Therapy Watch '06

What are the two things I didn't get done before my parents got here?

1) Wash the dog.

2) Get the brakes fixed on my van.

What are the first two things my father said to me?

1) "The dog needs a bath."

2) "You need new brakes."

(Number of times I misused homonyms and had to edit this post: 2)

*****

My mother to me: "Can I please take just a second and go to the bathroom?"

Patrick, now you know why I'm always apologizing for going to the bathroom. It's a big imposition, you know.

*****

Number of times I've gone to the bathroom just for a break so far: 12

In fact, I was legitimately using the facilities when my husband walked in and sang out, "Stop hiding."

*****

Number of doughnuts my diabetic father has eaten: 5



Number of pieces of chocolate cream pie my diabetic father has eaten: 1

Plus ice cream, chocolates, and french fries.

*****

Number of my diabetic father's empty soda cans I've had to pick up and throw away myself: 6

Then my mother got quicker on the pick-up.

*****

Number of times I've seen my mother covertly give my father the finger: 1

*****

Number of large mammals my parents killed with their mini-van on the way down here: 1

They are getting way too old to be driving so far.

Give Me One Moment in Time

As of this moment every article of clothing we own (except for the ones on our backs) is clean, folded, and put away.

It is a miracle.

And I'm not even wearing underwear, so all of my underwear is clean.

Let me just revel in that for a moment.

Ah.

Feels so good.

It won't last long.

For one thing...

*cue the flying monkey music*

...my parents are on their way.

They decided on the spur of the moment last week to drive down for Christmas.

Yes, you read that right. Drive down. Almost 3,000 miles. Because my father doesn't like to fly. Note that I didn't say "is afraid to fly." I said "doesn't like to fly." He has control issues.

But their Christmas Eve departure was delayed until Tuesday evening so that my father could visit his eye doctor.

Oh, yeah. Did I mention that?

He's going blind.

But he's going to hop right in the car and drive across country to see the kids. (I originally wrote to see "me" but clearly that isn't the case.)

Having a father who is going blind puts a hell of a lot of guilty pressure on me to let him "see" the kids.

Oh! And the next time my mother kvetches at me for not calling her while I'm traveling I'm just going to say, "Hey, yeah. Remember that time you drove across country with your half-blind husband? Mmm hmm. Yeah. Thanks for the phone calls."

Parents. They're like children with better accessories.

Burning Down the House

"So what's the plan?"

It's a question I've heard from my husband a thousand times before. I guess it makes sense seeing as he is a military man and all. (Come to think of it, he actually specializes in planning.)

This time, his query was followed by a suggestion.

"Shall we fire bomb the house and just move?"

Good suggestion, Baby.

I think anyone who spends Christmas with kids can understand that post-Christmas chaos of new toys and packing materials that never seems to go away. And anyone who knows me understands that when my house is messy, I am moody. So I was all over that suggestion.

"Sure! We can move into field grade housing and I get all new stuff. Sounds like a plan to me. In fact I think I subconsciously tried to do just that with the tea pot last week!"

It's true. I almost burnt the house down on my son's birthday. For real. That's how things have been going for me lately.

I woke up that morning and felt the need for instant coffee. So I turned the kettle on. I then left base to take the kids to school. But I forgot my purse (with my military i.d. in it, of course) so I had to go to the base Visitor's Center and call my husband to bring it to me.

I went home for a few minutes and then set out again to complete the thousands of tasks that needed to get done that morning.

When we came home after my son's birthday party my husband asked, "Did you know the kettle is on?"

Well, duh. Of course I didn't. The whistle and handle had melted and the metal was scorched. Thank goodness Marc and Jess gave me a Hot Shot for Christmas or I'd have been sans coffee all Christmas break. (Thanks, guys! My husband thanks you too.)

For now the plan is to try not to burn down the house. The plan is to clean and organize and get back in the groove. The plan is to revel in how cute the kids are playing with the new scooters Santa brought them.

The plan is to make it to New Years.

Anyone else have a plan?

Merry Christmas

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve my daughter asked, "When are we going to bake Santa's cookies?"

How could I have forgotten about Santa's cookies? Luckily, I had leftover baking supplies on hand.


The boy thinks this is the best part.


The girl loves to mix.


Mostly they love to do things together.

Merry, merry Christmas from our family to yours!


I'm sending my love to so many of you. May you all have a very happy holiday.

P.S. Miss you tons! Mwuah.

