In Totality

Sex texting with my husband? Totally worth the ten cents per message.

Selecting the wrong recipient for one of those messages? Totally embarrassing.

Using my Jabra Bluetooth headset to talk to my husband after all that texting? Totally worth every cent we paid for it.

Finally finding out what he intends to do with those mysterious hooks in our ceiling? Totally worth the wait.

Vowels of Love

There's this guy at the gym...

No. This isn't a letter to Penthouse.

There's this guy at the gym that freaks me out. He's your typical muscle dude type. He travels in packs. He lifts way too fast with really bad form. He looks in the mirror a lot. You know the type.

But he has this weird noise that he makes that makes me really embarrassed for him.

Now, a lot of guys will make a kind of ahhh sound as they're pushing out the last few reps in a set. I've even heard the occasional "Argh!" But this guy lets loose with a string of very high pitched eee, eee, eee's.

He sounds like a woman practicing Lamaze. "He, he, ho...he, he, ho..." Except he sounds like he's in more pain. And has more estrogen.

He might have a built body and all, but even if I could use his eee, eee, eee! method to look like Jessica Alba, I don't think it's worth the embarrassment.

But his eee's have me thinking about something.

Have you ever noticed that everyone has his or her own favorite vowel sound that emerges without conscience thought when in the throes of passion? In other words, have you ever noticed that everyone has his or her own sex sound?

First there are the A's. "Aaah! Aaah! Aaah!"

Then, much like muscle boy from the gym, there are the E's. "Eee! Eee! Eee!"

You can't forget the I's, most often made by a racially stereotyped Latino (or Latina) in porn. "Eye! Eye! Eye!...IIIIIII'm coming!"

Then there is my personal favorite, the O's. "Oh, yes. Oh, yeah. Oh. Oh! OH!!! Oh, shit." Or, "Ooooo, ooooo, ooooo. Right there!"

Last but not least, are the U's, most often uttered as ,"Ummmmm." Or sometimes heard as the not-so-popular, "Ugh."

Of course these vowel lovers are also augmented by people who hum, "Mmmmmm," and freaks who talk in full sentences. What the hell's up with those people? Oh, and let's not forget the completely silent types. (I can't. I married one.) Or the religious types. "Oh, God! Oh, Jesus! Oh, Lord. I'm coming!"

So, while I was busting my ass on the treadmill to the soundtrack of muscle boy's girly orgasm, I was wondering this:

Can you characterize lovers by the sounds that escape them in the moment of truth?

Will an "O" make a good partner? Will an "mmmm" be indulgent? Will the silent type be faithful?

Let's take a poll. What sound do you make? (Go get busy and report back.) And what kind of lover are you? Let's share.

This all goes to prove one thing.

I think way too much while I exercise.

Ass First, Please

I lost three and a half pounds last week.

Every ounce of it was from my boobs.

I swear.

I Want My Machete Arms!

Whenever you embark on a new path, there comes a time when you can either abandon your efforts completely, or charge ahead. Sometimes that charging ahead involves using a machete to hack out your own new trail.

I found myself in that place this morning.

It would be so easy to just shrug it all off and say, "Eh. It wasn't worth it anyway. It's too hard." But I have been challenged. And I'm not one to back down from a challenge.

Personally, I think the best challenges are the ones that are inadvertently made.

It was almost a month ago that I joined a new gym and committed to caring for my own needs in a way that I haven't since my kids were born. I felt that a tremendous amount of change was just over the horizon. And I was right.

And I was kicking butt. Since then I've kept this house organized to my standards. And I've been training the other members of my family to do their share. I was going to the gym at least five days a week. And I was making the most of my time there. I was cruising along on Weight Watchers and feeling pretty damn good about everything.

While I was doing all that, the closest people in my life were going through some serious stuff. Most of all, I saw my mother go through a health scare (we're still waiting for answers) that was a huge wake-up call. For me it reinforced all of my objectives.

And then my husband went away for a week and I blew it. The house is still pretty neat, but I binged all weekend long and took four days off from the gym.

I felt so awful about myself. I wanted to wallow.

But my mother called and casually mentioned that she had started taking a new step class. She asked if she could get a guest pass for my gym for when she visits.

