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.