Dear Potential Parents,

Just a quick note from your friendly neighborhood Tuna Girl.

Do not--I repeat--do not under any circumstances do the unwrapped nasty in the month of March. Get yourself a chastity belt or super glue a condom, I don't know. But sex in March? Just don't do it.

Having a kid with a December birthday sucks.

All my love and XXX and OOO,

TG

P.S. I'm off to another kid's birthday party and then another kid's Christmas pajama party. If I survive, I'll post more later.

Vindication via TiVo, Sort of

For years--and I mean years--my husband has been making fun of me for the way I play Odds or Evens.

When we were kids and something had to be decided my brother and I would always shoot odds or evens. We would hold our hands behind our backs say, "Row, sham, bow," and shoot.

The first time the opportunity to shoot for something came up with my husband, I naturally sang out, "Row, sham, bow," before I shot out two fingers. He looked at me in horror.

"What the hell was that?" he asked.

I explained about my brother and "Row, sham, bow" and he declared me insane.

"You're supposed to say, 'Once, twice, three,' before you shoot. What kind of weird ass childhood did you have?"

But tonight while he was taking a bath, I was watching My Boys on TBS and they said, "Row, sham, bow." Vindication! I'm so glad we live in the age of TiVo. I hit record as fast as I could and waited for him to come downstairs.

I sat there with a huge self-satisfied grin on my face as they said the line.

"Ah ha! See? Row. Sham. Bow!"

"What are you talking about?" he asked me, again giving me that look.

"Row, sham, bow. See. I told you we weren't they only ones to say that. Vindication, Baby!"

"Ah, Honey. I hate to point this out to you but you said you and your brother always said, 'Sha, sha, sha, bang.'"

"No. No. It was 'Row, sham, bow.'"

"Hon, it was 'Sha, sha, sha bang,' Believe me. I remember."

"Row. Sham. Bow?"

Damn it all! He's right. I did claim to always say, "Sha, sha, sha, bang." But I'll be damned if I tell him that.

*****

Side note: Tomorrow is Little Tuna Boy's 5th birthday. His outdoor party is getting rained out. And we'll be taking a trip to the doctor's office because he has an ear ache. Poor little guy.

Tuna Goes to the Movies

If there is one thing I really miss from our life pre-children it is going to the movies.

My husband and I loved going to the movies. If there was something out that looked interesting, we'd be there to see it. Some of our most memorable teenaged dates were in the Rt. 3 Cinema where we got all pissed off when they raised the ticket prices to $4.

Now whenever we have a babysitter, we run right out to the movies.

Every year before Christmas, we finagle a babysitter and go out sans children to go Santa shopping. It usually takes us all evening, but this year we were done in record time. So we decided to go to a movie. We parked in the parking garage and bought tickets but were somewhat early. So we walked around the mall.

We ended up in a kitchen store. They had this really cool stainless steel waffle iron that I've been wanting for a while. And because I'm a spoiled princess, my husband bought it for me. But we didn't have time to go back to the car before the movie started.

So we took our waffle iron to the movies.

When the hell did we get so old?

In the last couple of weeks I've seen four movies, and they could not have been more different from each other.

Apparently, my husband is a James Bond fan. I really had no idea. How could I be getting schtupped by the same guy for...doing the math...carry the one...fifteen years and not know that he loved James Bond.

James Bond is not really my cup of tea. Until now. Hot damn! How hot is Daniel Craig? Those eyes. That face. That square cut bathing suit. When he appeared naked my husband whispered to me, "Now I know why your friends liked this movie."

I was too busy drooling to reply.

I've also recently seen Happy Feet (loved it), Rent (eh *shrug*), and Adam and Steve (funny!). Could those movies be any more different from one another? Actually, if you stretched first you could conclude that they are all based on the theme of belonging.

Except Casino Royale. That was based on sex.

And thank goodness.

In other completely unrelated news, I really miss my husband.

The F Bomb

My son used the F word.

He was getting all dressed up in holiday clothes for his recital.

"I look fabulous. Don't I look fabulous, Mommy?"

I wonder where he heard that.

"Yes, baby boy. You are fabulous."

And don't you forget it.

In which my children learn the word blog

Alternately titled: Awwww, Fuck

My children had a beginner violin concert yesterday. It was rather cool because they got to share the experience. My son was the youngest beginner on the stage and my daughter played the most advanced piece.