This is my mother. This is the woman who ruined my father's Christmas surprise by saying, "Well, as long as you didn't buy me another stupid gym membership." (He had.)

I want to learn my lesson about caring for myself at 32. Not 56 when illness and age are catching up with me.

Without even knowing it, she challenged me.

The last thing in the world I wanted to do this morning was get up early to shave my legs so I could go to the gym. But I did it. Maybe, by example, I'll teach my daughter a lesson about caring for herself when she's 6. And maybe I'll be around to see her turn 56.

So, if I'm going to stick on this jungle path now, I might as well go all the way.

A certain someone in my life told me that he was going to play "hardball" with me. He said, "When you see a doctor, I will too."

Ha! Batter up, baby.

I'm going to the dentist tomorrow morning to do something about my broken tooth. And I'm going to a new doctor Friday morning to discuss my health history, my weight, and my future.

I've been avoiding it for four long years. I've been taking care of everyone else. But now it is time.

I feel like the worst is behind us, right now. Things are only better and brighter before me.

Who knew that calling a few doctors would be so empowering?

One Story, Two Reactions

My kid is growing up.

Oh, that doesn't mean that we don't have our daily dose of crying. We just wouldn't be the Tuna family without the Tuna daughter having her once-a-day breakdown. But I'm starting to see visions of the teenager she's going to be, and it is some scary shit.

She wants to get her ears pierced. (I told her she has to wait until she's twelve.)

She wants to go to college so she can be a scientist. (But she cries about it because she's afraid to move into a dorm.)

She wants to kiss her brother, "Like this. Like grown-ups do!" (And I had to explain about sisterly kisses while shopping at the BX.)

And she wants to get married. To the boy who lives across the playground from us. The boy who she has, "...so much fun playing spies with."

She came in from playing for a drink of water and told me, "Mommy, I'm going to marry that boy. Don't tell him though because I don't know if he loves me yet, but I love him."

"What's the boy's name, Sweetie?" I asked her.

"I don't know," she replied.

"That's going to make it awfully hard to exchange vows at the alter."

In her defense, the little boy has a serious speech impediment that makes it almost impossible to understand him.

I have to admit that I'm keeping a close eye on them. He's always wanting her to go to his garage. He is the older man, after all. He's seven.

*****

My husband is out of town for work this week; first to a resort town than to corporate box seats at an NHL game. Fucker. But I told him this story over the phone last night.

His reaction: "At least she isn't insisting on marrying her brother anymore."

Then I told Patrick the same story.

His reaction: "Oh, no! It's starting. Who is this kid? You think her father is going to be protective? The first boy who breaks her heart is going to have to deal with me. And it isn't going to be pretty."

*****

So, to all of my daughter's future suitors, here is a warning.

You think dealing with a military officer father will be bad? Think again. It's the gay uncle whose wrath you should fear. I suggest you suck up in the right direction.

Oh, wait. That just took a really wrong turn.

As for me, I'm not worried about dealing with her dating years at all. Oh sure, the drama will be in full effect every time a boy says something out of line.

But it's the drama of the men in my life that I'm going to have to deal with. And just think. My son will be in on it by then too.

He's already made his stand with the boy next door.

"Leave my sister alone!"

Right on, Tuna Boy.

Is that the best you can do?

I haven't told my husband this yet, but...

I got hit on today at the gym.

I'm sorry. No matter who you are, how much in love you are, or how jealous your partner may be, it feels good to get hit on. Even if the guy hitting on you could only most generously be called a "5".

But I haven't been hit on in years.

Oh sure, gaggles of gay guys have flirted with me and called me gorgeous, but they're only trying to increase their tips or their chances with my hot gay friends.

So I didn't even recognize his pathetic straight guy attempt to pick me up until he spelled it out for me.

And what was his ingenious pick-up line?

"Where did you get those sneakers?"

I was listening to my iPod and totally in my work out zone, so he had to repeat himself three times. But they are kind of cool Adidas running shoes and I thought maybe he had a girlfriend who was in the market for some new kicks.

So I told him where I got them and started to walk away. But he kept talking to me and I awkwardly stopped and listened.

Finally he said, "Hey! What's that on your hand?"

I thought it might be a bug or a bugger or something and I flicked my right hand up to look.

"No," he said. "Not that one. The other one."

