth!"

Now, this was an especially momentous occasion for her. Not only is she the very last child in her class to lose her first tooth, but we were having some trouble. Her adult tooth was already coming in but not pushing her baby tooth out. She knew, because the dentist told her, that if she couldn't pull her baby tooth out by herself, she'd have to have it pulled.

Since I had no idea what the going rate for a baby tooth is now-a-days, I told her that we had probably already missed the Tooth Fairy that night, but that we'd put it under her pillow the following night.

Which brings me to my Mission: Impossible tonight. Do you have any idea how hard it is to slide out a baby tooth and slide in a couple of bucks beneath the pillow of a sleeping child?

For Mothers' day my daughter had given me a frame that she had made at school, and a necklace that she had made in art class. My son gave me a handful of toys when he saw that his sister was one-upping him. I know they'll both make me some art in the morning and they are insisting that they take me out for lunch.

But it is these little motherhood moments, like playing tooth fairy, that are the real gifts. I never knew they could mean so much.

If only I had real a magical wand and fairy wings I could fly around bestowing special moments on everyone I love.

I think I'd start with my mom. After all, she passed the wand to me in the first place.

Memed Again, Fuckers

Revenge is a dish best served old. *

I mean, cold. Cold. Yeah, cold.

Famous Author Rob Byrnes has tagged me, and I'm 'it.' The Official Rules of the Caesar's Bath Meme, as I copied and pasted them from his blog:

Said meme takes its name from Mel Brooks' A History of the World (Part I), and, upon receiving it, one is supposed to list five things that one's circle of friends or peer group is wild about, but that one can't really understand the fuss over. Quoth Caesar, "Nice. Nice. Not thrilling . . . but nice."

What the hell? Who is this Mel Brooks person he is talking about? And who the hell is my peer group?

I pass FARB this nice little meme about what music he listens to, and he tags me with the hardest meme of all time?

So I've been giving it a lot of thought. Since I seem to have more in common with the gay men in my life than I do the military wives I spend most of my time with, I think I'll refer to the gals as my peer group for the sake of the meme.

What better way to celebrate Military Spouse Appreciation Day (appreciate me, damnit!) than to slam my friends?

1. Lipstick: I'll never really understand makeup in general. I just don't get how it ended up that women must wear makeup to be considered presentable, but men don't. Who made that rule? But what amazes me about lipstick is it seems to be the one thing most women will not go out in public without. (Like Kelly on last week's Amazing Race who asked a complete stranger if she could borrow her lipstick.) What is wrong with the natural color of our lips, people? And besides, lipstick is gross. It gets on your teeth, your cup, and your man.

2. Scrapbooking: I can't think of a single one of my military wife friends who doesn't scrapbook. Now don't get me wrong, I think the resulting albums are really nice and all, but sheesh. Stop making me feel like I'm an awful wife and mother just because I don't scrapbook every moment of our lives. There's nothing wrong with the old fashion sleeve albums or digital albums. They're just pictures, people! And besides, that shit is expensive.

3. Yellow Ribbons: Or any kind of magnet or bumper stick for your mini van or SUV. Once upon a time, a yellow ribbon meant something.

4. Christian Music: And I thought Country music was bad. All of my friends listen to this stuff all of the time. I drove CB's van home from the airport once and every station she had programmed in was Christian. She once asked me if I minded that she played it in her house when she babysat my kids. The worst part of their obsession is that they talk about it all the time. Christian Music makes me want to shove forks in my ears. These friends of mine wouldn't know David Grohl if he bit them in the face.

5. Brad Pitt: I don't know. He can be nice looking and all but. . . eh. Nice. Nice. Not thrilling. . . but nice.

And I guess I'm supposed to pass this on to three people. Great, three more people who are going to hate me. I think I'll stick with the military wives and pass this stick to Rose, and Feisty Girl. And non-military wife Sarah too. Because all three should have very interesting perspectives.

*It is probably best not to antagonize the one person I know with literary connections. What I meant to say was: You are a virile and handsome young man, Famous Author Rob Byrnes. I worship the alcohol-soaked ground you stagger on.

You're Fired!

I've started to write about this several times before. But I can never seem to get it right. But now it is forefront in my mind most of the time. And I need to get it out.

I once read that everyone has a committee in his head. You consult this committee every time you make a decision, from the most mundane to the most life changing. Of course you give the committee varying degrees of decision-making power. But it's always in there, crowding up your subconscious.

