She Done Lost Her Mind

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

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

--Rhianna

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The answer is...

F) All of the above.

Fashion Curious

Today I have some questions.

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

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

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

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

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

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


nataliedee.com

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

My Winnings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's Up With Me

Today is our 12th wedding anniversary.

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

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

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

I hate women.

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

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

Wouldn't that make the feminists proud?

I'm sad.

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

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

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

I'm sick.

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

I'm miraculous.

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

Where the hell is my period?

Lied to and Misled

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

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

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

Nope.

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

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

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

This misconception about length has somehow permeated our feminine conscience.

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

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

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

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

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

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

More Confessions

I have a secret.

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

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




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

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

Gay.

Of course.

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

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

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

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

*sigh*

How pathetic am I?

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

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

*****

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

True Confessions

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

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

True confession time.

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

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

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

Lost Hours

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I feel optimistic today for the first time in months.

But it has such good tone!

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

That is all.

Of School-Aged Kids and Lost Causes

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

My son starts Kindergarten tomorrow.

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

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

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

That day is here.

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

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

Instead I am ready to tear my hair out!

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'd Like to Thank the Little People.

I had the weirdest thing happen today.

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

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

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

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

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

Especially because I think that blog kind of sucks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Overheard on Base

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

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

*pause*

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

*pause*

Okay.

*pause*

Yup.

*pause*

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

And then he chose a strawberry Icee.

Damn mothers never know when to shut up.

But Not a Drop to Drink

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

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

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

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

But I forgot about them in there.

Now all I can think is...

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

The Power of Words

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

No. Not that C word.

Cancer.

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

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

You see, I have a word like that myself.

Iraq.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was kind of fun.

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

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

Temptation in Blue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quite the Pair

I was desperately trying to sleep last night when I suddenly sat up in bed. I was struck by a random memory. And all I could think was, "What the hell was I thinking?"

Back in college, one of my best friends was named Erin. She was the very first person to stick her head in my dorm room on the first day of college and introduce herself. She was lively, outgoing, and really cute. She was tall and thin and had blond hair cut in a short bob that really complimented her features.

My husband's best friend at the time was Dave. Dave was a fellow ROTC cadet. My husband and Dave hit it off when they both decided to pledge for the same honor society freshman year. Dave was one of those guys who is both cute and handsome. But mostly cute. He was a bit shorter than my own 5'4" but he fit right in with a class of short guys.

I think it was junior year when we decided that Erin and Dave might really hit it off.

On a Friday afternoon, Erin and I threw our stuff together and headed off on the two-hour drive to their college. The four of us went out for Chinese food. I vaguely remember laughing a lot. Erin and Dave got along fine, but there didn't seem to be any real strong connection there.

Erin and I spent that night talking and bonding in my husband's dorm room. If I remember correctly, all the giggling sent my husband off to find a quieter place to sleep.

The years went on. We stayed friends. Erin was a bridesmaid in my wedding and Dave was my husband's best man.

A couple of years ago, Patrick and I were perusing some of my old photos. As he thumbed through our wedding pictures, he looked up and asked me, "Your husband's best man was gay?"

"What? No!"

Patrick gave me one of his looks. "Sweetie, if he isn't gay, then neither am I."

Huh.

Huh.

Suddenly all those little things that never seemed to add up about Dave made perfect sense. I didn't have any gaydar back then. At least not for men. But looking back, it makes so much sense to me.

And did I mention that Erin came out not long after her date with Dave?

So yup, that was me, Ms. Gay Sensitivity, setting up a big ole' lacrosse playing dyke and a fag.

Suddenly last night I couldn't get over the fact that I was so freaking clueless.

I've read that kids today are coming out younger and younger. It is giving them a chance to date more significantly at a younger age. Where my friends were all coming out in college, many teens today are coming out in high school.

I think that's great. And I hope it is true. Not only will it help straight kids understand and be more tolerant when they are still young enough to have ideals, it will keep gay kids from having to deal with doltish best friends like me.

Erin and I are always just missing each other in Provincetown. Next year we need to make firmer plans. I'd love to know what Dave is up to. I'll have to see if my husband can track him down.

I feel the need to apologize.

Writing the Rain

I broke my own cardinal blogging rule without even realizing it. Twice!

I blogged about the weather.

You see, I think blogging about the weather is the blogging equivalent of conversing about the weather. It's something you do when you have nothing else to say. And if you have nothing else to say, why are you still writing?

But, I want to write. I want to be the old Tuna Girl. Tuna Girl might not be all of me, but she's a huge part of me and more real than the person I play every day.

