Eroscilate Me

My husband and I had a fight last night. It was about vibrators.

For my birthday, my husband spent an ungodly amount of money and I am now the proud owner of a Dr. Ruth endorsed Eroscilator.

This thing came with more attachments than a vacuum cleaner and I have yet to watch the instructional DVD, (and I'm a little afraid of forever associating Dr. Ruth with my expensive vibrator) so I've been trying some of them out here and there.

Two years ago, when the salesperson at the erotic toy store in Provincetown tried to sell Patrick and me "some lovely things for couples" and we fell all over ourselves in horror to explain that we are not a couple (ewww, gross!), she went on to demonstrate the Eroscilator to just me, while Patrick hyperventilated in the corner.

(That is the best sentence I've ever written!)

She warned me that it worked quite differently than a Magic Wand and it would take some time to get used to the different sensation, but that it was "totally worth it". Dr. Ruth taught me that it is like a "loving finger" while my Wand is more like a sexual jackhammer so I was expecting it to take some getting used to.

I've found one or two neat little tricks that it can do, but I'm not an expert yet. So last night, when our marital relations reached a point where the introduction of a vibrator seemed expedient and wise, I grabbed my trusty, old (already plugged-in) Magic Wand.

You know that sound cars make when they throw on the breaks and slide into a curve? Errrrt!!! Yeah. I think my husband made that sound.

"Why aren't you using the expensive new vibrator I just bought you?"

"Uh, can we talk about this later?" I was that close for god's sake.

"No! I spent a lot of money on that vibrator. And I expected you to blah, blah, blah, shut up shut up SHUT UP!"

Okay, that last part is just what I heard in my head.

"Can we talk about this after I cum?"

Flash forward one minute later and we were laughing about the whole thing. But he has no idea what it is like to be raised Catholic in a family of mill-workers. I will now forever feel pressure to use my expensive new vibrator.

I have vibrator guilt.

My Worst Nightmare Come True

Or...well...sort of, anyway.

My husband's commander grabbed him the other day to say, "We've really been enjoying your wife's blog."

Ack! Panic mode! Danger! Danger!

Those were words I've been dreading hearing for years now, so when my husband relayed them to me, my heart immediately clenched. I could feel the adrenaline pump down to my toes.

Of course I quickly remembered that I have another blog now, under my own name, that is part of a local site that's been getting a lot of promotion.

His commander went on to say that he really liked the article I had in the newspaper. Um, okay. I had no idea I had been published, but since the commander called it "touching" I'm going to assume they grabbed something out of my for-public-consumption blog.

My husband felt a little blindsided by that revelation. Especially coming from his boss.

This whole writing a blog attached to my real name thing has been somewhat disconcerting. I've found that I have no flare for humor when I can't resort to sex talk. My usually self-deprecating, the more embarrassing the better style doesn't really fly when I know that my kids' teachers and my husband's boss could be reading it.

I'm having a hard time decided what ideas to develop for here and which ones belong on my "other" blog. And it is weird not to own my own work.

But what the hell, I'm getting paid for it.

Huh. I'm getting paid to blog. That makes me, like...a professional blogger. I've lost my amateur status. I can no longer blog in the Olympics.

Do you like me better now?

Bass Ackwards

I am all fucked up.

I haven't been able to sleep at night for quite a while now. But since my husband has been home, I've been making up for it by sleeping most of the day away.

He seems perfectly fine with this. He's been taking the kids on little outings and whatnot. Right now they are at the playground. I wonder what his motivation is for letting me sleep so long every morning. I'm sure he wants to get some one-on-one time in with the kids before he leaves, but...well...usually he prefers his time to be two-on-two.

Tomorrow, he officially goes back to work for a week, then he'll be working half days until he leaves around June 15.

I've got to get my shit together. I can't waste these last weeks with him being all sleep-deprived and exhausted.

I've learned that there is a lot of pressure to be happy and together right before he deploys. And I've learned that there is a tendency to fight, possibly because it's easier to leave someone you're mad at. Every time he goes I insist that I won't fight with him this time. And I haven't yet. But it only increases the pressure to be happy and together.

I'm not too thrilled with myself right now. It's time to do something about it.

Drag Princess

I came out of the bathroom yesterday and was greeted by this:



Apparently, my son won a game of Pretty Pretty Princess.

I immediately took this picture and e-mailed it to MAK with the caption, "All your fault." I was sure to CC Uncle Patrick too.

Not fifteen minutes later, I was working on the computer and talking on the phone when my daughter presented her brother with a flourish.

He was wearing a sparkly, purple ballet leotard with an attached tutu.

