Who loves you, baby?

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

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

And I always reply, "Love you too."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turning Over the Reigns

I shouldn't be blogging.

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

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

No. But good guess.

We've hired a babysitter again! Woo hoo!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can't complain about that.

Keep Walking

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

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

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because today, that is how I feel.

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

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

Plans Gone Awry

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

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

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

Who plans masturbation into their day?

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

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

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

Great. Thanks.

Now my mojo is all shot to hell.

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

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

Housekeeping

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

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

Bring the love, people. Thank you!

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

Anyone know a good lawyer?

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

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

"She's a hotty."

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

I don't know him at all.

Spin a Little Faster

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

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

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

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

Bingo! I know exactly how he feels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mentoring

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

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

Thanks, Uncle Aaron.

Do as I Say, Not as I Do

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

And damn, do I miss condoms.

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

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

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

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

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

To which he always replied, "No."

He's a talker, that one.

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

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

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

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

Gag.

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

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

34 is Going to Beat All

I am so not in a good place right now. I am in the middle of the longest, most soul-sucking bout of PMS ever.

And lucky for my husband, it's his birthday.

Two nights ago, he was relaxing on the couch, and I was sort of leaning over him. He looked deep into my eyes and said, "You want to wrap your hands around my neck and squeeze so bad right now, don't you?"

"Yes! But I don't' know why!" I answered.

"Because you can," was his response.

Rowr! He did something today that I thought was pretty sweet. Yet frustrating and fruitless. And I started crying.

"Aww, don't cry," he implored.

"I don't want to! I know it's not even real, I just can't help it. God, I hate PMS. Oh and HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

Poor guy. I'll owe him big when I'm back to myself sometime next week.

Tonight we have a meeting at school. So we're going to take advantage of the fact that we have a babysitter and go out for dinner too. It will be very nice to be alone with him. I hope I can refrain from berating the waiter, crying in my tortilla chips, and screeching for no apparent reason.

Happy 34th, Honey. I love you. Despite how it may seem.

Read it and Weep

I'm not morally opposed to memes. But I don't do a lot of them for one very good reason.

They make me look unhip. Or stupid. Or they reveal just how deeply mired I am in bad taste.

But if you come right out and tag me, I'll probably throw my hat in the ring and hope no one will actually injure themselves while laughing at my pathetic answers.

Army Wife Toddler Mom has tagged me with the book meme.

Before I start can I please just say that I was once an English major. I scored a 5 on my Advanced Placement English exam. I actually have a pretty high IQ. And I'm sort of cute. In a dumb chick kind of way.

Here we go:

1) A book that changed my life: Babywise, A Common Sense Guide to Parenting

People hate this book. And yes, there are a lot of things in it that I disagree with. But I disagree with so much in most modern accepted parenting guides too. When I was pregnant, we had very good friends who taught parenting classes based on this book at their church. If nothing else, they showed me that there are more ways to parent then there are different kinds of people. And you have to find what is right for you.

It also introduced us to teaching our baby sign language. We followed up with Sign With Your Baby: How to Communicate With Infants Before They Can Speak. The first signs we taught our four-month-olds were "please" and "thank you" and I think that had a tremendous influence on their personalities and our bond.

2) A book I've read more than once: Outlander by Diana Gabaldon

When I find a book I love, I'll read it over and over. Especially if I find that book to be an escape. I fell in love with Gabaldon's characters and writing style. The rest of the series is engaging too, but none so much as that first book.

Oh, I should also not here that I read The Outsiders at least fifteen times when I was in fifth grade. I think that explains a lot about me right there. I recently looked back at that book, and God, it's awful!

3) A book I'd take to a desert island: A blank journal

I think Jeff may have answered this way too. That was my first thought when I read this question. I could create my own stories to keep me sane. Oh! And have you read or seen The Notebook?

4) A book that made me laugh: Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris

This was my first experience with Sedaris. And I was hooked.

5) A book that made me cry: Babycakes by Armistead Maupin

When I finished reading More Tales of the City I said to Patrick, "Jon dies. Doesn't he?" His silence told me all, yet I still sobbed when I started reading about Michael's loss.

6) A book I wish I had written: Out of Control by Suzanne Brockmann

This is my all-time favorite romance novel. I love Brockmann's Navy Seal series. When I was 18-years-old and fantasizing about being a writer someday, this is the type of book I dreamed of writing.

7) A book that should never have been written: The Air Force Wife Handbook: A Complete Social Guide

I actually own a signed copy of this book. Gag.

8) A book I'm currently reading: Hello Darling, Are You Working? by Rupert Everett

I can only afford to read library books right now, and my local library doesn't carry Sure of You (of course). I picked this up on a whim. After two weeks, I'm only on page eleven. I think that might be enough. Sorry, Rupert. I still think you're cute.

9) A book I'm planning to read: When the Stars Come Out

Of course!

10) Five people to whom I'll send these questions:

Patrick, because he is the biggest book freak I know. And because there is a price to pay for being my best friend.

Famous Author Rob Byrnes, because he just got a free plug that will reach a lot of military wives. And because he doesn't seem to have anything better to blog about.

(Okay, you guys can stop bitching about me through your office doors now.)

Heather, because she is a new blogger who says some extremely flattering things about me. And because she found my blog by Googling Edward Penis Hands.

Lotta, because she actually titled a post God wants you to have an orgasm.

And oh, let's see. How about David? Because he is one of my new favorite people. And I'd love to find out what he reads.

Well, that was hard.

Towel Time

Note: I wrote this earlier today but was unable to publish.

Sometimes you just know that you should throw in the towel. Just call it a day and go home because you're absolutely good for nothing.

My brain has detached from its body and taken off on its own path. My body is demanding nothing but cheeseburgers, fries, and Diet Coke. Lots of Diet Coke. And my emotions have boarded a rollercoaster ride of mythic proportions. Up, down, up, down, wheeeee! Look, Ma. No hands!

I was fighting it for a while, trying to reign in my brain, feed my body carrot sticks, and convince those emotions that the Tunnel of Love might be a better ride choice.

And then I threw the dog in the dryer.

Okay, okay. Don't flip out! I wasn't mad or anything. I was just going through my daily routine of picking up and preparing to leave to get my son. And lately I've had to put the dog in her kennel when I'm out because she has become an escape artist.

I was carrying her through the kitchen and thinking of all the chores I've been ignoring, like laundry. I got to the laundry room, popped open the dryer door, and stuck her in.

Her head hadn't even cleared the opening when I realized what I was doing.

I gasped so hard I felt the rush of adrenaline to my fingers and toes. Then I apologized and snuggled her until I had to rush out.

That was my first wake up call.

After the boy and I ate our lunch of cheeseburgers, fries, and Diet Coke (lemonade for him) we returned back home. I remembered that I needed to let Buffy out. So I opened the dryer door.

Yup. Time to call it a day. I'm throwing in the towel. I need a nap. And a Midol.

The Aftermath

Our hair stylist managed to turn my daughter's hair wreck into something pretty cute. In fact, the Little Tuna Girl has been something of a sensation around these here parts.





Everyone in the hair salon raved about how it suited her pretty face. She had teachers visiting her classroom just to check it out. Everyone I run into in carpool line has to tell me how much everyone loves it. Even Uncle Patrick gave his seal of approval.

And I'm happy for her. I am. She loves it and she saved face and I'm happy for her. Really.

But somewhere deep inside of me is the parent who thinks that all this attention probably isn't teaching her much. She totally got her way on this one. She is the master manipulator.

There is one person who isn't completely thrilled by her new short do. Can you guess who it is?

That's right. Her father. Not that he'd ever tell her that.

What is it about men wanting their women to have long hair?

The Steel Anniversary

4,000 nights of mad, passionate sex.
A few hundred blow jobs. (Got to work on that.)
5,000 or so orgasms.
17 months of pregnancy.
23 and a half hours of labor and no murdered husband.
A few dozen fights.
20 or so bouquets of roses.
Countless hours cuddling on the couch.
15 vacations.
Way too many nights apart.
7 different houses.
1 happy home.

