The Case of the Pumpkin Poop

A couple of weekends ago, the kids and I went to a produce stand and picked out the most perfect pumpkins I've ever seen. They were so excited to carve them. So last weekend we dug in.

Of course they think pumpkin guts are disgusting so I spent about an hour scooping and scraping those bad boys.

My son decided to freehand a jack-o-lantern face and some stars and it came out great (once I did all the cutting)



But my daughter really wanted to carve something more elaborate.

She had a book of patterns and she was considering some of the more challenging designs. I kept saying, "Are you sure, Honey? That's going to be pretty hard." But she was determined.

About an hour into her carving she announced, "This is harder than I thought it would be."

"Do you want some help?" I asked.

"No. I want to do it." And she kept plugging away.

I have to admit that once I put the candle in, I was incredibly impressed. How cool is this?

She was so very proud of herself.

I didn't want to put the pumpkins outside because I was afraid they'd get smashed. Or that wild animals would eat them. So I put them on the hearth by the fireplace.

But I made a mistake. When I went to blow out the candle before bed I thought for a second that the design had caved in. Or, I don't know, melted.

It took me a second to realize that the design on the pumpkin has been eaten off by our own little wild animal. Buffy ate my daughter's pumpkin.

It never even occurred to me that a dog would eat a pumpkin. It certainly never occurred to me that a five pound dog would eat about five pounds of pumpkin rind.

In the morning I had to break it to my daughter. She was so upset. I felt so bad for her.

My husband took her to get another pumpkin and the two of them recreated another wolf design. It is now rotting high up away from the dog on my kitchen counter. But Buffy is still in the dog house.

Happy 4th birthday you pain-in-the-ass pumpkin eater. You're not coming out of your room until you stop pooping orange.

Fucking Geese

When I pulled into the parking lot at the zoo for my son's field trip, I had a hard time parking. The lot was filled with Canadian geese.

I thought as I drove slowly toward them that they would fly away, but they didn't even waddle. They didn't even shake their tail feathers. They just looked at me.

I managed to weave through the sea of Christmas dinner to pull into a spot, but I was wondering how the kids' school bus was going to get through.

I had to wait for about ten minutes for my son's class to arrive, but the zoo kindly provided entertainment. After just a couple of minutes, two big, working class-type guys came out in green zoo jumpsuits.

They started walking toward the geese, and the geese ignored them as well as they had ignored me in my car. So the guys started waving their arms. The geese deigned to turn their heads and look at them.

The guys started yelling.

The geese started walking. All in different directions. And slowly.

Before long these guys were skipping and jumping and screaming. I think one even managed to turn a cartwheel before the geese were finally annoyed enough to leave.

You may think that geese say honk, honk. But I swear, as they flew away to a nearby pond, those geese called to those guys, "Fuck you. Fuck you."

Listen closely the next time you see geese flying overheard. I know you'll hear it too.

I wouldn't be surprised if their cars were covered in giant goose poo when they left work that night.

Damn, Canadians.

Another Weird Day

It's another weird, out-of-sync day. My daughter is home sick.

Yesterday I was on a field trip to the zoo with my son's first grade class when I missed a call from the school nurse about my daughter. So she stayed in the school clinic for a couple of hours until I checked my messages.

I felt so, so bad.

I also feel like the school nurse must think I send my kids to school sick and then she gets to clean up their puke. But she assured me that they are "the sweetest kids" even when they are vomiting on her, so that's good.

Of course my daughter feels fine today but she's not allowed back at school until tomorrow. It's funny because she doesn't know what to do without her brother around. I told her it was a great chance to watch any movie she wanted and play any computer game she wanted without her brother around, but she wasn't impressed.

Nim's Island, Poptropica, EverydayMath games, and violin practice later, she's bored.

In other news, today my horoscope said to pinch pennies. I wish I had read it before I booked a cruise.

At least gas prices are down. You can all thank my husband for the decline in gas demand. A couple of months ago he bought a little, used, blue Honda Civic for his commute to work.

He had done all the math to support the purchase price. Now it doesn't seem worth it. Yay. Another car payment. Do we get points for being environmentally friendly? (I still have to pay a gas surcharge for the cruise.)

Oh! I haven't talked much more about my nemesis DB (Dumb Bitch room mother) have I? She called me today. Her mere existence is such a rain wreck that it is entertaining to watch. But she's too stupid to get my verbal jabs. Which is just sad.

I feel bad for the teacher she is working with. But the teacher e-mailed me today and asked that I help with a bunch of stuff since there was a "miscommunication" with DB. I think the teacher is in on my "sarcastic quotation marks". It makes me smile. And since I am actually helping, now I can revel guilt-free in the human disaster that is DB.

Did I mention that she owns a "communication" company. (She means "marketing" but she probably doesn't "realize" that.)

Okay, enough sick day blather. Stay tuned tomorrow for a heartwarming story about fucking geese.

Blood Lust

This weekend I cut myself in a place where no women wants to cut herself. Ever. I cut myself in the worst possible place.

Yeah. Don't make me say it.

It hurt. A lot.

Here's the thing.

It's been a long time since I've written about sex here on the ol' blog of uncomfortableness because, well...

You have to be having sex to write about it. The new house hasn't exactly been christened, if you know what I mean.

So while I've been keeping things "clean" enough to not freak out children and small animals when I wear shorts, I haven't been keeping things up in a I-don't-want-him-to-have-to-pick-anything-out-of-his-teeth kind of way.

His teeth haven't been anywhere near there in a while.

But, we made a sex date (you do those things when you've been married 13 years) while he was in Reno last week and I wanted to, you know, make a good reimpression.

But then I gave myself an at-home clitorectomy and I haven't really been in the mood.

So if you're a fan of embarrassing sex stories about middle-aged straight people, you're going to have to wait for things to heal.

I wonder how long it takes for one of those to grow back.

Opposite of Emulate

Once upon a time I read a blog that I thought was really funny. For about two weeks.

It didn't take me long to get so sick of the writer's voice and whiny disposition that I started reading his blog as a complete train wreck. It was a great example of what I didn't want to become.

But this guy had legions of devoted fans. I never understood it.

Reading his blog made me so afraid of my own writing voice that I stopped using it. I really thought that I kind of, sort of had the same voice and vibe. And I worried about how I came off.

Now this guy has published a book. Like, a real fucking book.

I want to slit my wrists.

Alone with the Irrepressible Boy

What a weird day.

My son is home "sick" (Ha! I used sarcastic quotation marks. He is so totally fine. Kids recover so fast.) and the two of us are just sitting around watching television. It's a day out of time.

He's doing school work and I was thinking about blogging. But I noticed something weird while I was looking at my Blogger dashboard.

Lately I've been writing a lot of posts that I don't ever publish for one of three reasons.

1) They suck.

2) They don't cast me in the best light.

3) They might offend people.

What the hell is up with that? Like any of those things have ever stopped me before.

When did I get so afraid of just being me?

Only My Kids

Poor, little Tuna Boy is home from school. The school nurse called at lunch time to tell me that he had thrown up in the cafeteria and I needed to come pick him up.

When I got there he was standing in the doorway with his backpack on his back looking and acting totally normal. So I asked him if he had thrown up a lot or a little and the nurse quickly piped up to say, "A lot!" She also informed me in the kindest way possible that he should stay home tomorrow too.

Little Tuna Boy isn't happy about that. He hates to miss school. Both of my kids have been trying desperately to have perfect attendance at school for the last three years. They're still pissed at me for taking them out of school last year to come house hunting at the beach.

"Well," I told my son. "At least you're not missing soccer or anything. You don't have anything you have to do today."

"No," he answered. "I still have to do my homework."

I asked, "Did your teacher bring you your backpack with your homework?"

"No," he answered again. "When I got to the clinic the nurse wasn't there so I went to my classroom to get all the work I didn't do yet. I didn't want to fall behind if I had to miss school."

Only my kid. Only my son would think that way.

And my daughter? She's weird too.

This weekend we bought a new little CD player. While we were cleaning up the family room I put it on and searched for a radio station to play. Well, I cruised right by the classical music station looking for some pop music when my daughter stopped me.

