Important Things I Almost Forgot Today

Go here and wish him a Happy Birthday! If you're not visiting Aaron's site on a daily basis, you are so missing out. Great phlog, better man.

My cleavage sunburn is pealing. Pretty.

The husband says he is retired from blogging. I tried to get him to start his own, but he said he doesn't have enough funny things to say. Well, neither do I, Honey!

My daughter got a pet worm as a birthday party favor this weekend. How fucked up is that? Shall we take bets on how long it will take me to kill it?

As I mentioned over here, my son wore his Red Sox shirt for the last two games. I think he is responsible for lifting the curse. If the Sox lose in New York, it's because his shirt is still in the laundry. God! I hate the Yankees!

The kids and I went to my husband's hockey game this weekend. So. Friggin. Hot.

As you were.

My Head May Explode

Actually, it will just be taken apart piece by piece and welded back together.

I so need a hug right now.

Yesterday, I went to my pre-surgery consultation. (For you new folks, I'm having my jaw realigned.) You should know before reading any further that I am completely worn out and ditzy right now.

Dr: We need your wisdom teeth.
Me: Huh?
Dr: We're taking them out. Remember that?
Me: I have wisdom teeth?
Dr: Yes, we need them out for your surgery. I think we decided to do it all at once. Remember?
Me: Ummm...I think so.
Dr: Well, this is big stuff. They say that people can only retain about 20% of important information when you talk to them. There's a lot to remember. It's understandable.

Later on...

Dr: So it will cost you more to do your wisdom teeth at the hospital because they actually charge you in fifteen minute increments. Maybe we should take them out at the office first.
Me: Wait. Go back. You took my wisdom teeth out. Remember? They were really high.
Dr: You have wisdom teeth in your x-ray. Are you sure?
Me: I have the teeth at home!!!
Dr: Oh...well! Let's look again.
Me: You know...you have another patient with the same name as me.
Dr: Your husband's name is *his first name*?
Me: Yes.
Dr: Hmmm. Maybe we have two charts for you. Hold on.

He comes back in a few minutes.

Dr: Okay. Now we have the right person.
Me: But, see...this is why I think the insurance turned us down. They had the wrong files!
Dr: Oh, I'm sure we sent the right ones. But maybe you should check with the insurance company again.

Argh! Argh! Argh!

I'm so going to end up with this other girl's face!

Regardless, I scheduled my surgery. I'll let my husband go ballistic on the insurance company and the doctor's office tomorrow.

And the big date is November 12.

So all of you who I will be meeting on Dec 3-5 will see a completely new me. Hopefully the swelling and pain should have abated somewhat by then.

This also means that all that delicious NYC food will be eaten through a straw.

Damn, I'm so nervous about all of this. And the cost is stressing me out.

Did I mention that I'm sick?

Did I mention that I need a hug?

My Tale of Woe

I just can't seem to get back into the swing of things. I'm unreasonably tired and I think I've contracted Estrogen poisoning.

I truly wonder if anyone even wants to hear about my cruise at all. I think I'll just tell a few stories here and there, to try and resist going completely insane.

Okay. So first let me introduce the cast of characters.

First on the list in CB, my best friend and neighbor.

Next is Big K (CB actually calls her that because she's too BIG for her britches). Big K is the biggest control freak I've ever met. She always knows better. She couldn't ever possibly be wrong. And she is the queen of indecisiveness, excuses, and bitter complaining. She's married to an absolute freak and her two-year-old son is such a monster that I won't let my kids ever be around him.

Then comes S1. S1 is CB's college friend and hails from the mid-west. She's married to a seemingly great guy and has three little boys ranging in age from 2 to 7. She's supermodel thin and fairly attractive. And most importantly, although she also has trouble making decisions, her friendly demeanor more than makes up for any other personality flaws.

And finally there is S2. S2 is CB's friend from her first base. Her husband is an up-and-comer in the military world and they have two sweet little children, a boy and girl aged 7 and 5. S2 was born and raised in Texas and you can tell. She has the big hair and accent to prove it. She is admittedly indecisive too, but as sweet as the ice tea in Texas.

Our trip started with a six-hour long drive to New Orleans, where CB, Big K, and I would be meeting the 2 S's at the terminal. Did you know that if you put three women in a car, they can talk non-stop for six-hours? I had no idea.

Between the two of them, Big K and CB must have called and checked up on their husbands a couple dozen times. "Don't you want to call your husband?" they asked me. Ah, no. I'm pretty sure he is an adult and capable of handling anything on his own. Of course, at the time, I didn't know that he and the boy were puking non-stop.

There was some debacle with trying to grab lunch in New Orleans which ended up with me and CB trying to translate some unknown language in a Popeye's while Big K impatiently idled in her car at the curb. We ended up carrying two bags of fried chicken all over New Orleans and into the cruise terminal, where we had our own little picnic when we met up with the two S's. Because, you know, who knew if they'd have any food on the boat?

The nice thing about traveling on an older and smaller cruise ship is that our status as Verandah deck passengers (cabin V2) provided us with VIP service. There was a separate line to embark and everything.

Which seemed really cool, until we got on the ship and saw our room. It turns out that Big K had switched our room a couple of weeks before sailing, because our original room had a partially obstructed view. She oh-so-wisely ended up switching us to a handicapped room. Which meant no jaccuzi tub. (There was one of those shower heads that just sits next to the toilet, turning your entire bathroom into a shower.) There was one less bed. And there were no wells on the doors.

Let me explain some cruise ship physics for you. When it rains out, your balcony may fill with water. Those little sills that hold up the doors keep this water from surging into your room. And boy did it rain. Same with the bathroom. When your entire bathroom fills with water, and the ship rocks so hard that the water makes it's own little ocean, without a well on the door, the water will run into the room and soak the carpet.

Imagine, if you will, just for a moment, just how a wet carpet will smell in a closed up room and tropical heat.

To make matters worse, our room wasn't actually ready for us. There were dirty socks on the floor, dirty glasses strewn about, dirty sheets on the bed, and most appalling to Big K, handprints on the doors. Now okay. That sort of sucks, but I would have calmly called the front desk and explained all of this, asking for resolution. Oh no! Big K had to throw a hissy fit. I think she may have even demanded to speak to the captain. We were so embarrassed. And we were already making a name for ourselves as the V2 Girls.

Cut ahead a few hours, we've already eaten dinner (the late 8:30 seating because Big K thought that would be better...even though the other three girls are usually in bed by 9), and we're sailing into a tropical storm. The rocking got worse and worse as the night wore on. And as bad as that was, the smell in the room made it even worse. S1 got the puking started, poor baby. At that point I was still feeling fine. CB played the mom and did all the puke bucket emptying and consoling.

Then S2 started to feel queasy too. After about an hour, a just couldn't take it anymore and had to run to the bathroom too. I think I may have actually had more of a virus than anything else, but it doesn't really make a difference when you're in cruise ship hell.

Our room was in the worst possible place for rocking and the smell was overpowering, so we moved ourselves to the pool deck where we could get fresh air and a cool breeze. It was when the water in the pool started sloshing over the sides in great rolling waves that I really lost it. Thank god for my ice/puke bucket.

There were a few other poor souls (also from the Verandah deck) on the pool deck with us. We asked the husband of a puking woman to take our picture. Nothing like photographic evidence of pukey girls in pjs.

I spent most of my time alternating between the restaurant bathroom, pool deck, and a table in the restaurant itself. I just couldn't stay put.

S2 and Big K eventually went to bed. At some point while I was throwing up some lettuce I ate in college, S1 and CB made little beds for themselves out of deck chairs in the restaurant.

At about 5:15 a.m. I fell asleep sitting at a table with my head in my arms. The clanging of plates woke me up fifteen minutes later and I pulled myself up off the table and tried to wake CB. I yelled. I tapped. I tried to roll her but to no avail, so I left my cruisemates wrapped up like beach towel burritos, sleeping on deck chairs in the restaurant that would soon be serving breakfast.

At about 7:30 a.m., the assistant Maitre d' found S1 and CB. He told us later that he had spotted them and gone to ask his restaurant manager if he had seen the two girls sleeping in the dining room. "He laughed at me like I was joking," he told us. "I told him to go look for himself, and there you were." We were cruise ship legend at that point.

The Maitre d' awoke my poor friends with his Croatian accent, "Ladies, ladies! You must return to your rooms. We are serving breakfast."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the start of our fabulous cruise to Mexico!

Have you ever noticed how much I talk about puke?

What I Learned on my Not-So-Fabulous Tropical Cruise

Number 1) I am a bad mother. A bad, bad mother. I let my kids drink juice. See. Bad mother!

Number 2) People often think I am a lesbian.

Me: That guy looks like Matt Damon.
Incredibly Annoying Cruise Mate: Where? I didn't notice.
Me: I spend a lot of time looking at men. You should know that.
Incredibly Annoying Cruise Mate: Well, I guess that proves you're not a lesbian.
Me: Was there a question?

