Back Home and Broke

Talk about culture shock!

A couple of days ago I was waltzing around the Upper West Side like I knew what I was doing. Today I was driving through chicken farms in rural Arkansas.

It's time to get the hell out of this area.

But it feels amazingly good to be home. Except I forgot how bad our water pressure is here.

My husband had a very special surprise for me. And no. I'm not talking about oral sex or suspension sex or latex sex. I'm talking about a sweet little something that he probably had no idea would make me so happy.

He's wearing his wedding ring again.

God, I love this man!

If you'll excuse me, I need to go have some suspended oral sex in latex. Ain't nothing too good for my man.

Slap on Some Gingham and Call Me Dorothy

I think it was Crash who said to me, "I have this image of you as being really perfect, and then Patrick led you down the path to hell."

He is so right!

I used to be such a good girl. Now after a week of drinking, dancing, walking my ass off, and playing a drunken game of Pretty, Pretty, Princess (Okay. It was mostly MAK's cosmos that are to blame for that.) I'm feeling like a used up whore.

I'm currently blogging from Patrick's office and I'll soon be Jet Blueing it back to my children. Then I'm putting back together what is left of my kids and my van and driving back to my husband who I miss oh so much.

Give me a few days to get back home and then I'll tell everyone's dirty secrets.

Not Again

It's when we're farthest away that my husband and I have the best talks. I swear there have been deployments where we've actually grown closer.

The other night when Patrick was at work, My husband and I talked on the phone for well over an hour. It was nice.

But, well, he has this thing that he says sometimes. It almost always starts the same way. I can hear in the first syllable where the rest of the words are going.

"So, what would you think if..."

What would I think if we moved here for this job?

What would I think if he volunteered for this tour?

What would I think about moving overseas?

This time it is, " So, what would you think if I checked into this year remote?"

He's at a crossroads and going to Iraq or Korea for a year may be his only answer.

It's not his going that is so hard. It's the always wondering when and if he will go. But this time?

My gut feeling is that this time, he's going. Not until winter, but he is going.

And as is almost always the case, I'm torn between being happy for his opportunity and where it can take us all (never mind the fulfillment of his duty) and being devastated for me and the kids. And him too. Because I know he misses us like mad.

Right now, I can only tell him, as always do, "I think you need to do what you need to do. We'll make it work."

And then I'll cry after he's gone.

Thar She Blows

Alternately titled: The Grossest Post Ever. (Be forewarned.)

Egad. My mood (and hormones) should dictate that I write something either introspective or angry. I was both last night. To the extreme. And maybe I will write about it later, but right now I just don't want to be that person.

I'm on vacation. In New York City. Without kids or a husband. With my best friend who is by far the most fun person I know. It's not time to be angry. Or introspective. Or to think too much at all.

But it is time to go tampooning.

What? Don't tell me you've never heard of tampooning. It's something I was first introduced to as a freshman at basketball camp.

There are at least three levels of tampooning, each reserved for a certain type of victim.

Did you know that when you remove a tampon from it's applicator, dip it in water and fling it against something it will stick?

Yes, this first level of tampooning is reserved for people who are annoying you. Like the drunks in the next hotel room who won't shut the fuck up. You could tampoon their door for a morning surprise. Or a roommate who isn't paying her rent or doing her share. The roof of her car might be a perfect tampoon target.

The second level of tampooning requires a bit more providence. I've also heard it referred to as laying a blooby trap.

This level is reserved for guys who have fucked over your best friend (but unwritten tampooning law says you can never target your own ex-boyfriend) or a landlord who never would fix your toilet. And setting the blooby trap requires that you be on your period and in the bathroom of said asshole.

I know that you know where I am going with this. You enter the bathroom and go about your business. You even flush the toilet. And then you remove your tampon, the bloodier the better, and leave it in the toilet for your favorite person to ewww over. But at least they can flush it away. And you can claim it was an accident.

The last level of tampooning is reserved for the biggest haters. Racists. Homophobes. Misogynists. That asshole who keeps groping you.

It also requires that you be on your period. And it requires good aim.

Yes, you know it. When the racist, misogynist tells you that god brought AIDS as a plague to destroy fags everywhere, you are completely within your rights to whip out your tampon and fling it in his face.

It's gross. It's juvenile. But tell me you aren't fantasizing about doing it to a certain someone right now.

Last night, when the Prada-wearing adulteresses at the bar next to me went to the ladies' room, I fantasized about dipping my bloody tampon in their red wine.

Tell your fag jokes ladies. And enjoy your full-bodied red.

Bloggers Bloggers Everywhere

And a drop too much to drink.

I can't possibly convey in words how absolutely wonderful it is to be sitting here in this tiny, unfurnished, hotter-than-hell apartment with an actual computer with actual Internet access sitting in my actual lap.

Oh god, how I've missed the Internet.