"I gave him the purple one because it was the closest I had to a blue one," my daughter explained.

I didn't take a picture of that. I actually thought my husband might be a little mad at me for preserving that moment for all time. He thinks it's mean to plan to embarrass them. But when I told him the story, he was laughing. "I hope MAK's new apartment is big enough for a coming out party."

My son will probably turn out to be the most butch straight guy you could ever meet. But, man, will he ever be accepting. He'll be the most enlightened straight guy ever.

That makes me proud.

Who needs a vascectomy when he has these?

An Open Note to My Husband:

I'm sorry, honey. I love you very much, and I'm always up for some hot loving, but I can no longer sleep with you if you insist on wearing those glasses.

Do you guys know what BC glasses are? They are the glasses that the military issues to it's members. The BC stands for Birth Control because there ain't no way you're gettin' laid if you wear these monstrosities on your face.

Think big black-framed lenses. Hot? Not.

About ten years ago, we dropped a major load of cash on some really nice designer frames that brought out the deep brown in his eyes. But I think he lost those on his last deployment.

And a couple of years ago he got some QoL oval framed glasses from the base optometrist. The QoL stands for Quality of Life because they were supposed to improve yours once you retired the hideous black-framed numbers. They weren't so great, but they were okay. He lost them last month.

For a month he has been wearing the most ridiculous pair of glasses you have ever seen in your life. They are seriously capable of stealing away the libido of the opposite sex. But he could care a less. Even though they are so old they barely help his eyesight, he wears them with pride!

I can't take it anymore. He's got to get some new glasses. I can't send him to Iraq looking like a bald Woody Allen. Oh, yeah, and then there is that whole thing about better being able to shoot the bad guys who are shooting at you if you can actually see them.

I know he'll be well-equipped when he sets out into the desert, but there are two things I want him to have. Glasses so he can see, and a desert-print flak jacket so he can't be seen.

I don't think that's too much to ask.

Another Year, More Slapstick

Yesterday, I turned thirty-four years old.

Despite what could have been massive PMS (Oh! Did I tell you that I think I have PMDD? I'm supposed to journal my symptoms. Wouldn't that make a fun blog?) I had a great birthday.

First and foremost, my husband wrangled his way onto an early flight home and was able to spend my birthday with me. He sped home from the airport so that we would have time for a nooner before we had to pick my son up from his last day of preschool. Good man. Even if he got a speeding ticket, it would have been worth it.

Once we got the boy, the three of us went out to a deli for lunch. I love spending time with just my men. I guess it is maybe because I spent a couple of years with just my daughter and my husband before my son was born. But it is rare that my husband, son, and I spend time without my daughter.

When we were walking out of the deli's exit, my son was preoccupied with the squares on the floor. My husband held the door for me, and once I got through, I tuned at the sound of a bump/smack. My son had walked right into the glass wall beside the door.

How bad of a mother am I for laughing hysterically at him?

It was just so cute. He cried, not because he was hurt but because I "hurt his feelings." Poor baby. It can't be easy being my kid. I apologized to him. But it still makes me giggle.

We spent the evening at my daughter's last softball game of the year. That may be the best present I got all day--that we're done with this torture-by-idiot-softball-coach. My daughter struck out both at-bats and looked into the stands at us and started crying on her walk back to the bench both times. The other parents must think we beat her for striking out. Actually, she's crying because she doesn't "get to" run. It's "not fair", you know.

At dinner, I got to be lectured by my seven-year-old about drinking alcohol. She takes all the fun out of a strawberry margarita. Can you imagine what she'd say if she saw me on the night of the infamous twenty-seven once margarita?

This morning I was hungover, not from one measly margarita but from a night of I-haven't-seen-you-in-a-week-and-it's-your-birthday sex. You can't beat that. But you can be hella sore from it.

Oh, I got great flowers from Patrick, an adorable card from Brian, and birthday wishes from other assorted friends and bloggers. Thanks, you guys! I bet you'd be surprised to know how much it means to me that people think of me on my birthday. Even my mom managed to remember this year. I got a phone call and a card!

I'm really looking forward to the coming year, even though my husband will be gone for most of it. I have big plans. Thirty-four seems like a great year for change, travel, and adventure. Don't you think?

And I'll have birthday sex to remember all year. It's the gift that keeps on giving.

My! What a big...

...vocabulary you have!

Since we first met in high school my husband has had issues with my vocabulary.

Like many kids who learn to read early and independently, I knew the meanings of lots of big words. But because I was only reading them in books, I never heard how they were pronounced. And like any good pseudo-intellectual, I never bothered to learn.