Number 3) People assume I am a lesbian because I don't wear make up or spend more than two minutes on my hair.

Number 4) People who know I am actually straight assume that I don't wear make up or do my hair because I just don't know any better. These people will feel sorry for me and try to educate me.

Number 5) Standing in a swaying hallway and yelling at your best friend, "You just don't get it! I DON'T CARE how my hair looks. Leave it alone!" will shock your friend.

Number 6) Other stay-at-home moms actually consider it their "jobs" to do housework. I am the only stay-at-home mom in existence who doesn't believe this. Saying to your stay-at-home mom friends, "My job is to raise my children, not be a maid," will piss them off.

Number 7) My friends are stupid. They will spend a day on a Mexican beach with absolutely no sunblock on and then be proud of their sunburns. Until they realize that the mesh and wave designs on the cleavage area of their suits is now burned into their skin.

Number 8) I am stupid. I will walk and walk to buy a bottle of Mexican sunblock (where the highest SPF they have is 15) when I already had a bottle of SPF 50 stuck in my bag.

Number 9) When wrapping yourself in a beach towel while walking to buy sunblock to avoid getting sunburned, you should try and cover your cleavage.

Number 10) When submerging yourself in a 62 degree underground river, it is best to just jump right in. But you should push your girly friends in first so that they don't hem and haw for upwards of thirty minutes.

Number 11) I have truly learned the meaning of high maintenance.

Number 12) When traveling with four high maintenance female friends, it is best to befriend the service staff and pass out tips like candy.

Number 13) My friends may become infamous shipwide for being high maintenance, dressing like rich women, and staying in a luxury suite...but they are hopelessly cheap.

Number 14) When cheap women want to make a tip seem impressive, they package it like this.





Number 15) I may not look it, but I have a lot of class.

Some (hopefully) entertaining stories to follow.

My Husband Rocks...

...and so did my cruise ship.

I have lots of stories to tell about my cruise, but I'm not really in the mood yet. Despite being very sick for the first 24 hours, I did have a really good time. But I have found that as I talk about it with my husband, I sound very negative. But I think that's mostly just because I am so different from the other women.

Picture if you will, just for a moment, that Jessica Simpson has been cloned four times. That's who I went on a cruise with.

But today I want to talk about my husband, which in my opinion, is always the better topic.

How friggin' adorable is he? Is it just me?

I was really curious about what he would write. And except for the couple of moments I took to dash off a post on my second day aboard the ship, I was determined not to go online again.

So, when I got home yesterday and had a few minutes to myself, I got to read all of his posts at once. And I had a blast doing it.

He always obsesses about what a terrible writer he is. But I keep trying to tell him that the talent of a writer isn't measured in grammatical mistakes, botched spelling, and missing punctuation. The real talent of a writer is in what he says and how he says it. I think he is a wonderful writer.

I can't resist going back and refuting and/or commenting on some of the things he wrote. It's my blog after all. If he wants to have carte blanche he can write his own damn blog.

First of all, I must tell you that the house is now cleaner than it was when I left it. He did a lot of work. And I'm glad he posted about laundry, because that's the only way I was able to find stuff when I got home.

Isn't it all hot when he talks about hockey? What he didn't tell you is that it seems like he'll be a real playmaker on the team this year. He's scored at least one goal in each of his games. And he looks good in orange.

And ooooooooh! You're all in trouble. He thought my e-mail inbox would be flooded with commands to fill out that hall of fame information. But I came home to one lonely e-mail about something completely different. What he doesn't realize is that the deadline isn't until March. How sweet is that, though. He really wants me to be recognized.

Okay. And the books. I know you were all a little worried, but I'm actually glad he did it. I wanted to get rid of those books. I had shelved the special ones that I wanted to keep. I just couldn't carry those boxes down the attic stairs. So he's not in trouble. But thanks for sticking up for me!

And it really, really bugs him that I chose Tuna Girl rather than Tuna Woman or something similar. Yes, for years I would correct anyone who called a woman a girl. Yes, I still feel strongly about it. But really. Doesn't Tuna Girl just sound better? It's all about branding, Baby.

And nice try with the X Box game request. We'll see. Do you all think he deserves a present? He had a lot of fun on that London trip. And I puked most of my cruise. (And I have a feeling that if I let you guys have your way, I'd be puking through NYC too.) Oh, and he didn't mention his annual trips to Las Vegas. Strip clubs anyone? Oh hell. And there were Guam strip clubs too. Fuck a gift. I think he still owes me.

Once I got wind of that surprise party for CB, I told the other friends, who called RB the first chance they got and convinced him to cancel. I'm glad because I spent most of the afternoon on the toilet.

Tuna Man did go out and buy her a present though. And a card. And a gift bag. And the tissue paper to go with it. How sweet is that?

And okay. Who the HELL gave him permission to let you ask questions? I made some guidelines for a reason. I will not be ignored.

He didn't really dish much though, did he? And you know, when he says that all of the juicy details about me are already in the blog, he's right. I can't think of a single story that he could tell about me that you didn't already know. Well, at least not any that wouldn't reflect worse on him than me.

Here's a little conversation for you:

Me: You couldn't come up with one romantic thing you've ever done for me?
Him: *laughing a little* No. And I really sat there for a long time and thought about it too.
Me: There must be something. *thinking* *for a long time* You're right. There's nothing.

He's just not really romantic in the traditional sense. See my engagement story for confirmation. I have a very vague memory of coming home to a bedroom full of lit candles once, but that was about getting laid, and therefore not really romantic.

But don't you think that guest blogging for me is romantic in its own way? And hauling away boxes of books. And doing laundry. And he sent me those roses on our anniversary. And we take baths together and talk about our days.

I learned this past week that by comparison, we really don't have a traditional relationship. And thank god. We're partners in a way that most married people never are. And that's romance.

To set the record straight, he is SO NOT a breast man. He said Patrick only gave him two choices, so he went with the expected one. He said it was too hard to explain what he really is. And what he really is, is an abs man. He's all about hot abs. I had killer abs once. Once upon a time, B.C. (before children).

And yes he did ignore the question about my own rack. His response to me: "I'm not even going there!"

Now he wants to know what I found so special on September 23. I'm not even going there.

And the question about the "private" box cracks me up. He has no idea what you were talking about. His answer was supposed to be funny, but even I didn't get it.

He's been dying to tell that story about Dick for months. I think he thinks that it makes me look bad. I don't really think it does. I never understood why that whole thing upset him so much, and I still don't get why it still bugs him. but I'm glad he got to get it off his chest in the blog.

And as far as his list goes. Holy crap. I never thought he'd admit that to a group of strangers. And ropes.? Umm yeah. Ropes. I'm a diligent teacher.

I think it is pretty evident that he loves me a lot. I am a very lucky woman. Thanks for being so nice to him. I don't think I'm going to talk about the fact that my average daily hits went UP while I was away.

When the earth stops rocking for a moment, I'll write more about my trip.

Where's Tuna Boy?

Ack! Where is he? Probably either being shy or he can't remember how to log in.

I'm having just a lovely time. Not. There's nothing like cruising into a tropical storm.

I think I threw up something I ate in 1985.

CB's two out-of-town friends are a blast. The four of us are having fun between trips to the bathroom. Notice I said the four of us. (There are 5 of us on this trip. Oh well.)

Last night I slept for about a total of 15 minutes while hunched over a table on the rainy deck.

Do you feel bad for me yet?

I miss my family.

Feel bad for me now?

I'm sure it will get better tomorrow. It better.

Play Nice

Well, boys and girls, I'm off to exotic locales. But fear not. I will not leave you tuna-less for the next week. No, I have a special treat for you. This week's very special guest blogger will be...(drum roll please)

Tuna Hubby.

I thought it would be great fun for him to blog. And he really seems excited about it too. But now I'm freaking out a little. Payback is a bitch, you know.

So, much like when I leave my kids alone to play, I'm going to establish some ground rules.

1) Be nice to each other. Please. Thank you.
2) Please don't abandon the blog. He'll feel all bad that he either scared you away or bored you to tears. He won't be pinging blogroll, so please check back from time to time.
3) No asking for naked pictures. I know how you are! I'll turn my back for one second and you'll be flirting with him.
4) No talk of my rack! Seriously. No boob talk at all. This means you, mister!
5) No asking him embarrassing questions about me. He just might answer them.

When I asked him what he would blog about, he answered with a succinct, "You." I'm getting a little nervous here. I just may regret this.

I'll miss you guys. I'll have so many blogs to catch up with upon my return. Have fun while I'm gone.

Okay, I have to go start packing!

MWAH!

****

Oh, and by the way...

I love you, Honey. Welcome to my blog world.

Neener Neener Neener

Cozumel


Holiday


Our Room



So, have I mentioned that I'm going on a cruise?

Two days and counting. And I haven't even started packing yet. So far, I have a new bathing suit and a new toothbrush sitting out on my dresser.

I need to get my butt in gear.