But I'm afraid.

I'm afraid, as I always am, of turning into Tuna Girl's Broken Record.

A mentor once told me that when you just can't make the words come, tune into your pain. Write the thing you would never write. Let the chips fall where they may.

Fine. Here goes.

Before my husband left for Iraq I told my best friend something. I said, "I would never utter this to a soul other than you and you'll never hear me say this again, but..."

I'm scared.

I'm not really scared of him being gone or something bad happening to him. Believe it or not I have faith. I may not believe in a higher power but I believe in the equipment, training, and my husband's own common sense. And since equipment, training, and common sense can fail, I have faith that if something were to happen, I could handle it. With the support of my friends and family and probably some professional help, I could handle it.

I'm not even scared of being alone here. I've been alone before. I'm not scared of the responsibility or sacrifice. It's all old hat.

I'm scared of being too needy.

I hate needing.

I thought I had learned this lesson with his last deployment. Once my jaw was unwired I was able to open my mouth and let my need bleed everywhere.

But I'm stuck again.

I don't want to get out of bed or leave the house. I do, but I don't want to. I already miss being casually touched by another human being. And it just hasn't been that long.

I need people right now. I need friends. I need to not be so alone.

And I need those people to reach out to me, because if were just up to me, I'd never call out to a soul.

It's raining today, and it seems appropriate. Writing about the rain is appropriate too, because I have nothing else to say.

But it's a Dry Heat

Keep cool, baby!

Reflections of My Father

We're home again.

But not until after I reached a stage five mom meltdown on the car ride home.

I yelled.

I mean, I really yelled. People, I yelled so loud and so hard that not only did I strain my throat, but my ab muscles actually hurt.

And yes, I hate myself for it. Of course I do. We were on vacation for over a month. We had a great time. We made memories. We drove for 22 hours in relative ease, and then we had to end it with me having a complete fit in the car.

My kids have had just about enough of each other. I've had just about enough of their fighting. And I fear that I have completely turned into my father.

I also fear that years from now, the thing that they'll remember most about that summer that dad was deployed was mom completely losing her shit in the car. Because when I think back on my own childhood my clearest memories are of my father losing it in the exact same way.

Damn it all.

There are exactly eighteen days until school starts.

Heading Home

It's pouring in New York City today. And how do I know that? I know that because last week I completely gave up on the idea of everything related to Cape Cod, summer and vacation.

I want to go home.

On Thursday morning, I packed up a month's worth of supplies and clothes and cleaned up a month's worth of mess in record time. By 11 a.m. we was on the road headed South.

But as much as I wanted to be home, I wasn't really ready for the marathon drive. And the kids wanted to see Uncle Patrick. And Uncle Patrick wanted to see Buffy the Wonder Puppy. So we decided to spend a very long weekend in New York.

I'm more than glad that we decided to stop here. I was stressed about parking the van, but after one night in a garage (and a fifty dollar hole in my pocket) I worked it like a real New Yorker and staked out a spot on the street in front of Patrick's apartment.

The kids love Uncle Patrick so much. I know it helps ease their Daddy pangs just the smallest bit to have a man around. Not much though. They're still making their periodic "I miss Daddy" announcements. I actually think it is good, both that they miss him so much and that they are able to express it.

Patrick has been a great host. On Friday evening, he suggested we go to the Harry Potter Place street fair-type thing they were having in front of the Scholastic Store. Seeing as I've only read the first three books and the kids are too scared to read any of the books or see the movies, I wasn't sure how interested they would be.

But Uncle Patrick hit a home run with that one. They loved it! Now I suppose I'll have to keep reading the books.

On Saturday, Patrick had a race to run, so we signed the kids up for the kids' races scheduled after his easy four-mile jaunt.

The kids loved that too! I was so proud of them. My son moved up an age group since November, but he was able to keep up with the pack. After my daughter's emotional ending during last November's race, I was a little worried about her this time. She could have been dead last, but as long as she didn't cry I would have been happy. But she kept up with the pack (or at least the back half of it) too. And she didn't cry at all. She was all about the intensity.

They have both declared that they love racing and I am determined to keep them going with it. With soccer starting soon, and swimming classes starting again, I'll have them whipped back into shape in no time.

On Saturday afternoon, Uncle Patrick had another crazy idea. He wanted to take the kids to Coney Island, especially since the majority of it will close after this season. My daughter was heartbroken that she was too short to ride the Cyclone, but she quickly recovered.

Do you have any idea how expensive the rides are at Coney Island?