The boy was so cute. He didn't suffer even the slightest bit of hesitation and was nothing but attentive and happy. The girl did pretty well herself. A piece actually fell off her bow, but she ignored it and played on. I was really proud of them. They were mostly interested in getting cookies at the reception.

As we were getting in the car, a man called out to me. He seemed familiar and I thought he might be on the school board. So rather than ignore him, which I am known to do (because my dad was a cop and taught me that all strangers are to be feared) I spoke with him.

He explained that he was the "editor" of a blog. My first thought was that he recognized me from here. Talk about a freak out moment! Then suddenly I remembered where I had seen him before.

Last year our violin school had a private concert with a famous cellist. This blogger had come in and started taking pictures and it made the director nervous. When she suggested that he get the cellist permission first he explained that he wrote a blog like it gave him some kind of press pass. He spoke of his blog like it was the New York Times arts section.

I was laughing hysterically on the inside. And when I got home I checked out his blog. Um, yeah. Nice blog, dude. I was going to write about it at the time, but never got around to it. (Or never found a way to make it interesting.) (Still haven't.)

Knowing the extent of his readership, I agreed to let our picture be taken for his blog. He explained how I could find it and asked us our names. He asked me if I was their mother because I look too young to be anyone's mother. GUFFAW!

When we got in the van my daughter exclaimed, "I'm finally going to be famous!"

"Well, not really, honey. I'm sorry but it just isn't that big of a deal."

"I'm going to tell my teacher that I'm going to be in the Arts Blog!" she said. "I'm going to be on the Internet!"

"Well, honey, your picture is on the Internet all the time. I'm always putting pictures of you guys up to share with my friends." I just couldn't think of how to explain a blog to her.

She's not convinced that I know what I'm talking about. How could her mom have any clue about something as hip as blogging? She's just sure that this will be her launch to fame. That this is how she will finally be known!

Combine this with the fact that she read an e-mail over my shoulder and has figured out the whole Tuna Girl thing and I think I'll soon be forced out of my blogging closet.

Shit. Fuck. Damn. Piss.

I better get it all out now before I'm forced to clean things up.

Note to self: Look into Net Nanny!

You know what's really going to suck? When she gets a blog of her own.

Shit. Damn. Piss. Fucking hell!

Earning My Wings

I bought the wrong kind of Always this month. (Have a happy fucking period.)

Now my pad needs a Red Bull. I miss my wings.

Damned Psyche

Have you ever had a nightmare that was so horrific that it made you question your own psyche? How could your brain even imagine something so horrible?

I woke up shaking this morning because of just such a dream.

Now no matter what I try to write about, or talk about I can't get it out of my mind.

Some nameless, faceless people were tormenting me by torturing and killing people I love. And they were concocting situations out of some horrific reality show where I would be responsible for how my loved-ones would be tortured or killed.

The one thing I knew for sure was that there was no way out.

When the dream woke me this morning, I could remember every detail. Now, all these hours later, I can only remember the worst parts.

Near the end, a friend was hanging so that his weight was supported by the top of a freight elevator. Every few minutes the elevator would rise up and then drop. My friend would fall only to be stopped by a rope tied around his chest that would stop him from crashing to his death, but would break his ribs.

The elevator would rise again and the whole tortuous process would repeat itself over and over and over again and the rope would get weaker every time.

When I finally found my way to where this friend was, I was elated that it was not who I thought it would be. They may have gotten a friend of mine, but he wasn't someone I loved and couldn't live without. So I set to work with the other people there trying to save him, but the entire time I kept repeating in my head, "Oh, thank god. Oh, thank god. Oh, thank god."

We somehow knew that the only way to save him was to replace his exact weight on the top of the elevator before it fell again.

Another female friend of mine grabbed some heavy debris and jumped on the elevator, simultaneously pushing the man off. We all stood there in horror waiting to see if she had miraculously gotten the weight exactly right.

Just as we were expecting the elevator to rise again, I got this gut feeling that she was nowhere near heavy enough. I spied some crumbling bricks in a corner and threw them on with her just as the elevator rose up to start its plunge.

It wasn't enough. Not only would she fall to her death, but the elevator shaft would explode to punish us for our insolence in trying to mess with "fate".

She jumped off, but sat in shock. I screamed to her and to everyone to run for their lives, but nobody moved. Except me. I ran away from a group of my friends knowing that every one of them would burn, or fall, or be crushed to death.