Oh, and I need to apply some self tanner to that lily white butt while I'm at it.

I'm too excited to think straight today. I'll see you all tomorrow!

**Update**

It has occurred to me that what I really need is for the hubby to apply the self tanner all over me.

It has also occurred to me to wonder if my gym is a hot pick up joint for the elderly. Do old people really find other old people attractive? Or do old people really just lust after hot young flesh like the rest of us? I'll have to ask him about that.

Can you feel the love?

I just put my son down for a nap. As I was closing his door, he called out, "I love you."

Yeah. My heart. In a puddle. All over the floor.

This tops off a five day love fest from my daughter who keeps saying things like, "I love you so much, Mommy," and "You're the best mommy ever."

And I'm leaving them for five days. Maybe it's Daddy's turn to feel the love.

Speaking of Daddy. I've told my husband this a couple of times, but I was reminded of it again recently.

When I was a kid, every time my mother pulled the car onto our street and saw my father's cruiser sitting in the driveway, she'd say, "Oh damn. He's home." Or if we were in the house and she heard his cruiser pull up, she'd say the same thing.

When I pull down my street and see my husband's fading SUV sitting in front of the house, I think, "Oh yay! He's home." Or if I hear the distinctive sound of his car pulling up, I think, "Oh thank god!" I almost always open the door for him to say hello.

I just love him. I like to be around him. As much fun as I know I'll have next week on my cruise, I'd really rather be going with him.

As Close to Drunk Blogging as I Get

What was a saying about sleep?

Last night I crashed. I was supposed to be joining my husband in the tub, but I never made it there. He came downstairs at 9 p.m. and found me sleeping in the chair. Oops.

But he somehow talked me into taking a bath of my own. And I feel asleep. I sort of remember drifting out of consciences but thinking, "Whoa! Potential drowning hazard. Wake up, idiot." But I slipped away.

So I climbed out of the tub, threw on a bathrobe and crawled into bed, without doing the myriad of tasks that I had to do by 7 a.m. this morning. So I set my alarm for 5:30 a.m.

I was outside in the dark this morning, cleaning my van. Who the hell let my kids have so many crackers in the car? Oh yeah. That was me.

And how did I spend my morning? On a field trip to a Pioneer Village with 40 5-year-olds and my own 2-year-old. Dear. Holy. Lord. Whoever had that bright idea?

So have I mentioned that I didn't volunteer to be a room mother this year? That was the best decision I ever made. But AH is one of the two room mothers.

Boys and girls, can you say, "Cluster fuck?" Disorganization in, say, a business setting is one thing. But five-year-olds are like animals. If they see you floundering, they're going in for the kill.

And I just sat back, with one tuna kid in each hand, and laughed a little inside. I can be a vindictive witch. Especially when I've been up since 5:30 a.m.

At this point, I am too tired to even function. If this post makes sense at all, it will be a minor miracle.

And so I'm off to spend some money on the web. Theater tickets. Plane tickets. Hotel reservations. Let's hope I don't fuck it all up. Come December I could find myself watching a production of Cats in Chernobyl and staying at a Red Roof Inn.

Who needs sleep?

Man, it's one of those days. I think Mark sent me his bad day right along with the stormy weather. It doesn't help that my sleep is all messed up.

One of my all-time favorite songs is Who Needs Sleep by the Barenaked Ladies. It's an anthem for my life.

Who needs sleep?
Well you're never gonna get it.
Who needs sleep?
Tell me what that's for.

I can go an amazingly long time without sleep, but I'm not usually happy about it. I end up falling asleep at the very worst times and just generally act like a cranky ditz.

But I discover some of the most interesting things in the middle of the night. Things besides my crazy, chatterbox psyche, that is.

My lack of sleep started on Saturday night. At about midnight I started watching Bringing Down the House on TV. I love Queen Latifa, but this movie was pretty much just crap. Yet it kept me from going to bed for two more hours.

Then, like the blogging addict I am, I decided to check on my comments. Which led me to catching up on some of the 100 blogs from my blogroll. (Ack! That's too many! I need a better system.)

From God of Biscuits, I found this blog. Awwww. Baby pictures. I love picture. Family, friends, strangers...it doesn't matter. I just want to look at your pictures. And these ones made my womb ache. NO! There will be no more babies in the Tuna House. But, I defy any mother to look at newborn pictures and NOT feel her ovaries clench.

And speaking of pictures, from (one of my favorites) Feisty Girl, I found Zoot. Who had found this boobie blog. That's one hell of a way to raise money for breast cancer research. By the way, I hear that Just a Girl's picture is on there. Can you find her?

And the next thing I know, it's 6 a.m. and I haven't had any sleep yet.

Sunday's are my mornings to get the kids. So I rolled out of bed at 8 a.m., fed them (I think) and turned on the TV. Bad mother. Bad!

But my daughter was complaining of "gas pains" in her tummy. Suddenly she shot off the couch and flew into the bathroom. Poor baby girl. At least she was able to puke and get some cookie-tossing relief. She's better than me because she always makes it to the toilet to hurl. I fight it and fight it until I can't fight it anymore and hurl wherever I happen to be. My poor husband has washed more pukey sheets and rugs than any person should ever have to.

She seemed fine after that, but was up in the bathroom again at 11 p.m. last night. There is nothing worse than watching your kids throw up. Poor baby! I feel so helpless to make her feel better. And I can't even moan, "Oh God! Kill me. Kill me now!" like I do when I'm sick.

So I let her sleep in this morning. When I went into her room at 8 a.m., her and her brother were playing with her Leapster. She was as happy as can be. Then I told her that I had let her sleep late and that I'd take her to school but that she'd missed their monthly flag ceremony. And she was pissed. Really pissed. She let me have it. She didn't ask me to let her sleep late. She never said she was too sick for school.

I actually felt bad, but that's not how we talk in this house, so we had a little set to. I think I just got my first glimpse at how her teenage years will go. I need to start preparing for that now.

So, ugh. I've rambled enough. My iPod isn't working right. My arms are sore from lifting. It's pouring out and I have to clean my car so I can drive kids on a field trip tomorrow. I need to book my hotel for NYC. I need to pack, get a tan, and lose 10 pounds before my cruise this weekend.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. My life sucks.

Let's Embarrass the Tuna Girl Again

I told this story, albeit very badly, to Patrick the other night. He laughed. He laughs at me a lot.

I thought I had told it before here on the blog, but I can't find it. If I'm repeating myself, well, maybe it's worth repeating.

In the first four years that we were in the military, we moved seven times. I got to be quite an expert at the packing and unpacking process.

One of the nice things about moving with the military is that they actually pay movers to pack your stuff. This horrifies my mother, who can't imagine a stranger touching her things. But if you move that often, it can become like a part time job, and you quickly lose any sense of privacy.

But there are some things that nobody should ever see. And those things always go into a special box. We pack these things up (the things you wouldn't ever want your kids to find) and stash it in one of our cars before the movers ever arrive. (I bet most of the Queer Eye victims do the same thing.)

Usually, they send women and old men to be packers. But on this one particular move, they sent three big, burly, scary guys. I was always glad to have my dogs on hand when I spent these days alone with the movers. I mean, I'm sure they are very nice people, but I was completely alone with them and all of my belongings.

Everything went fine on that move. Our things actually had to go into storage for a while because he was heading to a training course, and I was heading to my parents' house for a month or two. I carted that damn "private" box all over the country.

I was so looking forward to moving back together that I was even looking forward to the unpacking. I was overjoyed to have my own stuff back again.

I stashed the "private" box in the closet and got to work.

These packers had wrapped every little thing in paper. Think of all the stuff you have in your junk draw. And then think of it all individually wrapped in packing paper. That's the kind of stuff I was unwrapping when a box of condoms fell out.

Okay. I didn't realize those were in there, but condoms aren't so embarrassing. They are as common now-a-days as, um, lotion and tissue.

And out of the next paper fell a small vibrator. Okay. I was blushing then. But it was the type of "massager" that you could buy at Brookstones, so I wasn't completely mortified.

And out of the next paper fell a big ole' dildo.

Now I'm mortified. It was huge, red, with bumps and a "jelly" covering.

I quickly started thrashing through all that wrapping paper to see if I could possibly get any more embarrassed. I won't mention some of the other stuff, but the topper? A butt plug.

It's a good thing those three big, burly, scary guys are a few states away. Can you imagine what they were thinking? If I had ever run into them I would surely have expired on the spot.

If I ever move from Florida again, remind me to get a different moving company.

Man Lover

Has everyone caught on to the fact that I love men? All kinds of men.

Last weekend, we took the kids to CB's son's first birthday party. We actually had a very nice time. At one point, I was walking through the house and just had to announce, "Look at this! All the men are in here watching football. And all the women are in the kitchen feeding the kids. That's just wrong!"

And a half hour later I found myself sitting with the men watching football while the rest of the women were in the playroom playing hide-and-seek with the kids.