So I flicked my left hand up. "I don't see anything."

"I see a wedding ring," he sighed. "Too bad."

Oh yeah. It's too bad, alright. Because I would have been all over your skinny butt and non-existent chin if only I wasn't married. But why don't you give me your number and I'll file it under Worst Pick Up Line Ever.

Tuna Girl Sucks

Well, I'm having fun with this, even if you guys aren't. If you still want to make a guess, feel free. There are hints in the comments. I think I'll close the game down at 7 p.m. central time tonight.

So far, the closest guess is cum facial. I just love you guys!

In other news, my life is very boring.

Patrick and I have discussed the nature of personal blogs before. Most people read blogs as entertainment, just like they watch television or read novels. And what makes for good entertainment?

Conflict.

Conflict creates drama and action.

Without conflict, your life will move along swimmingly, but who's going to want to read about it.

So my blog was a lot more interesting when my husband was deployed, my house was overrun with pests, I was having surgery, and I was meeting a bunch of new people all the time.

Have no fear, though. I have a solution.

I'm going to start picking fights, having an affair, and working as a professional dominatrix while the kids are in school. If that doesn't work, there's always nudity.

Not my nudity! I think I have a total of five straight male readers. And none of them want to see me naked.

I'm talking about cute guy nudity. He's my mentor after all.

Now where are all those pictures Patrick e-mailed me?

Report Card Day

Today is that day! Report card day.

I used to so look forward to report card day as a kid. For me it meant a guaranteed five bucks from my father's mother.

I had completely forgotten about that until I was reading my son's report card this afternoon.

Somewhere around sophomore year, I graduated from getting five bucks for a good report card to getting gifts. Basketball sneakers. A new softball glove. Trips to sports camps.

My grandmother loved that I was an athlete. She was one herself.

In college she paid for my trips to Spring Training. As long as I kept my grades up, that was my reward.

She died just after I returned from Spring Training my sophomore year. My father used her inheritance to pay for my trips the next two years. He thought she would have wanted that.

But do you know what's sad? I don't think she ever gave my brother a thing. Certainly not more than the standard five bucks.

That's what I was thinking about today as I was reading my son's report card.

We've never rewarded the kids for good report cards. For one thing, they don't really have grades yet. And for another, well, I guess we have high expectations. They should be excelling on their report cards. Anything less is just not acceptable.

God! We're fucking these kids up so bad.

But not too bad so far, if my son's report card is any indication. He got S's (for Secure) in everything but tying his shoes. And the teacher's comments read, "He is a sweet, lovable little teddy bear with those big brown eyes."

I have a feeling those eyes are going to get him out of a lot of shit as he grows up.

I'll see my daughter's report card at 3:00. And then she has her first t-ball practice of the year.

My grandmother would be so proud.

Let's Play a Game

Every time I open a new window in my web browser, my Yahoo toolbar opens with it.

And the search field in that Yahoo toolbar always has a term already displayed.

Can you guess the term?

Guess the term and win a prize. An actual prize.*

*Tuna Man not eligible to play.

Where's my heart?

I had a little story I was going to tell today. But my heart just isn't in it.

My heart is with my mom today as she finally has her biopsy.

I am in a very angry place right now. And I'm trying my best not to show it. But it keeps sneaking out at unexpected times. I don't do well with anger. It's an unfortunate side effect of being my father's daughter.

While I'm burying myself in my busy life and fighting off a string of god-awful headaches, maybe you could keep a good thought for my mom.

I'd really appreciate it.

Update: Things are looking good on the biopsy front. Or things are looking non-cancerous, at least. They found some other problems that indicate it may be something else. But we'll still have to wait and see.

My mom's thoughts on the subject: "Don't let anyone tell you it doesn't hurt."

Thanks for your good thoughts, guys!

Sassy Two's

Yesterday I overheard a new friend of mine say to someone, "She's two now. She gets to be sassy."

I kind of like that. The Sassy Two's has a better ring to it than the Terrible Two's.

Besides, now that my blog is two-years-old, it gives me license to be a little more sassy around here. What do you think? Should I pump up the sass level?

Speaking of sassy, one of the coolest things about my second blog-o-versary is that the first three bloggers I ever read, who were also three of my first readers, are still going strong themselves.

