Just a Little Proud of Myself

After I fired off this letter to the editor of my local paper, I didn't really think anything would come of it. For one thing, if you read it closely you'll realize that I mistakenly assumed the writer I was disagreeing with was a military wife. She wasn't. She was only a military girlfriend, and a young one at that.

I wrote an e-mail to the editor explaining my mistake and making the correction, but I figured I had blown my chances of getting it published.

Then on Thursday night, the Editorials Editor called me and asked if she could turn my letter into a guest column.

I thought about it for half a second, and then said, "Sure." I then wrote a frantic e-mail to Aaron asking him to help me choose and clean-up a photo to go with the article. He suggested I fly him in to take a whole new head shot, but, sadly, my budget precludes such a thing.

I also asked my husband to read my letter. There was one very, very small part of me that worried for him. I mean, the military (and our branch specifically) is a lot more tolerant these days, but his career is our livelihood. A letter to the editor is one thing. But this had my picture and everything.

He thought it was a great letter. "It's a little harsh there at the end," he told me. "But it's so well-written."

I knew he would be nothing but supportive. But more than that, he was really proud of me.

So yesterday, my guest column appeared in the paper. Today, the PFLAG boards are all abuzz over who I might be.

And I've just got to say it. I've been published plenty of times before, but never about something I cared about. This is really kind of cool!

Out of Touch

Today, the husband and I went to the kids' school for an interview. We've been chosen to help develop the upcoming endowment campaign.

And the whole time they were asking me questions all I could think was, "Are you fucking kidding me? You want my opinion about raising five million dollars? Have you seen my checking account?"

I think I've been out of touch with the grown-up world for too long.

Oh, and was it bad that when they asked me who I'd like to see chair the campaign, and then handed me a list of possible names that included my husband's, that I actually laughed out loud?

He's a wonderful man and a great aviator. But asking rich people for money is not his cup of tea.

Mouths of Babes

Found via Mom-O-Matic.



Natalie Dee

As we were walking back to the parking lot after soccer this weekend, my daughter asked my husband, "Daddy, what does cock mean?"

"What?"

"What does cock mean?"

"Huh?"

"Cock, Daddy. C-c-c-cock. What does cock mean?"

"A cock is a rooster, Honey."

I'm glad he thought of it. I couldn't come up with that answer over my internal giggling if my life depended on it.

What's Up with Me

It's not often that I am quite this tapped out. I feel an update is in order.

Cryptic much? Remember that writing I saw on the wall? Well, yes. I was totally right. Totally and completely right. And I am pissed, but in a different way than I had anticipated. I am mostly resentful and hurt. Even more than I thought I would be. God, how I wish I had been wrong.

Then, remember my broken ring? It turns out that it cannot be fixed. It's actually much more broken than it appears in that photo. It is stretched out and twisted. It is going to have to be replaced. I am a little frustrated that no one can understand how much this hurts me. I don't care if my diamond can be reset. I don't want an upgrade. I want my ring. I think I've actually been grieving for its loss. Though it did make me laugh when my sister-in-law the jewelry designer told my husband, "Have you thought about upgrading her ring? After all, she has put up with you all these years." You've got to love big sisters.

Next, remember how I volunteered to be a chair person on the parents' association at the kids' school. Last year I spent a week working full-time in two food booths at an art fair. This year, my co-chair and I are completely in charge of the booths. This is like running a small business. We have to handle supply and demand and staffing. We have to train volunteers to cook and serve the food. We have to follow health codes. This is worse than having a full-time job, because if I fail, the school loses out on Annual Funds. Last year we raised $16,000. If I don't raise at least $10,000 this year, I will never let myself live it down. Things have been going wrong left and right and my stress level is through the roof. And the damn fair hasn't even started yet. This is my last year as a chair. I swear!

Lastly (for now at least) I have been guest blogging over at Patrick's blog. Guest blogging is hard. Please go over and leave a comment so I don't look like a total dork.

Confidential to New Yorkers

I just wanted to quickly let you know (as I mobile blog from the carpool line) that Patrick is indeed staying in the hospital until tomorrow.