"Mom! Put it back. I like the orchestra music!"

And the two kids cleaned happily listening to some classical music I couldn't identify if my life depended on it.

But when the orchestra music changed to opera music, I figured they probably had enough and I could find some decent music to listen to. But oh, no.

"Mom! That singing was beautiful. I find it soothing. Put it back!"

What the hell kind of roll reversal is that? All I want is some good Fergie or Maroon 5 and my kids are naming composers. (I couldn't even spell orchestra without the spell checker!)

Only my kid.

If I didn't see with my own eyes that they waste time playing Nintendo and enjoy hours playing pretend I would think they were being raised like little, hot house freaks.

Tuna Boy is currently sitting on the floor playing Lego's and watching Spongebob. And I'm sitting here thinking that maybe I should go back to school and get a degree in music appreciation just to keep up with them.

I guess our tuition money was well spent after all.

Reason I'm a Bad Friend #236

Every year I insist that I am going to get my Christmas shopping done early. Of course I never do. That would be...almost...sacrilgeous. Or unpatriotic. Frenzied late-December shopping is as Christian American as apple pie and church gossip.

But still, this year, I tried again.

The kids' school made it easy with their fall fundraiser. They sold Virginia Diner peanuts, including Hokie Nuts.

Since one of my best friends back in Louisiana is a Virginia native and Virginia Tech alum, I bought her an assortment of Hokie Nuts. Even chocolate-covered peanuts.

They sat in their box on top of my kitchen cabinets until I got PMS.

Then I ate her chocolate-covered nuts.

I figured I'd just order more and complete the set again. But then I got depressed because I ate my best friend's chocolate nuts, and I dug into the other two cans too.

This resulted in a week full of salty nut innuendos around the Tuna house. And a lifetime of guilt for me.

So today I'm going to order more nuts. And hide them better from myself. (And order a whole set of backup nuts because I know myself too well.)

When did everyone get so tall and skinny?

We were watching the Red Sox the other night when I commented about one of the players to
my husband. "He must have given up the steroids. Look at how skinny he got!"

Then we were watching our favorite sitcoms on Monday night (Monday night is sitcom night on CBS) when I mentioned, "Damn. Raj looks skinny!"

These last couple of nights, I've been noticing how skinny all the guests are on The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson.

Craig Ferguson. Craig Ferguson. Craig Ferguson.

I keep noticing how skinny everyone is on television. Even the men. What happened? I know things are bad but celebrities can still afford food, can't they? Is anorexic still in? Maybe it's just that everything is going high def now.

Speaking of which, we've been lucky enough to have a high def, wide screen television for quite a few years. In fact, we bought the T.V. before anyone was broadcasting in high def. Or in the right ratio for a widescreen.

Huh. Ummm, wait. I think a light bulb is going on here.

For years everyone on my television has been squished and stretched to fit my widescreen format. Everyone has been short and fat. I got used to it. Now that we have a new DirecTV box, everyone looks "normal".

Damn. Celebrities have been this damn skinny this whole time? I've been living in a shorter, fatter world than everyone else since 2000!

I think I liked my short, fat world. I want my old box back.

Craig Ferguson, Craig Ferguson

Speaking of my libido, it's been a while since I've had a grown up crush. Was the last one Raul B-something? Or Joseph Fiennes? I forget. But I digress.

Lately I've been crushing on T.V.'s Craig Ferguson. I record The Late Late Show every night and watch it after I drop the kids off in the morning.

I think Craig Ferguson is dreamy. I guess I have rather eclectic and diverse taste in men, but I think Craig Ferguson is both smart and funny. And Craig Ferguson is classically handsome with enough character to make him interesting. Any guy who can make me laugh with a self deprecating sense of humor can also get my juices flowing.

Craig Ferguson makes me wet.

(Don't worry. We can cut that out.)

So I've heard that Craig Ferguson Google's himself from time to time. I suppose Craig Ferguson surfs the net as much as anyone, researching for his comedy.

In the last couple of days I've gotten daily Google search hits for Craig Ferguson. Could it be that Craig Ferguson has found my blog? And Craig Ferguson finds me funny and entertaining? Do I intrigue Craig Ferguson. Craig Ferguson.

Does Craig Ferguson need some new writers? Does Craig Ferguson want to be my Tuna Man? Does Craig Ferguson need a new, interesting type of guest? Does Craig Ferguson want to get his Tuna Girl on?

Craig Ferguson. Craig Ferguson.

(And for image searches)



Craig Ferguson.

Oh, and I really enjoyed Craig Ferguson's book Between the Bridge and the River. You should buy it. Tell Craig Ferguson that Tuna Girl sent you.

Craig Ferguson.

What did we learn on the blog tonight, Craig?

Update: Craig Ferguson Watch '08

Eeeee!

Waiting Boom

It recently occurred to me that I spend about...oh, say...maybe 80% of my waking hours waiting.

I wait for the dog to get groomed. I wait for my husband to get home. I wait in carpool line. I wait for the kids to finish practice. I wait and wait and wait.

Not that I mind it. Not really. There are always things to distract and entertain me.

At the groomer's I listen to Buffy's "stylist" Myke (with a y) tell me about his wife and kid. While waiting on my husband, I watch TiVo'd Craig Ferguson and try not to develop a crush. In carpool line I read or people watch. The parents at school are especially entertaining.

But my favorite is waiting at my kids' practices.

My kids spend an inordinate amount of time practicing things. In fact, if you think about it, practice really defines childhood. Right now the kids are mostly practicing violin and soccer.

Their violin teacher is one of my favorite people here. She's just like me! Except talented, young, and really pretty. Plus, her cutie doctor husband does yard work while the kids have their lesson.

And their soccer coaches. Yum. Well, I should point out that my husband is my son's soccer coach, but they also both go to soccer clinics once a week.

Those soccer coaches are just too damn yummy to ignore. And they have these moves! Da-yum! They can do the most amazing things with those balls. And they can turn on this incredible speed in a split second.

*sigh*

And, oh hey! Look at that. Ding! Looks like someone's libido is alive again.

Now, I guess I just have to do something about it. And for that I might be waiting a little more. The man's sleeping already.

Are you kidding me?

I walked out of my house at 2:00 to go gas up the car and pick up the kids at 3:20.

When I hit the little unlock button on my car door handle nothing happened. No little beep. I had left my "keyless" key fob in the house. Along with my house key.

As I tried the front door, I mumbled a plea. "Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please." To no avail. It was locked.

No problem, I thought. There are four other entry ways to this house that no one ever remembers to lock.

All locked.

There was a brief moment of hope when I found the garage door opener. But the door from the garage to the house was locked.

More hope when I found a set of keys. To our garge door back in Shreveport and my husband's Chevelle on Cape Cod.

No need to panic yet. My husband has time enough to get to the kids. Thank goodness I have my phone.

Twenty calls, e-mails and texts go unanswered.

Okay. I have a shed and a garage full of tools and glass in my doors. A hammer, crowbar and jumbo hedge trimmers will not shatter that glass. I am weak. Ibriefly consider using the circular saw to cut a hole in the door.

By now, an hour has gone by and I realize that even if I got in now, I could never get to the kids on time. I call the school and ask them to put the kids in after school care.

Finally, FINALLY, my husband calls me back.

"Did you try the back door?"

*****

****

***

Is he freaking kidding me!

He is on his way to get the kids. I am on the back porch blogging from my Treo.

At least it's not raining. At least I know it would take a criminal more determined than me to get into my house.

No criminal could be more determined than I was to get to my children today.

Tonight we get a spare key made. My heart can't take this again.

Who's Minding the Store?

My husband did the sweetest thing this weekend.


He surprised me on Saturday by taking me to a piano store. He was going to buy me a piano, probably used, maybe even a used digital, but still. A piano.


He did a bunch of research and found this place online. It was highly rated and they also donate pianos to the kids' music academy which provides music education to underprivileged children.


I expected to be accosted by a sale's person the second we walked in the door. But the bing bong didn't seem to attract anyone.


Then we realized that there was a man snoring at his desk in the back of the store.