11 years of marriage to the man I love.

For all the times I've wanted to bonk him on the head, I'd still choose him again and again, over and over, if I found myself back at the beginning. I love him more now than I did the day we married.

He gets me in a way that no one else ever will. And through all the deployments and long hours and children and friends, my world still always comes back down to the two of us.

He's my man. And I love him.

More Keys to Me

When I was a little girl I was carted to hospital after hospital for treatments, examinations, and x-rays. I have some very vivid memories of that time considering that I was anywhere between two and eight years old.

I remember that I hated the x-rays the most. The waiting rooms usually weren't stocked with kids' toys and the wait was interminable. Then some technician would contort my body into a bunch of uncomfortable positions. I especially hated the "butterfly" where I had to hold my bent and spread knees as close to the table as I could without moving. Then the technician would leave me alone in the room with the scary sounding machine.

I was a trooper though. In all those years, I only cried once. And that was the morning I woke up alone in the hospital for the first time in months, because my parents had gone to pick up the car together to take me home.

My mother used to try and make these trips to the hospitals a little more bearable by making them an event. A lot of times we'd have to drive pretty far, so she'd bring my grandmother along and we'd play car games. We'd go early so she could take me to the cafeteria for lunch.

I remember one day in particular when I was three years old. My mom had let me get a Hoodsie Cup along with my lunch. I was so excited to eat my ice cream. We were waiting in line to pay and I was standing quietly next to mom as I always did. She and my grandmother were talking about something.

Suddenly, I felt a horrible burning pain in my back. I remember that the pain was excruciating at first. But the shock of it almost immediately caused me not to feel it at all. I turned and looked at my mom in surprise.

And as she slowly turned her attention to me, I felt that pain slowly, but inexorably, return with a vengeance. I remember trying so hard not to cry, but not being able to help it.

"What's wrong?" my mother asked. I couldn't answer. She asked again and put a hand on my back as she implored me to answer.

And she snapped her hand away because my back was covered with burning hot coffee.

Since we were already in the hospital, she rushed me to the emergency room. I can still remember my grandmother, who didn't really know what was going on, saying, "But we just can't leave our trays!"

Of all my hospital experiences, that time in the emergency room was the worst. They parked me on a gurney in an open room with adults who were screaming and crying. They took my mother away. The doctor was nice enough, but the burning pain of a second degree burn was worse than the chronic pain I was used to.

After they had done what they could, they put me in a wheelchair and took me to my regularly scheduled x-ray appointment. The nice woman technician felt bad about my back, but still made me lie on it while she took x-ray after x-ray.

It wasn't until I heard my mother tell the story to someone else that I knew what had happened. A nurse had come up behind me in line with her hot cup of coffee and spilled it on me. And then she ran.

Apparently, some other people had seen it happen and reported the nurse.

It is just unfathomable to me that someone who is trained to care for people in that way could burn a small, crippled child and then run off.

But, you know, the most upsetting thing about that whole day for me was leaving my Hoodsie Cup behind in the cafeteria. I couldn't wait to go back to that hospital, and that cafeteria to get another one. And I didn't have to wait long.

Making Babies

"Mommy, do you have to be married to have a baby?" my daughter asked today on the way to school.

I sort of skated around that one. I didn't want to lie, but I concluded with a hearty, "But let's assume you'll be married before you have a baby."

"But, how does a baby get in your tummy?"

Ah, this is it. This is the moment of truth. The moment I've been expecting and dreading for seven years. Except my son was in the car too. And while they both want answers to this question, they both need very different levels of disclosure.

"Honey, I will absolutely tell you about that, but this isn't a good time, okay. We'll talk about it later."

She was happy with that answer.

So I was telling a friend this little story tonight and I said, "So now I have to think of an answer."

"They have books for that," he replied.

Ah, I think he's on to something. She can read now. She might as well put that skill to work.

Besides, that's how my mom taught me everything I ever needed to know. When she noticed that I was getting underarm hair, she gave me a book called Our Bodies, Ourselves. She told me to read it and then ask questions. I was too embarrassed to look at the pictures.

But when I was about nine or ten I saw a movie called Neighbors on HBO. In the movie, a woman gave a man a blow job under the covers. And so I thought oral sex was sex. I knew you had to have sex to make a baby and I figured the mouth was the quickest point of entry to the stomach.

I thought blow jobs were sex until I was actually old enough to have sex. I think I finally figured it out from watching a horrible 70's porno with my first real boyfriend. I guess I should have looked at those pictures in Our Bodies, Ourselves a little closer.

It's a good thing it wasn't an anal sex video. I'd still be childless.

By Any Other Name

If my daughter was a boy, she would have been named Michael. Or maybe Christopher.

My son is not named Michael or Christopher. If he had been a girl, he would have ended up with a name that ended with ah. Samantha, Rebecca, Amanda, Jessica, Glenda.

Okay, not Glenda.

Actually, my son's first name is my maiden name minus one letter.

We chose our kids' names based partly on the nicknames we'd use for them. Both of them insist on being called by their full names.

My husband doesn't go by his first name. I call him by his middle name. But very few people here know him by anything other than his call sign.

I hate my name. As a child, I desperately wanted to change it to Debbie. I have no idea why.

If I was a boy, I would have been named Robert Allen.

I think I like Debbie better.

Do you know what your name would have been, if you weren't born you?

Vidal Sassoon She is Not

I know there is humor in this story. I know it. Maybe someday I can come back and see it all from a different perspective. But right now, I am just angry. And a little heartbroken.

My daughter cut her hair last night.

Now just to remind you, she's not a toddler. Nor a teenager. She is seven-years-old. Definitely old enough to know better. And definitely young enough that it looks like someone took a weedwhacker to her head.

Today is yearbook picture day.

She cut a couple of chunks of bang right off to her scalp. She cut the sides higher than her earlobes. She cut random chunks out of the back.

I cried.

Well, first I yelled. Then I sent her away from me. As far away from me as our house will allow. Then I went into the bathroom and cried.

I know it's just hair. I know it will grow back. But this is just the very tip of the ice burg of everything we went through with her this weekend.

I can't trust my daughter.

I was telling my husband about how I had learned from her violin experiences that I have to let her fail and succeed on her own. How I can't see everything she does as directly relating to a failure on my part. How I have to let her be responsible for her own actions.

And even as I was telling him that, a voice in my head was asking how I had failed her. How had I taught her to lie? How had I taught her to be sneaky and manipulative? How did I fail her this time?

Parenthood is a long, strange trip. It's day upon day of mundane boredom, valleys of untold self-hatred, and peaks of unspeakable joy.

If it weren't for the peaks, I'm not sure anyone would do it at all.

The Endless Goodbye

AH and her family are all packed up. They're moving out of here on Sunday

I was curious about how my daughter would handle this. You see, AH's daughter is her best friend.

On Saturday, we took the kids to a farewell roller skating party for all the school people.

Last night, I took the kids to a (way-too-late-on-a-school-night) farewell pool party for all the military people

Today, AH took her kids to school to have a farewell lunch in the cafeteria with her former classmates.

And tonight, AH is taking a couple of us out for cocktails and dinner.

It's the goodbye that will never end.

I would have weaseled out of tonight's dinner except that I'm trying so hard to make new friends. I'm driving with a neighbor who I really like. She's a military wife and her kids go to the same school as mine.

I just realized she has the same initials as AH. Shall we call that replacement therapy?

Nah. My neighbor and AH are nothing alike.

My daughter is wholeheartedly in favor of replacement therapy though. She's made a new friend at school who looks like AH's kid. "So, it's alright, Mom."

I wonder how she handled that final goodbye at school today.

Speaking of friends and goodbyes...

CB's husband (RB) called me last night. He wanted me to know that they are moving to Hawaii.

I have to hate her now. Just on principle.

"Do you guys have an assignment yet?" he wanted to know.

I just laughed.

"We should be back there in a few years," he said.

"We'll still be here," was my reply.