The kids and I had a wonderful couple of weeks on Cape Cod. We did the things we never have time to do at home like swim and fly kites and finish puzzles and talk. The only thing missing was my husband.

(I have to admit that I'm not loving his new overly-demanding job. Especially since it doesn't seem to be making him overly-happy.)

But being within judging distance of my parents was grating on my nerves. So my kids are spending their apparently annual week with their grandparents, and I'm staying the week with Patrick in New York City.

And I am racked with guilt. Especially since my husband got home from his "business trip" sooner than had originally been planned. If one more person tells me how "understanding" my husband is, I'm going to kick his or her fucking ass.

It didn't help when Patrick and I ran into MAK out at the Gym sports bar and the first words out of MAK's mouth were, "Don't you have kids to take care of?"

But I worked through my guilt with four drinks. Here's a tip for any of you straight girls who'd like to get really drunk at a gay bar. Just summon the cute bartender by cooing, "Oh, hot boy! I need a drink!"

I had said it for MAK's benefit only, but hot boy actually heard me (Man, my voice can carry when it's the only female one in the room.) and that had to have been the strongest drink any bartender has ever poured. A glass of vodka with a little cranberry for color for the lady.

I just love pink drinks.

As always it was very nice to connect with MAK for a while. That boy is so adorable that it is distracting sometimes. And no. Regardless of what you may have heard, he didn't hump me at the bar. At least not this weekend.

Being very drunk that night helped me sleep in the pizza oven that Patrick calls an apartment. But only for the couple of hours until I sobered up. And then I snoozed on and off and had nightmares about not being able to find a single Diet Coke in this whole damn city.

On very little sleep we spent the next day in non-stop New Yorker mode. We shopped in Union Square, walked through SOHO, drooled over furniture for the pizza oven and the hottest dress ever (by this designer) for my someday size six body. (Okay, I'd be plenty happy with a size ten body.) I should note here that Patrick rarely lets me eat. I'm going to start calling him Jenny Craig. But I begged him to stop and share some Chinese food.

We also stopped by the hospital to do a friend of his a favor. I begged Patrick to buy a fan for the pizza oven (Which he did in good grace. He even carried it the sixteen blocks home.) And we got home in just enough time to shower and get ready for Broadway Bares.

Broadway Bares was awesome, but I think I'll write about that tomorrow. I need to find one particular picture to illustrate just how amazing the show was.

Upon exiting, I wiped the drool off my face and we walked by the line for the later show to see if we could say hello to MAK and his other half. We also ran into Jase and Crash. I felt so pop-u-lar. Are there any non-bloggers in the naked city?

I had to offer Patrick a blow job* to get him to let me eat again. And I sucked down three Diet Cokes in my favorite little late night diner before curling up next to my new fan.

*A note to my husband: Ummm, that's not really true, Sweetie. That was one of those times when a line just popped into my head and I couldn't help but use it. Hmmm, I think I may have to blog about that tomorrow. I love you and miss you. You're so understanding.

Entertain My Husband

My husband is bored.

He's been reading my archives, Googling my name, and snooping through my nightstand.

Danger, Will Robinson. Danger.

Quick! Someone, please. Entertain him. Distract him.

Just don't let him find the picture of me with the 28 ounce margarita.

Privileged Information

There are certain unavoidable truths about parenthood that nobody tells you. You have to figure them out for yourself. And they suck!

No parent will tell the childless about these things because misery loves company and they want you on their team.

But I've decided to start a list. Let's bring on the truth. The world has enough kids already.

First, it will take you a minimum of forty-five minutes to open any new toy.

I don't know why manufacturers feel the need to use industrial strength adhesives and space age twine to package baby dolls and wooden trains. But I know I'll be sawing through them with the junk drawer scissors while a kid stands at my shoulder and whines, "Can I have my toy yet?" over and over.

Second, without fail, just when you want to make a good impression, your kids will do something gross or embarrassing.

Like they will leave a softball-size poop in a diaper that one time you ask a friend to babysit. Or, like today, they will pee all over the picnic lunch a new friend so thoughtfully provided.

And third, they may go to bed every night by seven p.m. and never make a peep until morning. But that one night that you really need them to go to bed on time, they will build forts, play games, and act out epic adventures.

Like tonight.

Damn offspring. My parents are on their way.

This House

This house I'm living in has a history.

Yes, it is full of my husband's only happy childhood memories. And it is the place where we came together as teenagers when we couldn't be together anywhere else. It is even the house where Patrick spent his summer of transition.

But to me it will always be my husband's grandmother's house. Because she is everywhere here. From the box of slides I found in the junk drawer, to the manuels for seventies era appliances I found in the kitchen. From the hair pins that show up randomly all over, to the rooms full of antique (or just crappy) furrniture.

But she just may be here in a more etheral sense too. Because I swear I've seen her ghost.

I swear over and over again that I don't believe in such nonsense. That shadow I see by the front stairs is just a reflection. Or my imagination. But at least five people have mentioned seeing the same shadows.