I told the kids they could each pick two rides. They picked the log ride and the Tilt-a-Whirl. They didn't complain a bit about only being able to go on two rides, so I surprised them each with one more ticket for a kiddie ride. They chose the kiddie coaster.

Uncle Patrick and I thought the subway ride back took forever, but that was my son's favorite part of the day. He loves the subway, no matter what.

Yesterday we spent the day in Central Park letting the kids do pretty much whatever that wanted, including getting their clothes soaking wet in the water playground. And today they got soaking wet just walking to the luncheonette, poor things.

I wonder if Patrick has any idea how wonderful he is with kids, or at least my kids. I know it must be hard for my husband to hear all of these stories about his children having fun and bonding with another man. But knowing my husband, he's just happy that they have more love in their lives.

Part of me wishes I didn't have to leave here in the morning. But we need to get home for so many reasons. I wish I could take Patrick with me. I wish we lived closer to each other. I wish I could afford a private jet to whisk us back and forth as often as we liked. I wish a lot of things, none of which can ever come true.

But mostly right now I wish I was home again, with my life back to normal and my husband safely with me. Until that can happen, I'm thankful that I have friends who are family who can help us through it all.

Men on a Mission

For the last couple of years, I've been hearing stories about the beach in Provincetown.

You see, as a breeder, I only really knew about Herring Cove Beach off of the highway. Herring Cove has bathrooms and parking and is apparently only for families and straight people.

But a winding path through the dunes leads to the gay beach.

The start of the path is easy to find because it is surrounded by hundreds of bikes. And poison ivy bushes. I'd heard that it was quite a hike to the beach, but when the guys were here I found out what an understatement that was.

The guys (Patrick, Charles, Brian, Jase, and Jase's coworker) were excited to get to the beach on the Fourth of July. We started the day with brunch and in preparation for my hike, I forwent a yummy mimosa.

I knew it would be a long walk, but I figured we'd chat and rest every once in a while and it wouldn't be so bad.

I've never been quite so wrong ever before.

You see, I was doing okay. I was keeping up with the guys to start. Considering that they're a bunch of skinny, little, running-for-fun bitches, I was feeling pretty okay.

Then the sand got soft and thick.

I fell back a bit, but I was determined to get to that fucking beach.

And the guys were chatting and joking and having fun. And they were waiting for me too.

They were waiting for me to catch up to them, and then they'd start walking again!

So the fucking skinny, little bitches were getting a rest and the fat chick wasn't!

As we neared the end, they stopped waiting at all. They were men on a mission. I could almost hear them chanting, "Shirtless men. Shirtless men. Must reach the shirtless men."

Once we crested the dune and were among the men, I put my foot down. They wanted to venture farther down the beach where the men were more scantily clad and more cruisy. Considering I had already been teased about being a female sacrifice, I was pretty happy with the shirtless men smack dab in front of me.

If the guys had continued on, I would have headed in the opposite direction and found a nice lesbian couple to adopt me.

I was having a perfectly nice time laying on the beach and reading my book and barely ever glancing at the continuous parade of gorgeous men (ahem) when I encountered a problem.

I had to go to the bathroom.

If I were with the straighties at Herring Cove, I could have walked to the toilets. But, oh no, I had to hike to the gay beach where there are no facilities.

I had no choice but to wade out into the water. Except I had one more issue. I had left my bathing suit at my parents' house. I was wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt.

My plan was to oh-so-casually wade out, quickly dip down to the waistband of my shorts, do my business, and stand up with no one but the fish the wiser. But, oh no.

As soon as I started to dip, a huge wave crashed into me and knocked me in the water up to my neck.

At that point, I figured what the fuck and I dove into the next wave.

But now I had to walk back to the car and my dry clothes, miles and miles away in soaking wet clothes. I was so damn sexy, I could barely stand it.

Not.

I sat in the sun to dry out a little. But before I even stopped dripping the skinny little bitches decided they were cold.

I had a strategy for the return trip though. First I threatened Patrick. "You'll walk slow with me and wait for me, or I'll fucking kill you." Then I headed out first. I figured if I had a head start, I wouldn't feel so desperate.

My strategy worked out well because the skinny, little bitches were slowed up by the tide pools we had to wade across. They may have been concerned that their designer swimsuits would dissolve in the water or something. I don't know. My Target shorts were holding up fine.

By the time we got to the car, I was feeling pretty good, until I realized something. I had forgotten to pack a dry shirt!

So I trudged my wet self to a shop and bought an extremely unflattering, but cheap t-shirt. I returned to the car and stripped right in the parking lot.