With AH's departure, we have now officially been on this base longer than anyone. With no departure in sight. Join the military! See the bayou!

My husband came home from work feeling pretty down. He has a lot of stuff going on, but after a while I realized that RB's call probably wasn't making him too happy. He feels even more stuck than I do.

But he did manage to cheer me up.

"RB says that we can come visit and stay with them."

Hell, yeah. I hadn't even thought of that. Who needs local friends when you have friends to visit in New York City and Hawaii?

Oh, by the way, if you don't hear from me for a wile, it's because I'm stuck in a perpetual goodbye with AH. Please send vodka. And lot's of it. If I can lube her up, maybe I can slide her off.

Update: Oh. My. God. The only good thing I can say about tonight is that my neighbor and I bonded over having to endure this ordeal together. And I ate a gourmet banana split. Which only dulled the pain slightly.

Happy Dance

I went to the orthodontist today for a retainer check. As the assistant sat me down in the chair she told me that they were "dismissing" me. I won't ever have to go back. I'm perfect!

When the doctor came to do the final check he stood and shook his head for a moment. "I can't believe this is it for you. Your kids were babies when you started here. We've watched them grow-up."

I couldn't keep the grin off of my face. But It's actually a little sad too. It's the end of an era. A painful, aching era. But an era none the less.

To top it off, I got to trade my wooden nickel rewards for a gift certificate to dinner. I'm going to be partying it up at the Applebees this weekend. Let's hear it for good oral hygiene.

Little Tuna Girl and the Case of the Mysterious Powder

For my daughter's sixth birthday, Patrick bought her the ultimate gay uncle gift: an Easy Bake Oven. He even bought her a variety pack of mixes to make cookies and cakes.

She loved it! And she loved even more that he helped her make herself a birthday cake.

Since then, the Easy Bake Oven has spent the majority of its life high on a shelf in her closet. As Uncle Patrick learned while trying to bake with her, it is a very frustrating prospect, best saved for special occasions.

My husband recently helped her bake a Back to School Oreo cookie cake with her oven. Then he shoved the oven high on a shelf in our closet, in hopes that she would forget she had it for a while.

Besides, her closet (and her entire bedroom) was so messy at the time, that he couldn't have navigated her room to stow the oven, even if he wanted to. Which is why, when she broke some major rules this past weekend, she was sent to her room to clean as part of her punishment.

My son cleaned his room too, because, well, he enjoys it. After a half hour or so, he called me up to inspect his room. After bestowing my approval upon the boy who will now forever be known as "the good one" (just kidding) I knocked on my daughter's door to check out her progress.

Whenever I knock and then hear major banging around before I hear a "come in" I know I am not going to be pleased.

The first thing I noticed, was the crusty stuff on her face.

"What did you eat?" I asked her.

"Nothing."

"Then what's all that stuff on your face?" I wanted to know.

"I don't know. I can't see my face, you know," she sassed back.

She was in for it now.

"Honey!" My voice started to rise. "What did you eat? It's all over your face. And your shirt!"

"Nothing."

"Are you really going to lie to me?" I asked her in a calm voice.

That usually gets her.

"No, Mommy. I ate something."

She didn't have to even tell me what she had eaten, because all of a sudden I knew. There was a light-colored powder all over the carpet and there were open packages lying next to the mess.

"You ate your Easy Bake Oven mixes, didn't you?"

"Yes, Mommy."

I had been in such a good mood, but in that moment, I knew I had to walk away. Sometimes it is best to give yourself a time out.

"Kiddo, I'm going to close this door and walk away before I blow up at you. I'd advise you, though, to clean up this mess, and your self before you even think of coming out of this room."

You know, eating what I assumed was an entire twelve pack of bakery mixes is one thing. Lying to me about it is something else entirely.

The rest of our weekend was filled with lectures and punishments (because her misbehaving and lying didn't stop at the Easy Bake Oven mix on her floor).

By Monday, her room was pretty clean. Not perfect, but better than she usually ever accomplishes on her own. We had thrown away the remaining mix and I had vacuumed her carpet. I sent her to her room on Monday afternoon to do her homework and get ready for violin practice.

While she was playing Perpetual Motion for about the thousandth time, I noticed something on her face.

"What's on your face?" I asked her. But I immediately stopped myself. "We'll talk about it after violin practice."

When she snapped her violin case shut I asked her again. "What's on your face?"

"Nothing."

"Come here." I wiped at the spot with my thumb. This seemed all too familiar.

"Did you...? Is this...? Honey! Did you eat your Easy Bake Oven Mix again?"

"No."

"Really? Do we need to have another talk about lying again?"

"No, Mommy. I ate it."

I couldn't imagine where she had gotten it from. "Did you lick it up off the floor?"

"No."

Much crying and yelling ensued. It wasn't until I had calmed down the next day and was hanging up her laundry for her that I found a hidden stash of mix in a crack between her shelves.

You'd think we never fed her!

For the rest of this week, she's getting lettuce for dinner.

I am an Idiot

Halfway through another sleepless night, I decided to search through TiVo and find a movie that might help me fall asleep.

I chose to watch Terms of Endearment for the first time.

They call this a movie? It was torture. I couldn't have picked a worse time in my life to subject myself to this emotional train wreck.

I am a stupid, stupid woman.

I'm going to go vomit now.

Just Wrong

When you are so sore from having so much sex that your husband has to hold your legs up for you while he gets his freak on, it's probably not a good time to start a new leg routine at the gym.

*****

Apparently, Friday is jeans day for the staff at my gym. Does that seem weird to anybody else?

*****

There is this very buff, athletic woman at my gym. She has the body I want, and the body I wasn't too far away from back in the day. I respect and admire her. She's always at the gym, no matter what time I go, and she has the best workout routine. But I hate her a little too. You know? It doesn't help that she's also gorgeous.

We ran into her one day out and about. I pointed her out to my husband. Let's just say that he agrees with my assessment. If she was into it, I bet I could talk my husband into a three-way.

I saw her at the gym this morning. She was wearing a t-shirt from a doughnut shop.

That is just wrong. I must vanquish her now. I wonder if I could bribe the shop girl to sneak chicken fat and sugar into her morning smoothie.

And I wonder if she is ever sore from having too much sex.

Realizations Part 2: Kid's Eye View

Another sleepless night means even more realizations.

The kids start school today. Thank all that is good and holy. But I can barely believe that my daughter is in second grade and my son is in Preschool 4.

I have vague recollections of attending a nursery school. Remember? That's what they called it back then. Nursery school. Because when I was a kid, you were still a baby when you were three and four-years-old. You weren't already competing in sports and signed-up for activities. You didn't have to start training when you were a toddler in order to get a leg up on the competition.

I haven't thought about nursery school in years.

I didn't start the school year with the rest of the kids. I don't know why. But I remember that my parents were tense when they brought me that first day. Not so much because they were afraid I would be shy or scared, but because they were afraid how the other kids would react to my handicap.

Oh, and remember when they called it that? Handicap. I played handicapped tennis and my mom parked in handicapped spots. No one had thought of calling it "disabled" yet.

I had Legg Calves Perthes Disease and wore a brace on my leg. I've written about it before.

The first thing my nursery school teacher did was sit us all in a circle and have me tell everyone about my brace. She let the kids ask me questions. It was the right way to handle it. I wasn't shy.

I haven't thought about nursery school in years. But last night I had all of these little snippets of memories flashing back.

I remember making these little turtles that raced along a string. You had to crawl along and pull something. I remember that each kid got to race theirs, but somehow they ran out of time before it was my turn.

I remember all the kids lying on long scrolls of paper and having the assistant teachers trace our bodies. That was so cool. Except, well, they ran out of time or paper before it was my turn.

I remember the kids all picking books and sitting in a teachers lap while she read to them. Except I was always sitting beside an assistant teacher while she read me Where the Wild Things Are.

And last night I suddenly realized something.

They were afraid of me.

Not the kids, but the adults.

