The Artistic Tuna Thing

Two years ago on about this day, I blogged about running the teddy bear relay race at my daughter's field day. Last year I ran the fire house relay, where they gave the kids squirt bottles to put out a fire and save the firehouse dog. I had to use my mean voice to keep from getting soaked.

This year, with both of my kids in school, I got sucked into doing the worst job of all!

Face painting.

Who the fuck thought up this genius children's activity anyway?

Luckily, they had stamps that we could swab with paint and press into a kid's face. But some of those little shits are demanding. They must be used to their nannies fulfilling their every desire. These kids won't take no for an answer.

So some of them demanded snakes (which I could handle) and skulls and crossbones (which I refused to do) and even unicorns. Pretty unicorns with purple heads, pink manes, and golden horns.

I didn't realize it, but the other mothers who had volunteered to help were sending the demanding kids to me. And I soon became known as the best face painter.

How the hell?

It might have all started when my own kid was one of the first in line. She wanted a dolphin. Since she and I copy dolphins out of her art book all the time, I figured I could handle it. She ended up with a shark. But it was a pretty cool shark. And I was proud of myself.

"Oh, did you freehand that?" one of the mothers asked me.

"Well, yeah," I replied. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Never admit to talent in a group of society mothers.

For as much as I forewarned the kids not to expect much, I have to admit that I painted some kick-ass snakes and unicorns. Tuna Girl: face painting extraordinaire. Who knew?

My husband said my daughter's shark looked like a fish.

"Well, she is the little Tuna Girl..." I said.

He interrupted me, "You know, I wouldn't have wished that name on you! Let's leave her out of the Tuna thing. Alright?"

Too late.

Oh! And the boy?

He wanted one thing and one thing only painted on his face. A rainbow.

He must be getting ready for Pride.

Some Kind of Mom

I've become that kind of mother.

The kind of mother I shake my head about behind her back.

The kind of mother I make fun of in my blog.

The kind of mother I complain about to my husband.

I recently decided that my daughter is old enough now that I can let her and her brother play in the playground directly behind our house without constant supervision. I can look out a window in any room in my house and check on them. Plus, she's a good little caretaker. And we live on a military base for goodness sakes.

They're playing out there today, with two little kids who are barely old enough to talk. Where's their mother?

A few moments ago I peaked out at them.

And saw my son's lily white, little behind.

He might as well have been wearing a sandwich board that read, "Judge my mother!"

"Oh my god!" I exhaled as I ran toward the back door.

I made it to that sand box in record time.

"Honey! Are you watching your brother?" I yelled as I sprinted.

"Yes," she yelled back.

"Yeah? Are you watching him take his clothes off?"

"Ack!" she screeched. "He's naked!"

As I ran by the little pile of clothes he had left in the grass, I snatched them up. My plan was to cover him and race back to the house. But his jeans and underwear were wet. So I ended up wrapping him up in my arms and scooting the two of us into the house as quick as I could.

Apparently, he was too busy playing to come into the bathroom. And naked is fun.

We are not a naked family!

And now when that obnoxious little girl from next door keeps telling me, "We're not allowed to play in the sand because kids pee in there," I can say, "I know," with great authority.

One Moment

I love my daughter's violin program. I really do.

They have some super wonderful teachers and the program is very well-designed. (Ugh! I sounded like such a twin set-wearing, Nanny Diaries mother right then!)

But their administrative and organizational skills leave a lot to be desired. And it drives me up a tree!

Yesterday, I got a letter it the mail from them. It was tucked in with next year's application, recital schedules, rehearsal sign-ups, and etiquette instructions. This very important letter told me that my daughter would be playing today in a fine arts festival at her school. But her name was so badly misspelled that I didn't even realize that she was included when I scanned it.

If another mother hadn't asked me about it, I never would have realized.

So, I woke my daughter up a half hour early this morning and had her practice the piece she was to play. She's been struggling with it lately, and frankly, I was a little nervous.

This afternoon, the Tuna family scrunched ourselves into bleachers full of rugrats to hear our prodigy play in front of all of her friends, classmates, teachers, and the entire student body. With one morning's preparation.

She was nervous. But she smiled and waved to her friends like she was the happiest kid in the world

When her introduction played, I thought my heart was going to beat out of my chest.

She nailed it.

She played perfectly.