The people on this mental committee are the people in your life who have influence over you. They may be dead or alive and you may consult them consciously or subconsciously. But once someone gets on your committee, it is damn hard to boot them off.

So who's on your committee?

Mine is made up of my husband, kids, and closest friends. There may also be a past coach or teacher or two. And then there are my parents.

Damn, damn, damn. Thirty-one years-old and I'm still subconsciously consulting my parents every time I make a decision.

Now, that's not to say that I always do what I perceive will make them happy. If that were true I wouldn't be married and living in a different state and I would still be working the first job I got out of college.

My husband and I have recently had to make a few decisions that we know won't make them overly happy. Actually, that's not fair. It is our perception that they won't be happy. Sometimes I think we project our own insecurities onto them. But still, past experience makes us think that they won't be happy.

We're still doing what we think is right, but we're both stressed about my parent's reaction.

It's time they got off my committee. I need to do some major reorganization. I need to walk into my mental boardroom and lay down the law.

You're fired!

The good news is that every time we get in one of these situation, my brother goes and does something so much worse than what we're planning. It's good to be the "good one" for a change.

Curses!

I think hot plumber boy said it best when he exclaimed, "This house is cursed!"

Why yes, hot plumber boy. Yes, it is.

This time around I decided not to argue with hot plumber boy about feminine hygiene products. I thought meat would be a much better topic.

At first, he blamed the reclogging and flooding of my sink on the fact that I was actually using the garbage disposal for (gasp) garbage.

Our conversation went something like this:

HPB: This is because of all the meat in the garbage disposal. I'll have to clear meat out from under the house too. You know, those disposals aren't really good for much besides rinsing off your plates.

Me: Excuse me. Did you say "meat"?

HPB: Yes, meat.

Me: Meat?

HPB: Meat.

Me: Meat???

HPB: Meat.

Me: How could I have meat in my disposal when I never cook?

HPB: (Clearly baffled at the thought that a women might not enjoy cooking for her man) I saw meat.

We had this meat? meat exchange a couple of times during the day.

I haven't had meat in my house since Patrick visited. (Okay, the sexual innuendos can abound on that one.) And trust me, not a single morsel of that bacon-wrapped beef tenderloin went anywhere near that disposal.

Regardless, my sink is still in pieces and my water is still brown. The only good thing about this is that I'll get another visit from hot plumber boy. He better hope this problem is solved before the man gets back home.

But there is something about the last few weeks of a deployment that always send the house gremlins into a frenzy.

The kids' bathroom has been filled with bugs for weeks. The bug man has been out numerous times and can't seem to find the source.

The brand new heat and/or air conditioning doesn't seem to be keeping up with things upstairs.

And the computer decided to foil my blogging and e-mailing plans by ceasing to work. The mouse just keeps stalling out.

But it's funny that once you get a little rest and get a lot more organized (and skip a few days of blogging) your brain will suddenly start to work and you can solve a lot of problems.

First, I realized that the window in the kids' bathroom was cracked open on the top. The screen fell out years ago and I always leave the light on so the kids can make late-night potty trips. Hmmm, open window...light.... Yes, that just may be a magnet for bugs.

I realized that the cleaning ladies had left the window like that, so I started to check the windows in the rest of the upstairs. They're all cracked. No wonder the heat and/or AC couldn't keep up.

And at two o'clock in the morning last night, I finally solved my computer problem.

Aha! The mouse keeps freezing? Maybe the nifty, little optical mouse needs new batteries.

I swear I used to be smarter than this.

I had poor Patrick on the phone with me for over an hour in the middle of the night, walking me through the keystrokes to back-up my photo files and trying to run Ad-ware. Poor baby. He's going to kick my ass.

But I owe him an ass kicking for yesterday's post, so I guess we're even.

I'll be back to regular blogging soon, y'all.

Mommy Needs it Bad

Gay Tunapet here...the big fish has been having difficulties with her computer and has asked that I guest blog for her today. So I decided it was time to make a public announcement regarding the lovely lady.

Tuna Girl's Birthday is May 18

Yeah...she is so going to kill me for this. I'm telling you this, because during a phone conversation that we had, she told me she doesn't like her birthday. Why? Because nobody remembers it. She doesn't get any cards in the mail, Tuna Hubby is usually not home on the big day (although this year he will be), and generally people forget the day.

So at least her readers will remember. Right?????????