We tried to surreptitiously wake him. We cleared throats and spoke to the kids. We bing bonged the door one more time. But he kept on snoring.


We checked out the inventory but the longer we were there the more afraid we became that when we finally woke him up, he'd have a heart attack.


Even in sleep he looked about one juicy steak away from a heart attack anyway.


I was started to get the creeps and decided that we must leave right away.


We did stop at the kitchen design shop right next door, though. We were worried that the guy would get accosted and robbed.


And so I didn't get my piano. But I did pick out some awesome Black Galaxy granite counter tops.


It never pays to sleep on the job.

Speaking of Cartoons

This is what I do while on the phone.

I wonder what a psychologist would make of it.

Good Plan

nataliedee.com

"It's free and you can't get your hair in a ponytail if you don't."

You said it, Natalie. I'm totally on board.

I am sad.

I miss my old friends.

I miss sending the kids to a school I felt good about.

I miss having a purpose in my life outside of raising my kids and building my marriage.

I miss who I was back in Louisiana.

Mostly, I miss my friends.

A couple of days ago my husband regrettfully informed me that there is a possibility we will be heading back to the bayou in two or three years.

I wasn't sad about that. Can you believe it? It is quite telling.

So, today, I post myself a sappy reminder of what it is all about.


When I can't give them the world, it hurts so much.

Stupid, Junior High Rant

I got sarcastic quotation marked! (Yes, that's a verb.)

So, I stupidly, stupidly, stupidly volunteered to be a room mom. I thought it would be a good way to get involved at our new school and maybe meet some new friends.

Big mistake. Big fucking mistake. This is no sweet, little, Southern private school. This is a whole 'nother back-stabbing, snobby group of socialites with more time and money than brains or basic manners.

I got along just fine with the other room mother in my daughter's class. And I had already done enough work to get to know her teacher a little.

But when I went to the big meeting for all the room moms, I started wishing for a way to bail out.

Have you ever met a person and were just overwhelmed by her stupidity? Within moments of her opening her mouth you just knew that something wasn't quite right there. One of the room parents in our grade was like that.

But she was also mean. And self important. And desperate to be in charge.

My husband said, "She's a bitch!"

And I said, "No, she's really stupid."

And my husband replied, "So, she's a Dumb Bitch."

And she will forever be known as DB to me now.

Anyway, her participation is going to make everything a hundred times harder than it needs to be. To which I say, "Fine." I'll just put my head down, do my work, and make nice.

Well, then I got my big bale out.

My daughter got moved into the enrichment level at school.

Um, you know, I have to say it. Neener, neener, neener!

So I asked her teacher what this meant for room moms and she said, "Unfortunately, I'm going to lose you."

In the meantime, all hell had broken loose on the room mother front. Our grade apparently had a big fight, both verbally and in e-mail. We were chastised by the heads of the group. And I got pissed off. I held my tongue though.

But, the head lady called me and apologized for the whole thing and said that she knew I wasn't a part of any of it and obviously there are some personality issues. Than she said that she was sorry that they were losing me as a room mom and congratulations to my daughter for making it into the advanced program.

So I asked her how I should go about telling the other room moms, since they were meeting on Thursday and I didn't want to step on any toes.

She told me she would do it.

So she sent an e-mail, and of course included me. DB (who desperately called the meeting and only had me reply) replied all with a snarky response.

DB, check the distribution list before you hit send. (And don't e-mail from your anonymous blog's e-mail address.) And don't you dare sarcastic quotation mark the "QUEEN" of "sarcastic" quotation marks.

She will call me to "include" me. I'm this close to e-mailing her back to say not to "bother".

Stupid, Junior High Rant over.

At the Symphony

The kids played in the lobby of Chrysler Hall before the symphony tonight.

They were awesome.

Dear Obama Campaign Volunteers,

While I appreciate your support of the democratic process, and even that you've taken the time to call me on the phone, having five volunteers call me in a twelve hour period is a bit much.

It's telemarketing 101, people. Split the list up! Handing out multiple copies of the same list is only going to result in annoyed people screening their calls.

Wait until my husband the Republican answers the phone.

Oh! And p.s. When someone tells you they've received multiple calls, don't continue your spiel. Apologize, thank them for their time and hang up.

Mistake Prone

I have always thought of myself as being mistake prone. Talented, but prone to mistakes. Smart, but prone to mistakes. Athletic, but prone to mistakes. Social, but prone to mistakes.

I remember first having these thoughts in high school when I was playing sports. I could make the most brilliant play one moment, and just give the ball away the next. In basketball, where things move quickly, it's one thing. But in softball, where a big E goes up on the board and everyone stares at you for a while, it is hard.

I've got a lot of big E's in my life.

It was also in high school that I first heard the word ditsy bandied about. As in, "She's so smart, but a bit ditsy."

I did not take that well. I still to this day do not think that I am ditsy. I am just...mistake prone. Prone to making mistakes.

Yesterday's e-mail snafu is a great example. And way too often lately I have found myself saying the wrong thing. Though well-intentioned, the words just don't come out right and I fall on my face. And I hurt people's feelings, or make them jealous, or make them mad. When all I ever wanted to do was make nice. I try too hard.

That sucks. It makes me think mistake prone is really dumb, fucking idiot.

But I got some great advice, by way of some random man, by way of his therapist.

It's called a rainy day letter. At a time when you feel really good about yourself you take a few minutes to sit down and write out all of the things that are best and true about you. You write out all of the compliments you hold close to your heart. You write about why the people who love you love you as much as they do. Go fishing if you have to, but figure out what is so great about you that you have a job, friends, and family.

Then the next time you make a mistake, and you feel like an idiot, and the negative thoughts are crashing over you like white capped waves, you take out your rainy day letter and you remember who you really are.

And you remember that we are all prone to make mistakes. Because we are all human. And maybe you're better off for at least realizing that you've made a mistake in the first place.

I think that is brilliant advice, though it is a little too corny for my normal tastes. Still, I think I'll compose one very soon. My self worth does run quite deep and I know I can fill a letter with plenty of things.

First and foremost on that list would be that I love very deeply.

What would the first thing on your list be?

Bad, Bad, Bad

I just sent an e-mail to my son's entire soccer team from my Tuna Girl address.

Oops. I noticed about ten seconds after I sent it and did that shocked inhale thing.

Let's hope no one makes the connection. Or if they do, let's hope they have a sense of humor.

Dang. Dang. Dang!

"Who is this woman?"

Sometimes, simply because I am a parent, I find myself doing things that I never imagined I would.

I had this thought last night as I was working to change the chinrest on a violin.

My life A.D. (After Daughter, as opposed to life B.C. or Before Children) has including a string of out-of-body moments where I look down on myself happily doing something completely out of character.

It started in the very beginning when I changed my daughter's first diaper. I had never handled another human being's poop before. I couldn't even imagine myself doing it until I did.

This blog is full of out-of-body examples. I had profound moments of mom-type realizations while crafting tiny little frames and running a Teddy Bear relay race for three-year-olds.

Now that my children are older I find myself doing even more out-of-character things. Designing costumes, tuning violins, organizing fundraisers, substitute teaching and interacting with other people's children. These may seem like such ordinary things to every one else but when I catch myself doing them, sometimes I step back and say, "Who is this woman? I don't know her at all!"

I think the rate of change is all out of whack. One day you're suddenly a parent and your world is completely different. But over the next few years, you so gradually change from the parent of a baby, to the parent of a toddler, to the parent of a kid, to the parent of a preteen...

It happens so slowly on a daily basis but sometimes you stop and look back, shocked to find that your offspring aren't still in diapers.

What's most amazing to me is that, generally speaking, I am so happy with who I've become. I could never have imagined back in college when I was so into the women's liberation movement that I would one day be this person.

Last week I was seeking some advice from the people who know me best. And without fail, every one of them said the same thing to me, in almost the exact same words.

"You've been doing for others for so long. Isn't it time you did something for yourself?"

I thought and thought about it and I finally came to realize something. It has all been for me. This...thing...this motherhood thing is what makes me the happiest. I've been "doing for myself" all along.

And doesn't that just make me one freaking lucky S.O.B?

On Track

I'm in a weird--no--strike that. I am in a horrible mood.