I was so proud.

When I picked her up after school, she didn't seem to think it was a big deal at all. One thing I love about her school, violin, and ballet programs is that she has learned to be very comfortable performing in front of a crowd. That has got to be good for her self confidence and future success.

And if worse comes to worse, she can always play her violin on the street corner to earn her keep.

It doesn't make for interesting blogging, but it's a mom moment. Actually, I take that back. It was her moment. All hers. But she may not remember it in a few months. And I want to capture it for her for all time.

Next year, the boy starts violin. It's going to be interesting, to say the least.

Getting Oral

I had a root canal today.

I'm pissed off about it too. It's a long story, but basically none of it--the original cavity and crown or today's root canal--were my fault. Apparently, I've been walking around with a major infection in my mouth for almost a year. Antibiotics to the rescue.

Anyway, my handsome dentist is a friendly enough guy. But he's very businesslike. Not overly chatty.

At one point during today's appointment, they were unable to find some tool they needed. So the assistant scurried off, leaving the dentist with his fingers in my mouth, holding something still.

We sat like that for about five minutes. In total silence.

I've never really thought about it before, but letting someone put his fingers in your mouth is a very intimate thing.

In fact, the last time someone other than a dentist had his fingers in my mouth was...well...I'm not sure. Probably the last time my husband and I had wild sex. Putting your fingers in someone's mouth (or having someone put his fingers in your mouth) is one of those weird sexual things that can either be a total turn on or a complete turn off, depending on the mood.

Either way, that was not the best train of thought to be following while my dentist held my tongue still.

I've never been so glad to see an assistant enter with an instrument of torture in all my life.

Seared in the Membrane

Speaking of my best friend...

Today on the phone, Patrick said to me, "I can't get the thought of stale pussy pole smell out of my brain. It's burned in there. Kind of like the image of Jason Alexander's naked ass in Love! Valour! Compassion!"

We all have these brain burns. You know, images, invoked by a visual or a few random words, that insinuate themselves into your brain, no matter how much you want to poke a fork through your eye and scour them out.

Personally, I will never be able to get the image of my naked college roommate out of my head. I walked in on her once by accident.

I'll also never be able to forget that I once found KY jelly in my mom's nightstand.

I also accidentally came upon a personals profile pic of a certain blogger once. I was sort of checking him out until I realized who it was. And then I screamed and covered my eyes. I will never be able to look in his eyes and talk to him again without thinking, "I know what your penis looks like!" I've tried to forget. I really have. But that image is forever burned in my brain.

He's not the only blogger who's penis I've seen. Damn, I wish you guys would keep it in your pants.

What images are seared onto your brain, never to be scrubbed away? Lets' all share in your horror.

Who Needs the Pot of Gold

I didn't sleep at all last night. Not even for a moment.

I swear that all of my internal organs are still sore from being so violently ill. And I wasn't comfortable enough to sleep. But that's not the whole truth.

Yesterday evening I was able to talk to both of my best friends on the phone. I talk to Patrick just about every day, but most of those conversations are quick, friendly check-ins. He's usually walking from one part of New York City to another and wants some company. But at least once or twice a week we catch each other at a time where we can really talk and share. These are the times when our friendship grows. We're way past the honeymoon stage now, and we can argue and disagree but still always get each other in the end.

I don't talk to Aaron as often. Maybe once a week. But when we connect we almost always talk for a half hour or more. And while we joke a lot, we can also say pretty much anything to each other. I ask him personal questions that I would never even consider asking anyone else. He endures certain rants from me that no one else would ever hear. We haven't argued yet. Maybe we'll get there. I don't know. But one of the things I love about Aaron is his ability to see the beautiful in everyone and everything.

I was thinking about both of my friends last night. And that's why I couldn't sleep.

I love those guys. They are my best friends. But I love them in ways that are as different as the two of them are from each other.

When I first met them in person, I thought they had so much in common. I guess they do. They have similar family histories. They're both artists in their own ways. They're both short. They're both handsome. They're both outgoing and fun. And, oh yeah. They're both gay.

Patrick says that gay men and their straight women friends have a sacred bond.

I've talked about it here before. I used to avoid the words "fag hag" like the plague. Partly, because of the words themselves and partly because they invoke a stereotype and that just doesn't seem right. And the use of the term has been argued here too. Others prefer other terms or none at all.