They were afraid to have me crawl on the floor. What if I wasn't suppose to? They were afraid to trace around my brace. What if my picture looked different and I got upset? They were afraid to have me sit in their laps. What if they hurt me? Or I hurt them? Maybe they just didn't want to touch me.

To me it was nothing. It was normal. Just something to adapt around. To them, my brace was a big deal.

For all the times I remember being told I couldn't do something like run or jump or play, there were so many more times when I was just left out with some excuse.

I was lucky enough to receive excellent medical treatment and my parents made some (honestly) lucky decisions that enabled me to be out of the brace and normal by the time I entered first grade.

Suddenly, last night, I was wondering how my life would be different if I hadn't.

See, I have never really thought about it before because I was looking at it through a kid's eye view. And with all of the hundreds of kids I played and learned with, only one ever had a problem with my handicap. So it was easy for me.

It was no big deal. It didn't change or shape who I am today. Not really.

But, my god, it could have.

How come I am so lucky when so many other people have to suffer so much?

And how can an adult be afraid of a little kid? I wonder how much has changed in the last thirty years.

Realizations Part 1: Class of 2020

I had a plethora of realizations last night. That's what happens when I don't sleep.

First of all, I realized that my son is a member of the Class of 2020. Which basically means that 2020 will be my year of freedom.

"Freedom!" Can you hear me yelling that? "Freeeedommmm!"

There's a commercial on television right now that shows parents dropping their kid off at college and then crying on the way home. Every time we see that commercial, my husband and I laugh. That will not be us. We will be partying our little hearts out the day my son goes to college.

What? I swear. You'll see.

I also realized that this will be the most stressful year of my life.

Oh, it sounds like all fun and games now that both of my kids are in school five days a week. But it's not.

Because I have to pick my son up at noon, and my daughter up at three, plus run around to ballet and violin practices; never mind homework, math practice, reading time, at-home violin practice every day...

Wait. Where was I? Oh, yes. Stress.

Man, I would love to move closer to their school to save on commute times and gas money.

Except the home I want in that neighborhood is selling for 1.4 million buckaroos. I don't see that happening any time soon.

Which reminds me of a little story!

We were at a squadron party a couple of weeks ago and one of my husband's old classmates said to us, "So, are you going to move into field grade housing?"

I spun around on my husband. "We can move into field grade housing?"

"Ah, ah..." he stammered.

His friend said, "Oh, sorry, man," and made his escape.

If I had realized that we could have moved into better housing last year when he was promoted, we would have been on that housing list so fast, it would have mad his head spin. But he doesn't want to go through the hassle of moving, even though it would mean another bedroom, an extra room next to the kitchen, and a garage that isn't a half mile away.

All for free! Just because he got promoted.

Hell! I'm ready to move out of this house just because it's dirty. The next time I have to face off against a winged-bringer of doom (i.e. a cockroach) we're moving. No arguments.

It's that or the 1.4 million dollar place with the indoor pool.

For the things I made that man feel last night...twice...

I deserve it.

Writing to Reach Me

I realized today that it has been five years since I quit freelance writing.

Five years!

And in that five years I haven't written anything more comprehensive than a grocery list except here on my blog.

(Well, that's excluding porn.)

The problem with only writing on my blog is that when I have something I want to write about, that doesn't belong here, I feel stifled. I don't have a personal journal. I don't have a paper journal. My blog has been the depository for all of my fleeting thoughts and feelings. Now my real life and my blog life have crossed too many lines.

I don't know of any other writer who confines all of his or her writing to one place.

It's about time I opened up Word and started writing just for me. Maybe then I will be able to sleep.

And it will distract me from computing how much I could have earned in the last five years if I hadn't quit my freelance gigs.

That's six articles a week...at an average of sixty bucks a pop...plus the occasional brochure and ad copy...

This is where my mind goes whenever the kids' tuition bill arrives.

Sticking With Me

I woke up in the middle of the night last night. I stumbled into the kitchen and poured myself a bowl of cereal. Froot Loops, if you must know.

Then I ate another bowl-full.

Then I had, not one, but two peanut butter sandwiches.

Why?

Because I somehow got it stuck in my head that I wouldn't be able to eat for the rest of the week. In my half-awake state, I suddenly had to eat. And I had to eat something that was going to stick with me. Hence the peanut butter.

Yeah, it stuck with me, alright. I only remembered my late night foraging when I stepped on the scale this morning and realized that I had gained three pounds.

This is what it is like to live with my brain.

Hot Box

My inbox has been warming up lately with lovely e-mails from new readers. I love it! Thanks for all of your kind words. I always appreciate it when readers take the time to let me know they're reading.

And I especially loved this e-mail I got from Lotta over at Mom-o-Matic.

Subject: Was it you

That had the post about tampooning? If so this is for you.

I think it is too funny that I've become the first one people think of when they happen upon tampon crafts.

Tongue in Cheek

I was standing at the sink washing my hand-wash-only pots and pans when my husband came home last night.

"What ya doin'?" he inquired.

"Washing pots and pans," I replied.

"Oh, I hardly ever see you do that," he answered.

"Oh, really. I cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day and you use at least one pot a day yourself. What did you think? That the pot fairies come in and clean them? That we have kitchen fairies who come in here every night and clean up after you?"

"Well, this pot and pan fairy is kinda bitchy," he deadpanned.

"You want to see a bitchy fairy, my dear? I'll show you a bitchy fairy."

"Yeah?" he asked. "Are you gonna call..."

He didn't finish that sentence.

I pointed a soapy spatula at him.

"Don't piss off the fairies!"


Photo courtesy of the Traveling Spotlight

*****

We were watching How I Met Your Mother. I like that show. But I have to admit, we were watching a pretty annoying episode.

My husband looked over his shoulder at me from where he was lying on the couch.

"Give me the remote."

"No." I answered. "I'm watching this."

"I have the power," he intoned. "Give me the remote."

I held tight to the remote, of course.

"I have all the power in this relationship. And you know why, don't you?"

"Yup." he agreed. "You have all the power because you have the pussy."

Damn right. 'Bout time he learned.

Disaster Area

I was very, very sick yesterday. It's a good thing that our bed is only about five feet from our toilet.

But fine. Whatever. We all get sick from time to time. It's not like I have a job and I have to call in sick.

Except, I have two little kids to take care of and a husband who is in phase. In phase means, well, I'm not really sure what it means. But it means that he works a lot and can't come home for little emergencies like a puking wife.

Since I no longer know any of my neighbors (they've all cycled through this summer--you've got to love living on base) I was pretty much stuck putting my seven-year-old in charge.

When I asked her to make lunch she replied, "What shall I make, Mom? I can make several things. All without using the stove." That kind of scared me.

In the afternoon I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep for a couple of hours. I only awoke when my foot made contact with something warm and wet. What the? It seems Buffy the wonder puppy had been sleeping with me and when she couldn't get down from the bed, she decided to just relieve herself wherever was convenient. Three times. Three times!

I was feeling a little better by then and decided to venture downstairs. But I was scared. I was very scared. Did I need to call in the National Guard for disaster relief?

Okay, there were toys everywhere. The dining room table was covered with art supplies. The kitchen counters were slathered with peanut butter. And there were toys in the freezer! The freezer? But where are the kids?

Alright, I could hear them in the playroom. I didn't even want to think about how the playroom was going to look, especially since that room has floor-to-ceiling windows and the neighbors can see our mess.

I found the kids playing quietly together. Completely naked.

They were naked! In the room with all the windows!

Our new neighbors are going to love us.

With all the sex sounds they hear coming from our place. And now naked kids. They probably think they have hippies living on the street.

Or worse. Democrats.

Blogathon Recap

Well, it's over. We did it. I stayed up all night to blog for the Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund over at Stale Betty. Last I checked, we had raised $1800. And they're still taking last minute donations over at the Blogathon site.

It was actually much harder to post every half hour than I thought it would be. For one thing, I was really sleepy and more than a little punchy. For another, I was so riddled with anxiety that I would be the one to miss a post and mess it up, that I got the shakes as every half hour drew near.