I'm not sure why but I feel uncomfortable right now. Not only in my own skin, but in my own person. I get like this sometimes and I really don't know why.

But I do know that it makes me short, annoyed and irritated. Which I am sure makes me annoying and irritating to those I love.

I guess my husband is lucky that he is so very far away. He arrived in Hawaii safe and sound and left me a voicemail last night to say, "Aloha!" Cute. He wasn't really looking forward to going to Hawaii (freak) but he sounded really happy when I talked to him last night. It turns out that an old friend of ours is stationed there and will be part of the project my husband is working on.

But my poor kids are stuck here with only me. But I have found a babysitting service here, so I feel like the pressure is off me just a little bit. Now the husband and I can have a few date nights here and there. This service will also drive your kids to activities. So until I get to know some people here, I'll have to depend on a sitter who has been background and driving records checked to occasionally pick up a kid when both kids have to be someplace at the same time. (Like this Thursday.) The kids love having sitters and I have already met one I liked. I can't tell you how much of a load is off me now.

Wow. I'm already feeling a little better.

This morning I went to a room mothers meeting at school. Yes, I am going to be a room mom again. I'm actually sort of excited about it because volunteering is a great way to meet new people and make new friends. A few people have remembered and said hello to me around the school lately. It's a start.

I'm going to take some great advice from a good friend and go make my bed. Then I am going to clean off my dining room table.

I always feel better when my environment is neat and organized. I guess my surroundings need to feel more on track when my heart and brain can't be.

Some Random Hawaiin Reference Here

When I was a kid, my parents went to Hawaii on a credit union trip and left my brother and I home alone. They said the trip was "no kids" and at 16 and 12 we were responsible enough to take care of ourselves.

Then all their credit union cohorts brought their kids. Many of whom were my friends.

We got so screwed.

When I was in high school my mother took my grandmother to Hawaii. And when I was in college my parents went there again in conjunction with a cruise.

I've still never been.

It's been a running joke in my family for years, how I always get left behind.

So kind of as a joke, when my kids asked what we could maybe do as a reward if they practice violin for 365 days in a row, my husband offered, "How about a trip to Hawaii?"

We're on day 91 and the kids are already making Hawaiian plans.

But here's the kicker. My husband told me last week that he's leaving for Hawaii on Saturday.

Fucker. He's killing me. Soon he'll have been to two of the places I want to go to worst in the world (London and Hawaii) without me. *pout*

Oh sure, he's also been to Iraq and Afghanistan. But still.

So the kids and I are rather put out. But I have a feeling we'll be practicing violin every single day for 274 more.

Your Beeswax, Mind It

One thing I like about our new digs is the conveniently located shopping plaza in our neighborhood. I'm not sure I've ever lived anywhere where it was so easy to quickly drop off some dry cleaning or pick up a few groceries.

The downside is that it is easy to pick up that food you're craving but know you shouldn't have. And they sell 100 Grand bars. I love those damn things.

We also love the doughnuts in the bakery there. Well, I love doughnuts in general, just on principle, but theirs are especially yummy.

Yesterday I gave in and went and bought four doughnuts. It's bad enough that the doughnuts are so easily accessible to me. I thought I was doing pretty good to buy just one for each of us.

And then the cashier lady yelled at me!

She was mad that I bought four when I could have a dozen for less money.

At first I laughed it off, "Oh, I know. But I don't want all those doughnuts in the house."

But she scoffed at me. She scoffed! She rolled her eyes and told me I was wasting money.

What the hell, lady? You're not my mother. I don't remember asking for your opinion. If the freaking eight cents I wasted means that much to you, you can have it.

Our friendly neighborhood grocery doesn't feel so friendly anymore.

Freezing Out the Bitch

It's bad enough when the snooty moms leave their SUVs running for forty minutes sitting in car pool line. But, dude! This is ridiculous.

Today, a snooty mom pulled up in her Lexus SUV, threw that puppy in park and jumped out to gossip with her friends.

She left both windows wide open, the engine running, the AC blasting, and her golden retriever sitting in her car.

I could feel the cold air blasting out from her windows in my car! And her poor Fido was shivering.

After twenty minutes, Fido was fed up and leaned on the horn. I swear she shot me a look that said, "Can you believe her? Snooty bitch."

I feel you, Fido. I feel you, girlfriend.

Spotlight

Look who's blogging again.

And he even uses the B word.

Not Old Enough

I busted my husband last night.

I was waiting for him to come home with my daughter after soccer practice so I kept watching out the front window. So I saw his car pull into the cul-de-sac. And I saw my daughter sitting in the front seat.

He beat my daughter into the house so I asked him, "When did your daughter turn twelve?"

Oh, maybe it's important here to note to you non-parenting types that you're not supposed to let a child under twelve sit in the front seat because it is not safe with the passenger side airbags most cars have today.

Well, that interrupts the flow of a mediocre story. Suddenly I feel like a late night talk show host whose story has gone nowhere. Anyway...

He gave me a sheepish look.

Of course it took my daughter forever to get into the house, because she's...well...her, so I both teased him and let him know that I didn't like that at all. He was so busted.

I decided not to say anything to her because I knew she would feel so guilty.

My son wasn't privy to any of this. But this morning as we were pulling though the drop off area at school he loudly pointed out, "Look! That little girl is in the front seat. That's not a good idea!"

My daughter got instantly silent.

But my son went on and on. "That's dangerous. Her daddy should know better."

I swear my son and I aren't in cahoots. We're just two peas in a rule following pod.

Old Enough

Any kid who turns seven-years-old today--or any kid younger than seven--was born into a post-9/11 world.

In fact, I think any kid who will turn seven between today and nine months from today belongs to a special group of 9/11 babies.

There is a whole subset of women out there who were pregnant on that day. The women who were pregnant and lost husbands and lovers on that day will always belong to a group of amazing women who have a special place in the heart of America. But there are American women everywhere who bore babies into a world they hadn't thought they would have to.

I'm one of those women. I was almost seven months pregnant on September 11, 2001. My son was born in December.

Those 9/11 babies are starting first grade now.

Those 9/11 babies are old enough to ask questions.

Those 9/11 babies are old enough to realize that something is...different.

One day this summer I took the kids to a little New York-style pizza place near our house. They have a huge mural on one wall of a pre-9/11 Manhattan skyline.

My son who is fascinated by all things New York-related was naming the buildings. But he didn't know what those two tall, "twin" buildings were.

My daughter, oh-so-sophisticated and educated on the matter, told him that they were the Twin Towers that were knocked down by terrorists. And he started to ask questions.

So I sat there in a little dive pizza place and told my son all about it.

I told him how much had changed in the world. I told him how many people died, how many kids lost parents. He was taking it in and I was doing okay, until I told him about how it had effected us.

I told him that this was why his father has had to go away so much. I told him that this was why Daddy was gone for most of his baby years.

I couldn't help tearing up. Those were the hardest words I had ever had to say. Kids born into the post 9/11 world, especially those born those few months right after, especially New York kids, and especially military kids, are different.

Maybe they are better than they would have been. Maybe they are worse. But they are different.

And now they are old enough to understand, to learn about it in school.

Every year on this day I have one prevailing thought. We were so lucky. Lucky that my husband was here for his son's birth. Lucky that my husband wasn't at the Pentagon that day. Lucky that the chain reaction of political events that eventually sent my husband to Baghdad did not kill him.

Most of all, lucky to have our post-9/11 and our pre-9/11 children in our lives. And lucky that they feel secure enough to talk to us about it.

Fake It 'til You Make It

This morning I seriously did one of the hardest things I've ever done.

Okay, you guys know me. Right? After all this time you know that I don't care much about my looks. For god's sake, the first time I ever met a bunch of bloggers my jaw was wired shut and my face was swollen like a chipmunk.

I don't like the way I look but I also don't really care much. I'd never let my looks (or lack there of) keep me from doing something I want to do.

But this morning it took every once of my self esteem reserves to get me though the door to the school's Welcome Coffee and Volunteer Fair.

It's hard enough walking into a social situation like that all alone. It's even harder when you strongly sense that you don't fit in.

