34 is Going to Beat All

I am so not in a good place right now. I am in the middle of the longest, most soul-sucking bout of PMS ever.

And lucky for my husband, it's his birthday.

Two nights ago, he was relaxing on the couch, and I was sort of leaning over him. He looked deep into my eyes and said, "You want to wrap your hands around my neck and squeeze so bad right now, don't you?"

"Yes! But I don't' know why!" I answered.

"Because you can," was his response.

Rowr! He did something today that I thought was pretty sweet. Yet frustrating and fruitless. And I started crying.

"Aww, don't cry," he implored.

"I don't want to! I know it's not even real, I just can't help it. God, I hate PMS. Oh and HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

Poor guy. I'll owe him big when I'm back to myself sometime next week.

Tonight we have a meeting at school. So we're going to take advantage of the fact that we have a babysitter and go out for dinner too. It will be very nice to be alone with him. I hope I can refrain from berating the waiter, crying in my tortilla chips, and screeching for no apparent reason.

Happy 34th, Honey. I love you. Despite how it may seem.

Read it and Weep

I'm not morally opposed to memes. But I don't do a lot of them for one very good reason.

They make me look unhip. Or stupid. Or they reveal just how deeply mired I am in bad taste.

But if you come right out and tag me, I'll probably throw my hat in the ring and hope no one will actually injure themselves while laughing at my pathetic answers.

Army Wife Toddler Mom has tagged me with the book meme.

Before I start can I please just say that I was once an English major. I scored a 5 on my Advanced Placement English exam. I actually have a pretty high IQ. And I'm sort of cute. In a dumb chick kind of way.

Here we go:

1) A book that changed my life: Babywise, A Common Sense Guide to Parenting

People hate this book. And yes, there are a lot of things in it that I disagree with. But I disagree with so much in most modern accepted parenting guides too. When I was pregnant, we had very good friends who taught parenting classes based on this book at their church. If nothing else, they showed me that there are more ways to parent then there are different kinds of people. And you have to find what is right for you.

It also introduced us to teaching our baby sign language. We followed up with Sign With Your Baby: How to Communicate With Infants Before They Can Speak. The first signs we taught our four-month-olds were "please" and "thank you" and I think that had a tremendous influence on their personalities and our bond.

2) A book I've read more than once: Outlander by Diana Gabaldon

When I find a book I love, I'll read it over and over. Especially if I find that book to be an escape. I fell in love with Gabaldon's characters and writing style. The rest of the series is engaging too, but none so much as that first book.

Oh, I should also not here that I read The Outsiders at least fifteen times when I was in fifth grade. I think that explains a lot about me right there. I recently looked back at that book, and God, it's awful!

3) A book I'd take to a desert island: A blank journal

I think Jeff may have answered this way too. That was my first thought when I read this question. I could create my own stories to keep me sane. Oh! And have you read or seen The Notebook?

4) A book that made me laugh: Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris

This was my first experience with Sedaris. And I was hooked.

5) A book that made me cry: Babycakes by Armistead Maupin

When I finished reading More Tales of the City I said to Patrick, "Jon dies. Doesn't he?" His silence told me all, yet I still sobbed when I started reading about Michael's loss.

6) A book I wish I had written: Out of Control by Suzanne Brockmann

This is my all-time favorite romance novel. I love Brockmann's Navy Seal series. When I was 18-years-old and fantasizing about being a writer someday, this is the type of book I dreamed of writing.

7) A book that should never have been written: The Air Force Wife Handbook: A Complete Social Guide

I actually own a signed copy of this book. Gag.

8) A book I'm currently reading: Hello Darling, Are You Working? by Rupert Everett

I can only afford to read library books right now, and my local library doesn't carry Sure of You (of course). I picked this up on a whim. After two weeks, I'm only on page eleven. I think that might be enough. Sorry, Rupert. I still think you're cute.