I wonder how many people I scared that day.

Guess how I spent the rest of my day in Provincetown.

That's right! I spent it getting fucking drunk off my ass with the skinny, little bitches.

Where, oh, where has Tuna Girl gone?

Here I am! The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of activity.

When I arrived back to Massachusetts from New York City I was definitely feeling very down. My husband and I had one marathon phone discussion in which he basically told me to fuck it. Fuck it all. He told me to do whatever I needed to get through these months, even if that included letting my parents win. He suggested that I give my parents a firm date on when they could keep the kids, and then taking advantage of the time and having some fun.

So I did.

I twisted Patrick's arm up way behind his back and convinced him to come visit me on Cape Cod. Then I twisted a few more arms and got Jase, his boyfriend Brian, and their friend Charles to come visit from the 4th through the weekend.

I'm so glad everyone came.

We spent most of every day in Provincetown and we had a blast. P-town is one of Patrick's favorite places and it was very nice to be able to enjoy it with him. We dined on some amazing food and probably drank way too much. Luckily, moderate Jase was able to drive us back to my shack every night. We walked the beach, walked the galleries, and walked the shops.

By the way, the shops in P-town sell some tiny, little bathing suits. I'm just saying.

I also got to see my first drag show. Cashetta claims to be the world's only drag magician. Let's hope. Actually, the show was fun and Patrick took a turn on stage as Cashetta's lovely assistant.

Have I ever mentioned that Patrick is a bit of a ham?

I have no photos to share because my husband took our camera on his deployment with him. But that may be for the best. Planter's punch goes down way easy.

All in all, I had a blast. I was especially glad to get to know Brian. I'd met him once when Patrick and Jase ran the Race to Deliver but I had no idea how much fun he could be. There's just something about a Midwestern boy.

I have a couple of stories to tell that I'll save for another day. For now, I'm enjoying having my children back where they belong. These lazy summer days filled with miniature golf, afternoons on the beach, and more trips to ice cream parlors than we probably need are absolutely priceless. I wouldn't trade them for anything.

Just a Puppet on a String

My pal Bob, of Bob's Yer Uncle, is in some kind of ridiculous virtual Big Blogger game. This week's task is to pimp the most votes, and he's kindly requested that I pimp for him. Imagine.

Here's what you need to do ... Click here, then click on Bob (it's the poll in the right-hand column) then click on vote.

Then tell all your friends to do the same.

It's silly, yes. But like most men, he's silly too.

I'm not the girl I used to be.

I've had so much to say, but I feel like I'm living in the Stone Ages. Two days without a computer had me going bonkers. Today I drove over a half hour just to pick up a NetZero disk. Isn't dial-up great?

Yesterday I came down to the Cape to get our house cleaned up and ready for the kids. But not before I had it out with my parents. Now all I can do is sigh about the whole situation.

I'm hurt that my parents just can't seem to understand what I'm going through right now. It's just about impossible to explain. I feel almost like they're glad my husband is deployed because he's out of the way. They think they can control me when he's not here, mostly though their passive aggressive ways. They want to take the kids and do what they want with them, regardless of what my husband and I want.

What they don't get is that my husband and I are still a team no matter how far away he may be.

They also don't get that I'm a different person than I was when I left home twelve years ago. I've made my own family. And right now that family is more here for me than my parents could ever be.

I'm wallowing a bit, and I'm sorry for it. I had a great time in New York City and it sucks that I had to come back to conflict and upset. But the kids are happy and my husband and I are closer than ever. I'm trying to concentrate on all of that and let the rest go.

I'm sick of being this way already.

Jet Blue for One

Oh, did I forget to mention that I'd be in New York for a few days?

I have to admit that I'm more than a little sad. My husband and I had planned for months to make this trip together. He was really excited about it. He was going to run in the Pride Run with Patrick and he had been training for it for months.

Truly, he was making a huge effort on my behalf. He wants to get to know Patrick even better. And he wants to try to see why I love New York so much. He really wants to buy a place here someday and enjoy the city with me. He also wanted to experience a little bit of Pride.

Those are huge steps for a homebody like him.

But I'm here on my own and I certainly can't complain about getting to spend this time with my best friend. And I even got to see MAK, FARB and his blond bombshell last night. (All of whom are looking incredibly handsome.) I'm sure I'll see plenty more friends soon.

As for my kids, my mother practically tore them out of my arms. I was feeling guilty asking my parents to watch them for this extra long weekend and an extra long weekend in July, but she practically begged me to keep them even longer. It's hard to leave my kids, especially now that they're older and more fun to be around but...I don't know...