But with my ridiculous new haircut, it was nearly impossible.

I look so stupid.

I'm ashamed to admit it but I hadn't had my hair cut since I donated it earlier this year. I wanted to do something a little different but decided to go ahead and ask for my normal, simple bob but without bangs for once. Ooooh, what a maverick I am.

I randomly chose a salon only because it was open on Sunday, the only day my daughter and I had time to spare. She got a great cut. Mine...not so much.

At least my stylist admitted she made a mistake. Actually, she was messing with the back of my hair and said, "Uh oh. I think I goofed." To even things out she cut and cut and cut.

My hair is now a short, misshapen mess. A short misshapen mess I paid 45 bucks for.

I look ridiculous.

Anyway, I did it. I went to this coffee and volunteered for a few committees. I tried to make conversation but after ten minutes of perusing all of the fair tables and drinking a cup of o.j. I found myself standing alone like a dork and I took off. (I wasn't the only one. They needed more "old" moms to engage the new ones.)

At least I did it.

My philosophy is to fake it until I make it. (I think I heard that from Heather Graham's character on Scrubs!) Act confident until you can be confident. Act like you fit in until you do fit in.

Act like you give a fuck until you actually do.

Dear Snooty School Moms,

You may be able to afford to keep your Escalades and your Lexus SUVs running for the forty minutes we sit in carpool line, but I can't.

Turn them off already and crack a freaking window. I promise you won't melt. You're asphyxiating me here.

*cough cough*

Signed,

Living in the Real World in my Mazda.

What's Up with Little Tuna Girl

Speaking of Vice Presidential candidates, my daughter and I spent yesterday together. It was nice to have time alone with her. She is growing up so amazingly fast and our times alone are few and far between.

She's been up to so much lately.

First of all, a few weeks after we arrived here this summer she tried out for an advanced soccer team. And she made it. I was so proud of her. I wasn't sure how she would hold up here in a new soccer system, but she's been doing just fine. Tonight she starts a special clinic that is supposed to prepare her to try out for the next level up (the travel team) next year.

She's also been rocking the violin. We're on day 81 of our 100 day practice challenge. Her goal is to graduate this level (Book 2) this year and she's right on track.

She has been fitting in well at school so far. She made a best friend and talks about one boy all the time. Those two kids actually won the student council elections so it sounds like she wormed her way in with the popular kids.

She was tested last week to be placed in the right level math and language arts classes. She ended up in Intermediate Math (Yay! All that summer work paid off.) and Intermediate Language Arts. (Boo. She's been testing in the 99th percentile up until now.)

Yesterday we got our hair cut (more on that later). She sat patiently and waited for my stylist to finish my cut for over an hour and a half. Then we had lunch on the patio of her favorite restaurant. She couldn't stop telling me how happy she was.

We concluded our day with a trip to the bookstore and The Talk. You know...The Talk.

She really is growing up fast.

She's such a good kid. Completely good hearted, empathetic and kind. She wants to be a veterinarian when she grows up, but she's also been writing novels in her spare time. (She's done more writing in the last few months than I have.)

She can drive me completely nuts, but I love her and appreciate her more than I could ever say.

Politics: Tuna Style

I support a regular girl of the people, who needs a haircut, for Vice President.

And her name is Little Tuna Girl!

Apparently, Little Tuna Girl was able to be nominated, campaign, and lose an election for Student Council Vice President all in one day.

Man, if only the politicians could be so fast.

Things that are Fucked Up Today

My husband opened up the washing machine, took out his wet flight suits, hung them up, and left all of the other laundry in there.

When I asked him about it he said, and I quote, "I didn't know what you wanted to do with that laundry."

Well, my plan was to let the wet clothes sit in there until they started to mold and made the house smell like we were hiding dead people in the crawl space, so I'm glad he didn't do anything as radical as put them in the dryer.

*****

Today I found out that my kids think I sleep all day while they're at school.

What the fuck? Where did they get that idea?

*****

Things I actually do while they're at school.

1) Blog

2) Spend some special alone time (ahem)

3) Shop

4) Sleep

I kid. Sort of.

Clothes Make the Kid

Now that public school is in session here, I realized something.

The public school kids here don't wear uniforms.

In Louisiana, every school--public or private--had uniforms, except for ours.

Not only did our kids not wear uniforms, they were encouraged to wear "play clothes" because learning is a "dirty business" and no kid should have to worry about their clothes.

And let me tell you, wear play clothes they did. My kids wore jeans and t-shirts daily.

Our new school has a new dress code. No jeans and all shirts must have collars. But since the policy is still new, you can tell that a lot of parents are stretching its limitations. But I'm a rule follower so I have spent an inordinate amount of time trying to find clothes that fit my kids' personalities but still fit the dress code.

I hated wearing a uniform to school as a kid. In sixth grade, when I was well into puberty and had the body of an eighteen year old, I had to wear a jumper. And my uniforms always had...gulp...buttons and so grossed me out.

What about you? Did you wear uniforms to school? And did it affect you at all, because let me tell you...

After all those years of Catholic school uniforms I broke out in college. Nothing but soccer shorts and sweatshirts for me. With Teva sandals. And socks.

You know, come to think of it, I still dress like that today. Damn plaid jumpers.

The Good Neighbor

There's nothing like ingratiating myself to the new neighbors by pressing the panic button on the truck alarm before 8 a.m. on a holiday morning.

And, of course, I was wearing the red shorts and a hot pink t-shirt I had worn to bed so that when they looked out their curtains to see who the fuck had woken them up they could turn to each other and say, "What? Did a five year old dress that loud women?"

A Bad Day

Saturday was a craptastic day.

It's amazing how quickly things change.

Over the years, especially since I started blogging, people have made a point of telling me how much they admire my marriage. Which kind of always makes me simultaneously say, "Awwww," and wonder exactly what people are smoking.

Yeah, I love him. Yeah, we've got the fidelity thing down. But there are times when he drives me bat shit crazy.

Saturday was one of those days.

The thing I like least about my husband, as he well knows, is his demeanor. His default setting is...well...mean. He pretty much always looks and sounds really pissed off, even when he's not.

In fact, I'd say that 85% of the time, he's perfectly happy, but about 85% of the time, he looks like he could tear you limb from limb. The furrow in his brow has become permanent.

So when he actually is in a bad mood, it's pretty fucking miserable for me. And sometimes the kids too.

He was in a bad mood on Saturday. Possibly because Sunday was his 36th birthday. Possibly because my crying daughter embarrassed him. Possibly because his hormones got the best of him. Who knows.

But by Saturday night I was ready to trade him in for a new model.

Smartly, I think, he decided to go out to the garage and work on his Chevelle for a while. While he was out there, my mom called.

My mother is one of the only people in the world I can really share shit with. So I mentioned my husband's horrid mood. And she said that my father has been miserable too.

But it's different. First of all, when my husband is driving me nuts, he knows it. When I think he has been too harsh with the kids or relative strangers, he hears it from me. In those rare times that my husband gives me shit, I give it right back.

My mother is afraid to do that.

In fact, she is just afraid period. Not so much of being physically hurt, I don't think. Or at lest I certainly hope not. She's afraid of the big blow up.

I lived in that house long enough to completely understand. There is no talking with my father. No reasoning with him. No matter what you do, it's wrong. No matter what you say, everything is your fault.

He hasn't spoken to my mother in three days.

She doesn't tell him when the kids call anymore. She's afraid. She works in her shop and makes meals and basically just waits for him to wake up. He sleeps all day and is up all night.

And he's going back to the doctor. He's going to lose his eye. The other one isn't much better.

Obviously the man is severely depressed and needs help, but my mother is too afraid to suggest it. His depression comes with rage issues too.

I'm helpless in how to help my mom. You see, I'm afraid of him too. Everyone says that I'm the only person he'll listen to, the only person he'll pull himself together for, but that's bullshit. I've been in the line of that fire before and I am too weak to do it again.

I know my brother is scared too. His way of helping is by doing the things my father can no longer manage.

While I was still on the phone with my mom, my husband came back in and started tickling our son. His mood was much improved. I don't know if he thinks while he's working on the car, or if he just relaxes and cools down, but he was back to normal by the time he came in again.