For the most part, I just fit in better with men. I enjoy their company so much more. And I could be completely wrong, but men seem to accept me and enjoy me without any problem.

AH's husband brought their kid to soccer practice last week and left AH at home. (I'm surprised she let him off his leash.) AH's husband is really a very nice man and I enjoyed talking with him during practice.

A couple of days ago, I dropped CB's whole family off at the airport. Her husband, RB, sat in the third row seat and he and I kept trading quips during the ride. When I was standing by the car door, ready to leave, he came up to me with their itinerary, just to let me know when they'd be back. Then he sort of growled my name, crouched down a little and gave me a bone crushing hug. He ran away laughing maniacally. CB asked him, "What?" and he replied, "I just hugged her. He he he!"

What the heck?

I guess I am kind of known as a non-hugger. He made me really laugh though. He's a cutie for sure.

When I casually mentioned these little incidents to my husband and sort of wondered what was up with them, he said. "Hon, you're a very likeable person."

I swear that's one of the sweetest things he has ever said to me. We all feel like dorks in social situations. I mean, don't we? I sure do. It's nice to know that people enjoy being around me.

So , we went on to talk about how I seem to connect better with men. To which my husband replied, "Yeah, I know. It's really starting to bug me."

"Are you talking about my blog friends?" I asked.

"Yeah. Name one female friend who you don't know from college, work, or the military."

Well, how the hell else am I supposed to meet people? But I knew what he meant.

"I have women on my blogroll, you know," I told him. I went on to list y'all. I gave him a little background on each of you. He was actually interested in your stories.

But my blogroll reflects my real world in that I'll never feel like one of the girls. I really enjoy my close female friends (of the blogger variety too) and I can certainly hold my own in the hen house.

But when it comes right down to it, I just want to be one of the boys. Can that be arranged?

Lesbians are everywhere.

Aaron asked that I post again, just to move the masturbation metaphor a little further down the blog. And since Aaron's wish is my command (and since he enjoys cliches), here I am. Talking about lesbians.

When I first moved here to the bayou, I saw absolutely no indication that gay people may actually exist. I'm not even talking about rainbow flags and gay bars. I'm just talking about my humble ole' gaydar picking up any vibes.

Then I joined a softball team. The coach's name was Bubba, and he explained to me on the phone that some of the players may be *dramatic whisper* gay. He quickly went on to explain that he didn't have a problem with no gay girls. Now, gay guys he might have to run out of town, but gay girls were okay by him. Upon hearing that I played softball in college, he quickly switched the subject to ask if I was married or not. I mean really. Gay softball players. Who's ever heard of such a thing?

Even when I got to know the other woman on the team pretty well, they rarely talked about their girlfriends or their social lives. Maybe they felt that the handful of housewives on the team wouldn't appreciate it, or maybe they were very used to hiding their sexuality in this backwater social climate. But it was all very hush hush.

Lately, I've noticed a plethora of lesbian couples. I think it is great that a seemingly younger local group of lesbians doesn't feel the need to hide so much. I do worry about them a little though. I can't help it. This place still is what it is and I'm afraid that they will find themselves the victims of petty crimes, harassment, or worse.

This reminds me of my college friends. As much as I supported their right to be out and proud, I would worry about them putting rainbow stickers on their cars and then driving through the worst sections of the city to go to gay bars. It only takes one person filled with hate and armed with a gun to end the life of someone I love. They used to tell me that I was "such a mom." I just can't help it.

So I started this post planning on telling a little story about me trying to covertly let all the other soccer moms know that our photographer was a woman. "No, look, right there. He's a man," they said. Um, no. That's a woman.

It bugged me more than it should that they couldn't see past the short hair and manly clothes. I spent four years consoling my best friends because they were sick of being mistaken for men. There was one horrible incident in a ladies room in an airport.

My husband said, "How could they not see that she was a woman. It was obvious to me."

I told him that it's because we live in the real world, where people don't come in nice neat little packages. I love my daughter's school, but the parents can be so snooty.

Anyway, the photographer started telling stories about her and her partner's twelve-year-old daughter and I thought the other mothers would convulse.

Ha! I wanted to yell. Good for you. Make them think.

And then I felt bad, because I should be making them think.

Furtive Tuna

Do you remember when you first discovered masturbation?

You were probably living with your parents at the time. And you became like a superspy, finding ways to conduct your covert operations. You may have used everyday objects to experiment. Shower massagers, aquariums, (in my case) electric razors.

Where is she going with this?

Do you remember how it felt, both exciting and dirty at the same time?

That's how I feel about blogging right now.

My father is only a few rooms away. But I can't help it. I'm addicted. It feels soooo good.

I haven't really blogged in days and days. I have a lot of shit stored up.

But much like a teenager sitting in the living room with her parents, this stuff is going to have to wait to come out. Satisfaction is still a few days away. Oh, the peace and satisfaction of solitude. Sweet, sweet privacy. Oh, how I miss you.

In the meantime, I've actually responded to some comments. Look back a few days if you're at all interested in what I have to say in reply to your wit.

And as for the 10,000th visitor...yeah...ummm. No one's come forward as my number 10,000. And I think that may be because *ahem* it was me. Yes, I was my own 10,000th visitor. How pathetic and embarrassing is that? I'd set my counter not to track my own hits, but then I couldn't keep track of my inquisitive life mate.

So, it seems that Pua came the closest. What do you want, Sister? And no, I can't buy you tickets to NYC. If the rest of you want to put in your two cents, go to The Abyss and be nice to Pua.

Where in the blogworld was Tuna Girl?

Have you ever been so nauseous--I mean writhing in pain kind of nauseous--that you try to force yourself to throw up, just for some relief? Except that you can't. So you get all of the retching fun without any of the cookie-tossing relief.

That's how I spent my weekend.

What Makes Me Shake My Ass

You know that I have an inappropriate relationship with my iPod.

You know that my iPod tells me to do inappropriate things at the gym.

Have you ever wondered what music could possibly hold such power over me.

Here's my iMix at iTunes.

Revel in my crappy/housewifely taste in music.

Bring on the Hits

Oh hey! I didn't even realize. Sometime today my wee little blog will be hitting 10,000 visitors.

It's amazing what a little sex talk will do.

I guess it's a milestone, of sorts. There was a time when I was amazed to have 1,000 hits. I didn't really expect to stick with the blogging. Like with most things in my life, I thought I'd grow bored quickly (scrapbooking anyone?). I had no idea it would be so addicting.

Mostly I'm just incredibly flattered that so many people have enjoyed my daily writing.

And I'm amazed at the friends I've made. I love you guys. You make it so worth it.

I'm incredibly busy right now. I haven't had the time to respond to comments (and you've left some great ones!) or e-mails (and you've sent some wonderful ones!) in a week. I wasn't even planning to blog. But I wanted to say thanks from the bottom of my heart.

Okay, enough mushy shit. It seems to be blogger tradition to offer something to the 10,000th visitor.

What to offer...what to offer? Hmmm. Well, what do you want? You could have the honor of rewriting my crappy tagline. You could request a post on a specific topic. You could have the honor of buying me a drink in NYC this December (in which case you may get to enjoy a drunk Tuna Girl).

Be number 10,000 and we'll work it out!

Hell Yeah

I don't know if he's been doing research or watching videos or what. But, my god, my husband has gotten damn good at fucking.

I'm just saying.

Ramble On, Tuna Style

Strap in, boys and girls. ( I said strap in, not strap on. Get your minds out of the gutter.) I have quite a lot on my mind today. It may be a bumpy ride.

At 4 o'clock yesterday afternoon, I had an appointment with our insurance agent.

Did you know that from a financial point of view, the only monetary worth I have to my husband is childcare? That's it. So when I die, he needs to cover my funeral expenses, and childcare. And I guess he can play with the rest. (Note to self: reconsider why he likes to have a radio near the bathtub.)

My husband was supposed to come home early from work and take care of the kids. At 3:50 p.m. he wasn't home yet. Which meant I would be late. So I called his office.

What I Heard
Random coworker: Capt mumble mumble. Mumble mumble office.
Me: Hi! Is *my husband's name* there please?
Random coworker: I think he's in the hall. May I ask who's calling?
Me: Oh. This is his wife.
Random coworker: Oh hi! How are you? Let me just go grab him.
*pause*
Random coworker: unintelligible
Tuna Hubby: unintelligible
Many men: uproarios laughter
Tuna Hubby: Hey, hon. I'm on my way home.

What I Imagined
Random coworker: Capt mumble mumble. Mumble mumble office.
Me: Hi! Is *my husband's name* there please?
Random coworker: I think he's in the hall. May I ask who's calling?
Me: Oh. This is his wife.
Random coworker: Oh hi! How are you? Let me just go grab him.
*pause*
Random coworker: Tuuuuuna! Your wife is on the phone.
Tuna Hubby: Oh! Fuck!
Many men: uproarious laughter, whipping noises, taunting
Tuna Hubby: Hey, hon. I'm on my way home.