And FARB is right. He's bored and up for visitors. But don't bring flowers because they're not allowed on his floor.

I'm telling you guys, the best way to say Get Well Soon is with a basket of porn.

Fairy Farewell

Amidst all of yesterday's chaos, my daughter managed to lose a tooth that she has been stressing over. (Mom prevails again by booby trapping her lunch box with banana chips.)

As my husband drove her and her brother home from soccer practice she announced that she knew the tooth fairy was really only us leaving her money. My husband scrambled to cover that up really fast and not ruin things for my son.

But after my son was in bed, she came up with a plan. She wanted to set up a video camera in her room to catch the fairy at work.

Damn, she's growing up fast. Chic haircuts, orthodontists, signing pop music...it all goes in the blink of an eye. I'm sure this will be her last year with Santa Claus. Or maybe last year was her last year.

If it were any other night, I would have set up the video. And convinced my husband to dress up as a fairy to deliver her two dollars. Wouldn't that have made a grand farewell to her tooth fairy years? And a great memory for her to have when she has kids of her own?

Waiting

As I sit down at the computer to kill the last five minutes before I take the kids to school, Patrick is reporting for his surgery. Alone.

Today will be a day of waiting, waiting, waiting.

God, this sucks.

Update: Patrick texted me at around 9 a.m. to let me know that his surgery is scheduled for 11. If everything goes perfectly, the surgery should take about four hours.

I'm hoping that since he doesn't have anyone waiting for news in the waiting room, the nurse or doctor will look at his admission forms and give me a call. But I highly doubt it. So I'm left waiting for him to be cognizant enough to call me or for him to be allowed visitors (who had damn well better call me). If I don't hear anything, later tonight I will call NYU and see how far I can get.

So still waiting, waiting, waiting.

The outpouring of support from my blog friends today has been overwhelming. Actually, calling them blog friends doesn't really convey how much they mean to me. They're my friends, and even my family. And I love them.

Thanks, guys.

Update: I talked to Patrick at about 7 p.m. tonight. He told me, "Morphine is a wonderful thing." He doesn't remember much but it seems things went fine. He seemed in pretty good spirits. And they told him they might release him tomorrow. He also has a friend who will be escorting him home. So it's all good.

I'm going to try to update over at his blog once the kids are in bed.

Thanks so, so, so much for all of your support.

Tonight I'm going to sleep for the first time in months.

Update: I talked to Patrick again at about 11 p.m. Eastern. He's going to try and push his hospital stay one day longer since his insurance approved a three day stay. I think that's an excellent idea. Hell, the Air Force paid for me to have three days in the hospital after I had a baby. It seems only fair.

He asked me to let everyone know how much he appreciates your support. He really was very moved. I could hear it in his voice. I'm headed to bed, you guys. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Just when I thought I was out...

Remember how excited I was about being released from my orthodontist's care?

Well, that feeling was quick and fleeting.

Today the kids went to the dentist and my daughter got an orthodontic referral. Can you hear my huge, heaving sigh from there? Like mother, like daughter. There goes her wedding fund.

And the boy? Oh, it gets even better. He has a mutant tooth growing upside-down and backwards right above his front teeth. They asked me if they could take extra x-rays to show all their dentist friends. So he'll be headed to my oral surgeon once his baby teeth come out. Hopefully the mutant tooth won't grow into his brain by then.

How about that sigh? Did you hear that one?

While the entire dental staff huddled around his x-rays to ooh and ahh I had a flashback of the same thing happening to me. Like mother, like son.

I wonder if all of my family's mutant extra teeth are really some remnant of alien beings. Or undeveloped twins. (They did briefly think I was having twins with both my pregnancies.)

Maybe that's why my son bangs his head in his sleep. He's trying to shake his undeveloped brother free.

Got my Hackles Up

I did something today that I've never done before. I wrote a letter to the editor of our local paper.

I've been published in this paper before. But I was always writing about a new car dealership, or the best way for old people to exercise, or how a restaurant has been in business for a whole entire decade. Not about anything that mattered. Clearly.