Sunday was a good day. We celebrated my husband's birthday with dinner out and cake at home. The kids made him cards. And he did a bunch of work around the house. The kids played Happy Birthday to him on their violins and he grinned like a maniac through the whole thing.

From my mom, I learned how not to make a marriage. I learned from her mistakes. She even always told me, "Don't do what I did."

I know my parent's relationship and my relationship with my father affect my personality profoundly. There are so many times I project my father onto my husband. I hate when I do that.

I know I have a great marriage. You can see the worst of it right on this very blog, especially if you read between the lines. But I love him and we make it work.

And I won't ever be afraid of him.

The thing I'm most afraid of is turning into my father.

I don't know what I'm going to do about my father right now. Maybe my husband can make a difference.

A Good Day

Yesterday was so great!


First off, I got mail!




Here's a little sumptin' sumptin' from his highness the Cheap Blue Guitar.




How fun! My daughter is completely convinced that it was all meant for her. But I'm the hottie in this family.


There's nothing better than getting real mail.


Then, right before I left the house to pick up the kids, these were delivered from my husband.




Awww. Aren't they nice? Happy Anniversary to me. (I got him chocolates. And I haven't even eaten any of them.)


And finally, late, late, late Wednesday night (Thursday morning really) I got an e-mail from the music academy people asking me if the kids could each play a solo violin piece for their new parent and student orientation.


So I took them over there last night and they totally rocked it! Seriously. They were both flawless. And they did an impromptu question and answer session with the parents.


A parent asked them what was their favorite thing about violin. My daughter answered, "My favorite thing is to play in front of people." And my son answered, "I like to practice!" which made everyone chuckle.


The same parent asked what was their least favorite thing. My son immediately answered that he didn't like the very first part of practice (which would be scales). My daughter added, "I don't like getting up at 6 every morning to practice." My son popped in with a heartfelt, "Me too!" and everyone chuckled again.


My son is such the little comedian. He's just naturally funny and hasn't gotten obnoxious with it yet. (Note to self: watch for that.)


One of the teachers there gushed to my husband about what great kids they are. And their new school teachers have been very positive. My son's teacher told me he is the most polite little boy she has ever met.


All in all, I couldn't be more proud.


It was a good day.

Things that made me smile this week

Last weekend I bought my husband a lawn mower while going commando.

And he didn't even find it hot.

Of course, it would may have been hotter if he wasn't aware that I was going commando because I had no clean underwear.

But still.

*****

Completely unrelated...but made me laugh.

On the phone with Patrick the wayward blogger last night...

Me: So, how was P-Town? I hear the cops are really cracking down on public sex at the dick docks this year.

Patrick: Not that I noticed.

And he wants us to think he's all innocent.

What's Up with Tuna Man

Today is our anniversary. Thirteen years ago (I thought it was fourteen years but had to count on my fingers) I married that kid with the mullet I met in high school. Thousands of hair cuts later, we're still in love.

I'm going to drive up to his office today for a daytime date. It's easier than getting a babysitter.

So I thought today would be a good day to share a little bit of what has been going on in the life of my man.

Tuna Man recently (finally) graduated from his master's program. Whoa. That sounds kinky. Let me rephrase. Tuna Man recently completed his master's degree in aeronautical science. And even though I...ahem...consulted on quite a few of his papers, I had no idea what his degree was actually in until I asked him yesterday. And he wasn't even sure.

But it doesn't matter because this means that in seven years when he's ready to ditch this military life (Can you believe he is eligible for retirement in seven years? Bitch is old.) he has a degree that will help him get started in a second career.

And then we'll be rich. (Let me live with my illusions, please.)

In other Tuna Man related news, he recently answered the call to coach Little Tuna Boy's soccer team. He's been so nervous about it, which is really cute. (I wonder if he thought I was cute when I was sick to my stomach about coaching softball? Hmmm?)

Last night was their first practice. Some of those kids were damn good (better than our kid, for sure) and they kept Tuna Man on his toes. It was so cute to see my man interact with these boys. And it made me wonder just what he's like at work (or at least at his old work where he spent most of his time teaching).

Oh, speaking of teaching, Tuna Man is also considering teaching in the school he just graduated from. Isn't that funny? Get a degree and turn around and teach? But supposedly, they need people.

And then we'll be rich. (What? Illusions, people. Illusions.)

In other get rich quick news, Tuna Man also was recently certified as a hockey referee. Now that I can totally see. Without experience he can only ref for little kids and adults, but he'll look so cute in his striped shirt. Like he worked a Footlocker.

And then we'll be rich.

Huh? I hadn't realized just how busy Tuna Man has been. (No wonder the lawn needs to be mowed.) (No that is not a euphemism.) (Or maybe it is.)

Frankly, Nothing Will Ever Measure Up

First day at the fancy-schmancy, cost-more-than-my-college private school and my kid gets her binder stolen. By a kid named Toby. Even though her teacher said she knew it was my kid's binder. It was "his word against hers".

Momma Bear ain't happy.

I'm already preparing applications for the other fancy-schmancy, cost-more-than-my-college private school for next year.

Oh, and apparently, I can sneak in just one peanut and wipe out half of the student body.

Huh. Maybe there's my plan for ensuring a place at that other fancy-schmancy, cost-more-than-my-college private school.

In fact, armed with peanuts I may be able to take over the world.

Woo Hoo! Back to School!

First and Fourth Grade

Kindergarten and Third Grade

Preschool 4 and Second Grade

Preschool 3 and First Grade

Skipping a couple of years (got to get those pictures off the other computer) to the girl's very first day of Preschool 3.

My, how they have grown.

Let's Be Honest

Okay, let's be honest. First of all, if I hadn't written that post last night, I never would have written on my blog again. It was do or die.

I have been suffering from intense writer's block, but only because I've been so fucked up lately.

I'm trying really hard to give myself credit here. Whenever I feel down for more than a couple of days, I worry that something more is wrong with me. I've seen too many people suffer with depression, and I just don't want to go down that path.

But I have to cut myself some slack. Moving was hard. I miss my friends and my comfortable life. I miss being the person in the know. I miss being the person everyone counted on. I really liked being that person.

Creating a new reputation for yourself sucks. Nobody gives you the benefit of the doubt when you're just that new mom at school. Or that new neighbor who doesn't know how to garden.

I've lived within the uber safety of a military base for too long.

I find that I am inexplicably nervous about going out at night. I don't want to get gas or pick up groceries once it is dark out. I have never been fearful before. I walk all around New York City but I'm afraid to venture out in Virginia Beach! That's stupid!

My natural shyness and fear of judgement is in hyper drive. I've forced myself to go to the new parent orientation and a beach party at school, but I don't talk to anyone.

I put off RSVPing to a blogger's party because I was too nervous to go by myself and I was waiting to see if my husband would be home from his TDY in time to go with me. And then I completely forgot about it. I feel so bad, first for being rude and second for missing the opportunity to make friends. (And third for writing about it here before I sent said blogger a note of apology.)

Ack. I could very easily fall into a pool of the I-hate-myselves right now. I'm trying very hard to give myself time and slack.

On the positive side, I love where I'm living and I see lots of potentially happy days ahead. I'm, as always, very happy with my family. We laugh all the time.

The biggest news around here right now is that the kids and I have practiced violin for 65 days in a row. We took a 100 Days of Practice challenge and we're really kicking it up a notch. In fact, just the other night when my daughter got in trouble for throwing a fit, she started crying that she didn't want to miss violin practice. You've got to love that. If we hit 365 days of practice in a row, we're going to Hawaii.

On the extremely positive side, tomorrow is the first day of school! Woo hoo! Actually, they had a special day for new students last Wednesday and my son had a half day on Friday. But tomorrow is the first official full day of school.

I'll be peeling rubber out of that parking lot tomorrow morning.

I have to admit, I love having two elementary school-aged kids. I don't miss the days of diapers and preschool at all. I've loved every stage of their growing up and I have no regrets. I can't wait to see what this year will bring.