I'm going to have fun this weekend even if it kills me.

Safe and Sound

One stressed out mom.

Two conflicted kids.

One poopy dog.

One aging mini van.

And seventeen hundred miles to drive.

It all adds up to...

Surprisingly easy!

I have to say, this trip couldn't have gone any better than it did. The weather was beautiful, the traffic was light, and the kids were pretty damn good. In fact, for the first twenty-six hours of our trip, they were angels. We had a couple of yelling moments in the home stretch, but I really couldn't have asked for more from two little kids.

I have to give myself a little credit too. I went into the whole thing with a very laid back (and unlike me) attitude and it worked out very well. I've learned a lot from the last two years that we've done this trip. And I'm raising some pretty damn good kids here.

Speaking of which, I will be raising them on my own for a few months now. Actually, that's not quite right. I may be the only parent who is with them, but my husband and I are still very much a team. Part of the team is just a little far away right now.

We dropped him off at the airport and said our goodbyes with surprisingly little drama. We briefed the kids on exactly how it would go down and that helped a lot. My husband isn't big on goodbyes and my daughter in particular has felt short-changed in the past. But having a goodbye plan helped a lot.

So did an immediate distraction of driving to Grandma and Grandpa's house. I highly suggest having a nice, distracting vacation planned for your kids whenever they have to deal with a separation.

As for my husband, in the days leading up to this deployment, he got quite sad. I've never really seen him that way before. It was like we had switched roles. But both of our mothers got emotional on the phone with him. And my daughter has been asking, "Why?" and "Why you?" for weeks. Mostly, he just wanted to go on this vacation with us.

I have so much more to say, but only so many firing braincells at the moment. So I'll save more stories for another day.

Most importantly, we've arrived safely. And my husband arrived at his pre-Iraq training safely. We're apart for now, but life goes on, supported by those who love us.

Thank god.

And She's Off!

I can't believe it. I actually did it. I was packed for this trip before 8 p.m.

That is unheard of. And we had two separate, very long trips to pack for. Usually I'm up until 1 a.m. the night before a trip desperately trying to pull a few outfits together. Not this time.

We rock.

With just a few hours to go until we drop my husband off at the airport for his deployment, I am very proud of how we made it through this stressful time together.

Experienced military wives know that you usually face at least one big fight right before a deployment. Psychologist say that it is easier to leave or say goodbye to someone when you are mad at them. Plus, the stress of packing and planning can wear on even the best relationships.

But we got through it with our team intact and relatively happy.

Hopefully our goodbyes won't be too hard. And then the kids and I are off for Massachusetts.

Wish me luck. Twenty-eight hours driving with two kids and a dog. Woo hoo!

And she's off!

Torture! Tuna-Style

When I rearranged my summer plans due to my husband's deployment, I was excited to be able to fit one more laser hair removal treatment in before I left for the summer.

Did I say laser hair removal? What I meant was TORTURE by laser light.

This was my fourth appointment and except for one stray chin hair and three stray gray hairs my face is as smooth as a baby's behind. So I thought that it couldn't be nearly as painful as the last three.

I have never before been quite so wrong.

I slathered on the numbing cream extra thick, even though it makes me look like the centerpiece in a bukkake porn. It may be humiliating to walk in the hospital covered in thick, white goo, but if that stuff blocks any pain at all, it is worth it.

Usually a treatment lasts thirty minutes. The nurse pulses the light, applies aloe, and gives me a breather before each section.

This time the nurse decided it would be best to just get it over with! The entire appointment took seven minutes. Seven minutes of fiery, painful hell.

I learned that the laser isn't just zapping the dark pigment in my hair, but also any dark pigment in my skin.

Have I mentioned that I'm half-Irish, people? I have freckles, and lots of them. Fiery, painful, hellish freckles.

I also learned that my freckles may fade or disappear by my last treatment. And so may some of my moles. The laser also stimulates collagen and will help fight wrinkles and keep my youthful skin.

Huh? Suddenly, seven minutes of pure hell doesn't sound so bad.

Quickies are Good Too

As I was writing yesterday's post, I was also talking on the phone with Patrick. I told him that I was writing about my daughter saying, "But he wouldn't focus!"

After a few minutes I sensed a being behind me. I turned to find my daughter scowling at me with her hands on her hips.

"I heard what you said about me."

Busted! I say a lot of things to Patrick that my kids shouldn't hear, but I'm usually sure they're not around.

"Oh, mind your business, little girl," I told her as I gently pushed her toward the television.