Or maybe it was just all the junk food I was eating.




Mad props go out to Daniel for keeping us motivated with behind the scenes commentary and pictures of hot guys. He picked this one out just for me.



Do you think he knows me at all?

Very special thanks to Betty and the Mil Wives team. And extra special thanks to all of my friends and readers who sponsored us.

I have to admit that I'm a little extra proud that my predominately gay readership pulled through so hard for a military cause. It just goes to prove what especially wonderful people you all are. I often feel like my life is so fractured between two worlds. This was an excellent example of how maybe it doesn't have to be.

I love you guys (and girls too).

Okay. On to my normal fucked up blogging material. Thank you and goodnight.

Come Play with Me!

In about a half hour, I'll take my turn blogging for the IFHF over at Stale Betty.

Patrick thinks I should go rogue and blog about nothing but sex and homos.

But I'm a good girl and only act out if I'm encouraged. So come cheer me on, people. Pour me a virtual vodka and see what I'll do!

Damn, I need to pee before I start.

And they're off!

Blogathon starts right now on Stale Betty.

Go check it out!

We've raised $1625 so far. Awesome. There is still time to sponsor us. Click the button on the sidebar.

I'm going back to sleep.

p.s. If you sponsored us but never clicked the link in the Blogathon verification e-mail, please let Betty know. She'll help you take care of it. Thanks!

Adrenaline

Getting a call from the military police at 2:30 in the morning is disconcerting to say the least.

They asked me to wake up my husband. It turns out that it was just a mistake. But no matter.

The adrenaline was pumping anyway.

Don't worry. We put it to good use.

And then I was able to sleep like a baby.

A big 'ole naked baby.

Hag Math

My husband came home from his flight tonight and asked me what I did today.

I thought for a moment and then replied, "Nothing. I didn't do a freaking thing."

It was raining. The kids were busy playing games and watching videos. But, other than making meals and loading the dishwasher...well. Where the hell did my day go?

Then the phone rang. Patrick again. Our friend J is visiting him from out-of-town and they're hitting the stores and going to a fancy fashion event.

Hmm, let's see. Let's check the call log on my phone. Shall we?

He called me eleven times today. Eleven!

The calls started with descriptions of clothes and idle chit chat. They ended with him drunkenly slurring out a confession of the bad thing he did.

Oh, and let's not forget the text messages. There are five of those. And six picture mails!

The pictures start out of their shopping trip. I guess I was kind of long distance consulting. And they ended with a picture of someone's penis.

I don't know whose. I don't want to know.

All I know is that eleven phone calls and eleven messages from your best friend can really take a chunk out of your day. And cost me about five bucks!

Which I guess is pretty cheap to get all the details of what happened in the men's room.

Not that I'm saying...I'm just saying.

Places to Go, People to See

I went to send Lee a birthday E-card today (Happy birthday, Lee!) and I got distracted. You know I love Hoops & Yoyo (with an especially funny intro this month) and now they have a blog!

Blog, blog, blog, blog, blog, blog, blog, blog, blog, blog, blog, blog, blog, blog, blog!

*****

An old military wife friend of mine has her own web business now. When my kids were born, she sent along really cute homemade hooded towel sets for each of them. They still use their "baby" towels. Now she's selling all kinds of baby stuff at Bella KraKa.

*****

We've hit $1500 worth of sponsors for Blogathon. I'm amazed! Stale Betty's got all the info. My military wife team will be blogging every thirty minutes for 24 hours on July 29 to support the Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund. Join me over at Stale Betty in the middle of the night (Sunday morning actually) between 2 and 5 a.m. while I try and stay awake and not embarrass myself. I'll probably be posting some stuff here too.

*****

Actual blogging to recommence soon.

Oops

I think I broke my husband.

Damn it. He was a perfectly good husband too.

We were getting ready for bed last night when I noticed something that made me gasp.

I didn't mean to gasp out loud. It just happened. I'd take it back if I could.

I tried to cover.

I put my hand on his chest. I kissed him.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing. Um...just...you're sexy. Yup. Sexy."

I tried to kiss him again. He wasn't having any of it.

He went to the mirror to see what I had gasped about it. He insisted that I tell him.

"Well, it's just...I think it's sexy."

"What is?" he practically yelled.

"That gray hair on your chest."

Yup. I broke him.

Oh, to take back that gasp.

Blogathon Reminder!

There are less than five days until this weekend's Blogathon. I'll be blogging with a team of eight military wives over at Stale Betty to raise funds for the Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund.

Our wonderful readers have pledged $1388 so far! Thank you so much!

There's still time to give if you'd like. Click on that button over there at the top of my sidebar to pledge or go to Stale Betty for more information.

You guys rock so hard. Fishy kisses to all.

A Party in the Life of a Military Wife

The commander's wife called me on Friday.

"Hello! I'm just calling to introduce myself. I'm the wife of the squadron commander," she began.

"Oh, of course," I replied.

I couldn't think of how else to reply since not only had she introduced herself to me before, but she had given me a very nice welcome gift and spent an hour or so chatting with me at a squadron event.

"I wanted to make sure you received the invitation for tomorrow's party," she continued.

"Yes, I did. And we're looking forward to it."

She went on about the party and what to bring. She asked about my kids. And after a couple of minutes she asked, "Do you know any of the other student's wives?"

"Um...no."

I was stuck now. I don't know any of the student's wives because my husband isn't a student. I had let her go on and on (she talks really fast) without correcting her and then I just didn't know how to weave my way out of it.

I finished up with, "Okay, well, thanks for calling. I'll see you tomorrow."

I figured if she was embarrassed when she realized her faux pas, it would be her own fault for not checking her information before making phone calls.

The invitation promised a kiddy pool and a sand box (not a very smart combination) so we put the kids in swim suits, brought changes of clothes, and set off to the fancy part of town with our famous pasta salad tucked under my arm.

We were the first to arrive, so we drove right by the driveway and circled the subdivision checking out the real estate for fifteen minutes. I hate to be the first to arrive.

The first family I recognized when we were crowded in the living room was one that we had known years ago. The last time I saw the wife, we both had newborn baby boys. I remember thinking at the time that someday she'd have a brat on her hands.

Sometimes you can tell, just by how a mother is with her newborn, that the baby will someday grow up and be the head of that family.

I was so right.

My husband is a very shy person. Even among his peers, he'd rather just find a place to sit with me and talk. So we headed to the backyard with the kids.

And as soon as I opened the back door, I was run over by at least a dozen children making a break for it.

Who the hell made us the day care providers? Most of the other parents didn't even stay outside to keep an eye on their kids.

When my husband went inside to get us some drinks, the commander's wife sidled over to my place on the patio. She made small talk for a moment then said, "I think we've met before, actually. I don't recognize you, but I remember your husband from the...um...."

"From the Cinco de Mayo party at the squadron," I supplied.

That's a new one for us. Since he's so quiet (and in uniform, they all look alike), people are more likely to remember meeting me.

She made more small talk and then just walked away abruptly.

When my husband came back, I told him my story. "Why would she recognize you before me, I wonder? What? Do I look so different?"

"Yes," my husband replied. "You've lost so much weight."

It's nice that he's finally learning the script. But, come on. I stared at him until we both burst out laughing.

"Come on. That was a good one. You can't make me laugh!" he said.

Soon we were joined by a younger single guy. My husband introduced us by telling me that the guy was soon leaving to go to pilot training and that he would be very missed in the squadron. That was kind of sweet, in a really macho way.

When my husband went to refill our plates, the guy made a special point to tell me that my husband had told him that I was behind all of his writing talent. "He says he'd be nothing without you," this random guy told me.

I could only reply with an, "Awwww." How many husbands would tell people that?

And is it weird that of all the people at the party, I felt the most comfortable with the young, handsome, single guy? There were cute little wives in cute little tops and shorts and cute little shoes with cute little kids all over the damn place. And I didn't feel compelled to talk to any of them.

This could be why I don't have any friends.