9) A book I'm planning to read: When the Stars Come Out

Of course!

10) Five people to whom I'll send these questions:

Patrick, because he is the biggest book freak I know. And because there is a price to pay for being my best friend.

Famous Author Rob Byrnes, because he just got a free plug that will reach a lot of military wives. And because he doesn't seem to have anything better to blog about.

(Okay, you guys can stop bitching about me through your office doors now.)

Heather, because she is a new blogger who says some extremely flattering things about me. And because she found my blog by Googling Edward Penis Hands.

Lotta, because she actually titled a post God wants you to have an orgasm.

And oh, let's see. How about David? Because he is one of my new favorite people. And I'd love to find out what he reads.

Well, that was hard.

Towel Time

Note: I wrote this earlier today but was unable to publish.

Sometimes you just know that you should throw in the towel. Just call it a day and go home because you're absolutely good for nothing.

My brain has detached from its body and taken off on its own path. My body is demanding nothing but cheeseburgers, fries, and Diet Coke. Lots of Diet Coke. And my emotions have boarded a rollercoaster ride of mythic proportions. Up, down, up, down, wheeeee! Look, Ma. No hands!

I was fighting it for a while, trying to reign in my brain, feed my body carrot sticks, and convince those emotions that the Tunnel of Love might be a better ride choice.

And then I threw the dog in the dryer.

Okay, okay. Don't flip out! I wasn't mad or anything. I was just going through my daily routine of picking up and preparing to leave to get my son. And lately I've had to put the dog in her kennel when I'm out because she has become an escape artist.

I was carrying her through the kitchen and thinking of all the chores I've been ignoring, like laundry. I got to the laundry room, popped open the dryer door, and stuck her in.

Her head hadn't even cleared the opening when I realized what I was doing.

I gasped so hard I felt the rush of adrenaline to my fingers and toes. Then I apologized and snuggled her until I had to rush out.

That was my first wake up call.

After the boy and I ate our lunch of cheeseburgers, fries, and Diet Coke (lemonade for him) we returned back home. I remembered that I needed to let Buffy out. So I opened the dryer door.

Yup. Time to call it a day. I'm throwing in the towel. I need a nap. And a Midol.

The Aftermath

Our hair stylist managed to turn my daughter's hair wreck into something pretty cute. In fact, the Little Tuna Girl has been something of a sensation around these here parts.





Everyone in the hair salon raved about how it suited her pretty face. She had teachers visiting her classroom just to check it out. Everyone I run into in carpool line has to tell me how much everyone loves it. Even Uncle Patrick gave his seal of approval.

And I'm happy for her. I am. She loves it and she saved face and I'm happy for her. Really.

But somewhere deep inside of me is the parent who thinks that all this attention probably isn't teaching her much. She totally got her way on this one. She is the master manipulator.

There is one person who isn't completely thrilled by her new short do. Can you guess who it is?

That's right. Her father. Not that he'd ever tell her that.

What is it about men wanting their women to have long hair?

The Steel Anniversary

4,000 nights of mad, passionate sex.
A few hundred blow jobs. (Got to work on that.)
5,000 or so orgasms.
17 months of pregnancy.
23 and a half hours of labor and no murdered husband.
A few dozen fights.
20 or so bouquets of roses.
Countless hours cuddling on the couch.
15 vacations.
Way too many nights apart.
7 different houses.
1 happy home.

11 years of marriage to the man I love.

For all the times I've wanted to bonk him on the head, I'd still choose him again and again, over and over, if I found myself back at the beginning. I love him more now than I did the day we married.

He gets me in a way that no one else ever will. And through all the deployments and long hours and children and friends, my world still always comes back down to the two of us.

He's my man. And I love him.

More Keys to Me

When I was a little girl I was carted to hospital after hospital for treatments, examinations, and x-rays. I have some very vivid memories of that time considering that I was anywhere between two and eight years old.