So, he finally showed up and I went to my appointment.

Insurance Man: And is your husband going to pay for this policy?
Me: *laughing* Oh yeah. *more laughing*
Insurance Man: Does he know he's paying for it?
Me: *laughing* Oh yeah. *more laughing*

There is no his and her money. It all goes in one big pot, baby.

Then I got to go to the gym. The scenery is much nicer after work than at 10 in the morning.

In fact, I was avidly watching a hot man running around the track, when I caught a glimpse of his face and realized it was my friend's husband. That's creepy, even for me. I feel the need to call my friend and both apologize and congratulate her.

Here's a note for the other man I was staring at.

Dear hot gym man,

Yes, you did catch me staring at the nape of your neck while you were doing pull ups. And yes, you did catch me staring at your ass while you were doing pull downs. But that does not give you the right to stare at my crotch while I do hip abductors.

Speaking of pull downs...have you ever noticed that as you lift, the pin rod pumping in and out of the weight stack very much resembles the sex act?

Maybe I'm better off going to the gym with the other housewives and old men.

Speaking of housewives, for the first time ever, CB made a girly remark to me. We were talking about a guy our husbands work with and she called him total military man. "Do you know him?" she asked. "He's hot!"

I kind of like that side of her. But, I don't think that guy is particularly hot. Which is good because it helps if you and your friends aren't after the same guys. Not that we're looking or anything.

When I told my husband about this conversation, he said, "Great! and I'm sending you on a cruise together."

I don't know about the other three we're going with, but CB and I could be a guy pick-up force to be reckoned with. Not that we're looking or anything! (I love you, Honey!)

And to end this ramble on a sweet note, during the same conversation, CB said to me, "You're the only friend I can really talk to. You're the only one who really gets me."

And that is very cool.

We Are Family

When it comes right down to it, my blog is really about my family. Because my life is about my family. My life is family-based in a way that most of us only see it sitcoms based on 1950s housewives.

And I'm cool with that.

In fact, I very much love my life. And I think it is quite plain to see that I love my family. Or at least it is plain to see that I love my family of choice. My family of origin, however...oy. They're a handful.

My mother called me a few weeks ago and asked me to invite my father for a visit. She said that he was going through grandkid withdrawals. And since this is my mother we're talking about, we had to have a top-secret plan in place to fool him into thinking that it was my daughter's idea and that my husband and I were paying for the whole thing. Meanwhile, my mother sent me a money order from her secret stash of cash.

My family is like the CIA. Except that if it were my father's job to hunt Bin Laden, he would have been nailed up to the door of the White House by now.

So my father arrives on Thursday afternoon, and leaves on the 30th. I may not survive the week. I certainly won't be blogging much, anyway. He's very high maintenance.

Between having my father visit, which inevitably leads to lots of talk of my nephews, and the many, many times that I've enjoyed reading about your nieces and nephews, I have my brats--I MEAN--nephews on the brain.

My husband and I were the first ones in this generation of both of our families to have children. That means that I was a mom before I was ever an auntie. I really think I missed out. Once you're a mom, you're always a mom. I can't be the fun, crazy aunt who lets the kids away with stuff, because my own kids are always part of the mix.

And unfortunately, my sister-in-law is a bitch. Woops. Did I say bitch? I meant that she's a modern, independent woman, which means that she ignores her kids and treats my brother like crap.

And even more unfortunately, my brother lets her treat him like crap, and the children are little monsters.

And it gets even more unfortunate still, because my mother, with the help of my father, takes care of these kids during the day.

My mother once said to me about my sister-in-law, 'I love her but..."

And I interrupted to ask, "Do you really love her, Mom? I mean, really."

My mother admitted that she didn't love her at all. In fact, she doesn't even like her very much. She tolerates her for my brother's sake.

I find myself feeling the same way about my nephews. Isn't that awful? They're just children. But, for one, I don't really know them. And for two, what I do know of them is mean, nasty, and downright disrespectful.

Two of them are twins, and they gang up on smaller kids to beat up and torture them. And I've never even met the one-year-old.

There will always be a part of me that regrets not knowing my nephews better. But there will always be a much bigger part of me that regrets that I didn't have a better relationship with my brother. Maybe if we were closer, he would have had more self-confidence and wouldn't have married such a bitch. Woops. I said it again. I meant, well, I meant bitch.

Take care of your brothers, girls. We're the only women who will.

So, I guess what I'm really thinking here is that as much as my family drives me insane, I really do love them very much. I worry about my parents. I feel bad for my brother. And the rest of them, I don't really think much about at all.

The word family can mean many, many things. One of the best gifts I've been given is the ability to develop family on my own. Whether it be my own husband and kids, my military family, or even my blogger kin. I take love for what it's worth.

*****

And speaking of love, go shower Mark with as much love as you can. It's his *ahem* 39th birthday today. Happy birthday, Unka Mawk!

And while you're at it, BoBo could use a few squirts too. He doesn't seem to be divulging his age. Happy birthday, Sweetheart!

Soccer Mom

Hello. My name is Tuna Girl. And I'm a soccer mom.

I'll admit it. I'm a soccer mom. And I have the mini van to prove it.

This weekend was my daughter's first soccer game of the year. It was also my husband's first time on the soccer field as a coach. I was nervous for him. He was pretty nervous too. But he did really well. Of course, he couldn't do much worse than the other team's coach who came out on the field talking on her cell phone.

The only iffy moment was when he sent my daughter off the field because she was crying. It was really hot, and she doesn't do well in the heat. I'm not looking forward to an entire season of father/daughter struggles. As a friend who coaches his own kid says, "You're always hardest on your own kid."

It would have been okay of he had subbed for her. But he just kept playing with two kids on the field. Even after a goal, he just kept right on going without subbing anyone in. The parents started to freak a little. So I yelled at him once, and he ignored me. Than I used my own coaching voice and he finally stopped and put a kid in.

I felt really bad that I yelled at my husband in public. But I also wanted to avert a crisis with the parents. I apologized later and he made it seem like it wasn't a big deal, so that was good.

I was a little disappointed in the parents, though. This is the last age at which they don't keep score. But the parents were encouraging the kids to count the goals and try to win. Some of the kids are ready for that, but some aren't. But regardless, the rules for the under 6 league say no scorekeeping, and I think we should follow the rules.

But, ummm, we won. By a lot. We have one little boy on our team with amazing talent. At one point his father said, "That's enough, son. Give someone else a turn."

I can't believe I just wrote this long of a post about a kid's soccer game. But I actually do have a point. And my point is this:

I'm a dumbass.

I didn't put any sunblock on, because, you know, it's September. I sat under a golf umbrella with the kids to try and keep them cool in the 98 degree heat. Except that I let one arm hang out in the sun. And now I have a stupid ass one-armed farmer's sunburn that will look just lovely on my cruise.

"Since when do you like tattoos?"

A few days ago, my husband read my blog from beginning to end.

Now, he's known about my blog from almost the very beginning, and he's always been supportive of it. He's read a little here and there, but never more than a few posts at a time. And he's never read the comments.

I guess reading it all in one sitting like that gave him a very different impression. He wasn't happy.

Ironically, it wasn't the stuff that you would think might shock him that he was upset about. I mean, think of some of the things I've written in the last month. I've written about our sex life and where he hides porn. But that didn't bother him.

He thinks that he comes off like a real jerk. A "prick," to use his words. I think that's insane. If anything, I think I often get too gooey and sentimental when I talk about him. I've even tried to talk more about his faults, just to present a balanced picture of our real life.

But, I think it's like a photograph. You never really can see yourself objectively.

In fact I explained this to him by using our engagement portrait as an example. There was one shot that he absolutely loved. I thought I looked like Miss Piggy. But he insisted on at least getting a 5X7 for himself. He kept it in his room in college. He thinks I look beautiful. I loathe that picture.

There was one particular post where he thought I was saying something that I wasn't that really bothered him. Luckily, once I figured out what he was talking about, we were able to clear that up.

He also questioned why I would want to blog at all. I think he feared that I felt like something was missing from my life. It was hard to explain, but I basically asked him to think of my friends and my lifestyle. And then think about how complex I am. I told him that I just need to share more of myself than is possible with my ultra-Christian, officer wife friends.

But talking about my blog, our insecurities and our life has really seemed to move us into an even closer and more mature place in our relationship. I didn't think that was possible. I still feel bad about the whole situation. But he calls it, "Water under the bridge."

In the midst of our talk about it, I was completely sure that I would be deleting the whole blog the next morning. There is just nothing in the world that is more important to me than him. But he asked me not to. In fact, he ordered me not to. I think he sort of gets it now, in a way that he didn't before. And that's good.

But the whole situation has caused me to have a serious case of writer's block. I just don't want to piss him off again right now. I know him pretty well, and I doubt that he'll be reading again for a while, but still.

Tonight he sat down with the TiVo remote and started watching car shows. He turned to me and said, "Are you going to go blog?"