It's just another party in a life of hundreds of these parties. The commanders change. The places change. The faces change. But they're all the same.

And party after party I find myself and my husband sitting together on the couch or patio, talking only to those who make a point to talk to us.

And I always drive home, as the husband usually has a couple of beers.

And after the kids are tucked away or the babysitter is paid, we almost always make love.

We're in this thing together. The deployments, the long hours, the stress, the moves.

And even the parties.

This post is brought to you by...

It's product placement day here at Tuna Girl. These are some of the things the Tuna clan can't live without.

Neutrogena Cooling Mist Sunblock SPF 45: The daughter and I are pasty white. And we like it that way. Our milky white skin is best for showing off our freckles. This sunblock rocks. And it's easy to apply.

Speaking of stuff that really works...

Febreeze Air Effects: Our house stinks. Believe me. Between the oppressive smell of swamp that permeates the entire state and the scent that lingers from my husband's never-washed hockey bag, not to mention Buffy's contribution to the olfactory offense, sometimes I feel like I live in a locker room. A few pffts of Air Effects and it's all gone.

In fact I'm a sucker for...

Febreeze anything including Scent Stories, Tide, and Downey: The son hits the play button on the Scent Stories whenever he smells something he doesn't like. He's the stink police. And the laundry stuff can even get the musty smell out of clothes that have been washed but left wet in the machine for a week.

But so you don't think I never clean at all, we also love our...

Dyson vacuum: The best sucker of all time. And the best $450 we ever spent at the BX. But our carpets are pretty clean anyway. I swear, because we have a...

Ionic Breeze Quadra Air Purifier: I've had house guests who have told their friends about the dust-free state of my house. Seriously. And it's not because I'm working the Pledge and a rag. Believe me. My mother-in-law sent us one for Christmas. Best. Gift. Ever.

And now I have to throw in this one...

Tampax Super Plus (orange box): Considering all the Google searches I get for "tuna tampons" and "bloody tampons", I thought I'd let you know what's under my sink. And under the sink of every house I frequent. I even have some hidden away at his apartment that he'll never ever find.

When I'm using my Super Plus's I usually like to load up on...

General Foods International Coffees Viennese Chocolate Cafe: My daily does of 26 mg of caffeine, only available locally at Target. Actually, I've given this up for the most part. Now I only drink it as an occasional treat.

But this summer, my treat of choice has been...

PopSicle Sugar Free Tropicals: Yummy for moms and kids. With only 15 calories, these are actually zero Weight Watchers points. But how many points are they if you eat five at a time?

Speaking of zero points, I recently gave up drinking...

Diet Coke: Must they tempt me with all of these new flavors? I've learned that as long as I have a Diet Coke in the house, I won't freak out. I don't want to drink it. I just have to know that I could. I actually had nightmares while I was in NYC this summer that I couldn't find a single Diet Coke in the whole city.

And since I like to keep comfy year round...

Cuffy's Sweats: Like a warm hug from a good friend. There's nothing like turning the AC up to 67 and snuggling with my Cuffy's hoodie. And they now have an online store!

Cuffy's is Cape Cod and vacation time to me. And what better way to capture those then with my...

Cannon Digital Elph: Because there is nothing better than a decent quality digital camera that I can keep in my purse.

Speaking of expensive things in my purse...

iPod: Mine's a sad little 3rd generation 40G. But I still don't know how I ever lived without it.

And now my sad little iPod gets to hang out in a brand new...

Bose SoundDock: Yay for birthdays! If you think your music sounds good through those little ear buds, you should hear it projected through your home with the Bose speakers. Awesome.

And how do I have the time to listen to my music?

Anything featuring Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends: For the boy. And...

Littlest Pet Shop dot com: For the girl.

And when things get a little too crazy...

Grey Goose vodka: For me. And...

Jack Daniels: For the Tuna Man.

And since we're horny but sloppy drunks, let us not forget the most important thing...

The Hitachi Magic Wand makes me happy.

What can't you live without?

True Love

Tonight on his way home from the gym, my husband stopped at the shoppette and used the change in his truck to buy me a PMS Special.

That's mint chocolate chip ice cream, Pringles, and a king size Snickers bar.

That's true love, y'all.

Or...

Hmmm...

Maybe those are the actions of a man who's been married for a long time and knows how to take preemptive sweet and salty action to keep the peace.

Sly little fucker.

That makes me love him even more.

Save the Drama for the Mama

I freaked out today.

I really and truly had a complete freak out.

My husband and the exterminator showed up together right in the middle of said freak out.

The bug man went about his business and pretended not to notice, though he looked quite uncomfortable.

The husband just sort of stared at me for a while.

Then he got on the phone and fixed my problem. At least for the time being.

Maybe it was karmic payback for the freak out I caused my husband this weekend.

Who is the marketing genius who decided that highway billboards are the best place to advertise vasectomy reversals? While men are confined with their offspring for a long road trip is not the most opportune time to hit them up to have another kid.

As we drove by one of these signs I asked my husband, "So, do you want to have another one?"

He swallowed his tongue. He drove the van off the highway in his panic. His head spun around three times and his eyes popped out.

Okay. That's not true. Except for the eyes popping out part.

We had a great weekend with the kids. They haven't stopped talking about it. But my return to reality has been a hard fall.

I'm a little sore. But I'll be back to myself in no time. Unless my husband decides to again say, "Now I know where the kids get their drama from." Then I'll be in jail for spousal abuse.

Addendum: Patrick called me last night. He wanted to know if my freak out sounded like this:

"...where's the cheese on these goddamn fucking fries?"

There's a reason why we're friends. And it goes beyond our love of Sam Tyson's tattoo.

Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

It's back to school time.

What? No way. It's the middle of July! Tuna Girl, you trippin'.

Yup. It's 104 degrees here, and I had to go by the school today to drop off all of the back to school forms and a check for $190 that I don't have. School starts on August 9. I just love living in the South.

Things are changing around here so fast. In just three weeks, the kids will both be in school five days a week. I have a whole mess of preschool-3 and first grade stuff to clear out of here. And the boy will soon get to have some of his own activities like soccer and violin.

But I noticed the biggest change last night when I was filling out all of the school forms.

Every year we have to list three emergency contacts. And since our school doesn't have busses, they suggest that these contacts be people who can pick your kids up from school in an emergency.

Last year I listed AH who was at the school a couple of hours a day anyway. No, she didn't work there. She just missed her first grader that much and spent lunch and recess with her most days.

I also listed CB who I would trust with my kids' lives.

And I put my parents in the last spot since they used to visit enough to pick the kids up on occasion.

So, my parents are still on the list, though I don't expect them to visit as much this year.

But CB is gone now. My kids got a post card from her kids the other day. It was sweet. CB is really going through some tough times and I miss her.

And AH is leaving.

Did you hear that? My nemesis is moving on. I won't be seeing her, listening to her gossip, or avoiding her nosy questions every single day anymore. Woo hoo! Happy dance!

Except, fuck.

I have no other emergency contacts. I have no other close friends. I spent so much energy on AH that I never cultivated deeper friendships.

I swear I'm going to make an effort to make better friends with SW this year. There's also a mom who lives down the street who I really like. She's one of a small cross section of military moms who are also school moms and I need to seek more like her out and make friends.

My long distance friends are wonderful. My blog friends are incredible. But I can't keep living in isolation.

I've said this before, but I always had AH as my very annoying safety net. Now it's time to take the leap and let some real life people meet the real me.

Disappointment

Sometimes I just want to retreat into my little four-person family and shut out the rest of the world.

I am so angry right now.

Sometimes I wonder if I expect too much from people.

My daughter's birthday came and went, and, well, she got more birthday wishes from my blog friends than her family.

Grandma says she was "too busy" to get to the mall. At least she called. We haven't even heard from anyone else in the family. This kid has uncles, aunts, cousins, godparents and great grandparents, you know.

I'm not even looking for presents here. Just a card would have made her happy. Hell, they could have folded a piece of notebook paper in half and made a card and she would have been thrilled. They could have E-mailed or called and she would have been ecstatic.