Doesn't she know that her whole purpose in life is to provide me with writing fodder? Jeesh. Some kids.

*****

My husband and I went on a date last night. Our first stop was to pick out new glasses for him.

I can now have sex with him again! Yay!

His new frames make him look hella cute. I'm so glad he's heading off to Iraq with cute, studious boy glasses.

*****

After dinner and electronics shopping we headed to Barnes & Noble where I received a funny voice mail from Patrick. It was made even funnier by the fact that he left it while my B&N curse was taking full affect!

If you're new around here and aren't familiar with my B&N curse, well, I ain't gonna tell ya about it. Go read the archives and find out on your own.

Gosh, darn, farbing curse! Though, I did have even something worse happen recently. But I'm not talking about that either.

UPDATE: Here's the other side of the phone call story. Too funny!

*****

Contrary to the fact that I've blogged about it twice in the past two days, I haven't been talking much to Patrick lately. In fact, I haven't been doing much of anything but spending time with my husband and kids.

It has been nice. I miss my friends a tiny bit, but I know I'll probably be driving them all crazy soon enough. But this family isolation has been very nice. If only we could become filthy rich and live the rest of our days just like this.

Irony Defined

As queen and supreme ruler of Tuna Land I declared these last two days as cleaning days.

Yesterday, I got out the back ho, handed each kid a shovel and set off to conquer that wasteland of toys and crap we call a playroom.

After picking up a thousand Legos and hundreds of trains, but still with heaps of dolls, games, and puzzle pieces to go, I got a phone call.

Now, I only abandoned my ho for a few minutes and left the kids to toil in what I thought would remain companionable silence, when I heard a screech.

I calmly asked my caller to hold while I asked my eldest child, "What happened?" But she couldn't get a word in edgewise when the injured boy immediately ceased crying to explain, "She squeezed me!"

Isn't it funny how they can stop their painful wailing once they have someone's ear to complain to?

"Did you squeeze your brother?" Ever the fair ruler I gave her a chance to refute the charges.

"Yes. He stopped cleaning."

"Go to your room. I don't care what he did or didn't do, you don't hurt your brother."

She was smart and guilty enough not to argue or pout and just trudged up the stairs. I returned briefly to my phone call only to hear the guilty party start crying.

Apparently she had found a judge to hear her appeal. And Daddy is much more susceptible to girlish tears.

I pulled the phone away from my ear in time to hear my daughter implore, "But he wouldn't focus!"

This is when I dropped the phone and convulsed in laughter. My husband bent over clutching his stomach and barely saved himself from falling down the stairs in mirth. I could even hear my friend on the phone gasping for breath through his chortles.

That is the definition of irony. That is what the phrase pot calling the kettle black was invented for.

Our little fairy-watching, unicorn-dreaming space cadet was upset because her future-accountant brother wouldn't focus?

It's these little gems that make having kids worthwhile.

Hard Times

Okay, guys. Time for a little honesty here.


I'd love to be cute and funny right now, for a lot of people's sakes, but I am too overwhelmed with my own stuff.


I spent most of this weekend in bed, sleeping for five hours at a time, almost around the clock. I have a cold, or maybe allergies, but between my sinuses and our almost daily storms, I've been having debilitating headaches.


That was not how I wanted to spend my last weekend with my husband.


I've gotten to that pre-deployment point that I've learned to dread. Three previous deployments have taught me what to look out for and what to expect. And that at least assures me that I'm not losing my mind.


I think that people assume that the worst time of a deployment is right after he leaves, and maybe in the middle when it is stretching on. But that's not true for me. The hardest times are right now as he is getting ready to leave, and near the end when people start expecting you to be "normal" again, and right after he gets home when the adjusting is so hard.

Because during all three of those times you are not just worrying about getting yourself and your kids through each day usually within your well-established routine. You are worrying about other people's feelings.

My husband had to take care of a lot of morbid stuff last week, like his will and custodianship for the kids should something happen to both of us. He had to go to the required briefing about Family Readiness.

So last Friday night, when we were just sort of hanging out he turned to me and told me that he loved me. He told me that he appreciated me more than I could ever know. He told me that he is lucky to have me and that it felt good knowing that he could leave and not worry about anything here.

I mostly appreciate that I have a husband who can say those sorts of things to me. I've seen too many marriages die while they suffered through separations. I've seen wives go back home to their parents. I've seen wives just give up, and leave their kids and husband behind.

He leaves in less than a week. We both have so much to do before that time. I am overwhelmed and sick and tired.

But I'm secure. And that is the most important thing to be at this time.