So I have this bad habit of using a "big" word, but repeating it twice and pronouncing it differently each time. Then there was that one fiasco in college with the word epitome (which I pronounced ep-i-tome). But through it all I realized something. I could use any word I wanted and pronounce it any way I wanted, and my husband would just assume I knew what I was talking about.

There are also those times that most married-with-kid couples will understand, when we want to talk, but we don't want the kids to know what we're talking about. We're way past the spelling phase in our family. (D-A-M-N, I miss the spelling.) So I use big words to disguise what I'm really saying.

Right before my husband left for training, we were all in the car. The kids were playing their one millionth game of Rock, Paper, Scissors and not paying much attention to us.

So I told my husband, "It just occurred to me this morning that eight months is a long time to go without. I hadn't even thought of it with everything else on my mind. I'm going to have to get some new accoutrements."

Now, I pronounced accoutrements right the first time. But then I repeated it with a French accent, just to amuse myself. Of course I'm the only one who found it amusing. But still, I thought it was better than spelling S-E-X T-O-Y-Ses.

I don't think my husband really said anything about my "big word" at the time. He may also have been shocked by the idea that we would really have to go eight months without sex. But apparently, it was in his mind for days after.

He texted me last night.

"Hi. How are things? I was thinking last night, what type of contrivance do you want?"

I responded with something about the hell of violin recitals and the chaos of a t-ball party, and then I said, "I have no idea what a contrivance is."

"You use big words with me. Maybe you need to look it up!"

When I didn't respond right away, he wrote, "Soooo, are you not in the mood to banter? Or are you looking up my new word."

Well, then I had to look it up. And it still made no sense to me. So I called him.

"Don't you remember our talk about toys? Come on! It took me three days to look up the word you used."

Now, at the time I had no memory of that conversation. So I asked him, "What word?"

"I don't remember now, it was something like incongruous."

Incongruous? What the hell was he talking about? Our conversation went back and forth on this topic for quite a while, with me using the dictionary to look up these words and give him official definitions. When I hung up the phone I still had no idea what he was talking about.

At 2 o'clock in the morning it hit me. Accoutrements! Accoutrements!

How the hell did he get incongruous out of accoutrements?

I love the way he thinks. It makes me so sodden.

Outwit, Outpester, Outgross

I don't know how big roaches' brains are, or if they even have brains, but they must have some amazing group think anyway.

Because I swear to God they know when my husband is away.

Whenever he goes they start showing up. First a dead one, then a slow moving one, then they get bold.

Maybe it is their form of entertainment. Kind of like reality television is to us. They pick out some crazy, fame-hungry contestant and send him out into my kitchen. Survive and you get--oh, I don't know--to live and maybe a year supply of whatever it is that roaches eat. Die and, well, at least it is fun for the audience to see that crazy, giant woman screech and throw boots and curse and cry and dispose of the dead hero with a dust pan at arm's reach.

Maybe they even play a drinking game. Every time I scream, "Fuck!" they have to drink. That would explain the slow moving ones.

Now I'm going to go check every bottle of alcohol we have stashed above the fridge to make sure there are no signs of roaches.

This is what I pay the exterminator $25 a month for? I only have to pay my husband in sex and he keeps them at bay.

Military Spouse Day

Today is Military Spouse Appreciation Day. It seems like an appropriate day to write about something I've been dreading talking about.

For about a month now, my husband has been dealing with the possibility of a deployment. My husband's squadron was tasked to send someone to Iraq to work with an Army unit on the ground searching out Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs).

My husband is the only one in his squadron in the career field they need. But the squadron doesn't want to let him go. They were ready to promote him to a second-in-command position and since he is the only one who does his job in the squadron, they will have to cut back on "production"without him around.

They passed off the first orders that came down by saying that he had too much rank to fill the position. The powers that be accepted that explanation, but sent another tasking down for someone with more rank.

So, damn, he's tagged again.

Still it seemed like no one in the squadron really believed that he'd have to go. "But we need you here!" was what he heard over and over again. They did everything they could to keep him here. To no avail.

We just found out on Wednesday afternoon that he will be deploying to Iraq.

And he leaves on Saturday.

Now there is some good news, sort of. We thought he'd be leaving for Army training for a couple of months, coming home for a little bit, and then leaving for Iraq. But it turns out that he'll go to this first class for just a week. Then he'll be home until June 14 when he'll leave for more training. But he'll be leaving straight from training to Iraq in August.

He'll be gone until early March.

The back-and-forth of the last month has been hard on me. I always say how much I hate not knowing. I said aloud on Wednesday morning that I'd wish they'd just send him already. And some fate must have heard me. Be careful what you wish for.