As I ran I saw the very person I had expected to be on top of the elevator being pulled and pushed at gunpoint to the center of a room.

And I knew. This was the whole purpose. To make me feel so guilty that I was glad he wasn't on the freight elevator, only to torture and kill him right before my very eyes.

Even though I knew I was running toward him to see him die horrifically--and probably be captured, tortured, and killed myself--I couldn't help it. I had to tell him I loved him before he died.

So I ran. And screamed. But I didn't have enough breath and the words came out as just a squeak. "I love you. I love you. I love you." But he couldn't hear me. He was suffering.

And I knew he would die because I loved him. And he wouldn't even know it.

That's when I woke up. It was like my psyche just couldn't handle conjuring up the exact way he would die.

I've been carrying around the guilt and regret all day long, like it was all real. And I should warn my friends right now. If I melt into a sappy puddle of affection out of nowhere, this is why. I don't want anyone to die without them knowing how I feel.

I did something bad.

Okay, I should start at the beginning.

Want to hear something fucked up?

Because my husband is away and unreachable, I had to text Patrick tonight and ask him, "Am I due for PMS?"

To which he replied, "Yes, actually. For the next five days."

That's fucked up! Right?

But it's most fucked up for my kids who have to live all alone with me right now.

Anyway, that started an evening of occasionally texting back and forth with Patrick. The first of which from me read, "God fucking damn iy! I knew you'd know. ROWR!!! I can be such a biych."

Oh, I should mention that the "T" key on my Treo is broken. For some reason it will only type a "Y". Ain't that fucking annoying?

Among Patrick's texts was one that began, "You won't believe where I am and what I'm doing right now!"

I don't know. Ay yhe Riyz geyying fisyed by Neil Payrick Harris?

That's a fairly common theme for us. (The texts, not the fisying.) Remember his evening with Debra Messing? Or Cyndi Lauper? Or that one night stand he had with...

Oops. I'm not supposed to share that.

These little adventures of his almost always happen on nights when I'm all alone at home, gorging on twice baked potatoes and waffles and feeling especially trapped and whiney.

You know what would go good with twice baked potatoes and waffles? Turkey bacon.

Where the fuck was I going with this?

Oh, yes! At least his confirmation of my hormonal state gives me an excuse for the bad thing I did.

Did I eat an entire cheesecake? No. But thank you for that guess, Patrick.

Did I sleep with the pizza delivery boy? No. But the pizza sure was good.

So I didn't eat something. And I didn't sleep with someone? What else could cause me so much angst?

Money!

I bought something. And you wouldn't guess what it is in a thousand years. I got caught up in a bit of a bidding war on eBay and I just had to buy it out from under the asshole who made an automatic max bid of $600.01. Fucker.

I bought a professional ice skate sharpener.

But hey! We only have to sharpen our skates 137.002 times and it will pay for itself.

Merry Christmas, Honey.

Shit.

I would have gotten less screwed if I was ay yhe Riyz geyying fisyed by Neil Payrick Harris. At least then I wouldn't have screwed myself.

"I fell off my clog!"

Actually, I fell off my loafer. My loafer with less than a one inch heel. And I did it at preschool pick-up in front of all of the teachers, staff, my friends, and every four-year-old in the program.

I sat on my knees in the grass and laughed maniacally.

Just call me Grace.

But at least I have a good sense of humor.

Horse Play

Tomorrow my daughter will star (and I use that term loosely) as the horse in the French language play Le Chat et La Lune. Tonight I am making her a horse tail.

A note, to all of you parents out there: Doing an Internet search for horse tails will not yield what you expect.

Damn, there are a lot of different kinds of butt plugs.

'Tis the Season for Bad Decorating

Help! I'm nesting.

I can't stop cleaning. And if someone doesn't hide my credit card, I'm going to buy Target out of every contemporary/Modern/Thomas O'Brien/Isaac Mizrahi/Design for All (including frumpy housewives) piece of crap they sell.

Not only have I bleached, dusted or vacuumed every surface in this place, I've hauled out the Christmas decorations and gone hog wild.

Unfortunately, every piece of country casual Christmas crap I pull out of the box reminds me of how far from my personality my decor has veered. Since I rarely buy stuff for my home myself, my house is full of gifts and hand-me-downs. And frankly, it looks like my mother lives here.

As for the outside of our house, if it were up to me every window and the roof line would be lined with white lights. The trees would be full of tiny, white lights and I might even go as far as to let them twinkle. There would be a wreath in every window and door.