Here's my annual thank you to Nicky, MAK, and Mark. I'm priviledged to call those guys friends. And I'm lucky enough to have met two out of the three. Hell, MAK has even met the Tuna Man. Now there's a priviledge.

Love you guys!

To wrap up with little Miss Sassy herself, and in honor of Saint Patrick's Day, here is my little leprechaun. Or actually, today I think we shall call her Buffy, the Leprechaun Slayer.



Have a great weekend everyone!

"Look at what your daughter is reading!"

I never realized how much our lives would change when my daughter learned how to read. For one thing, there's no more spelling out stuff we don't want her to hear. Which sort of s-u-c-k-ses. But it also means that she can entertain herself and understand directions like never before.

However, now might be a good time to hide some of my own reading material.

I remember being about her age and picking up one of my mom's books to read. To this day, I remember the first line I read.

"I'll kiss your fucking ass in the middle of Main Street."

And a potty mouth was born.

My husband put my daughter to bed last night. I heard him sing the goodnight song, and then he came bounding down the stairs, obviously excited about something.

"Look at what your daughter is reading! Here. Right here. Read this paragraph."

So I read.

"Mrs. Rogers was angry.

She was very angry.

She opened her mouth.

Mrs. Rogers meant to tell Amelia Bedelia she was fired.

But before she could get the words out, Mr. Rogers put something in her mouth.

It was so good Mrs. Rogers forgot about being angry."

And I'm worried about her reading my romance novels! Sheesh.

Like Mother, Like Son

Speaking of makeup...

Not only did I wear makeup this past weekend. I also painted my nails, both fingers and toes.

Apparently, it's been so long since I've painted any nails that my polish had congealed. So I wore my daughter's plum passion.

As soon as she saw me rooting through her polish stash, she decided to paint her nails too.

Just as I was about to put lunch on the table, my son noticed our nails and asked, "Can I paint my nails?"

Luckily, I didn't have to make the moral decision about whether or not to let my son have plum passion fingernails. I just said, "Well, lunch is ready, buddy," and he dropped the subject.

I could tell he was fascinated though. He kept rubbing my fingernails every chance he got. But he never said another word.

On Sunday morning, my daughter knocked on our door and woke me up before 7 a.m.

"Mommy," she said. "We were playing with my makeup and I washed mine off but my brother still has his on."

"Fine," I grumbled. I mean, how bad could it be? Certainly not as bad as the time he appeared naked and covered with body glitter from head to toe. "I'll be there in a minute."

When I finally dragged my ass out of bed, I was greeted by a mini Spiderman. He was wearing his Spiderman pajamas with web wings, and he had accessorized with full (and I do mean full) body makeup. Everywhere that wasn't covered by pajamas was covered by red makeup.

"Oh my god!" I couldn't help by exclaim. "What did you do?"

There was red makeup on the carpets, red makeup on every door handle, and red makeup smeared along door jams and walls.

I needed a bucket of cold cream to dip him in.

I was my usual perky morning self, so I never even thought to ask them where the makeup came from or why they decided they would play with it. I just cleaned up the mess and assumed that he was playing superhero.

It wasn't until my daughter's soccer game that afternoon that my husband asked my son, "How could you let your sister do that to you?"

"Ha!" I scoffed. "You think it was her idea. He probably talked her into it."

"Is that true?" he asked my son.

"Yes, Daddy."

"Why would you want to put on all that makeup, buddy?"

"Because I wanted to be *mumble* like Mommy and my sister," he replied.

I could have sworn he said, "Because I wanted to be sexy like Mommy and my sister," which just about gave me a coronary.

"What did you just say?"

"Because I wanted to be fancy like you and my sister," he repeated.

He was jealous. How cute is that?

My husband said, "Boys don't need makeup to be fancy, buddy. You're handsome just as you are."

"Girls don't need makeup either, Daddy," I quickly corrected.

He cocked his head at me, "Well..."

So I backhanded him across the shoulder.

Which made my son smack him one too. After his lecture about not hitting (do as I say not as I do) the two of them were wrestling.

"You're all boy, aren't you?" my husband remarked to my son.

Yeah. Uh huh. Because wrestling is just about the most masculine thing two men can do together.