But I've learned a lot in the last year or so. I've learned that when the guys joke with me about being a fag hag, they are actually letting me know how much they love me. I've read Tales of the City now and I see where the words come from. And while I still hate the stereotypical image of the often fat, always lonely, can't-get-a-man-so-she-surrounds-herself-in-the-security-of-gay-men (oh, and she's probably really in love with one deep down and hopes he'll let her have his sperm to make a baby) hag, I have no problem adding fag hag into the many labels that define me.

I wasn't a big fan of Will & Grace over the years. But then I made my own very close gay friends and I started watching some of the syndicated shows. Hell, it's on at least five times a day here. I admit that I would watch with an eye for pointing out the ways in which Grace and Will's relationship was dysfunctional so that I could compare myself and say, "See. That's not me!" I'm not proud of that.

Patrick and I had a bet going in Marie's Crisis one night. We were betting on whether the guy and girl who were hanging all over each other were a straight couple or a fag and his hag. I should have bowed to his far superior gaydar skills, but I think I really wanted them to be straight. I didn't really want there to be a girl out there who was so obviously hopelessly in love with a gay man. "That's taking the Will & Grace thing too far," Patrick said.

He was right.

But I have a favorite Will & Grace quote now. Grace is so mad at Will that she's ready to annihilate him and Leo says to her, "I still need him for the 20% of you I can't handle."

That's so perfect. And I can imagine that the husband's of fag hags everywhere know exactly what he means.

And speaking of husbands, I have one. A great one. One that can drive me crazy sometimes. One who can be insecure. But a really wonderful husband no matter what.

And so I live the life of your average married couple. The 2.3 kids, mini van, single income, trust fund, pastel house that might as well be on Wisteria Lane...

We have all of that.

And we never have to think twice about the safety of holding hands on the train. We never have to consider what the banker might say when we apply for a mortgage together. We never feel out of place in a restaurant. We never think twice about the million tiny facets of life that are easy for us because we're the norm.

There's so much I don't get about being gay. And of course I wouldn't. For obvious reasons

My two closest friends have been out for decades (sorry, guys) and are so far from those issues that most straight people think consume gay men's lives.

And so I forget sometimes. I forget that it's not always so easy.

Patrick has been saying since last year that he wants to take me to a Pride event. I don't want to speak for him, but I think it is because he wants to share that part of his life with me. And because he wants to have fun. When we're together we always have fun.

I'm going to Pride with him in New York City this summer.

And so I've been thinking of the symbolism. The rainbow and what it represents. What Friends of Dorothy really means. The lexicon and the history and even the tragic body image issues.

I've been thinking a lot about my friends. Patrick, who has started his life over from scratch with none of the stuff and all of the baggage. That takes a tremendous amount of courage. And Aaron, who has found love and risked so much to nurture it. Though he probably doesn't see it that way. And that takes a tremendous amount of courage. And all of you guys.

It would be easy for me to just say, whatever. Fiddle dee dee. All that gay stuff means nothing to me.

But it does. I've just never had much reason to think about it before.

I'm not saying I'm going to turn into Debbie Novotny overnight, though I'm probably destined for her figure. I'm just thinking about this stuff more than ever before.

I don't want to be a woman who considers gay men to be her own personal cheering section. Her own human playground of enabling and flattery.

As the morning broke and my sleepless night's rain paused, I woke up my kids and fed them breakfast in a better mood than I'm normally in at 6 a.m. I had a moment to pause and look out my back window.

And I saw a rainbow. A double one at that.

With all my musings of the night before I couldn't help but feel it was symbolic. A rainbow is such a simple thing. A scientific result of light and water. But it can be so hard to see. You have to be in the perfect place at the perfect time. And every rainbow is a complete circle. We just can't see it from where we sit.

I'm going to keep on thinking of this. I'm going to keep on learning with my friends help.

But in that moment when I called the kids to stand on my back porch and watch the rainbow fade to nothing, it all became simple to me.

I love my gay friends with all of my heart.

I am PROUD of them.

So fucking proud.

For now, that's enough. The rest will come when I'm ready.

Said in all Seriousness...

...and earnestness by my daughter with accompanying dramatic expression:

"Mom, why would you spend $1,000 on bejewled jeans for me when you could buy me a Bedazzler and I could make them myself."