I remember that I hated the x-rays the most. The waiting rooms usually weren't stocked with kids' toys and the wait was interminable. Then some technician would contort my body into a bunch of uncomfortable positions. I especially hated the "butterfly" where I had to hold my bent and spread knees as close to the table as I could without moving. Then the technician would leave me alone in the room with the scary sounding machine.

I was a trooper though. In all those years, I only cried once. And that was the morning I woke up alone in the hospital for the first time in months, because my parents had gone to pick up the car together to take me home.

My mother used to try and make these trips to the hospitals a little more bearable by making them an event. A lot of times we'd have to drive pretty far, so she'd bring my grandmother along and we'd play car games. We'd go early so she could take me to the cafeteria for lunch.

I remember one day in particular when I was three years old. My mom had let me get a Hoodsie Cup along with my lunch. I was so excited to eat my ice cream. We were waiting in line to pay and I was standing quietly next to mom as I always did. She and my grandmother were talking about something.

Suddenly, I felt a horrible burning pain in my back. I remember that the pain was excruciating at first. But the shock of it almost immediately caused me not to feel it at all. I turned and looked at my mom in surprise.

And as she slowly turned her attention to me, I felt that pain slowly, but inexorably, return with a vengeance. I remember trying so hard not to cry, but not being able to help it.

"What's wrong?" my mother asked. I couldn't answer. She asked again and put a hand on my back as she implored me to answer.

And she snapped her hand away because my back was covered with burning hot coffee.

Since we were already in the hospital, she rushed me to the emergency room. I can still remember my grandmother, who didn't really know what was going on, saying, "But we just can't leave our trays!"

Of all my hospital experiences, that time in the emergency room was the worst. They parked me on a gurney in an open room with adults who were screaming and crying. They took my mother away. The doctor was nice enough, but the burning pain of a second degree burn was worse than the chronic pain I was used to.

After they had done what they could, they put me in a wheelchair and took me to my regularly scheduled x-ray appointment. The nice woman technician felt bad about my back, but still made me lie on it while she took x-ray after x-ray.

It wasn't until I heard my mother tell the story to someone else that I knew what had happened. A nurse had come up behind me in line with her hot cup of coffee and spilled it on me. And then she ran.

Apparently, some other people had seen it happen and reported the nurse.

It is just unfathomable to me that someone who is trained to care for people in that way could burn a small, crippled child and then run off.

But, you know, the most upsetting thing about that whole day for me was leaving my Hoodsie Cup behind in the cafeteria. I couldn't wait to go back to that hospital, and that cafeteria to get another one. And I didn't have to wait long.

Making Babies

"Mommy, do you have to be married to have a baby?" my daughter asked today on the way to school.

I sort of skated around that one. I didn't want to lie, but I concluded with a hearty, "But let's assume you'll be married before you have a baby."

"But, how does a baby get in your tummy?"

Ah, this is it. This is the moment of truth. The moment I've been expecting and dreading for seven years. Except my son was in the car too. And while they both want answers to this question, they both need very different levels of disclosure.

"Honey, I will absolutely tell you about that, but this isn't a good time, okay. We'll talk about it later."

She was happy with that answer.

So I was telling a friend this little story tonight and I said, "So now I have to think of an answer."

"They have books for that," he replied.

Ah, I think he's on to something. She can read now. She might as well put that skill to work.

Besides, that's how my mom taught me everything I ever needed to know. When she noticed that I was getting underarm hair, she gave me a book called Our Bodies, Ourselves. She told me to read it and then ask questions. I was too embarrassed to look at the pictures.

But when I was about nine or ten I saw a movie called Neighbors on HBO. In the movie, a woman gave a man a blow job under the covers. And so I thought oral sex was sex. I knew you had to have sex to make a baby and I figured the mouth was the quickest point of entry to the stomach.