Yeah, sure. He wants me to blog when it fits his purposes. Like when he wants to get rid of me so he can watch Trucks! in peace.

So I've decided to stop censoring myself. It's back to the old me here at the blog. It's just something I have to do. And if he doesn't get it now, he will. Because I discovered something while I was sobbing in his arms a few night ago.

Our love really can conquer anything. Even a blog.

Passing the Buck Again

I was just IMing with Mark and informed him that I have nothing for the blog today. I asked him to say something funny, but he couldn't come UP with anything. (Well, you know...he's older.)

But that reminded me of something else I saw in blogland today.

So for now, I'm going to send you here, to read this. (Scroll down a bit for the good stuff)

I told him he'd regret it.

Ice Cream Coffee

With all the excitement over fag hags yesterday, I completely forgot about my Wives' Coffee.

Yes, folks, another month has come and gone. Since you all seemed so interested in my monthly spouses' coffee last month, I thought I would convey the highlights of this month's meeting.

• CB and I were a half hour late because she had to breastfeed her son.
• The theme was Make-Your-Own Sundaes.
• They actually served coffee.
• I didn't see anyone drink it.
• I was standing across the table from the hostess as she was scooping ice cream and was suddenly sprayed in the face with ice cream droplets.
• No one noticed until I said, "Ah! Jess, you got me."
• Then they realized that I even had ice cream in my hair.
• I flirted with the only male in attendance.
• Okay, he was 10-weeks-old and could barely keep his head up, but I had fun making him smile.
• Which distracted me from their droning on about car accidents, Christmas parties, and babies.

See. Glamorous. Isn't it?

The true highlight of the night for me was listening to CB tell everyone about our cruise. Her husband surprised her with the tickets a couple of nights ago. She is absolutely ecstatic over it. It's all the two of us can talk about. She announced to everyone, "We won't be at the next coffee, girls. We'll be out of the country!"

Oh, and I wore jeans.

*****

In other news, my cruise won't be the only independent traveling I do this year. Come hell or high water, I will be in NYC for the first weekend in December. Woo hoo! This will be my first real trip to New York. (A day trip with my high school class doesn't count.) Who's going to hold my hand?

Gaf Gah (Picture my tongue in my cheek, please!)

Okay. You guys are forcing me to do this. I wasn't going to. I was going to avoid it. But you had to go and invoke the fag hag thing.

I've been called a fag hag (in a loving way, mind you) about a dozen times this past week.

Let me state for the record that I have absolutely no problem with people using this term to describe themselves or their friends. I know that it is said in all affection. I also think that it makes sense in a very complicated way for straight women to befriend gay men.

But I am not a fag hag. And I can prove it.

First, go to Shamus' blog and read this.

See.

I don't enjoy oddly-named drinks. I barely drink at all.

I rarely bitch. (Really! What? You don't believe me?)

I've never crapped at a gay man's house. Ever. Nor would I.

I love football. I played football. I love all sports, except golf (which, come on, isn't really a sport anyway.)

I hate to be the center of attention. Except with my blog. (Okay. Maybe I enjoy attention just a little bit.)

Ummm...yeah. You'll have to read Shamus' post carefully and see why the next one doesn't apply.

I hate drama.

I LOVE heterosexual males.

I already have babies and don't want yours. At all!

I HATE pink.

And as far as I know, all of my prom dates were straight. Even the guy who stood me up.

Okay. As Patrick points out, many of these seem to point to me being a lesbian. But I'm not (of course). He further points out that I have lesbian friends. In his opinion, fag hags and lesbians do not get along. I'll have to bow to his expertise on that one.

So see. No fag hag here.

But to be completely serious, my problem with the term fag hag stems from the words themselves. Fag is one of those words that only the members of the group can use. I will just never be comfortable with that word. In fact, I even had a hard time typing it here. I understand why people use it, but I just can't go there myself.

And then, well hell. No woman wants to be called a hag. Especially a woman who has sprouted her first gray hair and (tiny) eye wrinkle.

(For someone who is willing to be identified as Tuna Girl, I have an awful lot of opinions about fag hag, don't I?)

Call me a fruit fly, a FOG (friend of gays), or even a Grace (yuck)...but just don't call late for dancing.


*****

By the way, have I mentioned how much I love you guys lately? Yesterday's post wasn't so much about my ego as it was about my family. I really appreciate all of your comments. In fact, you probably have no idea how much they mean to me.

Love you!

My Blog About Blogging

Do you guys go through cycles with your blog? It seems like there are times when I feel really good about my blog and the whole blogging experience in general. And there are times where I feel really awful about it.

I mean, this is my life, you know? And I'm putting it out there for the whole world (okay, maybe not the whole world, but all of you at least) to read daily. These are the people I love. How do they come across in the blog as a whole?

I think the worst thing about blogging is how it immortalizes a fleeting moment's emotions for all time. But that's the best thing too. I've never kept any kind of journal before and I find it sort of nice to have a record of my thoughts and feelings.

Right now I feel really, really awful about my blog. But yet, here I am, typing away, sharing my crappy feelings with you. Why? Why the hell do I feel compelled to do this?

I wouldn't give up the people for anything, though. I've met some wonderful people through blogging. I've even made some great friends.

But the way I feel right now--if I could chuck the blog and keep the people, I would.

I know it's a cycle. I'm not going to stop blogging, for now anyway, and I know that a few days or weeks down the line, I'll feel great about it again. But for now, you get to read whining posts like this.

Am I alone in this? Does everyone else go through cycles? Or is it just me?

You can take the girl out of the blog...

But you can't take the blog out of the girl.

I decided not to blog this weekend because...well...just because I couldn't. But then it seemed like a million stupid, little, blogworthy things happened to me.

It all started on Friday afternoon, when my husband took us to his squadron for First Friday. Most squadrons hold First Friday socials once a month. It's usually just a time to grab something to eat, plop all the kids in front of a video, and chit chat with your fellow squadron-mate's families. But they ended up having a presentation in the theater, and just as we were walking in, the speaker started swearing. (Nice.)

So my husband turned us around to leave. Apparently, this wasn't on my son's agenda. He threw a fit. An embarrassing, run-away-from-Daddy fit.

We got to endure a screaming ride home, and an evening of punishing our two-year-old. Big fun!

Two tantrums later, we finally got him to bed, and my husband took the Chevelle out to Home Depot to pick up some stuff. I used the time to chat on my cell phone.

About an hour later, our home phone rang. It was my husband. His car wouldn't start. I had to wake up the kids and go and rescue him.

It took me a half hour to wake up the kids. My daughter kept turning around and crawling back into bed. So, I finally pulled the mini-van up next to his car and rolled down the window, just as he got in his car and started it up. Grrrrr.

Late that night, after midnight in fact, I went over to CB's house to sit with her kids so she could go pick up her husband. He's home from his deployment, along with most of our neighbors and friends. I'm so happy for all of them. (And it was a fitting start to September 11, 2004.)

I fell asleep on her couch and she couldn't wake me up. She finally had to shake me awake and push me out her door. I got back to my bed at about 3 in the morning. Needles to say, I slept in the next day.

Saturday afternoon, I let my husband have a nap and took the kids out. Our first stop was the library. While we were checking out, my daughter was dancing around like she had ants in her pants. Suddenly she gasped, "Look Mommy! My underwear fell off."

Sure enough, a pair of My Little Pony underpants were falling out the legs of her pants. I guess they were stuck inside the leg when she put them on.

Being the wonderfully indulgent mother that I am, (gag) I took them to the food court at the BX. Dinner went fine and then I let them play in the indoor play area.

I sat sipping a diet coke and watched parent after parent have to drag their kids out of the play area when it was time to leave. I gloated. Incompetent parents. My kids would never act like that.

Payback is a bitch.

I gave the kids the normal two-minute warning that it was time to leave, and got two good, "Yes, Mommy"s in return.

Then I called out, "Time's up!" and got a "Nope" in return from my son.

What the...we don't play it like that in this family. But he told me in no uncertain terms that he was not leaving. At this point he was in the tunnels at the top of the play structure.

First, I cajoled, and then I threatened. Then I sent my daughter after him. He wailed her and screamed. I called my husband on the cell so he could enjoy the experience vicariously. Finally, I gave my daughter the cell and my purse and climbed my big ass up the tower and through the tunnels.

When I reached him he gave me a big smile and a hug. "Hi, Mommy!"

As I tried to remove him, he flipped out. He fought and screamed. I had to push him inch by inch out of the tunnels, and then sit him on my lap and scoot him down the tower stairs.

Did I mention that the whole play area is surrounded by glass and looks out over the food court.? I'm surprised nobody called the SPs on me.

The good news is that after his punishment (which basically consisted of exile to his room and absolutely nothing fun or enjoyable for two days) he has been an angel. He damn well better be.

If anyone notices a formerly bratty child acting like a little angel, please let me know. Obviously my son is possessed. I'd like his personality back please.