But something has been happening locally that means something to me. Some local activists have been protesting the military's Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy at a recruitment office. It has been getting a lot of press.

Yesterday, some military wife wrote a very ignorant letter to the editor claiming that the protesters were appalling. I couldn't just let that go. I tried to answer her letter from the mindset of a military wife. We'll see what happens.

Here's what she had to say:

Attention activists are demanding is appalling

Re: Aug. 13 opinions regarding gays in the military.

On August 12, 2005, I watched as my high school sweetheart transformed before my eyes from a boy to a man. As he marched gracefully across the famed parade deck at Parris Island Marine Corps Recruit Depot, S.C., I noticed a newfound pride in his demeanor "" for his country, his fellow corpsmen, his loved ones, and most of all himself. In the year-plus of his duty the man I love can proudly proclaim himself "one of the few, the proud," a United States Marine. He has accomplished many great things, and I continue to stand beside him, not only in love but in support of this nation and the courageous people who defend it.

Personally I am appalled by the ignorance of these so-called "activists" who continue to make a spectacle not only of themselves but of those who endlessly sacrifice to give these "activists" the freedom of speech. The United States military is based not only on competance but on personal modesty and self-respect as well. They make a public spectacle of a respected institution, and then wonder why they have been turned away from its ranks.

To these "activists" I wish to say these things: first, please consider the men and women who sacrifice daily for you to abuse your rights. Second, know that you have been turned away because of your lack of modesty and respect, not your personal life choices. Third, if you wish to serve, please do yourselves and this country a favor and have some self-respect first.

And here is my response to it:

Re: Ms. Jessica A. King's opinion that the attention activists are demanding is appalling.

In her recent letter to the editor, Ms. Jessica A. King, an obviously proud Marine wife, stated that she was appalled by the ignorance of local activists protesting the military's Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy.

Frankly, I am appalled that a fellow military wife could be so ignorant, hateful and close-minded herself.

I have been a proud military spouse for eleven years. I don't need to list my husband's accomplishments, as many as there are, to validate this fact. But I believe I have a much deeper understanding of what it means to serve this country.

No matter how you personally feel about gay rights, you must see the importance of free speech and the right to peacefully protest to be at the core of what our service members are fighting for. To claim that these protesters are making "a spectacle not only of themselves but of those who endlessly sacrifice to give these 'activists' the freedom of speech" is to miss the point entirely.

Ms. King persists in surrounding the word activist with quotes, which is both juvenile and erroneous. It is the act of standing up for what you believe in and fighting for the right to serve in defense of our country and our values next to your fellow citizens that makes one a true activist. And there is nothing disrespectful or immodest about that.

In fact, it is this very spirit that makes America great and worth defending. There would be no honor in military service if our country was not founded on such beliefs.

Ms. King closes her letter with three points she would like to make to the gay rights activists. She states, "...first, please consider the men and women who sacrifice daily for you to abuse your rights."

I fail to see how protesting a specific military policy is in any way demeaning the men and women of the United States military. Especially since these people are only trying to ensure that they can also serve. And to claim that they are abusing their rights is just incorrect. They are exercising them.

Second, Ms. King states, "...know that you have been turned away because of your lack of modesty and respect, not your personal life choices." This is also completely erroneous. These potential soldiers are being turned away because they have come out and proudly stated that they are gay. Make no bones about it. The military discriminates against gays. And claiming that being gay is a "personal life choice" only brings up an argument that is completely beyond the scope of one letter.

Lastly, Ms. King states, "...if you wish to serve, please do yourselves and this country a favor and have some self-respect first."

I fail to see how these protesters lack self-respect. I believe that it is only Ms. King's homophobia, hatred, and ignorance that are being showcased here.

*****

Update: I was mentioned here at The Frontlines, the blog of the Servicemembers Legal Defense Network.

My Man

Last February, my husband won a very big annual award. His nomination was sent up to compete at the next level but when months went by without hearing any results, we figured he hadn't won.

Today, he found out that he did win. He was the best at what he does on the Major Command level for 2005.

I'm so proud of him.

Of course he still doesn't think he'll make his next promotion board.