And it's freaking me out.

I have way too much time to sit and stare into that dark corner and imagine what my kids' great grandmother has seen in this house.

I bet she never saw hot man on man action until I invited my friends to stay. Nevermind some of the things I've done myself.

This house was once a tavern though, and I suppose my visitor could have been a former patron. Okay. That's even creepier.

And people wonder why I never turn off any of the lights.

Blowing My Load

While hanging out solo at Patrick's New York City apartment last December, I got an invitation from the Famous Author (and Phantom Blogger) to join him and Patrick for dinner in East Midtown. I jumped at the invite but asked for directions.

"Take the E to 51st and Lex," Patrick told me.

So I jumped on a C train on the Upper West Side, tranfered at the 42nd Street station and was feeling pretty proud of myself when I was settled on an E train bound for Queens.

As soon as I saw the station signs for 51st street, I jumped off the train and hauled my superior ass up the stairs.

Only to emerge on 5th Avenue like a bewildered baby chick.

When I realized that I had gotten off at 51st and 5th instead of 51st and Lexington Ave I called Patrick at the restaurant and told him, "I blew my load too soon."

So this past weekend when Rick and I were on the R train going to meet Patrick at his restaurant, I was determined to hold my load until the proper stop, proving what a hot lover--I MEAN--good guide I could be.

From the station, I knew we had to walk a few blocks South (I think) and a bit toward Queens, but it seemed to be taking us a while.

It suddenly hit me as we crossed Lexington Avenue. "Fuck! I blew my load again. Don't tell Patrick," I implored Rick.

Of course I told Rick the whole story and then told him as I shook my head, "I'm a premature ejaculator."

As we sat at Patrick's bar and shared dessert, I told him, "Rick and I had a nice walk here. We decided to check out some of the sights along the way."

"Oh. So you decided to walk across the park after all?"

"No."

Patrick only had to pause for a moment, look at me hard, and he knew.

"Premature ejaculator," he accused.

That set Rick off. "You two are too much. That's exactly what she said.

Yeah. So. He knows me too well. What he doesn't know is that I got off a station too soon on my way to have our farewell lunch on Monday. Well, not until now at least. But he did call me while I was waiting on the platform to reboard a C train, almost like he could sense my shame.

I guess the good news, at least, is that I'll never get lost in New York. I just need to have multiple orgasms to get anywhere.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

I have been on more public transportation in the last five days then I have in my entire life combined.

My trip to New York started out with my parents driving me to the bus. I took the bus to Logan Airport, a plane to JFK, a shuttle train around JFK, a subway through Queens to Manhattan and I even finished out a night of way too much drinking with a cab ride back to Patrick's place.

Today after lunch with Patrick, I repeated the whole process in reverse.

By the way, what is it about me that makes people ask me for directions on the subway? Do I look like a New Yorker?

I suppose I must have tons of stories about my long gay blogger weekend stored up in my brain somewhere. But I'm too tired to extract them at the moment.

Unfortunately, this is the last night I'll have computer access for a while since I'm kidnapping my children and taking them to the Cape for some Tuna-family-only time. And doesn't it figure that my parents' computer isn't working right.

Don't worry. I'll figure something out. I can still mobile blog. Maybe I'll even write some posts out longhand and mail them to Patrick or my husband to post. How retro cool would that be?

All in all I should say that I had a great weekend. Patrick is a fabulous host and I had a blast meeting new bloggers, spending time with old friends, and making some new friends too.

If you look around hard enough you'll find plenty of pictures of me that can be used for blackmail. And no, I'm not telling you where to find them.

Woo hoo!

Want to know how my trip to New York and the Blogger meet-up is going so far? Check this out.

He's such a bad influence.

I had a blast and a long walk in the rain today with Mark and Brian, and Palochi. It's time to shower and head out to Barrage. Woo hoo!

I Feel So Dirty

I'm doing something I've never done before. Something many of you do in furtive secrecy every day. Something that could get you fired!

I'm blogging from the office.

What office would that be, you ask. I'm sitting behind a desk at work with him and him. And I'm reminded of why I will never work again!

When I was a secretary during college, I had absolutley nothing to do. But I had to sit at my desk and look pretty and answer the phones and flirt with male callers. (I never did that, Honey. They just thought I sounded so cute.) So I would write letters to my military boyfriend or read romance novels.

And every time someone came through the office door I had to quickly hide away what I was looking at like it was S&M dyke porn.

Sitting at this desk today, I feel the same need to hide what I'm doing. Like I could get in trouble. Like the guys in this office haven't seen me drunk off my ass and giggling.

But the Internet and computers can get you in so much trouble.

I was reminded of that fact last night when I innocently looked in the Recycle Bin on my father's computer and found a file about a Love Plug.

You'll excuse me, won't you, while I go drink some bleach.