Now I'm thinking...hmmm...what do you think should be the theme of my son's coming out party.

A Weekend Report, Believe It or Not.

Hold on to your hats, boys and girls. I have something shocking to report. You may not even believe it, but...

This weekend, I wore makeup.

I know. I know. It's unheard of. But I did. And even more shocking still...

I had a place to wear it.

On Saturday night, my husband and I attended a fancy schmancy fund raiser for the kids' school. This year's theme was Margaritaville, and beach wear was the official dress of the evening. We had a blast. And I even drank four margaritas. My husband put it best when he told my mom that I was giggly.

AH, on the other hand, was a hell of a lot more than giggly. She was downright obnoxious. She's a tiny little person. I guess that alcohol hit her system pretty hard. The fundraiser was an auction and she was going wild with the bidding. Her husband finally had to hide their auction number from her.

Speaking of which, does anyone remember that quilt that I made with the first graders and my mom sewed for us? It got pulled out of the silent auction and into the live one and went for a whopping $2400.

I was in shock.

I guess it pays to have rich celebrity parents in your class.

Not long after the auction I went to the restroom. I was just about to emerge from the stall when I heard two teachers enter. One was my daughter's teacher and they were talking about the quilt.

"Did you see how much your class quilt went for?"

"I know. Isn't it amazing?"

"Over two grand! Honey! It wasn't even that cute."

You know I left the ladies' room and waited in the lobby to identify the culprit. And when my kid gets to the fourth grade, I'll be making my first-ever teacher request.

Bitch.

Or as my husband put it, "Jealous bitch."

I always say: Watch what you say. You never know who's listening.

Warnings are for Suckers

This morning, I plugged in my curling iron and balanced it on the small, flat space next to my sink. Then I turned the water on to brush my teeth.

Somewhere around my second swipe at my molars it occurred to me that running water and precariously balanced electrical appliances might not be a great combination to start my day.

Besides, running the water while you brush your teeth is wasteful. See? I'm always thinking of you, the taxpayers.

I turned off the water and put my toothbrush away. Then I reached for my deodorant in the medicine cabinet.

I opened the cabinet door and was greeted with an avalanche of beauty products. Well...actually...calling them beauty products is taking it a little far. I was really bombarded with band-aids, and foot cream, and coldsore ointment, and Midol.

My sparkly deodorant did a perfect nose dive into a cup of water, knocking the overflowing cup into the sink.

As a flailed my arms to try and contain the chaos, I knocked the curling iron right into the puddle of water in the basin.

For a moment, I stared at it in dumbfounded horror. What kind of dumb fuck kills herself by flying deodorant?

Then some adrenaline reached my fingertips and I grabbed the cord of the curling iron and yanked. Hard.

Which sent the burning hot iron flying through the air right toward my left eye.

I feinted right and stepped on a wet towel that had been left on the floor. I slipped headlong toward the shower tiles and grabbed the first thing my fingers made contact with. Unfortunately, I grabbed the shower curtain, and both the curtain and the rod it hangs from followed me right into the tub.

The cord of the curling iron somehow managed to get caught on the handle of the cabinet and it swung back to the right...just in time to connect with the end of the shower rod as my leverage made one end arc back up toward the ceiling.

With my body twisted sideways in the tub, my legs sticking out, my shoulder wedged next to the soap dish, and the right side of my face pressed into the tile, I saw the iron coming at me out of the corner of my eye.

I've never gotten my ass in the air so fast.

I managed to scramble away from the hot end of the iron, and the handle glanced off my left arm as it came to rest hanging by its cord over the side of the tub.

I stood up

I unplugged the iron.

I put on my deodorant.

And then I sat down on the toilet lid and contemplated how close I came to frying or disfiguring myself.

You know, they have labels on those things. Something about not styling your hair in the bathtub. What kind of stupid person would ever use an electrical appliance around water?

If you'll excuse me now, I'm going to go take a nap and blow dry my hair at the same time.

It's a real timesaver.

Just Breathe

Somebody I love sent me these simple words:

"Breathe. I love you."

I'm trying. I swear. I'm sucking air in and out, sometimes rapidly, while I go about my day.

But I am suffering from the tremendous need to do something.