I thought blow jobs were sex until I was actually old enough to have sex. I think I finally figured it out from watching a horrible 70's porno with my first real boyfriend. I guess I should have looked at those pictures in Our Bodies, Ourselves a little closer.

It's a good thing it wasn't an anal sex video. I'd still be childless.

By Any Other Name

If my daughter was a boy, she would have been named Michael. Or maybe Christopher.

My son is not named Michael or Christopher. If he had been a girl, he would have ended up with a name that ended with ah. Samantha, Rebecca, Amanda, Jessica, Glenda.

Okay, not Glenda.

Actually, my son's first name is my maiden name minus one letter.

We chose our kids' names based partly on the nicknames we'd use for them. Both of them insist on being called by their full names.

My husband doesn't go by his first name. I call him by his middle name. But very few people here know him by anything other than his call sign.

I hate my name. As a child, I desperately wanted to change it to Debbie. I have no idea why.

If I was a boy, I would have been named Robert Allen.

I think I like Debbie better.

Do you know what your name would have been, if you weren't born you?

Vidal Sassoon She is Not

I know there is humor in this story. I know it. Maybe someday I can come back and see it all from a different perspective. But right now, I am just angry. And a little heartbroken.

My daughter cut her hair last night.

Now just to remind you, she's not a toddler. Nor a teenager. She is seven-years-old. Definitely old enough to know better. And definitely young enough that it looks like someone took a weedwhacker to her head.

Today is yearbook picture day.

She cut a couple of chunks of bang right off to her scalp. She cut the sides higher than her earlobes. She cut random chunks out of the back.

I cried.

Well, first I yelled. Then I sent her away from me. As far away from me as our house will allow. Then I went into the bathroom and cried.

I know it's just hair. I know it will grow back. But this is just the very tip of the ice burg of everything we went through with her this weekend.

I can't trust my daughter.

I was telling my husband about how I had learned from her violin experiences that I have to let her fail and succeed on her own. How I can't see everything she does as directly relating to a failure on my part. How I have to let her be responsible for her own actions.

And even as I was telling him that, a voice in my head was asking how I had failed her. How had I taught her to lie? How had I taught her to be sneaky and manipulative? How did I fail her this time?

Parenthood is a long, strange trip. It's day upon day of mundane boredom, valleys of untold self-hatred, and peaks of unspeakable joy.

If it weren't for the peaks, I'm not sure anyone would do it at all.

The Endless Goodbye

AH and her family are all packed up. They're moving out of here on Sunday

I was curious about how my daughter would handle this. You see, AH's daughter is her best friend.

On Saturday, we took the kids to a farewell roller skating party for all the school people.

Last night, I took the kids to a (way-too-late-on-a-school-night) farewell pool party for all the military people

Today, AH took her kids to school to have a farewell lunch in the cafeteria with her former classmates.

And tonight, AH is taking a couple of us out for cocktails and dinner.

It's the goodbye that will never end.

I would have weaseled out of tonight's dinner except that I'm trying so hard to make new friends. I'm driving with a neighbor who I really like. She's a military wife and her kids go to the same school as mine.

I just realized she has the same initials as AH. Shall we call that replacement therapy?

Nah. My neighbor and AH are nothing alike.

My daughter is wholeheartedly in favor of replacement therapy though. She's made a new friend at school who looks like AH's kid. "So, it's alright, Mom."

I wonder how she handled that final goodbye at school today.

Speaking of friends and goodbyes...

CB's husband (RB) called me last night. He wanted me to know that they are moving to Hawaii.

I have to hate her now. Just on principle.

"Do you guys have an assignment yet?" he wanted to know.

I just laughed.

"We should be back there in a few years," he said.

"We'll still be here," was my reply.

With AH's departure, we have now officially been on this base longer than anyone. With no departure in sight. Join the military! See the bayou!

My husband came home from work feeling pretty down. He has a lot of stuff going on, but after a while I realized that RB's call probably wasn't making him too happy. He feels even more stuck than I do.