There are a lot of positives here. We'll make some extra money (unless Congress mucks that up). I have months and months to concentrate on some personal goals. And he'll be doing important work, helping to keep our soldiers, as well as local children and Iraqi civilians safe from IEDs. I can't help but think of my friends' husbands who are presently serving in Iraq or headed there soon.

But it kind of sucks for his career. Now he won't get that job promotion. And I'm not used to him being in true danger. Oh sure, flying his plane into combat areas is never completely safe, but I trust his crew and his technology to keep him safe. I know nothing about the Army way of life.

The hardest part so far has been telling the people in our lives. I honestly haven't wanted to. My husband absolutely dreads telling his mother. More than he even dreaded telling me and the kids. And my daughter, well, she's doing okay, but you never know when she'll detonate.

Today I have my military wife friends on my mind. They are the ones who can understand the vast and complex emotions of dealing with a deployment. Today is an excellent day to appreciate military spouses.

For now, I'm keeping my sense of humor. June is still a way away. Patrick's news has been good. He's still in the hospital but things are looking better and there is an end in sight (maybe this weekend).

And tonight my husband and I are going on a date to a Crawfish Boil with a bunch of friends.

Once he's gone, I'll start making plans. For now, I'm living one moment at a time.

I Need "My Boy"

Damn, I wish Patrick were out of the hospital. For one thing, I had to write an "About Me" blurb all by myself. Don't those hospital people know that I need my best bud to write these things for me.

Secondly, The Vegas Thunder from Down Under show is coming to town. And right after my birthday too. I can't think of anyone I'd rather enjoy this cavalcade of cheesy beefcake with. I'm certainly not about to go with one of my female friends. They're not catty enough.

Maybe what I really need is some local gay friends. I'm just not sure where they keep all the boys down here. Besides, how am I supposed to meet them. Spot a 'mo, walk up and give the secret hand shake. "Hello. Fag hag since 04. Nice to meet you."

Mostly I'd just really like to see that show. Call it payback for every strip club my husband's ever been to (and not taken me).

Things to Come

Last week I got just a little taste of what my life will be like next school year. And it was sweet! Oh, it was so sweet.

My husband made the executive decision last week to put our son in the extended day preschool program. This meant that I didn't have to pick him up at noon everyday. He stayed at school until 3 o'clock and I picked both of the kids up at the same time.

It's amazing how much more time I had!

On Wednesday, my husband and I went up to the school in the morning for our son's May Pole program. (He was absolutely adorable by the way.) I stayed at school until lunchtime doing some volunteer work. And then my husband asked me to meet him out for lunch "kid free!"

It was so nice.

We had separate cars so we both had to drive back to base. I tried to talk my husband into ditching work for the rest of the day, but he's too damn reliable. And guilty. So as I turned onto our road, I gave him a little wave.

Not long after I heard his truck pull up. When he entered the house I called out to him that I was in the bathroom. I finished up and opened the door only to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at me. He looked...serious.

"Okay, what's wrong now? You want to talk, don't you?" I asked him.

"Nope. I want to fuck."

And with an "eep" from me, he threw me on the bed and had his way with me.

When we were done, I asked him, "But what about work?"

"Ha!" he told me. "I was planning on doing this the whole time I was following you home. But when we pulled on base I felt guilty and decided to at least go check my e-mail."

"So the sight of my bumper really turned you on, huh?"

"You know I'm an ass man!" he replied.

And then with a self-satisfied smirk he said, "See, if we had put him in after care all year, we could have been doing this every day."

Let's see. There are eight days of school left. At eleven dollars a day.

I could afford 88 bucks for a daily nooner.

And now I'm really looking forward to my son starting full-day Kindergarten.

That's Ms. Tuna if You're Nasty

What is it about New Yorkers that makes them want to call me miss?

I've earned this Mrs., bitches. I at least deserve a Ms. or a ma'am.

Whenever I spend time in New York it makes me hate this bayou even more. If that's even possible.

Come to think of it, Southerners do this weird thing where they call adult women by Miss and their first name. I hate that.

But my husband mentioned to me recently that we could be moving to Alabama sometime next year. I guess it's better than...no, wait. It's not better than anything.

I think if I move to Alabama I will reinvent myself as this crazy, rainbow-wearing, activist. And I'll insist everyone call me Madam Tuna.

And never the twain shall meet!

Ack! No! World's colliding! World's colliding!

My Tuna World and my real world have collided from time to time. It is always shocking. But once I crossed the line and made very good real life friends out of some blogger friends it was bound to happen.