*huge eye roll*

I wonder if we'll get to travel to accept the award. And my kids wonder if he'll get a really big trophy. But I think the most we can hope for is my parents treating us to dinner at the Olive Garden.

Broken Heart

I had an accident today at the grocery store. I didn't break my finger, but I did break my ring.

I can't stop crying.

I've worn this ring every day for thirteen years. Since the night he asked me to marry him.

I would rather have broken my finger.

Writing on the Wall

I'm not one to stress too much about what might happen. I don't get upset, depressed, or angry about things that haven't even happened yet.

Because you never know how things may play out.

But right now I can see the writing on the wall. And I'm going to be pissed.

Just give it time.

As the Day is Long

My son was walking up the stairs to go clean his room when he suddenly stopped, turned, and looked me in the eye.

"I just love musicals, Mommy!"

He comes up with so many of these gayisms that it has almost become comical. My gay friends tease me about it all the time.

Just last night at soccer practice my friend was telling me how her three-year-old son picked out a pink ball. We started comparing stories about our sons' feminine sides.

There's the make up, and body glitter, and playing dress up, and always choosing pink, and playing with dolls, and loving to cook, and kick-ass organizational skills, and the always wanting his hair to be perfect, and his booty-shaking love of Cher and Madonna, and Judy Garland, and lipo suction, and house music.

Oh wait.

But still. You see where I'm going with this.

I've heard parents of gay boys (not girls though) say that they could tell their son would grow up to be a friend of Dorothy before he ever entered school. And I can see that. In fact, my daughter has a little friend who I am absolutely convinced will be coming out in a decade or so. I can't put my finger on why. There's just something about him. And it has nothing to do with stereotypes.

I honestly think that my son's behaviors and personality are a product of having an older sister to whom he is very close and feminist parents who aren't about to scold their son for playing with dolls.

If he's gay, he's gay. We'll deal with it as he needs to deal with it. I certainly wouldn't love him any less. In fact, I'd be incredibly proud of him, just as I always am. He'd certainly have some wonderful role models.

Just yesterday I was talking to one of those potential role models on the phone while my son was dressing up some Polly Pocket dolls. After I helped him get a bathing suit on an anorexic blonde whore--I MEAN--doll, he went and turned the water on in the bathroom sink to create a swimming pool.

I then had to ask my friend to hold while I argued with my son about taking his clothes off. He didn't want to mess up his outfit by getting it wet, so he wanted to strip. I wanted to get out of the house in about five minutes, so I told him no.

I got back on the phone with my friend.

"I just can't get this kid to keep his clothes on."

"That's the cincher, right there. Sweetie, your son is gay."

Maybe I should go to that PFLAG meeting tomorrow.

I'm a Freak

I know it. I've come to accept it. I am a freak. But sometimes being a freak can make it hard to make friends.

Lately, I have this thought that keeps sneaking into my head.

With all the talk of masturbation lately, I recalled my first experiences with self love.

Like many girls of my generation, I discovered the magic of the handheld shower massage when I was in my early teens. I'm pretty sure my mother must have known what I was doing in there. We had a very small water heater and I don't think any other family member had a hot shower from 1987 to 1991.

But one day I was shaving my legs with my mother's old electric shaver. This thing was circa 1965. The blades accidentally popped off while the razor was running and I noticed something.

Hmmm, that little plastic piece goes back and forth really fast.

And a habit was born. That razor went through college with me. It's absolutely amazing that I didn't injure myself with the hard plastic nub. Thank Venus I discovered Brookstones my junior year.

So I've been walking around through my life and wondering about every person I happen upon. How did she discover masturbation? What weird things has he tried to get himself off?

Yes, I know I am a freak. Yes, I know I need professional help. This is why I don't have any friends.

But I bet you're thinking about it now too, huh?

Freak!

Who loves you, baby?

When my husband says goodbye to his mother on the phone, he always says, "I love you, Ma." I think that is incredibly sweet.

When we talk on the phone, he almost always ends it with, "Love you."

And I always reply, "Love you too."

I have friends who have code words--their own secret language--that they use to let their partner know that they love them when they hang up the phone.

