Is it just me?

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

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

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

Snapshots of My Mundane Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ummm. Great.

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

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

There is a vortex.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alternate Plans. Grey Goose Required.

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, that is really how my mind works.

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

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

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

Be safe.

Be happy! Damnit!

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

I wholeheartedly disagree with him.

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

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

Does anyone know what I'm talking about?

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

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

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

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

But I know what I can do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quick!

I have a question.

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

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

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

Typical

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twelve inches!

Freaking typical.

Some of these are just for me.

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

But you know what is even more true?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, wait. Paaatrick! I need your help.

I can swallow!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

Quick!

Someone send me some porn.

Coming soon, to a Babylon near you...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I found this. This is Bibleman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mother/Son Moments

Yesterday, my son asked me what my breasts were.

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

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

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

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

Big things? Big things!

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

The women will get this one.

Wham! Bam! Whoosh! Crash!

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

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

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

And how do I respond?

I got my hair chopped off.

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

Script of Life

My husband and I often joke about our script.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

Attention to Detail

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

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

Today, it came.

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

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

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

Does no one pay attention to detail anymore?

He doesn't love me for my stories.

I was telling my husband this story last night.

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

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

And then he exploded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not Just for Lesbians Anymore

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

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

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

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

Yes, I said a mullet.

It was a really, really long mullet too.

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

"Those little girls have blond hair."

"Her little sister has really curly hair."

"She has really long hair."

"That little girl is chasing me."

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

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

But she was fascinated.

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

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

"Are those boys sisters?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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