I guess that's what you get when your kid spends an entire day home from school cuddling with you in bed and watching television.

This kid is either going to follow in my marketing footsteps or spend her life on the stage.

I better start saving for costumes. Or I could buy her a Bedazzler and she could make them herself.

Infection

And I thought it was annoying when my computer was infected.

It all started last Friday night. I was up all night long while my son puked his little heart out.

When Monday came without any of the rest of us getting sick, I figured he had just eaten something that didn't agree with him and we'd all be okay.

Oh, how wrong I was.

So very, very wrong.

The good news is that I made it to the toilet every single time! That's a first for me. I'm so proud of myself.

My daughter didn't do quite that well. Especially since it all started for her when she puked on the lawn in front of her violin class.

Now the clock is ticking for my husband. I hope he manages to escape this one. Because I'd rather be sick myself than have to nurse him. Besides, someone's got to write his paper for his master's class.

Oh wait. That would be me anyway.

Let's Play Jeopardy

I'll go with things pissing Tuna Girl off for $100, Alex.

It's the number of posts she's written and scrapped today.

What is five, Alex?

Correct.

I'll stay there and go with things pissing Tuna Girl off for $200.

It's the man she's unfairly blaming for her computer's virus.

Who is Tuna Man, Alex?

Exactly.

$300, Alex.

It's how many times she's restarted her computer since this morning.

What is too many times to count?

You're right.

Tuna Girl's pissy mood is being good to me, Alex. I'll stay there for $400.

It's the only thing to make Tuna Girl smile in the last four days?

What is this, Alex?

You are right, and that is one fancy way to answer.

I'll finish out the category, Alex.

All right. You're a brave man. And the answer is...

The one thing sure to make Tuna Girl's blood pressure rise and send her to an early grave.

What is her dog chewing all of the toilet paper, Alex?

*Bee Bloop*

No, I'm sorry. Anyone else.

*Buzz*

What is inconsiderate drivers, Alex?

*Bee Bloop*

No.

*Buzz*

What is things not working the way they should, Alex?

You are right, and that puts you in the lead.

*Doo do do do, Doo do do...*

That music means we're out of time. Stay tuned for final jeopardy, where the category will be Tuna Girl's libido. We'll be right back.

Hence the Blog

I don't really fit in anywhere.

I'm too weird to be one of the nice people, but I'm too uptight to be one of the funky people.

The problem is that when I try to hang with the normal people, my inner Tuna Girl always sneaks out to play.

For example:

"Your thingy won't fit in my hole!" --yelled across the house to my husband after I accidentally tried to plug my phone into his charger.

"It's good to drain it sometimes." --suggested to Patrick after he innocently mentioned that he had let his iPod battery drain.

And I always have to chuckle like some demented Beavis after I say these things.

But the topper is this:

Yesterday at the gym, I took notice of the guy lifting behind me because he looked just like him. I was getting ready to do my overhead presses when I sort of dropped my hands to the sides and cupped them upwards as I reached for the grips.

At the same time, Tin Man's clone happened to walk by me. And got felt up.

"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Sorry!"

Now, I could have left it at that. Most people would, right?

But, no.

As he scuttled away, I had to yell after him, "I bet you didn't come to the gym for a free grope, huh?"

Oh, god, I'm such a dork. I'm not fit for human company of any variety.

Hence the blog.

Disembodied Voices Talk to Me

We took the kids to see Ice Age 2 last week. There was someone in the audience messing with their cell phone. Some man with a very deep voice commanded that the rude person, "Put that cell phone up!" (Translation for non-Southerners: "Put that cell phone away!")

Like every other person in America, I think people have lost all common sense when it comes to cell phone usage. But, personally, I think rather than people learning manners, we, as a society, will just get used to the intrusion of technology, and what was once considered rude will soon be tolerated as normal behavior.

For example, consider talking on cell phones in restaurants and book stores. As long as people keep their conversations at the same volume they would use to converse with a live person, what's so wrong about it, really? It's when people intrude on our own conversations that it becomes rude.

Take what I heard in Barnes & Noble last weekend. (By the way, I only peed!)

I was walking by the information desk when I heard a voice on the speakerphone. The employee was helping a customer and the person on the speaker phone was saying, "Hello? Are you there?"