But I almost never tell people that I love them over the phone.

I think there will always be a part of me that feels like those words lose power if they get too routine. So while I have no problem telling my husband and children that I love them whenever the mood strikes, very few other people in my life ever hear those words. And that includes my mother.

If you've ever me heard say those words, you know I damn well mean them.

Do you say, "I love you," when you say goodbye? Do you use code words?

Is it ever possible for the words "I love you" to become overused?

Turning Over the Reigns

I shouldn't be blogging.

I should be hiding the porn, cleaning the toilets, clearing out the refrigerator, stashing the Magic Wand, picking up my underwear, planning dinner, and warning him not to make obscene phone calls. (Did I ever tell you about the time he told my mother to slurp, slurp, slurp?)

Is your mother-in-law on the way, Tuna Girl?

No. But good guess.

We've hired a babysitter again! Woo hoo!

I'm not sure if I can even begin to explain it, but hiring a babysitter for us is a huge deal. We went for years with only the occasional babysitter, because we just didn't know anyone. Then we'd find a good teenaged babysitter, only to have her move. Such is the military life.

But this year, I learned that a friend of a friend was running a babysitting service. I swore I would never let a stranger watch my children. But with the advent of MySpace I discovered that I could learn more about a new babysitter with one Google search than I ever could trusting the teenaged daughters of older friends. Never mind that the service does extensive background checks.

I also feel that my kids are old enough now to protect themselves. My daughter can call me on the phone if she has to.

So a whole new world has opened to us. And the sitters we've got through the service have been excellent.

For the first time in our fifth year at this school (five years! &^*%^#*!) we'll be going to a parent social. Not the most exciting night out, I know. But I don't care. It's child-free!

Except I freak out every time a sitter is on the way over. This girl will see more of my house than my houseguests have. My husband doesn't understand why he'll come home and find me on my hands and knees scrubbing the tub.

Funny though...something about having the house clean, the kids put to bed, and some adult time means I almost always end up on my knees for other reasons.

He can't complain about that.

Keep Walking

Whenever I get together with Patrick, we walk. He's a big walker. The last time I visited him in New York we walked all over the city.

One evening, we found ourselves walking by the World Trade Center site. It hadn't been our destination. In fact, we rarely have a destination in mind when we set out.

"That's the World Trade Center site," Patrick pointed out to me.

"Yeah?"

I followed him toward the brightly lit construction area. But I wasn't really looking down into what still amounts to a huge hole. I was watching the people.

Families were getting off of tour busses and taking pictures in front of the site like it was the Grand Canyon or something. It was odd. To say the least.

Patrick stopped walking ten or so feet in front of the fence. I stood next to him for a moment.

Then without turning or looking at him I said, "I don't want to be here right now."

And we walked away. Without saying a word. We walked all over the Financial District and ended up spending some time at the South Street Seaport.

I hadn't thought of that since then. Until today.

Because today, that is how I feel.

I glance at my watch, like I do a hundred thousand times a day, and I see the date.

And I don't want to be here right now.

Plans Gone Awry

I've skipped the gym every morning this week. Mostly because I've had meetings. But also because I just can't become known as the girl who shits in the locker room toilet every morning. I mean, come on. The people at Barnes & Noble already think I'm some kind of public restroom freak.

But this morning? Well, it's Friday. And I'm freaking cranky! And I had a plan.

I was going to drop the kids off at school. Come home and practice some self-directed stress relief. Take a desperately needed shower. And go back to fucking bed.

Who plans masturbation into their day?

But my plans were shot to hell when I heard the lawn guys' mowers in the neighborhood. Friday is lawn mowing day. You know I can't masturbate when the lawn guys are around.

In an attempt to circumvent an interruption, I did what I always do. I hung their check on my front door. I even made sure to check the amount to make sure I was paying them for last week too.

Only to have the head lawn guy knock on my door to let me know that they weren't going to do my lawn today.

Great. Thanks.

Now my mojo is all shot to hell.

I might as well go to the gym now. Or to bed. Yeah. Bed sounds really good.

