She Done Lost Her Mind

When the sun shines
We'll shine together
Told you I'll be here forever
Said I'll always be your friend
Took an oath imma stick it out 'till the end
Now that it's raining more than ever
Know that we still have each other
You can stand under my umbrella
You can stand under my umbrella

These fancy things, will never come in between
You're part of my entity, here for infinity
When the war has took it's part
When the world has dealt it's cards
If the hand is hard, together we'll mend your heart

--Rhianna

Yes, I've reverted to posting song lyrics on my blog. There could be a few possible reason for this.

A) I could be on such a post-PMS high that I'm feeling like belting out pop tunes at the top of my lungs. Even pop tunes by oversexualized teenagers. (Aren't they all?) I may just want to throw my arms in the air and twirl around proclaiming my love for the world.

B) I could have this song stuck on replay in my brain and I'm trying to extricate it by inflicting it upon you, my blog readers.

C) I'm trying to be cryptic and mysterious.

D) I could have gotten to that place where every damn lyric on the radio means something to me. You know what I mean. It usually happens to most people when they fall in love, or are getting married or are breaking up. For me it happens during deployments.

There was that horrible phase I went through with I'm Already There. I had to take that one off my iPod because it cant still make me cry. And there was a whole year when 3 Doors Down could get me going at the drop of a hat. They seemed to put out an entire album intent on making military wives cry.

E) I could be that hard up for blog material. I could have completely run out of anything to say.

The answer is...

F) All of the above.

Fashion Curious

Today I have some questions.

What the hell is up with women's clothes right now?

When are designers going to be over the maternity look for women? It's hard enough to find flattering clothes when your body most closely resembles a statue of a fertility goddess. But when designers are making skinny chicks look pregnant with all these flouncy, empire waist designs, we real women have no chance at all!

Speaking of clothes, have you seen the three new jean designs at Old Navy? The Flirt cut. The Sweetheart cut. And the Diva cut. Can you tell the difference between any of them? They should just call them all the Slut cut and get on with it. Skinny little bitches.

Speaking of bitches, what is the deal with nasty rich people owning Maltese dogs?

Yesterday I saw Star Jones Whatever on HGTV House Hunters with her little Maltese. And of course Leona Helmsley's Maltese is $12 million richer. Was this a trend started by Elizabeth Taylor or is there just something about a prissy little white ball of fluff that appeals to a certain type of women? And if that is true, why did I buy one? What does that say about me?

I've had to keep Buffy away from the newspapers and television lately. I don't want her getting ideas. she might think she can trip me down the stairs, inherit millions and go live with her one true love in New York City.


nataliedee.com

And finally, speaking of being bitchy, why am I so damn happy to get my period? It's not like I actually thought I was pregnant. But I actually woo hoo-ed when I saw blood. Who the fuck whoo hoos at blood?

My Winnings

I've been walking around these past couple of days feeling like I've won the lottery. I keep finding myself grinning for no apparent reason.

First of all, my Man of Few Words called on our anniversary and we were able to talk for almost an hour! And we really talked, about everything and nothing. I love him so much.

Then someone very special to me who can talk for ages but never puts anything in writing sent me an incredibly sweet card. That put a smile on my face.

Yesterday my children each played a violin solo at an orientation for their program. Of the hundred odd kids in the program, only five were asked to play. And my kids were two of them. Let me tell you, they weren't really asked to play for their perfect technique, because they don't have it. They were asked to represent the program because of who they are.

As much as I can sometimes struggle with my kids, they each have a wonderful and unique personality. I couldn't be prouder.

I am consumed with feelings of thankfulness right now. God, I am so incredibly lucky. That just may be a recurring theme around these parts.

I've won the best lottery of all. The lottery of life.

What's Up With Me

Today is our 12th wedding anniversary.

I think I may love my husband more today than ever before. I am so incredibly lucky in marriage.

The kids took me out to dinner yesterday to celebrate. I was feeling kind of down and pissy this morning (more on that later) but a long, surprise phone call from my husband made me feel tons better. I may go buy myself something pretty to celebrate.

Do you know I've been dating or married to my husband for more than half of my life? That makes me feel young and happy.

I hate women.

Okay, I don't hate all women (especially those of you who are lovely enough to read my little blog) but I hate the way women interact most of the time. There is a reason why most of my friends are men. And my closest women friends are exceptional people.