I should work out five hours a day. I should go to a movie. I should teach the kids to skate. I should invite a friend to visit. I should go on a trip. I should whiten my teeth. I should make more friends. I should paint the house. I should do a thousand other things to distract myself and improve myself right now.

But all I can really do is breathe. In and out. Over and over.

Fucking air.

What would Kenny Chesney do?

If I ever go to the gym and unwittingly choose the bike in front of the television playing Country Music Television again, please, please, please put me out of my misery.

You see, I can't stop my workout once I start. It's this weird thing I have. So getting up and changing the channel was out of the question.

I was doing okay, for a while. Especially when I discovered Kenny Chesney. He's hot! And since he was singing along to the Black Eyed Peas on my iPod, I could tolerate him.

But then some woman came on. I don't know who. Those female country stars all look the same. Like they come out of some secret factory in Nashville or something.

I couldn't help but read the closed captioning. It's another weird thing that I have. I know. I know. You can keep your opinions about my multitude of weird things to yourselves. I tried so hard to distract myself, but even the trifecta of hot trainers in the freeweight area couldn't do the job.

This blond clone was singing about a young mother who was on the wrong path. She was driving in the car with her baby and hit some black ice.

So she threw her hands in the air and shouted, "Jesus! Take the wheel!" Because she was, "Letting go!"

That's what I always do when my babies are in danger. I just throw up my hands, close my eyes, and let someone else handle it.

Yeah.

That sounds about right.

No responsibility here.

I'd fight Jesus himself, with nothing but my fists, feet, nails and teeth if my babies were in danger.

I understand having a deep faith in Jesus Christ. I do. I understand religion. I have studied and lived it extensively. But my momma always said, "God helps those who help themselves," and I think she's exactly right.

There's nothing like impotent rage to fuel a workout.

This was worse than that time I got stuck in front of The View.

I take it back. No it wasn't.

Letting Go

UPDATE: Thank you so much for the support, you guys. I really aprreciate it.

*****

I was finally doing it. Something I've needed to for for a long time. But it was part of my recent bout of positive life changes. And I was making it work.

I was finally letting go of other people's problems.

I'm a worrier by nature. I can't help it. I always will be. But I'm trying to find a place where I can care and worry about the people I love, but not take their problems on as my own.

But then my mom dropped a bomb on me last night.

"Do you have a second?" she asked me on the phone.

"No, actually, the kiddo is just about to start practicing violin."

"Oh, okay," she went on. "It's just that I've got some problems and I'm not sure how they're going to affect my trip out to visit."

My daughter started playing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.

"What kinds of problems?"

"Well...they think I have cancer. But we're not sure yet. I won't know until I have my biopsy. Go listen to violin practice. I'll talk to you later. Bye."

And she hung up.

Of course, putting the kids to bed that night was an almost impossible task. I gave up and passed it all off to my husband and had myself a little cry.

It turns out that her biopsy isn't until March 20. They're pretty sure it is cancer but they're waiting until March 20 to do the biopsy?

Anyone who knows me knows that it is the waiting--the unknown--that kills me. I can deal with anything. It's just the waiting to find out what is really wrong, or what will really happen that kills me.

And so much for letting go of other people's problems. This is my mother!

My husband said, "I can't believe the biopsy isn't until March 20. Talk about giving you time to worry!"

"You know me," I told him. "I'll just put it aside until there is something I can do with it. There's no use in worrying until we know what's going on."

"Yeah, I do know you." he replied. "You'll suppress it all and take it all out on me."

Yeah. He's probably right. But for now, I just want to crawl in a hole somewhere and take a break from life.

And there is no way that can happen.

These Friends of Ours

I've been missing CB a lot lately. She and her family are doing very well in their new home and I'm happy for them. But I feel like a friendless stranger in my neighborhood now, and it is no fun.

Watching the new family move into CB's house has me thinking about some of the friends we've made over the years. Some have had a huge impact on our lives. Some were fun. And some were just comfy cozy couples to hang with.

But right now, the couple on my mind most is Eric and Katie.

We met Eric and Katie when we were at Pensacola NAS for flight training. Eric was in my husband's class, and since they both had prior non-flying careers, they hit it off.

When Katie was invited to a sex toy party by another student's wife, she asked me to go along with her. That was a very fitting start to our relationship.