It seemed like the employee was trying to be polite, but send the customer on her way as quickly as possible in order to pick up the phone.

But as I walked further away from the desk, the voice stayed just as loud. "Hello? Are you there? Hell-0!"

I kept walking and shaking my head. What idiot walks around with their cell phone on speaker without even noticing?

"Hello! Anyone there? Tuna? Tooooona? Are you there?"

Ha, what! Tuna? Ohhhhhhhh! I'm the idiot.

It seems the half eaten package of M&Ms that I confiscated from my kids and tucked in my purse managed to hit the Answer button and then the Speakerphone button.

It's really kind of amazing if you think about it.

It may have been rude to walk around the bookstore with my purse yelling greetings to everyone within earshot. But it may have been ruder if the M&Ms had picked up later that night while my purse was sitting on my nightstand.

Damn M&Ms. I never really trusted Red.

The Week That Was

I don't know who decided that it would be a good idea to give the kids a week off from school just when they're starting to get Spring Fever, but they sure put a cramp in my style.

My mom visited last week during the kids' spring break.

When my mom visits without my father in tow, it is a completely different experience. I've realized that most of my problems with my mother stem from her stressing about my father's mood, opinions, and childish behavior. My husband get along pretty well with my mother when my father isn't around to bug him. But the kids pretty much turn spoiled as soon as that woman walks off the plane. It's a conditioned response.

My mother and I went to the gym together every morning. I learned that she's been doing pilates, yoga, step, and spinning classes. I'm in shock. This is my mother. I hadn't ever really thought about it before, but when she sets her mind to something, she is pretty damned determined.

And now she is determined to live long enough to see my daughter get married.

She brought good news and bad news with her on this trip. The good news is that her biopsy came back negative. She's only having hormonal problems that they will be able to treat. The bad news is that my father has emphysema. Both of his parents died of emphysema.

When I was a kid, my father smoked six packs a day. I'm pretty sure I've blogged about this before. When I went into the hospital with a childhood disease (that would later be discovered to be linked with second hand smoke) and his father went into the hospital with emphysema (yet continued smoking in his hospital bed) in the very same week, he quit cold turkey.

He went from six packs a day to nothing.

He quit smoking thirty years ago.

And now after struggling to breathe for a few years and being misdiagnosed with asthma, he has finally been diagnosed with emphysema.

There's nothing they can do to make it better. They suggest that he try to lose weight, only to be more comfortable. He's trying. My mother is more-or-less supervising him. But the way she explained it to me is, "He's not long for this world."

With all of his medical problems, from diabetes and high blood pressure, to skin cancer and obesity and a whole lot more, he's going to die from cigarettes.

Cigarettes he gave up thirty years ago.

He's always telling the kids that people die from smoking. I dread the day he proves it to them.

All of my parents' medical woes lead to some interesting discussions with my new doctor last Friday. For a doctor who I had to see because she was the only one accepting new patients with my crappy military insurance, I love her. She's a military wife herself.

She sat and listened to me list my parents' health problems on and on and on. She didn't try to rush me. She asked me about my concerns and never made me feel stupid.

And she called me back this week to tell me that every single one of my lab tests came back normal. Every single one. I'm very healthy. (Tell that to my scale, Lady.)

I've never felt so free. I really did expect her to call and give me a list of the things that were wrong with me. But it's not too late. I haven't done irreparable damage. I can keep on the course I've chosen with the gym and my new eating habits and I can continue to be healthy.

I haven't written like this in a while. I haven't just sat down and let things flow in such a long time. There is always a strive to be interesting, dramatic, or funny.

But I am none of those things. Not really. At heart I am just a person who loves hard and takes thing personally. I worry, a lot, about the people I love. I'm just a woman who is concerned about my parents, and my kids, and my husband, and my friends.

I'm just a woman who is a little bit scared that things will change more than I can handle.

But I'm also a woman who is happy to know that my body hasn't betrayed me. And the people who love me won't either, when it comes time for that change.

What more could I ask for?

Men in Ill-fitting Uniform

There's this thing about being a military wife (or member) that is just impossible to avoid.

I can never enjoy a military movie again.

No, it's not why you think. Yes, I do have a tendency to feel too intensely when I watch a military drama. I can't help but picture my husband and our family in the situation.

But if you notice, most military movies are based on ground troops. And my husband is not on the ground. I usually walk out of those movies shaking my head and proclaiming, "Air power, baby!"