The Satisfaction of Stripping

I was cleaning out my medicine cabinet last week and I found one lonely, little Biore Pore Perfect strip.

Do you remember when those were all the rage?

I couldn't throw it away. I love those little buggers. So I washed my face and slapped it on my nose.

When I emerged from the bathroom, my husband started laughing at me. "What are you doing?"

"I'm cleaning my pores. Don't judge me."

I cuddled up with him in bed and set my watch timer for fifteen minutes. When it beeped I braced myself, gripped a corner, and pulled that bad boy off in one fell swoop.

Then I spent a good half hour marveling over the little forest of pore dirt left on the strip. I mean, it's like a tiny little dirt rain forest sprung up out of nowhere.

My husband suggested I include my fascination with dirty pore strips on my list of Seven Weird Things. I ignored him and went to sleep secure in my pore's state for another week.

In the last two days, Mount Vesuvius has been growing on my nose. And it hurts. A lot. Maybe it hurts because I legion of little pore dirt people are gearing up to make a demand for a virgin sacrifice. Or maybe this will be the zit to end all zits and I'll make it into the Guinness Book of World Records.

"You need a pore strip," says my husband.

Tonight he ran to the grocery store for ice cream, cereal and Diet Coke. And what special treat did he pull out of the bag? You guessed it. I shiny new box of ULTRA Biore Pore Perfect strips.

But they weren't all for me.

No, my big, bad warrior decided that he should probably clean his pores before he heads off to the sandbox. Maybe it will help his gas mask fit better. Who knows.

He disappeared into the bathroom and I tucked into my mint chocolate chip. But that mint chocolate chip almost came out my nose when he returned with his pore strip on upside down.

"Way to read those directions," I told him. "Can you make sure you point your M16 the right way? Do those have easy-to-read, illustrated instructions too?"

He waiting his fifteen minutes and eased his strip off a section at a time. Wimp.

And his strip had no little pore dirt forest! What fun is pore stripping if you have no little dirt forest to marvel over?

So I took a turn stripping myself. I thought my pores might be cleaner this time around, but, no. This time my dirty, little strip resembled the New York City skyline! So many dirt buildings. So pretty.

But my nose still looks like an eruption is waiting to happen.

When I kiss my husband goodbye next week, I'll have to do it around the giant growth on my nose. And I'll have to trust that he'll operate his warrior-boy machinery better than a little girly-boy adhesive strip.

At least I know he's leaving me all fresh faced and clean.

These Friends of Mine

A while back I wrote on this very blog about my decision to make new friends. I had spent too many years isolating myself in a military world and had a circle of military-only friends to show for it.

I think it is easy to fall into that pattern. Especially when you live on base. And especially when you are a stay-at-home mom. It's just that another military wife and mother can so easily understand your challenges.

Don't get me wrong, those friends were great. We were all there for each other during those first post-9/11 deployments and CB especially was there for me during some of the hardest moments of my life.

But I felt an elemental disconnect with so many of them. I just didn't feel like anyone really knew me and I truly thought that most of them wouldn't like me any more of they got to know me.

Which is why I started to blog. Blogging was my outlet and my connection to the rest of the world. And I've made some wonderful friends through blogging. Some of them have stood the test of time and our relationships have evolved way beyond blogger friends.

But still, it just isn't the same as having a core group of good local friends. Everyone needs friends they can see regularly, and laugh with, maybe even share a hug with once in a while. Maybe. Everyone needs someone they can turn to when they need a hand.

Making friends as an adult can be hard, especially when you're not sharing a workplace. But I accepted the challenged to put myself out there and see what connections I could make.

And, man, have I made some connections.

I think I was very lucky to find myself in close proximity to some great people. And I'm going to pat myself on the back just a little and say that I totally rock. I'm really very shy (I swear) and sort of a loner (no really) but I overcame those inborn traits. I also went out on a limb and took on some leadership rolls in volunteer committees that really helped me get to know more people.

One of the hard things I'm going through right now is telling all of my new friends about my husband's deployment.

Because they're not military, a lot of them just don't know how to react. And they hurt for me. I can see it in their eyes. It pains me to see them hurt for me. I am way too empathetic for it not to effect me.

But the upside is that I have friends coming out of the woodwork to show their support.

It's satisfying.

These relationships evolved so slowly over time (like good relationships probably should) that I hadn't even really realized how many friends I had. And then, boom! There they were.

When you live so far from your family, you make your own. These people may not be like my immediate family. Yet, anyway. But I suddenly feel like I have a great big extended family of cousins, aunts, uncles, and crazy ass in-laws.