Having a meeting with a bunch of women is like trying to have a meeting with a bunch of Little Tuna Girl clones. They flit from one topic to another, never making concrete plans. They don't have a clue what the word leadership means. Nor do they understand a simple agenda. And when the chairperson is late and everyone else is sitting around gossiping waiting for her...it makes me want to slap her.

Wouldn't that make the feminists proud?

I'm sad.

One of my exceptional woman friends lost her dad yesterday after a long battle with cancer. I feel incredibly sad for her loss, maybe because I'm a little emotionally raw myself or maybe because she once confided in me how angry and helpless his illness has made her feel.

She is a wonderful, wonderful woman. A true one of a kind. Apparently she comes from good stock.

When I Googled her Dad to try and find some information, I found out that he is a somewhat famous publisher and philanthropist. You would never know that she came from money...in a good way. He raised her right.

I'm sick.

Oh dear lord, I feel awful. I think I just have a regular, old cold but it kept me from sleeping a wink last night. I felt like I was drowning. Being sick while your husband is deployed sucks extra hard. There is no one to sympathize and coddle you. (Not that he ever does that, but still.)

I'm miraculous.

I suggest lighting some candles and making your peace because in about nine months there will be another virgin birth.

Where the hell is my period?

Lied to and Misled

I first wrote about donating my hair to Locks of Love back in January. At the time I had six inches of donatable hair. Locks of Love requires that you have ten inches of hair to donate, so I have been growing it and growing it.

Since about April my girlfriends have been saying, "Oh, look. Your hair must be ten inches by now."

I have been breaking out the tape measure every couple of weeks since then. It must be ten inches by now, I thought. Look at how long it is!

Nope.

Since we've been teenagers, women have been lied to and mislead. What we're told is eight inches is really six. What lucky ones of us are told is ten inches is really eight. We hear it from sex partners and porn stars and the Internet. (But not from secure husbands.)

It's the rule of minus two. (With secure husbands as the exception that proves the rule.)

(Do you think I've covered my ass enough yet?)

This misconception about length has somehow permeated our feminine conscience.

As best I can tell, I really do have ten inches now. It's hard to measure by myself. But for some reason, I am hesitant to go ahead and cut it off. (I'm talking about my donatable hair now, of course.)

I guess I don't trust the number on the ruler. I guess I feel like if ten inches is good, than twelve inches would be better. Yet I can't wait to get rid of this blanket of hair. In this 100+ degree heat, I am absolutely miserable. I'm like a dog with a winter coat.

And my hair looks awful. It's so long and heavy it drags my face down. It covers my shoulders and makes me look like I'm wearing a shall all the time.

I'm tempted to keep growing it until my husband comes home, just because he's never seen me with hair this long. And I'm tempted to go to the salon tomorrow and ask for the shortest bob they can give me.

I think I'm going to try to keep it until fall at least.

It's amazing what a woman will do for a couple of inches.

More Confessions

I have a secret.

Okay, like it wasn't embarrassing enough that I'm a total HGTV geek, now I am completely hooked on Color Splash.

Well, wouldn't you be? Check out the host, David Bromstad, winner of last season's Design Star.




As always, I'm late to the party. I hate reality television so I didn't watch Design Star. But right before I left home for the summer, I happened to catch the end of one episode of David's new show.

Dear god, David is adorable. Cute. Sexy. Handsome. Funny. Bright. Talented.

Gay.

Of course.

I immediately set my TiVo to record every episode (including duplicates) and to never ever erase them, ever.

I've been working my way through all the episodes I missed this summer. I always wait to enjoy them when I'm alone and have time to giggle and blush and replay my favorite moments over and over.

I want to move to California so he can design our house. I want to move to California so I can introduce him to my friends. I want to move to California and take care of him.

It occurred to me when I was watching an episode where David wasn't feeling well (poor, baby!) that when I develop a crush (Did I just say crush? Eek! I have a grown-up celebrity crush!) it's not because I want to sleep with the person, it's because I want to take care of them! And their smoosh-faced little puppy.

*sigh*

How pathetic am I?

I guess my husband (Hi, Honey!) should be happy that I've given up my straight crush on Joseph Fiennes (still hot, too bad his career tanked) for a mother-crush on a gay man I've only met in celluloid. Heck, some day he might even benefit from it.

With all the design shows I've been watching (over and over again), if I ever get around to decorating, our house might actually look decent.

*****

Check out the Flickr set of this cute couple's Color Splash design.

True Confessions

I jumped in the shower this morning in a huge rush and didn't notice that the kids had used up all the soap. So I had to resort to using a bottle of liquid soap.

That is, I had to resort to using a bottle of Axe body wash my husband left behind.