With 1000 posts under my belt on this here blog, I really thought about hanging it all up. I always swore that I wouldn't let it just fade away, so I either had to throw myself into it wholeheartedly, or let it go.

I've decided to throw myself into it wholeheartedly. Let's be honest. The truth is that I need my blog now more than ever.

With the kids back in school, look for daily writing from me once again. It won't all be brilliant, but it will be something. Something I need.

How The Olympics Ruined My Life

I've noticed that I'm not the only person out there looking haggard and worn this week. I've been staying up late, just like everyone else, watching the Olympics.

I don't mean to. Every night I tell myself that I've already read the results, I don't really care about ping pong, and sleep is more important than yelling at yet another judge.

But I keep watching. I keep getting sucked back in.

I can understand staying up to watch Michael Phelps win gold, or the drama of underage girls contorting themselves on a balance beam, or even the bevy of tight muscles so well displayed on divers, beach volleyball players and world class runners.

But last night I stayed up all night watching walking.

Walking!

I stayed up all night watching men swivel their hips around a sidewalk for four hours.

What the hell?

Little Tuna Girl = Death of Me?

For a few days, I've had an idea for a post peculating in my brain. I was going to write about how much the Little Tuna Girl has grown and changed in the last few years. You know, kind of a "Little Tuna Girl Not So Little Anymore" kind of thing.

But right now she is crying her eyes out and making herself sick because she got ten wrong on her math homework. (Yes they have summer homework.)

So I am not feeling so charitable toward her at the moment. I'm afraid the tone of such a piece would not be one that I would want to stand the test of time.

Meanwhile I have noticed that this is my 999th post (such as it is).

I must consider if my 1000th post has significant meaning to me or not. Hmmmmm. Something to think about.

A Moment

It's hard to believe that just last weekend I was feeling lonely.

I just did a little dance to celebrate the husband and kids leaving the house.

It's been a hard week. Not because anything big happened but because we've all been a little out of sorts. This summer is stretching on and on and I am so ready for fall. I guess it is probably harder for all of us to make friends and feel at home without our normal routine of school.

The kids start school in less than two weeks.

Right now I'm going to savor a few moments of alone time. And eat cookies. And count the hours until I drop the kids off for the first day of school.

And then eat more cookies.

I'd like mornings better if they started later.

The world is an entirely different place at 6 in the morning.

I rarely see this hour.

Over my three days of alone time I totally screwed up my sleep. Without anything or anyone to wake up for I slept until I wasn't tired anymore. Which meant that I slept until almost 3 in the afternoon last Friday. (I must have been really tired!) Which meant that I couldn't fall asleep at all that night. And the damage was done.

But when I felt unexpectedly tired at 9 last night, I followed my husband to bed* and hoped that my problem was solved.

But I was wide awake by 1 a.m. and couldn't stand to stay in bed another moment.

I so fervently wish that I could be a morning person. This morning I got to hang out and chat with my husband while he got ready for work. I got to spend some quality time with my son who is sickeningly happy in the morning. He was even dancing! And I got to sip coffee while the men in my life had bacon and eggs. It was nice.

I feel like if I could just wake up at 6 a.m. every morning my life would be so much better. All of my problems would be fixed. I'd be the kind of person who exercises and folds laundry right out of the drier. I'd be the kind of person who saves money and has a hobby. I'd be the kind of person who has a clean house and...does stuff.

My teeth would be white. My hair would blow in a constant wind. And I'd wear...outfits!

I could star in my own herpes commercial!

But, alas, even typing this entry has taxed me too much. A morning of penance for a long weekend full of sloth could never turn me into what I most certainly am not; a white-teethed, blowing-haired, non-slothed exerciser who folds laundry whilst scrapbooking and balancing my checkbook.

I pretty much am the stereotypical housewife who sits on her fat ass eating bon bons all day and it is time I embrace it! After I go have a nap.

This morning sun is killing me.

* Get your minds out of the gutter. We don't do that sort of thing. We're old married people, one of whom is covered in poison ivy.

Home Sick

My daughter just called me crying.

She has a headache and she is homesick and she misses me.

Awwww. Poor kid.

Funny though, I can leave her with my parents for a week or more and she loves it. But with her dad and brother she's upset?

I wonder if something happened.

Poor baby girl. I miss them too.

Who would have thought.

Alone Party 08!

I am all alone until Sunday night.

Woo hoo!

My husband was going to take a little road trip to return the car trailer we used when we moved. He was also going to visit his mom.

But the kids asked to go with him and now suddenly I have a whole long weekend to myself.

How am I celebrating?

Today I slept in. And I haven't gotten dressed yet.

I think I'll go to McDonald's later. Woo hoo! Because I could never do that with the kids.

Truly, I'll spend all of my time unpacking and masturbating. But probably not in that order.

It's Alone Party 08! Woo hoo!

Wild Hair

In the middle of the night last night I spent about two hours online researching how I can become a school teacher in Virginia.

Why? Why the fuck would I do that!?

I'm worried about money. Like, a lot.

But after taking ten years off to raise kids (never mind the two years before that when I changed jobs three times because of moves) I'm not really qualified to do anything in my degree but an entry level job. (if that...who wants a 35-year-old "marketing girl"?)

Which I would hate. I at least have enough experience to know that.

I still want to be a stay-at-home mom. Desperately. I don't want to leave my kids during those all important before and after school hours.

Freelance writing works for me, (I've done it successfully before) but building a client base takes work and I don't have the energy or patience anymore.

Teaching seems like a good fit, because it would still leave me free for the summers. I've always enjoyed coaching (actually, I've always loved it...high stress though it may be).

I'm good with kids.

I'm just freaking afraid of them.

I could get a Masters in Teaching with initial liscensure and be a teacher in about two and a half years.

Which does nothing to contribute to our bottom line now.

I don't know. Is this something to think about?

Or have I gone off the deep end.

Me? A teacher? That's fucking insane.

Update on House

I'm still only about 40% unpacked in the new house. I'm still living out of a suitcase. Pathetic, I know. I guess I forgot that I still had to live life while I was unpacking.

So last night I spent an house really scrubbing and organizing the kitchen, breakfast area, and family room just so I could take a picture of that space and stick them in a blog post entitled Light at the End of the Tunnel.

But when I came downstairs this morning, the family room looked like this:




Must remind myself:

a) Train tracks are a great toy for kids

b) My son is developing his mind as he plays

c) I'm lucky my kids will play so quietly and happily together

(The tracks are his doing, the animals and people are her doing.)
Check out those wood floors though.

Clean and nice homes are only worth so much. Even if I am going to kill the dog for peeing on our brand new (expensive) area rug AGAIN!

While I'm at it, here is the front of our house. I never have been able to get a good shot of it.

I'll Be There For You

I know my husband goes to work everyday. I know he works in a cubicle farm.

I couldn't tell you what he was doing if my life depended on it. And neither could he.

I'm married to Chandler Bing!

Oh, he could spew a bunch of meaningless Air Force jargon and acronyms at you, but even he doesn't know what that shit means.

And he's already planning on doing this shit for the rest of his life. Or, as he corrected me, "Not the rest of my life Just until the kids are out of college." Which is (twelve plus four, carry the one...)16 more years!

He says he likes it here so much that he's willing to do whatever it takes to stay here until his military retirement in seven years. Even if it means taking a year tour of Iraq or whatever country we tear up next.

I find it hard to believe that my warrior can truly be happy working in a cubicle. I'm worried about him.

His work used to be all consuming. He was about family and the mission, in that order. Now I'm worried that he needs more.

For the first time in years and years, I'm worried that I need more. It's funny because he'll do anything to make me happy. And I'll do anything to make him happy.

I hope we're not cancelling each other out!

Slipped the Surly Bonds of Earth

We lost three friends in Sunday's B-52 crash.

An old friend we went through aviation training with
An old friend who was a squadron-mate for four years
And a young student of my husband's

My heart is breaking for their families, especially their young children. And the other three crew member's families as well. It is a sad time in our corner of the world.

It all hits very close to home. May they live on in the hearts of their fellow aviators.


High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
No 412 squadron, RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941

Born on the Bayou

I have found myself in the unimaginable position of defending the bayou more than once lately.