The first time I went to New York back in December, 2004 I met a bunch of bloggers. And that was exciting but nerve wrecking. But bloggers understand bloggers to a point. It was the people who introduced themselves to me who were readers but not bloggers that shocked me a little.

They were great people, Bonnie included. But while I knew that there were most likely people out there reading about my life to whom I had no connection, actually meeting them was disconcerting.

Then Patrick visited here that next February and met my local friends. And managed not to have gay sex in CB's kitchen. Then Mark met my kids (who were on their best behavior, thank goodness). Then Patrick met my mother. And then my husband! And that was beyond stressful.

But even though my blog friends met real people in my life, those real people never heard about my blog.

Then I went to a meeting yesterday.

Woo boy! Okay, I set myself up for it. On a whim, I followed a link and filled out an application to blog for a local website. Yes, I submitted blog examples. (It was harder than I thought it would be to find some without f-bombs and sexual references.) But somehow it never occurred to me that I would have to meet the people who read those samples in real life.

When I got the call that they did want me to be a part of their new site, I was very flattered. I was asked to attend a start-up meeting. And still. Nope. Captain Clueless here never thought about the fact that I would be meeting real local people who read my blog.

So when the site designer sat down next to me and told me how much he loved my blog, how funny he thought it was...well...I almost died of embarrassment.

All I could think of was that I had written just that morning about all the sex I'd had the night before. Please God, please God, please God don't let him have read that this morning was all I could think. And then I knew I had to scrap my plans to write about my nooner from the day before.

As the meeting finished up and one woman who worked there introduced me to another as Tuna Girl I kept having flashes of some of the stuff I'd written here.

There was that pee story. And that sex story. And that time I wrote about this. And the time I wrote about that! And the topper! Oh God! There was that asterisk post!

I think my face was red the whole time I was there.

I was incredibly flattered. And the people were great. And I can't wait to really get into writing for them.

But I think I'll lay off the embarrassing stuff here for a while. Unless of course, something funny happens. For the sake of a laugh, I'll let my world's collide. As long as all you local people promise not to go reading about my period over at the Traveling Spotlight.

Deal?

The Cure for What Ails You

I've found the cure for our anger.

It's sex. Lots and lots of sex.

When after eighteen years of having sex with the same person you can find a new way to make him gasp and laugh in amazement and surrender, it's hard to stay angry.

"Well, you've never done that before."

That's right, baby!

Wet, Hot, Rage

If there is one thing that I really hate about myself, it is the way I react to anger.

I cry.

And then I get mad that I am crying and I get more angry and cry even more. It is a vicious, horrible cycle.

When I cry because I am angry, it is a whole different kind of crying. I never sob or weep. That's for really sad, really anguished crying. When I am angry, I just can't stop the flow of mad, hot tears.

My husband and I are both in a very angry place right now. But not at each other. No, we are united and bonded by our anger.

Except all these white hot tears produce a head full of snot and a headache that makes me nauseous.

We're both angry about his work situation. We're mad at my daughter's softball coach who my husband has nicknamed FUBAR. We're mad at the annoying violin parents. And we're mad about Patrick's situation in a way that even Patrick isn't.

While Patrick can roll with the punches and say, "It's frustrating, but I understand..." I want to go on a slapping spree. He can say, "Well, it's a known complication. What can you do?" I want to get my own scalpel and start stabbing people in the stomach. It's a mother's reaction, I think. Reason doesn't matter. Nobody gets to hurt the people I love. Nobody. I don't care what the circumstances are.

I'm mad at my own things too. I'm mad that people think they really know me, just from reading what I write here. I'm mad that people think they understand my relationship with Patrick, just from what they read here. I'm mad that people think they have insight into my marriage, just from what they read here.

If you're going to make snarky comments about me, you probably shouldn't do it to my best friend who's in the hospital. That will just double my anger.

The amount of rage I feel toward the people in that hospital right now is all out of proportion. Yes, Patrick is still there. His abscess hasn't gone away. It has grown. And he's in a never ending shut-up-and-color, sit-there-and-wait mode. He might have more surgery tomorrow. He's not sure.

His room is a hole and his new roommate is a raving vagrant. I'm starting to think he's slipped into a black hole of a hospital that he'll never escape.

My husband pointed out today that part of the reason I am crying and unable to move past my anger is because I have no outlet. I have no fight to fight. Because none of this is about me.

As soon as I have time, I will update Patrick's blog with the details he wants to share. It will be more fact-based and less emotion-based than my ranting here.

It would mean a great deal to me, if you could keep him in your thoughts.

The good news? I haven't cried at all since I started to write. But I think I'll go have a good cry now.