True confession time.

Even though I have lots of male friends and should know better, I love that Axe body spray stuff. That first original scent they came out with smelled like yummy sex in a bottle to me.

It only took me licking my husband's neck while he was wearing that stuff once or twice before it became his scent of choice.

Now I smell like my man. Even my girly parts. So I smell like a sweeter version of his yummy sex in a bottle. But it makes me miss him hard all the same.

Lost Hours

Last night I put the kids to bed at 7 p.m. as I always do.

I wasn't feeling so great so I laid down on my bed for a moment to listen and make sure the kids were down for the night.

The next thing I knew, morning reveille was playing over the base loudspeaker. It was 7 a.m.!

I had slept for twelve hours. I had overslept at least a half hour. And the kids were still sleeping!

That's not the first time that recorded trumpet has kept the kids from being late for school. But I was absolutely flabbergasted this morning. How could I sleep so soundly for so long? Especially considering everything I had to do last night.

For one thing, I never got undressed. I never brushed my teeth, fed the dog, turned out the lights, or even set my alarm. I had been trying to write a post all day yesterday and this morning I found it sitting on my computer screen.

Dear lord. Maybe it was divine providence that put me to sleep last night and kept that post from ever seeing the light of day. I'm going to chock it up to being obviously exhausted and perhaps PMSed that I even wrote such a thing in the first place.

All I know is that today I feel so much better. Maybe twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep is what I really needed to get over the weariness that has been clinging to me like static.

I feel optimistic today for the first time in months.

But it has such good tone!

If I didn't know for sure that I would be passing my daughter's very expensive violin down to my son, it would be shattered in a million pieces.

That is all.

Of School-Aged Kids and Lost Causes

I thought tonight would be one of the best nights of my entire life!

My son starts Kindergarten tomorrow.

This is the day I have been waiting for since we decided to have children nine years ago. I knew that someday, someday they would be school-aged.

Ah...school-aged. Those words are like music to my ears. They are the sweetest sounds known to woman.

When they were newborn babies screaming in their cribs I consoled myself with the fact that someday, someday they would be spending eight hours a day at school. Someday they could pee on their own. Someday they could wipe their own butts. Someday they could pour their own damned cereal!

That day is here.

This is better than the day I retired the diaper bag.

I planned to spend this evening celebrating. I was picturing myself curled up with a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and a Harry potter tome. But that is not to be.

Instead I am ready to tear my hair out!

I have lost my daughter's birth certificate. I need it to sign her up for soccer and the deadline is Wednesday. It takes four freaking weeks to order a replacement. (What the fuck is up with that?)

It's loss plays into every self-doubting thought I have in my head. It's loss plays into every insecurity I harbor about myself. It's loss is driving me insane!

Tonight instead of celebrating the fact that I managed to survive the preschool years I will be scouring this complete mess of a house for one tiny slip of paper.

If only Saint Anthony, the patron saint of lost things, took bribes. Or traded favors. Or accepted blow jobs!

I'd do anything to find that thrice-damned document.

UPDATE: Found it! Whew. How did I find it? By getting on my knees. That Saint Anthony is a shooter.

I'd Like to Thank the Little People.

I had the weirdest thing happen today.

I went to our kids' school's faculty breakfast on behalf of my deployed husband. Have I mentioned that he's on the school board?

As shy as I can usually be in these situations, I was actually excited to go. I figured some of my friends would be there and I've been missing them. I could do with some adult interaction.

But before I even got to the event it started. I ran into a group of preschool teachers who started exclaiming over me. They read my "Other Blog". They read my articles in the paper. They love them. They think I'm great.

I couldn't help but blush through my thank yous.

This has been happening to me all summer. I've gotten long phone messages and e-mail from my friends gushing over my writing in my "Other Blog". It's disconcerting. Flattering for sure. But disconcerting still.

Especially because I think that blog kind of sucks.

But today at that breakfast dozens of people were coming up to me. They wanted to shake my hand. They wanted to let me know that they were "fans". They wanted to meet me! Me?

It's the weirdest thing ever. I mean, I knew people would read that drivel. The site it's on is actively marketed, but I didn't think anyone would really care. I guess I sort of forgot that people I know could read it too. It's nothing like writing here where I am mostly anonymous.

I am incredibly flattered and enormously grateful that people enjoy something I've created. But it is a bit overwhelming.