But he did manage to cheer me up.

"RB says that we can come visit and stay with them."

Hell, yeah. I hadn't even thought of that. Who needs local friends when you have friends to visit in New York City and Hawaii?

Oh, by the way, if you don't hear from me for a wile, it's because I'm stuck in a perpetual goodbye with AH. Please send vodka. And lot's of it. If I can lube her up, maybe I can slide her off.

Update: Oh. My. God. The only good thing I can say about tonight is that my neighbor and I bonded over having to endure this ordeal together. And I ate a gourmet banana split. Which only dulled the pain slightly.

Happy Dance

I went to the orthodontist today for a retainer check. As the assistant sat me down in the chair she told me that they were "dismissing" me. I won't ever have to go back. I'm perfect!

When the doctor came to do the final check he stood and shook his head for a moment. "I can't believe this is it for you. Your kids were babies when you started here. We've watched them grow-up."

I couldn't keep the grin off of my face. But It's actually a little sad too. It's the end of an era. A painful, aching era. But an era none the less.

To top it off, I got to trade my wooden nickel rewards for a gift certificate to dinner. I'm going to be partying it up at the Applebees this weekend. Let's hear it for good oral hygiene.

Little Tuna Girl and the Case of the Mysterious Powder

For my daughter's sixth birthday, Patrick bought her the ultimate gay uncle gift: an Easy Bake Oven. He even bought her a variety pack of mixes to make cookies and cakes.

She loved it! And she loved even more that he helped her make herself a birthday cake.

Since then, the Easy Bake Oven has spent the majority of its life high on a shelf in her closet. As Uncle Patrick learned while trying to bake with her, it is a very frustrating prospect, best saved for special occasions.

My husband recently helped her bake a Back to School Oreo cookie cake with her oven. Then he shoved the oven high on a shelf in our closet, in hopes that she would forget she had it for a while.

Besides, her closet (and her entire bedroom) was so messy at the time, that he couldn't have navigated her room to stow the oven, even if he wanted to. Which is why, when she broke some major rules this past weekend, she was sent to her room to clean as part of her punishment.

My son cleaned his room too, because, well, he enjoys it. After a half hour or so, he called me up to inspect his room. After bestowing my approval upon the boy who will now forever be known as "the good one" (just kidding) I knocked on my daughter's door to check out her progress.

Whenever I knock and then hear major banging around before I hear a "come in" I know I am not going to be pleased.

The first thing I noticed, was the crusty stuff on her face.

"What did you eat?" I asked her.

"Nothing."

"Then what's all that stuff on your face?" I wanted to know.

"I don't know. I can't see my face, you know," she sassed back.

She was in for it now.

"Honey!" My voice started to rise. "What did you eat? It's all over your face. And your shirt!"

"Nothing."

"Are you really going to lie to me?" I asked her in a calm voice.

That usually gets her.

"No, Mommy. I ate something."

She didn't have to even tell me what she had eaten, because all of a sudden I knew. There was a light-colored powder all over the carpet and there were open packages lying next to the mess.

"You ate your Easy Bake Oven mixes, didn't you?"

"Yes, Mommy."

I had been in such a good mood, but in that moment, I knew I had to walk away. Sometimes it is best to give yourself a time out.

"Kiddo, I'm going to close this door and walk away before I blow up at you. I'd advise you, though, to clean up this mess, and your self before you even think of coming out of this room."

You know, eating what I assumed was an entire twelve pack of bakery mixes is one thing. Lying to me about it is something else entirely.

The rest of our weekend was filled with lectures and punishments (because her misbehaving and lying didn't stop at the Easy Bake Oven mix on her floor).

By Monday, her room was pretty clean. Not perfect, but better than she usually ever accomplishes on her own. We had thrown away the remaining mix and I had vacuumed her carpet. I sent her to her room on Monday afternoon to do her homework and get ready for violin practice.