And to top it all off, I saw a college cheerleader get seriously injured at my gym on Sunday. She fell off the top of a three-tiered pyramid, flat onto her back. The ambulances were taking her away just as I was leaving. There's a sport my daughter will never join.

Whew! It was good to get that all out!

Welcome to my life. Anyone want to trade?

Watch where you put that thing!

Fifty Bonus Tuna Points to Groove, who had the closest guess. But that's not gum in my mouth. That would be my tongue.

Yes, I was sticking my tongue out in my senior picture. Either the photographer was making me laugh, or I thought he was cute and was coming on to him. I didn't notice the tongue until after graduation, when our yearbook was published. I'm a dork. I guess it's better than an exposed nipple.

Here's an interesting tuna fact. Even with my jaws shut as much as I can get them, I can still slide my tongue between my teeth. Handy.

Groove can redeem his points for, hmmm, well...I guess he'll have to make a request and we'll see what we can work out. Now, see. Don't you wish you worked harder to make a guess?

And special props to Rossie for her guess of a hicky. I like the way she thinks.

*****
So anyway...

I slept for two hours last night (Damn TiVo. Damn blogs. Damn Redbook magazine.) And this morning I babysat CB's kids. Whew! I need a break. I think I may climb up on top of the toilet and find some reading material to relax with.

And since this week was all about porn here at Tuna Girl, I'll top it off with this:

Tuna Man: Did you know you were a porn star?
Me: With large, natural boobs? Oh yeah. Have you been reading my blog?
Him: No. Wait! What is that supposed to mean? I was just bored and I googled you. Maybe I should be reading your blog now.
Me: Ummm. Maybe now wouldn't be a good time to start reading my blog again.

Balancing Down Memory Lane

I try to keep my blog balanced.

Sometimes it's silly, sometimes it's serious. It's even been morbid. Sometimes it might even be sweet.

Lately it's been silly, and so I wanted to write something poignant about my life today. But it's not going to happen, my friends. I am in an incredibly silly mood. I want to blow kisses to the world. Mwah! Mwah! Mwah! (Ha. I feel like a beauty queen.)

Yesterday I ended up being alone in my house for a while. This is a very rare occurrence. We've been on a cleaning sweep, so I tackled a box of "memorabilia" (or so I labeled it).

I used to save every little ticket stub and love note. But over the years, a lot of that stuff has seemed less important to me and I've pared it all down to one small box. I haven't opened it since before our last move. Opening it up yesterday was like taking a walk down memory lane.

There were t-shirts inside. My softball coach made one for me. It says "From twirling to hurling!" She once said that her greatest accomplishment as a coach was taking a baton twirler and turning her into an intimidating pitcher.

There was a t-shirt from my last year of playing intramural volleyball in college. It has my maiden name across the shoulder, and my present last name in parentheses beneath. I think that's pretty cute.

There were awards, scholarship certificates, and plaques that I never remember winning.

Apparently, I am a member of two honor societies from college. I have no recollection of that. I need to google them and see if they do anything worth while.

I found my class book from college. My quote was, "To be perfectly honest with you...do you know what I mean?" Okay. That sounds like something I'd say. Some of the other things I mentioned are men in uniform (with an exclamation point) (ummm..typical), and partying with C and J and E. Now I know who C and E are. But I have no idea who I meant by J. Maybe it was C's girlfriend. But I hated her. (And vice-versa) Maybe I was just keeping C happy by mentioning her. Who knows.

I found my college recommendation letters from my high school. It is amazing to me how well those teacher and coaches really knew me. At the time, I was just making sure that they mentioned all the important stuff I had done. But now, looking back, I am impressed that they saw me for who I now realize myself to be. Ah, growth. You gotta love it.

Okay, guys. I'm out. Hugs and kisses to every single one of you!

An Illustration

I'm killing a bunch of birds with one stone here.

First, I'm fulfilling Aaron's request. I think we should all do our part. (That's mother speak for get off your ass and do what you're told.)

Second, I'm sending Birthday Wishes (albeit weird ones) to Pua.

Third, I'm fulfilling his request for a picture of my hair.

Fourth, I'm paying homage to the master.

Fifth, I'm keeping myself sane. If I don't do something silly and dorkish, I just might begin doing my own injuring.

So, without further ado...an illustration of my earlier post.

















Poor Tuna Girl.

Tee hee! This was fun. Try it.

And please note: It's my cartoon. I'll draw myself as skinny as I want.

I was injured by porn.

No, I wasn't injured in porn. I was injured by porn.

So I have a new haircut. This is my favorite topic of conversation lately. It's the biggest change I've made in my life since I had kids.

I really liked it at first. Okay, for all the girls out there, I have really thick, straight hair. I decided long ago to just go with it. Screw the perms and curlers. But it's been one length, long, and straight for a long time. (Which is best for my daily ponytail.)

I decided I wanted something sexy and kicky. CB (who has sexy and kicky hair) suggested her stylist. She cut in long layers and angled it along my face. She did the whole, girly, scrunch-blow dry-curling iron thing. And viola! Sexy, kicky hair.

For a day. Then I had to do it myself. As my husband said, "Well, Honey. It's just really flat."

So, I put it in a ponytail to head to the gym. And I discover that I have one renegade chunk of hair that used to be bangs, but now just falls right into my right eye. It's a mutant chunk-o-hair. It must be severed.

I climb up on the toilet to reach the top shelf of the cabinet in search of scissors. I pull out the box that has my husband's hair cutting kit...

And I'm bonked in the face with a porno mag.

OH! So that's where he does it.

*****

Note to my husband: I love you. I really, really love you. I am the mother of your children. Come on. You know it was funny. Did I mention that I love you?

Nobody Loves Me

Nobody loves me,
Everybody hates me,
Sitting in the garden eating worms.

Does anyone else remember that childhood song? My mother used to sing it whenever we had a poor me attitude.

That's how I felt this weekend. Not all weekend, mind you. I got to talk on the phone to good friends for a good while on Friday night. We had a nice date on Saturday. I slept away most of Sunday. But Monday...yeah. I was sitting in the garden eating worms.

When we were younger my husband and I used to fight quite a bit. Not, knock-down-drag-out fights, per se. It was more like bickering. My father used to say that we were like Paul and Jamie on Mad About You.

It took me years to realize that my husband was actually enjoying those fights. We had been married for at least three years when it occurred to me to say to him one day, "You know. I don't think it's fun when we fight."

I think he just likes to get a reaction out of me. I suppose it makes sense. I'm pretty even keeled. But I know that he loves my passion and independence, and I think he liked to set me on fire just to see the sparks.

It was around that three year mark in our marriage that I convinced him we'd both enjoy the sparks more if they were in bed. That's really when our sex life took off. Thank god.

But yesterday he started again. At one point I asked him, "Do you just want to argue with me?"

To which he responded, "Yeah. I do."

Whatever, but by the time the kids were in bed, I was ready to explode. That's when he decided that I was "cracking on" him too much. I may have crossed the line when I said, "You know. You're great at starting things. You suck at finishing them."

I spent the rest of the night avoiding him. Do you know how small a three bedroom house gets when you're trying to avoid your husband? At one point I was actually sitting on the floor in our tiny little downstairs bathroom, reading a book, and just staying away from any other human life.

On the up side, we now have TiVo, which I bought and he doesn't like. So, yeah...great.

First you bite the heads off,
Then you suck the juice out,
Then you throw away the skins.

Namesake

I got just a tiny bit nervous the other day when I saw that someone found my blog by googling for a very specific post. It was one that involved my mother, and since it certainly wasn't one of my best, it made me think.

So I decided to do a little vanity googling, just to see what might be out there.

I learned that my husband shares a name with a high-altitude climber and an actor.

We apparently named my daughter after an author of lesbian fiction and a rather well-known collegiate soccer player.

And my son may someday be confused with a rock star. (We had no idea.)

And me? Me...well...I may be taken for a porn star known for her large, natural boobs.

Great. Like my boobs aren't well-discussed enough as it is.

Babies No More

Does anyone remember my own personal Independence Day? Well, today we've taken it to a whole new level.

As of about an hour ago, when my husband carried a changing table down the stairs, my household is completely free of baby paraphanalia.

No more highchairs. No more baby seats. No more changing tables.

I've given away the crib and all the baby clothes. There may be a few baby toys hidden at the bottom of the toy box, but by the end of the weekend they'll be on their way to charity.

To celebrate, we hired a babysitter and we're going on a date. We can't decide if we want to go to a movie or shopping for a new truck and a new diamond ring. I'm all for the ring shopping, but we'll see. We have to save for college, you know. It seems like they'll be moving into the dorm in the blink of an eye.

Oh, and all you drunk boys. Please try not to scare my babysitter, hmmm. We really like her and we'd like to keep her around.

What I learned at school yesterday

First (and it does make sense...follow me) I'm going to repost a comment from our own lovable Hot Toddy here:

I love that you said, "Y'all is not polite..."