And I can't help but think what it must be like to be a real celebrity. If I feel this way here in this small city with this tiny audience (and my tinier paycheck), how must really famous people feel? I can suddenly see how people who get so much attention and praise can become so self-absorbed and egotistical that they cease to exist in the real world among mere mortals.

Fame itself is like a drug, I suppose. Once you're addicted, its lure is irresistible.

Do me a favor, will you. Keep me grounded when I'm famous. Don't let me forget the little people.

Man, I was looking forward to the adult interaction but that was ridiculous.

Overheard on Base

This weekend I overheard a TSgt on his cell walking into the shopette to get an Icee.

"Okay, Mom. I've got to go. I've got to get back in my section. I shouldn't have been gone this long.

*pause*

I know Mom, but I really have to get back to work.

*pause*

Okay.

*pause*

Yup.

*pause*

Okay, Mom. Oh! I heard my boss calling me. I really have to run, Mom. Can't upset the Chief."

And then he chose a strawberry Icee.

Damn mothers never know when to shut up.

But Not a Drop to Drink

I plopped my purse on the counter at the dentist's office yesterday. I was digging for a pen when two condoms popped out.

There they sat. On the counter. In all their round, latex glory while the receptionist and I stared at them.

Why do I have condoms in my purse? I sure as hell ain't using them.

After the guys left the Cape house last month I kept finding them laying around. (At least they weren't used. Buffy finds all of those.) And I kept sticking them in my purse so I could donate them to a good cause. (Like Patrick's love life.)

But I forgot about them in there.

Now all I can think is...

Condoms, condoms everywhere.
And no one around to fuck.

The Power of Words

Patrick and I were talking about something the other day. I wish I could remember what. But someone had been rude and annoying to him and I told him, "You should have thrown the C word at them."

No. Not that C word.

Cancer.

There are some words that just have the power to shock people and quickly change their tune. And I'm not talking about swear words or racial slurs here.

Patrick doesn't do it, but if I were him I would. All the time. Whenever I wanted to make some jerk uncomfortable, I'd work the conversation around to being a cancer survivor just to watch them squirm.

You see, I have a word like that myself.

Iraq.

You'd be amazed how uncomfortable and twitchy that word can make people.

I've gotten so that I hate to even tell people where my husband has gone. I hate to see people squirm and try to find the right thing to say. But I'm not above using that word to get what I want.

And what I want is for telemarketers to stop calling me!

I live for the few and far between phone calls from my husband. I never know when he'll be able to get through or what crazy number will appear on my caller ID when he does. So I've talked to more telemarketers in the last two weeks than ever before.

I want to hurt them. I want to injure them. Do you know how disappointing it is to hope to hear the voice of the man you love only to have some quick talking sales person try to keep you on the line instead?

When my daughter was a baby the ringing of the phone made her scream. So whenever sales people called I'd just hand the phone to her.

That was kind of fun.

Now all I have to do is mention the word "Iraq" and these callers fall all over themselves apologizing. Then I tell them to put me on their do not call list.

Is it wrong that I enjoy that so much? At least it's one thing I can enjoy about my husband being in that Country That Shall Not Be Named.

Temptation in Blue

Today I came the closest I've ever come to cheating on my husband.

You see, I think I'm in love with the DirecTV guy.

First of all, my appointment with him was for between 8 a.m. and noon. But at 7:40 a.m. he called to tell me that he would be here in ten minutes. "Oh, I guess it's time for me to get out of bed!" I told him.

Exactly ten minutes later he knocked on my door. You've got to love that kind of punctuality in a man. He told me he already knew what the problem was, and he'd be back in a few minutes to check things out. Decisive too, huh? That's hot.

He came back to my door with grass clippings all over his shoes. "I don't want to mess up your house," he told me. "Can you check channels 3 and 247?" So he's considerate to boot.

"What was wrong," I asked him. I was afraid that I had overlooked some simple solution and wasted his time and my money. He proceeded to blame all of the problems on my lawn guys, who carelessly moved the dish. A man who's willing to blame other men for my problems is the perfect man for me!

When I hit the power button on my remote and an episode of Spongebob Squarepants appeared on my television screen, I wanted to tongue kiss this man in blue.

I really wasn't sure how I was going to make it to the first day of school without the distraction of Nickelodeon.

I returned to the front door to sign his paperwork. "You just need to sign right here to confirm that I won't be charging you for anything today. I didn't really do anything much." So he's free and humble. Hell, yeah!

So, let's sum up. A man who's punctual, reliable, decisive, considerate, humble, handy with electronic equipment and doesn't charge?

The Tuna Man better be buying me something pretty right now.