The only person who came through was my mother-in-law. She sent clothes, a book, not one but two cards (one funny, one sweet--Now I know where my husband gets it from.), and even called to wish her a happy birthday. And the first words out of my daughter's mouth when she got on the phone were, "Thank you so much for my dress!"

What's my daughter's take on her birthday? A day that was highlighted by a cupcake, three gifts from us, Chinese food for dinner, and violin practice?

"Mommy," she kept saying. "This is the best day of my life!"

I may sound petulant and spoiled but someone has to. Clearly she's too busy being happy and well-adjusted to see the injustice.

It wasn't until she was safely tucked away for the night that I even realized how angry I was. When I found myself crying I realized just how hurt I was feeling. It's one thing to ignore my birthday year after year. But this is my kid! She deserves way more.

A couple of months ago, she asked us if we could go to Sea World this year for her birthday, instead of having a party. We readily agreed. Sea World is one of my favorite places on Earth and they have free admission for military this year.

So if I ever get over my tiff and start packing, we'll be leaving in the morning for San Antonio. When did a seven-hour drive become a weekend trip for us?

At least I'll have plenty of time in my little four-person family bubble. I'm going to appreciate the hell out of my little fold this weekend. I've got myself a pretty awesome little family.

Say Goodbye to Six

It wasn't even seven a.m. yet and I already had to warn my daughter, "Just because it's your birthday doesn't mean you can't be punished."

Ah. Welcome to seven, baby girl.

It's only past nine a.m. now and I had to take a moment's break from the kids. Admittedly, I escaped to my room (leaving Buffy in charge) to wrap my daughter's gifts. But I also felt the need to sit down and write just a bit. I need to put aside my frustration and let it all go.

All of her drama might get to me from time to time, but my little girl really is just too wonderful for words. She's put up with a lot, and sacrificed even more in her barely seven years, and she deserves to have a special day to herself. Even if it means that Mommy grows a few more gray hairs.

She likes to read over my shoulder now. If she happens to catch this I want her to know...

May all your leaps be fearless.
May all your pirouettes be free.
May every kick be your hardest.
May every note ring on key.
May every picture be a masterpiece.
May you become what you want to be.
May you find love and life and laughter.
And may you never turn into me.

I love you, baby girl. Happy birthday.

Seeing Red

While I was sweating my ass off at the gym yesterday, parked strategically in front of ESPN so I could ignore the CMT, I saw a recap of the World Cup.

Besides the fact that soccer players are hot and love to whip off their clothes, I was especially fascinated by one aspect of the game.

The red card.

Have you noticed that the red card possesses almost magical powers that make even the most angry athlete back down with just a pout?

I rarely watch soccer, except of the six-year-old girl variety where there is no such thing as a foul, so I was amazed by this.

Can you imagine a hockey ref whipping out a red card during a fight and actually expecting those guys to back down? Hockey refs usually end up on the ice grappling with the combatants. (Is anyone else getting moist?)

Wouldn't it be wonderful if the red card worked in life?

Someone tries to cut you in line at the deli and you flash a yellow card. If they don't back down, out comes the red and they walk away looking indignant but accepting their fate.

Some guy puts the moves on you and gets a little obnoxious so the bartender holds up a yellow card. And then if his hands go places they shouldn't, well, he's just asking for a red card.

And oh dear lord! What if it worked on kids? There would be no more room time outs or screaming marches up the stairs. All I'd have to do is flash the red card and they'd immediately go to their corners.

I think I'm going to buy a couple of those cards. And a whistle, because those are just hot. I'll carry them around in my purse and the next time I feel the need to confront a stranger in public, I'll just whip out my cards.

So when you read that I'm stuck in the looney bin, please just call and explain to them, "No, she had a genius idea. It's from soccer. Yeah, I didn't think it was funny either, but she had to write about something."

Bad Mommy! Bad!

I know I'm not supposed to say this anymore. But to hell with it!

I am a bad, bad, bad mother.

I left my kids and my dog with my parents so I could go gallivanting, and this is what happens.

Before

After!

Buffy was so full of mats from her ten day stay with my parents that she had to be shaved down. Poor little freakish looking thing. I'm going to buy her a sweater.





In other news, you guys are amazing! Did I say I wanted to raise $1000 for the IFHF before July 29? Yeah, well, we did that yesterday! Thanks to you. I am completely overwhelmed. And I got a little choked up when the pledges started pouring in just a few minutes after I posted about the Blogathon.

You rock!

There's still time to sponsor my Military Wives team for Blogathon '06 as we raise funds for the Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund. Click on the button over there in my sidebar for all the information. Help us spread the word. Thank you!

Give till it Feels Good

In my last couple of years of blogging, I've been asked one question more than any other.*

"How can we support the troops?"

This question is usually asked after a blog friend has assured me that although he strongly opposes any war, he completely supports the troops.

There have been many occasions when people have asked me about the best military charity. And I always had to answer that I didn't really know. My sacrifice to the troops starts right here at home. I reserve most of my monetary giving for AIDS charities and the kids' school.

But now I finally have an answer.




On Saturday, July 29th, I will be participating in the annual Blogathon with six truly admirable Military Wives over at Stale Betty. Together we will blog every 30 minutes for 24 hours to raise money for the Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund.

The Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund foundation originally began in 2001 as an effort to provide financial support to the families of fallen soldiers. Back then, the death gratuity and life insurance was meager so the IFHF stepped up to offer their support.

In 2005, Congress made changes to both the death gratuity and life insurance to better aid the families left behind. This change also changed the IFHF's mission. Since the families were now being cared for, the IFHF refocused it's energies on the men and women returning from war with severe medical problems such as brain injuries, limb loss, burns, etc. They contacted the VA and the military and asked what they could do to help and from there they decided to build a 65,000 square foot rehabilitation and advanced training center on the grounds of Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, Texas.

"The Center for the Intrepid is for traumatic amputee patients, burn patients requiring advanced rehabilitation, and service members undergoing limb salvage techniques."

Construction has begun and is scheduled for completion in January of 2007 but the IFHF still needs donations to purchase medical equipment and supplies and to provide facilities for patients' children.

"One hundred percent of the contributions will continue to go to these services, with nothing taken out for the Fund's administrative costs."

Personally, I can't think of a better way to support our troops. By aiding the IFHF, you are showing your support of military members in their most critical hour. In fact, according to the foundation:

"The land for the center has been set aside by the Army, and the armed services will maintain the Center after it is opened. However, it was critical to us at the Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund that our troops and their families see that the American people, not the government, funded building the Center so that everyone in the armed services would understand that we the people never waiver in supporting our men and women in uniform serving this country."

How can you help? Simple. Visit the Blogathon website and sign up to sponsor us. Our team name is Betty and the Mil Wives. Any dollar amount is appreciated. Come back on July 29th to be entertained and play along in the mystery game we have planned. You might even win something!

After the event, you will receive an email from Blogathon with the link to the donation page on the IFHF website. You will be asked to donate directly to the IFHF either through their online form or via snail mail. It doesn't get much easier than that!

The Mil Wives have raised $380 so far. My personal goal is to double that amount by the end of the week and raise at least $1000 over all.

I know that my readership here is composed of a slightly different demographic that most of the other wives on my Blogathon team. And I think that this is an excellent opportunity to show how much my guys care about their fellow man. Besides, I really, really, really don't want to be the slacker on the team.

Please give what you can, no matter what the amount. And spread the word, if you can. I can't tell you how much I'd appreciate it.

And while you're in the giving mood, spread the love over to Mark who is participating in the AIDS Arms Life Walk in memory of a dear friend of his, and Jake who is training to run the AIDS marathon this year.

Can't you just feel the love?

*That's not really true. The number one question asked of me is, "Why did you call you blog Tuna Girl?" But I can only tell you that if I meet you in person.

Banging All Night Long

My son has a disturbing sleep disorder that causes him to rock and bang his head in certain stages of sleep.