While she was playing Perpetual Motion for about the thousandth time, I noticed something on her face.

"What's on your face?" I asked her. But I immediately stopped myself. "We'll talk about it after violin practice."

When she snapped her violin case shut I asked her again. "What's on your face?"

"Nothing."

"Come here." I wiped at the spot with my thumb. This seemed all too familiar.

"Did you...? Is this...? Honey! Did you eat your Easy Bake Oven Mix again?"

"No."

"Really? Do we need to have another talk about lying again?"

"No, Mommy. I ate it."

I couldn't imagine where she had gotten it from. "Did you lick it up off the floor?"

"No."

Much crying and yelling ensued. It wasn't until I had calmed down the next day and was hanging up her laundry for her that I found a hidden stash of mix in a crack between her shelves.

You'd think we never fed her!

For the rest of this week, she's getting lettuce for dinner.

I am an Idiot

Halfway through another sleepless night, I decided to search through TiVo and find a movie that might help me fall asleep.

I chose to watch Terms of Endearment for the first time.

They call this a movie? It was torture. I couldn't have picked a worse time in my life to subject myself to this emotional train wreck.

I am a stupid, stupid woman.

I'm going to go vomit now.

Just Wrong

When you are so sore from having so much sex that your husband has to hold your legs up for you while he gets his freak on, it's probably not a good time to start a new leg routine at the gym.

*****

Apparently, Friday is jeans day for the staff at my gym. Does that seem weird to anybody else?

*****

There is this very buff, athletic woman at my gym. She has the body I want, and the body I wasn't too far away from back in the day. I respect and admire her. She's always at the gym, no matter what time I go, and she has the best workout routine. But I hate her a little too. You know? It doesn't help that she's also gorgeous.

We ran into her one day out and about. I pointed her out to my husband. Let's just say that he agrees with my assessment. If she was into it, I bet I could talk my husband into a three-way.

I saw her at the gym this morning. She was wearing a t-shirt from a doughnut shop.

That is just wrong. I must vanquish her now. I wonder if I could bribe the shop girl to sneak chicken fat and sugar into her morning smoothie.

And I wonder if she is ever sore from having too much sex.

Realizations Part 2: Kid's Eye View

Another sleepless night means even more realizations.

The kids start school today. Thank all that is good and holy. But I can barely believe that my daughter is in second grade and my son is in Preschool 4.

I have vague recollections of attending a nursery school. Remember? That's what they called it back then. Nursery school. Because when I was a kid, you were still a baby when you were three and four-years-old. You weren't already competing in sports and signed-up for activities. You didn't have to start training when you were a toddler in order to get a leg up on the competition.

I haven't thought about nursery school in years.

I didn't start the school year with the rest of the kids. I don't know why. But I remember that my parents were tense when they brought me that first day. Not so much because they were afraid I would be shy or scared, but because they were afraid how the other kids would react to my handicap.

Oh, and remember when they called it that? Handicap. I played handicapped tennis and my mom parked in handicapped spots. No one had thought of calling it "disabled" yet.

I had Legg Calves Perthes Disease and wore a brace on my leg. I've written about it before.

The first thing my nursery school teacher did was sit us all in a circle and have me tell everyone about my brace. She let the kids ask me questions. It was the right way to handle it. I wasn't shy.

I haven't thought about nursery school in years. But last night I had all of these little snippets of memories flashing back.

I remember making these little turtles that raced along a string. You had to crawl along and pull something. I remember that each kid got to race theirs, but somehow they ran out of time before it was my turn.

I remember all the kids lying on long scrolls of paper and having the assistant teachers trace our bodies. That was so cool. Except, well, they ran out of time or paper before it was my turn.

I remember the kids all picking books and sitting in a teachers lap while she read to them. Except I was always sitting beside an assistant teacher while she read me Where the Wild Things Are.

And last night I suddenly realized something.

They were afraid of me.

Not the kids, but the adults.