Eric had just spent a year remote in Korea when he was picked up to fly. They lived in a house on base where John Wayne had once filmed a movie. Before long we moved right down the street and Katie and I started walking our dogs together every day.

Eric was an accomplished Elvis Impersonater. He'd break out his Elvis persona with the least bit of provocation.

Katie was into everything. She was the president of the wives' group. She sold Creative Memories. She was always up for any adventure. She told me how they had sex on their balcony. And she got me to admit what I had bought at that sex toy party. But she also made snacks for the guys whenever they met at her house to study.

Eric and Katie dragged us to Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I saw more of Katie's boobs and Eric's dick that night than I really cared to. They dragged us into the hot tub that night too.

They dragged us a lot of places. Salsa dancing. To try sushi. On a costumed seventies-themed scavenger hunt, which we won by cheating and stealing their score sheet and answer key. They were one of the couples with us the night my worlds collided for the first time.

They brought out the best in us. They brought out the fun side of us that we usually keep hidden next to us on the sofa.

They moved away after only six months.

It was so sad. We had other military friends before them, but none that we clicked with in quite the same way. The remaining year we spent in Pensacola just wasn't the same. Although we made friends with their polar opposites; a Baptist couple who taught parenting classes and prayed with us before fellowship meals.

The morning they drove away from Pensacola, they borrowed our shower. We had already said our good byes and it was awkward. Little half hugs, "I'll call you." And, "Have a safe trip."

I only talked to Katie on the phone once after that. She called to tell me that they were moving to Germany

We'd get e-mails from them from time to time. They loved Germany and traveled all over. One e-mail even included an attachment with pictures of what can only be described as an orgy.

We found out through one of their e-mails that they had lost their first baby.

When they moved back to the States, we lost track of each other's e-mails. But we'd still exchange Christmas cards and birth announcements in the mail.

They have two little boys now. I'm sure they are wonderful parents.

They only live about eight hours away from us now. And my husband and I have talked now and then about going down to visit them.

But I know we never will. We lost touch too much. And we're too shy.

Being a military family means always having faith that you'll make new friends. Because the old ones come and go so easily.

We've had some wonderful friends since Eric and Katie first moved away. And I know we'll have more in the future. But none of them will be quite the same as Eric and Katie.

Maybe our paths will cross again some day.

Wake Up Call

Bring!!! Bring!!

"Hello. Tuna Family International. This is Tuna Girl speaking. How may I help you?"

"Woman! Get your shit together!"

"Okay. Yes. Thank you for calling. Have a nice day."

*****

As I was leaving the house this morning to take the kids to school my husband said, "This is the first step in a lifetime of changes. I'm proud of you."

Now, he is not one to make these kind of pronouncements. At all. So when he does, they really stick with me.

All I was doing was joining a new gym, but it does feel like change is abounding right now. My husband will finally be starting his new job in a couple of weeks. My parents have joined a gym and lost twenty pounds between the two of them. And I'm revamping the way this household works.

Maybe it is the Spring weather. Or maybe it is the alignment of the stars. (My horoscope says March will be a month of change.) Or maybe it's just that we got enough wake up calls to get our acts together and get proactive about our lives.

Is it just me or is there change in the air? Can you feel it too?

The Vocabulary Makes the Woman

My husband says that I use lots of words and terms that he doesn't know. It's something he's complained about since we dated in high school.

I don't do it on purpose (and hell, for all he knows, I'm just making shit up) but I know it annoys him sometimes.

But he usually asks me to explain and that's nice.

The other night we were watching an episode of American Dad. Don't judge us. Desperate Housewives wasn't on.

They depicted the apartment complex of Francine's best gay friend and a banner across the building read, "No pets or power bottoms allowed."

Okay. I admit it. I laughed.

Which, of course, led to my husband wondering what power bottom might mean.

"Well, you know what a bottom is, right?" I asked him.

"No."

"Um. Okay. I think you do. You know the difference between a top and a bottom, right?"

"No."

"Ahhh. Well...you know. When gay men...umm. Well, you know what I mean. Right?"

"No."

"Okay. When gay men have... Do you even want to know?"

"I think maybe I don't," he replied.

"Okay, then."

Man. It was easier to explain litigious.