And this loner isn't feeling so alone anymore.

Anatomy of a Meme

Sometimes I feel left out.

I see memes come and go and nobody ever tags me. I mean, come on, people! I get as much writer's block as the next guy. Sometimes you need a little fluffer filler.

But I learned back in junior high that the best way to get the cool kids to make fun of you is to emulate them, so I just sat here in my little corner...all meek and quiet...alone...friendless...in the dark.

So I was really happy when my friend Aza tagged me with this Seven Weird Things About Me meme. I'm weird. I can rock this one out of the park!

*Ahem* Yeah. I just lost my cool kid cred, huh?

So I sat down and started writing.



Seven Weird Things About Me

1. I have geographic tongue.

2. I have a fear of buttons.

3. ...


I didn't get very far. And I got distracted with all the information I found about geographic tongue. I finally have a medical reason for not being able to eat spicy foods. See! I'm not just a wimp!

But I was seriously stuck on something that was supposed to be a quick and easy post.

When my husband came home that night I told him all about my meme thing (which was hard because I have no idea how to pronounce that word). I asked for his help.

"You know I'm weird. What else can I put on the list?"

He thought and thought and occasionally shouted out his ideas.

"You have an expensive purse fetish!"

"That's not weird," I argued. "Lots of women love purses." Admittedly, it's kind of weird that I dress like a lesbian but carry designer purses, but still.

"You leave hair all over the house," he accused. "You're always snipping your split ends. You're always right. You tell your best friend everything. You can't remember shit. And you get moody when you have PMS!"

Okay! Enough!" I stopped him. "This isn't a list of Things That Annoy My Husband. These are supposed to be weird things."

Clearly, I needed a more expert opinion. So I called Patrick.

"Name something weird about me."

"You can only masturbate under the covers," he replied, without a second hesitation.

"Damn you! You know too damn much about me. I can't write that. My husband thinks I tell you too much as it is."

(Let's hope my husband doesn't read this particular post.)

Through his laughter Patrick started ticking off a list of extremely embarrassing things I've told him over the years. His memory is too damn good. I told him that the two of them were having way too much fun at my expense.

"I don't think you should write this list yourself," he suggested. "I think it would be more fun to leave it up to your friends and family."

I don't think my fragile ego can handle it.

So, let's see. So far we have:


Seven Weird Things About Me

1. I have geographic tongue.

2. I have a fear of buttons.

3. I can only masturbate under the covers

4. My husband

5. My best friend

6. My blog

and...



Screw it. Next time I want a quick and easy post I'll put up a picture of a puppy.

Alone!

Thank all that is good and holy for the wonderment that is soccer camp.

I am alone! Alone! Alone! Alone!

My husband is at his physical (poor baby...so not fun), Buffy is at the groomers (getting fresh pink bows) and my kids are at indoor soccer camp (offspring relief, rain or shine).

I've learned that at seven and fiver years old the kids can only go so long before they are absolutely sick of each other. And once they're sick of each other, mommy suffers. This does not bode well for our twenty-eight hour drive to Massachusetts.

I should be using this alone time to clean, or run, or write, or something. But I think I will curl up on the couch and watch a DVD. Maybe it's time to pop in that Eroscilator instructional DVD.

Eroscilate Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can we talk about this after I cum?"

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

I have vibrator guilt.

My Worst Nightmare Come True

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

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

Ack! Panic mode! Danger! Danger!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you like me better now?

Bass Ackwards

I am all fucked up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drag Princess

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That makes me proud.

Who needs a vascectomy when he has these?

An Open Note to My Husband:

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

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

Think big black-framed lenses. Hot? Not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Year, More Slapstick

Yesterday, I turned thirty-four years old.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My! What a big...

...vocabulary you have!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He texted me last night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How the hell did he get incongruous out of accoutrements?

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

Outwit, Outpester, Outgross

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Military Spouse Day

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

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

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

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

So, damn, he's tagged again.

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

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

And he leaves on Saturday.

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

He'll be gone until early March.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Need "My Boy"

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

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

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

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

Things to Come

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

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

It's amazing how much more time I had!

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

It was so nice.

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

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

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

"Nope. I want to fuck."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could afford 88 bucks for a daily nooner.

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

That's Ms. Tuna if You're Nasty

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

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

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

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

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

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

And never the twain shall meet!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I went to a meeting yesterday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deal?

The Cure for What Ails You

I've found the cure for our anger.

It's sex. Lots and lots of sex.

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

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

That's right, baby!

Wet, Hot, Rage

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

I cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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