They were afraid to have me crawl on the floor. What if I wasn't suppose to? They were afraid to trace around my brace. What if my picture looked different and I got upset? They were afraid to have me sit in their laps. What if they hurt me? Or I hurt them? Maybe they just didn't want to touch me.

To me it was nothing. It was normal. Just something to adapt around. To them, my brace was a big deal.

For all the times I remember being told I couldn't do something like run or jump or play, there were so many more times when I was just left out with some excuse.

I was lucky enough to receive excellent medical treatment and my parents made some (honestly) lucky decisions that enabled me to be out of the brace and normal by the time I entered first grade.

Suddenly, last night, I was wondering how my life would be different if I hadn't.

See, I have never really thought about it before because I was looking at it through a kid's eye view. And with all of the hundreds of kids I played and learned with, only one ever had a problem with my handicap. So it was easy for me.

It was no big deal. It didn't change or shape who I am today. Not really.

But, my god, it could have.

How come I am so lucky when so many other people have to suffer so much?

And how can an adult be afraid of a little kid? I wonder how much has changed in the last thirty years.

Realizations Part 1: Class of 2020

I had a plethora of realizations last night. That's what happens when I don't sleep.

First of all, I realized that my son is a member of the Class of 2020. Which basically means that 2020 will be my year of freedom.

"Freedom!" Can you hear me yelling that? "Freeeedommmm!"

There's a commercial on television right now that shows parents dropping their kid off at college and then crying on the way home. Every time we see that commercial, my husband and I laugh. That will not be us. We will be partying our little hearts out the day my son goes to college.

What? I swear. You'll see.

I also realized that this will be the most stressful year of my life.

Oh, it sounds like all fun and games now that both of my kids are in school five days a week. But it's not.

Because I have to pick my son up at noon, and my daughter up at three, plus run around to ballet and violin practices; never mind homework, math practice, reading time, at-home violin practice every day...

Wait. Where was I? Oh, yes. Stress.

Man, I would love to move closer to their school to save on commute times and gas money.

Except the home I want in that neighborhood is selling for 1.4 million buckaroos. I don't see that happening any time soon.

Which reminds me of a little story!

We were at a squadron party a couple of weeks ago and one of my husband's old classmates said to us, "So, are you going to move into field grade housing?"

I spun around on my husband. "We can move into field grade housing?"

"Ah, ah..." he stammered.

His friend said, "Oh, sorry, man," and made his escape.

If I had realized that we could have moved into better housing last year when he was promoted, we would have been on that housing list so fast, it would have mad his head spin. But he doesn't want to go through the hassle of moving, even though it would mean another bedroom, an extra room next to the kitchen, and a garage that isn't a half mile away.

All for free! Just because he got promoted.

Hell! I'm ready to move out of this house just because it's dirty. The next time I have to face off against a winged-bringer of doom (i.e. a cockroach) we're moving. No arguments.

It's that or the 1.4 million dollar place with the indoor pool.

For the things I made that man feel last night...twice...

I deserve it.

Writing to Reach Me

I realized today that it has been five years since I quit freelance writing.

Five years!

And in that five years I haven't written anything more comprehensive than a grocery list except here on my blog.

(Well, that's excluding porn.)

The problem with only writing on my blog is that when I have something I want to write about, that doesn't belong here, I feel stifled. I don't have a personal journal. I don't have a paper journal. My blog has been the depository for all of my fleeting thoughts and feelings. Now my real life and my blog life have crossed too many lines.

I don't know of any other writer who confines all of his or her writing to one place.

It's about time I opened up Word and started writing just for me. Maybe then I will be able to sleep.

And it will distract me from computing how much I could have earned in the last five years if I hadn't quit my freelance gigs.

That's six articles a week...at an average of sixty bucks a pop...plus the occasional brochure and ad copy...

This is where my mind goes whenever the kids' tuition bill arrives.