Clearly, it's not up to me.




And look! Our snowman has erectile disfunction. We can't get him to keep his candy cane up no matter what we do. Sounds like my last boyfriend.

All Too Common

Ha! (Or maybe that should be, "Duh!") I forgot to mention the very reason I had started in with all this late-night, long-winded philosophizing.

The other day, CB e-mailed me about a mutual friend of ours. Her sister had been killed by her husband. Her husband!

Allegedly, he had beat her up over a text message, then made her sleep in the garage. When he went to carry her in the house in the morning (so sweet of him) he couldn't wake her up. So he called 911.

While it is not my place to make suppositions, (will that protect me in a libel case?) I think the truth is somewhere more along the lines of he beat her to death and dumped her body in the garage. But as anyone who watches CSI knows, he was afraid he'd never get away with it. So he dragged her in the house, and started composing his, "It was an accident! I didn't mean to kill her!" story.

How does this happen?

Thankful

Lately, it seems that at every turn, I am reminded of reasons why I am thankful. I swear to god, there is not a person in this world who has been more lucky than me. I have everything I have ever wanted. I need for nothing. I am loved and healthy. If I believed in such things, I would suppose that I may be charmed or blessed.

It is World AIDS Day. For reasons I can't explain, I feel profoundly thankful that my family and friends who are negative continue to remain so. And while I don't think about it so much anymore, there are times when I am reminded to be incredibly thankful that my friends who are positive continue to stay healthy. But I worry. It's what I do.

My friends have lost people they love this year. Specifically, two friends have lost their fathers. I am thankful that I have yet had to tell my children that a grandparent has died. My father and my mother-in-law are not healthy people. But they continue to live productive and happy lives. Even my grandparents are still alive and relatively well. Yet a book titled I Miss You, A First Look at Death sits on my bookcase waiting for the right time to be read. I don't think I can handle a loss anywhere near as gracefully as my friends have. My heart twists for them.

I know too many loving couples who are struggling to conceive a child. I was goddamned fucking lucky to be able to conceive, carry and deliver two children with relative ease. I know it. I am thankful for it. I am even more lucky that my children are very healthy and happy. And I am luckier still that my husband has always been a true partner and wonderful father. And that he was by my side while both of my children were born.

My husband got a notice about non-voluntary deployments to Iraq this week. Isn't non-voluntary such a nice way to put it? One of them is for a job as a liason to the new Iraqi government. I told my husband that didn't sound like much fun. "It sounds fucking dangerous," was his assement. I am abso-fucking-lutely grateful that at the bottom of that notice in very fine small print was an explanation that officers of his rank were welcome to volunteer, but would not be non-volled for the assignment. He's been deployed enough since 2001 to do his duty, but not so much to be in excessive danger or change the dynamics of our family or our partnership for the worse. When he flies out on his next TDY (next week) to a nice safe continental base, I will be thankful he is safe and close. And I will feel deep gratitude and respect for the families of soldiers who are deployed all over the world.

There is so much more. My friends struggle to pay rent, and I am thankful for all that I can afford. I wish I could do more. My friends are ill and I feel so lucky to be healthy, even when I don't take care of myself. People I love are hurt, alone, scared and in pain. And I feel for them deeply. Yet it is only my empathy that causes me pain. Sure I have been hurt. But I have always been able to forgive or move on. I'm good at moving on. I'm thankful for that.

All of this gets in my brain and I can't let it go. Lately I've been spending the hours after my husband is in bed, but before I am exhasuted enough to fall asleep looking for distractions. Any distractions.

Tonight Brian gave me the idea to Google me ex-boyfriends. I had honestly never thought of it before. But Patrick and I happened to bring up the "Oh! Duh! He's was so gay!" moment I had about one of them recently. So I thought it sounded like a good distration.

The first one is the same rank as my husband but in the Navy AND an M.D. He is an orthopedic surgeon. I knew he'd be a doctor someday. I'm surprised he went the military route though. Especially since he probably had to get off the steroids to pass the drug tests.

Two of the others have such common names that they happen to share will celebrties that finding a web identity for them was impossible. But I did find one more. I had briefly dated Brian in high school while my best friend was dating his brother.

I knew what had become of him before. But it was like someone out there felt the need to remind me one more time of just how lucky I am. I found him here. And here.

29 was too fucking young. Rest in peace, Brian.

I swear, I will never be anything but thankful ever again.