It is not a big deal. Supposedly. Children have hard skulls and he'll stop before he hurts himself. And he's supposed to grow out of it by age five.

I'm counting the nights.

No wonder I don't sleep.

Sometimes, I get a little overwhelmed by the whole thing. I've tried just simply telling him not to do it. I've tried telling him why he shouldn't do it. Yet I know it is completely involuntary.

Last night when I put him to bed I actually begged him. "Please, buddy. Please, please try to not bang your head tonight."

"But why, Mommy?" he asked. "You do it."

"I do not."

"Yes, you do, Mommy. I hear you. I hear *buzz*, *buzz* and then bang, bang, bang, and then like ah, ah and *groan*"

*crickets chirping*

His air vent is closed now. It's time to sound-proof our bedroom.

Our next house will have a remote master suite. Until then, I'm padding the headboard and biting a pillow. In fact, I may never have sex again.

Stiff as a...

My husband asked me a question yesterday that I just couldn't answer.

"Are you bored?"

You see, I haven't been sleeping. At all.

Actually, that's a lie. I don't sleep at night. So I have an extremely difficult time getting up in the morning. And I keep dozing off during the day.

My husband's theory is that I am so bored with my life, that I can't get out of bed.

My first instinct was to screech back at him, "Of course I'm bored!" I mean, I'm a housewife, right? Don't "bored" and "housewife" go hand in hand? Or at least the porn ads say so.

For the last seven years (maybe longer) I have been living my life for other people. And that's okay. It really is. I love my life. But scraping together meals that don't make my kids cry and navigating a Lego minefield every afternoon are not my idea of exciting.

Aren't we all bored in life? Aren't you?

So I spent my sleepless night last night contemplating this question. And trying to come up with some solutions.

And the truly sad fact of my life is that there is nothing I'm really excited about.

Or at least, there is nothing I could envision being excited about that fits into my schedule.

Is there really and truly nothing that I love to do so much that I'd make time for it no matter what?

Could sex count as a hobby?

How about daydreaming? Could that count as a passion?

Do I really suck this much?

Yeah. Don't answer that.

Dirty Little Secrets

Recently, a friend of mine said to me, "Maybe you could write about some of the stuff that you won't put in the blog."

I looked at him for a moment. And then we both laughed.

"You think there's anything I won't write about on my blog?"

But, I've realized in the last week, since I escaped drove home from my parents, that I really do have a lot of secrets.

For one thing, I will never admit to having any actual goals or dreams. Admitting that you have your heart or mind set on something, and then failing is just too humiliating. In fact, there are quite a few things that I do in secret in support of my goals that absolutely no one in my life knows about. No one.

I also have little routines that I've fallen into over the years that I keep secret. I think it's a byproduct of spending too much time alone while my husband is deployed.

And last but not least, I have the little things I do that I'll never admit to because they don't line up with my stated values.

For example, I claim not to care about appearances. I vow that I will grow old gracefully without fighting it. I swore that I'd be happy when I finally looked my age.

But then I aged at least ten years during 2005. That was a bad year for me. So I've started using wrinkle cream around my battered looking eyes.

It was my darkest little secret until I let my husband in on it.

Later that same day, my hip creaked as I stepped over a toy. I made that universal old woman sound of pain and sat down.

"You're getting old," my husband said.

"Tell me about it," I replied in good humor.

"But at least your eyes look good."

Deathly silence followed.

"Come here," I beckoned. "I'm going to slap the fucking shit out of you."

That's the last time I let him in on a secret. Dirty or otherwise.

Pride

Sometimes I feel like I live in two completely different worlds. Almost like I'm two different people.

The one me is the suburban housewife. The military mom. The private school stay-at-home mother who carries a nice handbag but doesn't dress all that great.

The other me is the writer. The cute, sweet, fat, funny girl with tons of handsome gay cohorts. The fun-loving friend who carries a nice handbag but doesn't dress all that great.

But both of those people have to live inside of me. And sometimes their paths cross.

Going to New York to visit my best friend and attend some Pride events was a big deal for me. I had to take a leap. I had to leave my kids behind with my parents and I had to get over the overwhelming guilt of doing so.

But everything I told myself to get over the guilt only sounded like rationalizing to me in the end. So I spent my time in New York really enjoying myself, but hating myself all the while.

Patrick and I did so much together. Mostly, we walked around different parts of the city, but we were together. Mostly, we drank too much, but we were celebrating and letting go. Mostly we got along great, but we annoyed each other too. I think whenever we spend time together, we push our friendship just a little. Maybe we're testing its bounds. Maybe we're testing it's bonds. Maybe we're seeing where friends end and family begins. Or maybe my guilt and self-hatred just bubbles over too damn much.

I have a crappy memory, so I was glad when Patrick posted a recap of our time together. I mostly remember embarrassing myself. Not because I was drunk (although I did a little of that too). But because I had an audience. I've learned that about myself recently. Give me an audience and I will perform. I'll say things and do things that I'm embarrassed by later. I'm not really sure how I feel about that yet. Let's add it to the guilt and self-loathing pile and deal with it later.

But I do remember holding myself back. A lot. I know that I'll say deep things or ask pointed questions that make people uncomfortable. I've always done that. So when I feel the urge, I try to hold back. And then I lament later on all of the things I should have said.

While Cyndi Lauper was singing True Colors at Broadway Bares, I wanted to let Patrick know that I was crying instead of trying to hide it. I wanted to put my arms around him and whisper in his ear, "I love you." But I didn't.

When I saw Patrick round the last corner at the Pride Run, I wanted to scream and hoot and holler. A quick look at my watch showed that he was on pace to beat his goal. I was so proud of him. But I didn't want to embarrass him. So I just yelled, "Go Patrick!" and scooted off to the finish line to let him know that I was there so he wouldn't go home to his locked apartment without me.

When I finally found him at the finish line, I wanted to hug him and tell him how proud I was. And I did. But I also wanted to tell him how much he inspired me. But I couldn't. I never did. I don't know why.

While we were watching the Pride parade and chatting with a sweet elderly woman, I wanted to grab his hand and tell him how angry it made me that his family would never show him how proud they were of him. If they were even proud at all. I wanted to tell him that his new family would never let him be hurt. But no one can make that promise, no matter how hard they love. So I didn't say anything at all.

And that last night, after watching him work his mojo as a volunteer at a Pier Dance bar, I wanted to tell him how proud I was of him. I wanted to hug him and watch the fireworks and tell him that this is what Pride means to me. That all of the corporate marketing and drugged-up circuit boys and hateful protesters don't take one iota away from the fact that I'm proud of how far he's come in the last 36 years. And that this is the time to celebrate it.

Patrick was in utero during the Stonewall riots. That seems fitting to me somehow.

During Pride I became very, very aware of the fact that your average straight person knows very little of gay history. Oh, most have heard of Matthew Shepherd. Most know that Rock Hudson had AIDS. Most know that there was a time when Hollywood celebrities all wore red ribbons.

But would you believe that I didn't even know that Keith Haring was gay? Never mind that he died of AIDS. I only learned about Stonewall about three years ago. And I only learned about Pride in the last couple of years.

And now I look around at my friends and while I am overwhelmingly proud of every last one of them, I'm left asking myself, "But what can I do?"

My daughter and I finally had a discussion about what the word gay means. And I had to tell her that she would hear kids use the words gay and fag as an insult. And that kills me! It makes me rage!

I need to think more about this.

I need to think more about what to say when people tell fag jokes. I need to think more about what part I can play.

I need to think more about my responsibility.

But while I'm thinking, I'll try to be brave enough to tell my best friend just how proud I am of him. Even if it makes him uncomfortable. And I'll try to find a way to let my husband know that I am proud of his views and attitudes. And I'll try to teach my kids to be proud of who they are.

And I guess while I'm at it I should try to be more proud of myself too. It takes a lot of skill and bravery to merge together my two worlds. I'm not so great at it yet. But I'm trying. And the two women who live inside of me? Well. They have one thing in common.

They love really hard. And that is something to be proud of.