Sticking With Me

I woke up in the middle of the night last night. I stumbled into the kitchen and poured myself a bowl of cereal. Froot Loops, if you must know.

Then I ate another bowl-full.

Then I had, not one, but two peanut butter sandwiches.

Why?

Because I somehow got it stuck in my head that I wouldn't be able to eat for the rest of the week. In my half-awake state, I suddenly had to eat. And I had to eat something that was going to stick with me. Hence the peanut butter.

Yeah, it stuck with me, alright. I only remembered my late night foraging when I stepped on the scale this morning and realized that I had gained three pounds.

This is what it is like to live with my brain.

Hot Box

My inbox has been warming up lately with lovely e-mails from new readers. I love it! Thanks for all of your kind words. I always appreciate it when readers take the time to let me know they're reading.

And I especially loved this e-mail I got from Lotta over at Mom-o-Matic.

Subject: Was it you

That had the post about tampooning? If so this is for you.

I think it is too funny that I've become the first one people think of when they happen upon tampon crafts.

Tongue in Cheek

I was standing at the sink washing my hand-wash-only pots and pans when my husband came home last night.

"What ya doin'?" he inquired.

"Washing pots and pans," I replied.

"Oh, I hardly ever see you do that," he answered.

"Oh, really. I cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day and you use at least one pot a day yourself. What did you think? That the pot fairies come in and clean them? That we have kitchen fairies who come in here every night and clean up after you?"

"Well, this pot and pan fairy is kinda bitchy," he deadpanned.

"You want to see a bitchy fairy, my dear? I'll show you a bitchy fairy."

"Yeah?" he asked. "Are you gonna call..."

He didn't finish that sentence.

I pointed a soapy spatula at him.

"Don't piss off the fairies!"


Photo courtesy of the Traveling Spotlight

*****

We were watching How I Met Your Mother. I like that show. But I have to admit, we were watching a pretty annoying episode.

My husband looked over his shoulder at me from where he was lying on the couch.

"Give me the remote."

"No." I answered. "I'm watching this."

"I have the power," he intoned. "Give me the remote."

I held tight to the remote, of course.

"I have all the power in this relationship. And you know why, don't you?"

"Yup." he agreed. "You have all the power because you have the pussy."

Damn right. 'Bout time he learned.

Disaster Area

I was very, very sick yesterday. It's a good thing that our bed is only about five feet from our toilet.

But fine. Whatever. We all get sick from time to time. It's not like I have a job and I have to call in sick.

Except, I have two little kids to take care of and a husband who is in phase. In phase means, well, I'm not really sure what it means. But it means that he works a lot and can't come home for little emergencies like a puking wife.

Since I no longer know any of my neighbors (they've all cycled through this summer--you've got to love living on base) I was pretty much stuck putting my seven-year-old in charge.

When I asked her to make lunch she replied, "What shall I make, Mom? I can make several things. All without using the stove." That kind of scared me.

In the afternoon I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep for a couple of hours. I only awoke when my foot made contact with something warm and wet. What the? It seems Buffy the wonder puppy had been sleeping with me and when she couldn't get down from the bed, she decided to just relieve herself wherever was convenient. Three times. Three times!

I was feeling a little better by then and decided to venture downstairs. But I was scared. I was very scared. Did I need to call in the National Guard for disaster relief?

Okay, there were toys everywhere. The dining room table was covered with art supplies. The kitchen counters were slathered with peanut butter. And there were toys in the freezer! The freezer? But where are the kids?

Alright, I could hear them in the playroom. I didn't even want to think about how the playroom was going to look, especially since that room has floor-to-ceiling windows and the neighbors can see our mess.

I found the kids playing quietly together. Completely naked.

They were naked! In the room with all the windows!

Our new neighbors are going to love us.

With all the sex sounds they hear coming from our place. And now naked kids. They probably think they have hippies living on the street.

Or worse. Democrats.