You are prejudicing your child against everyone she will come into contact with on a daily basis. She will think everyone is being rude to her all day long. She will be so depressed that her relationship with Alex will crumble, and he will tell her, "I need to be with someone happy. This isn't working." To placate her grief, your daughter will steal your credit cards and go on a spending spree that would make Rob Byrnes look like a miser.

But at least she won't sound Southern.

That made me laugh. After all, the important point here is that she not sound Southern. And telling her that something isn't polite is the only way she'll listen to me. She has a highly developed sense of propriety.

So in the last few days, she's said "y'all" at least a dozen times. She even said it to my parents on the phone. As soon as she handed the phone to me, I got a good talking to.

I figured one of her friends at school said ya'll. Or maybe her teachers said it occasionally.

Then I got this note:

Dear Mr and Mrs Tuna,

Did ya'll accidentally get another students take-home folder? Ya'll can let me know any time."

Ack! A two-fer. And what's worse, she spelled it wrong! Does this woman not understand contractions? The apostrophe replaces the o and u, lady.

Then we went to the Back to School program last night. Every other word out of her teacher's mouth was y'all. Is this really what we're paying $6200 a year for? Egad!

Other than that though, she really is a wonderful teacher and we are very pleased.

But, noticeably absent were the parents of Alex. There was a picture board in the lobby with a photo of each child. My husband and I perused this board to try and find our future son-in-law. How curious. There is no Alex. We checked the other classroom, just in case, but there was no Alex to be found there either.

So, our little drama queen either completely fabricated this future spouse or she's inherited my husband's bad-with-names gene.

I learned a few things after school today too. First, my daughter is quite the sales person. She asked her Daddy, "Can we please go out to dinner tonight?" she added a few more "pleases" and a huge hug. He told her we'd think about it.

Five minutes later she's back. "Where did you and Mommy decide to take us to dinner, Daddy?"

I burst out laughing. She's quite the little closer.

When we were eating dinner, she suddenly said, "Today was the last day for my boyfriend to be the star of the week." My husband almost choked on his shrimp.

We had learned the night before that the star of the week was Andrew. Andrew really is a precious little child. My daughter has good taste.

"What happened to Alex?" my husband asked.

"There is no Alex, silly," she scolded him.

Yup. Damn that bad-name-gene.

And finally I learned that when your two-year-old doesn't want dessert and says that he is tired, has to poop, and has a tummy ache it actually means that he is going to throw up all over you when he gets home. And it won't phase him in the least. But your five-year-old will start crying. "I feel so sad for him."

Yeah great. Who feels sad for me, the mother covered in corn dog puke?

Two Posts in One Day

Shocking, I know. But I feel the need to talk a little bit more about the post I wrote earlier today.

First of all, thank you for the comments, e-mails, IM and text messages (and just moments ago a lovely drunk dial from these two). I can't tell you how much that means to me. And thanks especially to Jenn. Let me tell you guys, as an Army wife, she has it way harder than me. Army deployments are longer and the conditions are much worse. While my husband sits in his nice comfy plane and sleeps in a nice comfy bed, those Army guys are really putting themselves on the line. And their families are true heroes.

And I should also tell you that I don't feel that way on a daily basis. In fact, I hardly ever feel that way. One of my new favorite people asked me just the other day how I do it, and I told him that it is just a part of life. I don't think about it. And I don't, most of the time.

But there is something about seeing or reading about POWs that just gets to me. I can watch a hundred planes go down in flames, and it doesn't bother me. I can even watch military funerals with only a few sniffles. But I think having someone I love become a Prisoner of War is my absolute worst nightmare.

But here's what is amazing to me. In my pre-blogging days when I got something in my mind like this, I would think about it, and think about it. It would keep me up for a few nights, and then I'd move on.

Now, I sit down for just a few minutes, type out the way I feel, send it out to the blogging cosmos, and I'm moving on so much more quickly. Add to that the heap of positive vibes from all of you, and man. I couldn't stay melancholy if I wanted to.

I actually thought about deleting that post, even though I've never done that before, because I really don't feel that way anymore. It sounds so blah, blah, blah, poor me, poor me, poor me. Yuck. Blech. I'm so sick of myself.

But I guess that it is still a pretty good representation of how I was feeling at that moment in time. It was a fleeting moment in time, but it was still real.

So yeah. More blah, blah, blah.

So, AH's husband is coming home this weekend. And CB's (and a bunch of others) is coming home next week. But a bunch more of our friends will be deploying this week, and the cycle goes on. My husband got left out of this cycle. Um...yay! He'll be up for a holiday deployment, but we'll deal with that if and when it happens.

Right now, all I really feel is lucky, happy, and hopeful. Taps is playing across the base right now. It always comforts me.

Damn Television

I had a bunch of things I was thinking about blogging today. Some of them cute, some of them ironic, and one that was just plain gruesome. But none of them sweet. Brent's slipping into a sugar comma and even I feel some cavities coming on.

But it's all flittered away from my brain like so much fluff.

My husband came home for lunch today just as I was getting my son ready for his nap. So they snuggled up in the rocker together, my man in uniform and my little guy, and read a story. I took the opportunity to sneak downstairs and channel surf.

And I'm an idiot. There happened to be a show on about my husband's aircraft. I actually own it on video tape but I haven't watched it yet. I figured I'd tune into the last ten minutes or so, and see if I could spot my husband or any of his friends.

What I ended up watching was the story of a certain mission that, while successful, ended with many casualties and crew members taken as POWs. One pilot was telling his story, interspersed with historical footage of the POWs and reenactments by current military members.

They were wearing my husband's uniform. They were flying my husband's aircraft. And they were huddled in tiny cages with a bucket to defecate in, with their fingers in their ears to drown out the sounds of the bombs raining down around them.

And I cried.

I'm such an idiot. Change the channel, dumbass! But I couldn't help but watch.

I watched these men suffer, while I listened to my husband read my son Thomas the Tank Engine and sing his bedtime song.

The show finished with the story of our shock and awe campaign in Iraq. So many dead. So much suffering. But none of it ours. And that is all I care about.

All I care is that my husband will be coming back to read a bedtime story and sing his bedtime song. And I don't feel sorry about it. I can't. I won't. I refuse to.

I just can't think about it anymore.

Notable Quotes at the Tuna House

My family is cracking me up lately. Here's some of the highlights.

Last night in the kitchen while my husband is cooking a lobster dinner:

Me: So, all my blog friends say, "Happy birthday!"
Him: That's really nice. Tell them, "Thank you."
Me: I will. And they say you're lucky.
Him: How am I lucky?
Me: You're lucky to have me! *pause* Okay, only one person said that, but still.
Him: Honey, they don't know how lucky I am.

All together now: Awwww!

A little later in the kitchen while my husband is using a huge knife to crack lobster shells for me.

Me: Ooh. That was a good one. You split that tail right in half. *pause* Split that tail, Baby! *giggle*
Him: *blank stare*
Me: Oh come on. I'm funny. I crack myself up.
Him: Yes you do. At least you think you're funny.
Me: Yeah. *pause* Hey wait! Some people think I'm funny.

Ack. He doesn't recognize pure comic genius when he hears it.

Earlier this week in a public restroom, my daughter is sitting on the toilet:

Her: Mommy, what would it be like if I was the only one in my class?
Me: It might be pretty lonely and not much fun.
Her: But then I'd always be the leader. Maybe it could just be me and Caroline. Or just all the girls. Well, all the girls and Alex. He's a nice boy.
Me: That's nice. Is Alex your friend?
Her: Yes. He's nice and he doesn't say mean things, and he doesn't hit. I really like him. Maybe I should marry him.
Me: Maybe. When you're a grownup you can marry whoever you like.
Her: When I'm a grownup I'll marry Alex. But I'll ask him to sleep on the nap mat next to mine for now.

Alex...a lady's man in the making.

And earlier this week, my daughter in the car:

Her: Daddy, can we go out to dinner?
Him: Not today, darling. We don't have any money.
Her: But you can just use a credit card like Mommy always does.
Him: Mommy always uses a credit card, huh?
Her: Yup. She just shows the card and then we get stuff for free. We don't need money.
Me: But Honey, when you pay with a credit card, it's like promising that we'll pay later. We pay for all that stuff we buy when the credit card bill comes in.
Her: Oh. But that doesn't matter. As long as we don't have to think about it today.

Yup. I pity poor Alex in the future. I hope he lands a well-paying job.

And, my daughter in a store last week:

Her: But what are we buying, y'all?
Both of us: WHAT?!
Me: Did you just say, y'all?!
Him: Oh no! It's starting.
Me: Don't say, "y'all" Honey. That's slang. It's not polite.
Her: It's not slang, Mommy. It's Southern.
Him: We have to move!

And not to leave out my son:

Him: I love you, Mommy.
Me: Awwwwwww!

and
Him: You're so cute, Mommy.
Me: Awwwwwww!

and
Him: Double cwick, Mommy. Double cwick!
Me: Awwwwwww!