And if I stress and crank at the people I love today, they can blame the lawn guys. And my fucking $30 credit.

Housekeeping

Hey, guys. I'm working on a little blog upkeep and a project. And I have a very self-serving, egotistical question for you.

Do you have a favorite Tuna Girl post? Leave a comment and let me know.

Bring the love, people. Thank you!

Also, I am way behind on answering e-mails, and I have some important ones sitting in my inbox. I've gotten crazy busy with the kids and other commitments this week. But I haven't forgotten about you.

Anyone know a good lawyer?

My husband asked me last night, "Katie Couric is on the evening news now?"

"Yeah," I told him. "Why does that interest you?"

"She's a hotty."

My whole world has tipped off its axis. Who is this man?

I don't know him at all.

Spin a Little Faster

I was talking to a friend this weekend and said, "My blog has sucked lately."

"Oh, I know," he answered. "Mine has too."

Um, excuse me Mr. Man. That is not the proper response. The proper response is, "Oh, no, my dear. You are brilliant. Everything you write is pure genius. I wish I could write like you. I wish I could be you.

Once we got that straightened out, he said, "It sucks because I can't write about what's really on my mind."

Bingo! I know exactly how he feels.

There is so much going on around me right now. People I love a lot are hurting and there's nothing I can do. And when I try to do something, I seem to just make matters worse. The most difficult thing for me is that I have to censor myself whenever I talk about it.

I feel like I have one person I talk to about another person. And another person I talk to about him. And yet another person I talk to about that person. And I can't write about any of it.

That is so not my style. Especially since this isn't a bunch of high school crap going on. This is real stuff.

Sometimes I miss being able to share everything with my mother. But she wouldn't get it and then I'd have one more person in my loop of pain. Plus she has her own stuff with my father.

For the first time in my life, I miss being a teenager. Back then, my mom could deal with just about anything.

Back then I also wrote letters that I'd never send. But this writing-just-for-myself thing is not working out at all right now.

This post is a poor substitute for the pouring out of angst and rage that I would so dearly love to let loose. Because I find that without a release, my feelings are mostly turning to anger.

I'm so sick of being angry all the time. And I dearly miss the state of sleep.

I wish the world could just spin a little faster. Just for a month or two. Just so we can all get to the other side, stop waiting, and start working. 2007 can't get here soon enough.

Mentoring

Aaron called from Dragon Con and left a message on my answering machine.

And now my son wants to know what, "Oh, my gay hell!" means.

Thanks, Uncle Aaron.

Do as I Say, Not as I Do

The Tuna Man and I have been on quite the upswing lately. Sexually speaking, of course. Maybe it was his impending entrance into his mid-thirties or the fact that I'm so fucking hot, but we've been getting our grove on quite a bit lately.

And damn, do I miss condoms.

Well, I mean, I don't miss buying them, paying for them, stopping to roll them on, and all that fun stuff. But I do miss the no-fuss clean-up.

Now we're going through towels like the boys in the bath.

And you know we rarely do laundry. We need to buy more towels.

And a hamper, because man, speaking of the baths...our bedroom has been smelling like one lately.

For two or three nights in a row, I was complaining to my husband, "It smells like sex in here. Do you smell that? It smells kind of sweet and, I don't know...like sex!"

To which he always replied, "No."

He's a talker, that one.

But on Tuesday, when I crawled into bed to take that much-needed nap, I noticed that the smell was even stronger. So I went on a mysterious odor treasure hunt.

I found a cup of coffee tucked behind a frame and the lamp on my nightstand.

I barely ever drink coffee, and I rarely drink coffee in bed. But I do seem to remember slipping between the sheets with a warm Vienna Cafe on the first day of school. Three weeks ago.

My coffee had a grown a little fuzz family all it's own. Their first-born child was boarding a little fuzz bus on it's way to school. And the whole fuzz family was waving good-bye.

Gag.

Here I am grounding my daughter for all the disgusting things she's done in her room, and I'm conducting science experiments in mine.

I'm going to have to keep my parents from telling her about that time they found the stack of dishes I had hidden under my bed or my credibility is going to be shot to hell.