The reason I can't enjoy military movies is because I'm always catching the errors. From uniforms worn wrong to lingo used incorrectly, I can't help it. It bugs me.

It's one thing not to be able to enjoy military movies, but now I've realized that I can't enjoy military porn either!

Water Colour Boy (usually NSFW) recently ran a series of a military hunk. It began here. Egads! There are so many things wrong with this picture. And like a kids' "What's wrong with this picture" puzzle, I can't look beyond the errors to enjoy the meat.

That fucking sucks! Because I love guys in uniform.

It's funniest to me when sites claim to have real military men and it is so obvious that they are not.

Am I the only military wife (or member) who suffers this problem?

I guess I better just stick to hanging out at the gym or the base pool and watching real military men in real life. Or I can always look out my windows and watch my neighbors mow their lawns. I guess I should count my blessings, hmmm?

Not that I do any of those things, Honey. No, not really. Never. I'm just writing that to be funny on my blog. Ha ha. See?

Quickies Can Be Good Too

Hey, guys.

How about joining the comment party over at American Maniacs? The Beetle is one of America's Best. He's Navy, but what can you do. His very special wife, and one of my favorite bloggers, Stale Betty is throwing a comment party at his blog to welcome him home after some very, very, very hard days.

Don't know what to say? Copy and paste this:

Came by way of Tuna Girl's blog. Just wanted to say hey and keep up the good work.

Thanks, y'all.

Love you more than mocha lattes.

Keys to Me

When my father was a little boy, my grandmother dropped him off at the neighborhood Catholic church for confession.

After waiting in the car for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, she decided to go in and see why he was taking so long.

He was kneeling in the front pew reciting Hail Mary's.

"What's taking so long?" she asked him.

"I'm saying my penance," my father told her. "Father gave me a hundred Hail Mary's."

She grabbed him by the chin and turned his face up to hers.

"Exactly what did you do to get so much penance?" she demanded.

"I don't know, Ma," he told her. "Father said I was born in sin. I don't know what he was talking about."

My grandmother marched to the confessional. She was a tall, skinny woman with the carriage of a forties movie star. I can only imagine how her stalking footsteps echoed in the nearly empty church.

She threw open the priest's door and dragged him out by his ear, ignoring his stuttered protests and the shock of the current confessor.

"Why did you give my kid so many Hail Mary's? I've been waiting for him all morning!"

The priest drew up his druthers. "Madam! We all know that he and his little red-headed satan's spawn of a sister were born in sin. A child born of a mixed marriage is doomed to hell."

And my grandmother socked him one.

Right in the jaw.

And he went down. Hard

She grabbed my father's arm and hustled him out of the church. Never to return.

And do you know what kind of "mixed marriage" that priest was referring to? My grandfather was Catholic and my grandmother was Protestant.

Yes. They were both white, lower class Christians, but apparently, their differences were enough to doom their children to hellfire.

My grandmother loved to tell this story. She said she put a curse on the church that day. I can almost believe it since the roof fell in one Sunday and the church was closed for fifty-odd years.

She also swore never to set foot in another church again.

She came to all of our sacraments, First Communion, Confirmation...but she never actually entered the door. She just stood outside in her suit and hat and smoked a cigarette.

She died before I was married. Unlike most brides, I wouldn't ever say how I felt my grandmother's presence in church with me that day. She wouldn't have come within a hundred yards of the alter on my wedding day. Besides, organ music always made her cry.

I never understood it. She hated the church. She hated religion of all kinds, but she insisted that we all be raised and confirmed Catholic. But she forbid us to go to Sunday mass. And if she heard music that even remotely sounded like something you might hear in church, she would cry. And then get angry at her tears.

Maybe she mourned for something lost. Or maybe she cried in anger--a trait I have inherited. Maybe she just cried in remembrance of the simpler days of her youth.

Her funeral was held in a Catholic church. They said prayers over her casket and played organ music throughout.

My aunt looked at my father at one point and said, "She would have hated this."

I think she was right. She would have hated it. But she wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

From the Mouths of (rapidly growing) Babes

I'm leaving to pick my mother up at the airport for a week-long stay.

It's been a crazy morning.

In the words of my daughter:

"She's your mother, Mom. The house doesn't have to look like a museum."