I never thought I would feel defensive of my old bayou community. If you've been paying attention at all, you know that I used to live in Northwestern Louisiana. And I hated it there but after...what?...nine years there, I developed certain roots.

Now whenever people in our new community ask where we moved from and I say "Louisiana" they look at me with pity.

It wasn't that bad.

One of the teachers at our new Suzuki violin school asked me, "Oh! So they even had a Suzuki program there?"

And I wanted to yell, "A hell of a lot better one than you have, snooty!" Which is unfortunately true. (Though we've ended up with a new teacher (and doctor's wife) who moved down here form Connecticut and I am THRILLED with her!)

So people are surprised that we did anything other than tractor pulls, chew and crawfish boiling down on the ole' bayou. And I have to laugh at myself for not agreeing with their characterization.

Hell, I do agree with their characterization. To a point. But it is my bayou to make fun of. Not theirs.

Besides, my kids were born and raised on the bayou. So now I will defend its merits until the day I die.

The Flaw of Perfection

We all have flaws. Some of us have more than others. It takes a certain amount of maturity to recognize our own flaws. My flaw?

An all-too-often, overwhelming urge to say, "I told you so."

I guess it wouldn't be so bad if I weren't so often right.

*ahem*

This "I told you so" will cost us a decent chunk of change.

Dammit. Not much is going right lately. The last two months have caught up with me.

Do they still have a poor house?

Waiting for Word

I had some complaining-type, whiny crap floating around in my head to post about today. But then I got word of an aircraft crash.

Six friends from our old base crashed in the Pacific. Two have been recovered but we don't know what condition they are in. We're not even positive which crew it was.

Spouses are conditioned, particularly in our little corner of the aviation world, to think of our aircraft as crash-proof. There has only been one mishap since Vietnam. These little four month deployments to Guam are supposed to be the safe ones.

Today I am guiltily happy that we are here. My husband is only one little bridge away working in a cubicle.

My stomach is cramping with feeling for some of my fellow spouses today.

Update--10:45 PM: My husband confirms two are dead. Latest AP story says three. Still waiting on names. Is it horrible to hope that the names do not belong to our oldest friends?

Throw Rocks at Boys

Oh, holy hotness. I am standing in a puddle.

Are there any ugly servicemen out there? I never seem to have them visit my house.

First there was the hot plumber, and now...

The hottest man I have ever seen repaired my husband's windshield.

I thought he was a cutie when he had his sunglasses on. But then he took them off and I nearly expired.

Fit, handsome, beautiful smile and amazing eyes.

I'm going to go throw rocks at my car.

Vertical Drop (just like giving birth)

It's hard to believe that I am the mother of a nine-year-old. That's only one year away from being the mother of a ten-year-old. And that sounds freaking old.

Since my poor baby girl hasn't had the chance to make friends yet, we decided to take her on a day trip instead of having a party for her birthday. But first we let her open presents and pick a place to have dinner the night before.

She was so cute because she wanted to tell the waitstaff that it was her birthday but she was a tiny bit too shy. My husband did it for her so she got her special dessert complete with singing waiters (cute ones too).

Then I helped her make her own cake. She chose to make a French Vanilla cake (from a mix, because I'm not a masochist) with chocolate fudge frosting.

She's quite the decorator.

Making and sharing the cake might have been her favorite part of her birthday especially since it was delicious. But the roller coasters may have topped it.

We went to Busch Gardens Europe and my little scaredy-cat rode every single roller coaster there. Including the Griffon. Which has a straight vertical drop. That they suspend you over for about five seconds. And we were in the front row.

My throat hurts from screaming.

It was nice to see my daughter so happy. Both kids claimed it was the best birthday of their lives (even though it isn't my son's birthday).

Next year...she'll have friends and a party. Hopefully, I will too.

Free at Last

I got about 48 hours into my parents' visit before they started driving me crazy.

By this morning, I couldn't take it anymore. Just get out of my house. Get out!

I haven't had a moment to myself in a week to blog, answer my phone, even to clean my house.

And my husband and I didn't finish the work we wanted done last week by our own timeline so now we have to hunker down for another week and just work.

But in the meantime, I am taking a day off. Who knew that taking care of a six-year-old and a newly-nine-year-old could be so much easier than taking care of a fifty-nine-year-old and a sixty-one-year-old?

Something Wicked This Way Comes

They're on the Jersey turnpike now.

Da dum.

Da dum.

Da dum. Da dum. Da dum. Da dum.

Timeline

My parents are driving down to visit. It should take them about 12 hours. My father can't really fly anymore so they are ecstatic to have us living within a day's drive.

Last week they told me they were leaving on the 10th. So I figured I had until Thursday night to set up the guest room.

Yesterday they told me they were leaving on the 9th or the 10th.

Tonight they told me they are leaving at midnight. Tonight. They'll be here by about ten tomorrow.

And the guest room? It's completely full of boxes and crap. Boxes and crap I have nowhere to put yet.

My husband is a saint. He just busted his ass to move it all around. And he bought a mattress and box spring. And he moved them up the stairs. And he snuck out to buy a pink Schwinn for my daughter's birthday this weekend.

The parents will be here until at least next Monday.

I'm going to owe my husband big time.

Tongue Tied

A few years ago this blog was All Jaw Surgery, All the Time. But before the surgery came years of braces. Braces I had put on when my son was a little baby.

I didn't want to.

I feared that my son, who spent all of his time with me because Daddy was deployed for much of his first three years, wouldn't develop proper language skills. I was afraid he wouldn't learn how to speak correctly because of all my lisping and mumbling through braces, appliances, retainers, and wired shut jaws.

My husband thought I was nuts.

Today I was vindicated, in the worst way possible.

My son scored in the 1st percentile for articulation. Anything below the 16th percentile is cause for concern. The 1st percentile, people. The first!

My brilliant son who is always in the 99th percentile for every other freaking thing in his life has way more speech problems (relative to his age) than we thought.

And those speech problems are what kept him out of the fancy school we wanted.

But their rejection is what drove me to the speech pathologist office, so I guess it was some sort of blessing. At least now he'll get the help he needs.

My husband thinks it is the difference between the bayou and the real world. No one thought his speech was any where near bad enough to need help back on the bayou. But here they are planning therapy three days a week.

I learned a lot in the therapists' office today. (More on some of that later). But the most important thing I learned is that I am freaking lucky to have such normal kids. Even my daughter who we've always thought of as a freak. There were kids there with serious developmental, social and psychological issues and I listened to their parents in the waiting room.

God, I have it good. Even if my son is literally tongue tied.

Pity Party in the Trash Pile

In my quest to be the absolute last person to jump on any bandwagon, I've recently fallen in love with Ace of Cakes on the Food Network. I'm fascinated not only by the characters who work in Duff Goldman's bakery, but by the stories behind the cakes too.

If anyone ever cared so much that they had a beautiful and unique cake designed especially for me, I would be beside myself. But the Ace of Cakes' cakes start at a grand. So I think I'll be waiting for some time. (Maybe someone will order one to be served at my wake.)

My birthday this year was kind of horrible. It started out really amazing. My friends threw me a farewell lunch. When my husband happened to mention to my friend SW that the lunch was scheduled for the Friday before my birthday, she went ahead and arranged for everyone to surprise me with gifts.

It was all so sweet and overwhelming. It's the first birthday party I've had since I was a kid.

But my actual birthday truly sucked. Other than a phone call from my mother and Patrick (who is alive, by the way) it was completely ignored.

My husband didn't even get me a card. My own husband.

When I got down about it my husband ran out to Lowes and got me a gift card. Which he planned to use to pay for new flooring for our new family room. So not only was it a last minute gift, it was truly thoughtless too.

I don't know. The whole world could forget my birthday and it would be fine as long as my husband remembered. But for it to be just another day to him after he had been hinting at doing something really special for once...well. He hurt my feelings.

He ended up not buying the flooring from Lowes. That just occurred to me today while I was fantasizing about some of the things I'd love to buy for the house. I couldn't remember what I had done with it. But then it suddenly hit me.

It was in an envelope. And I think I threw it away yesterday.

Now I have to go diving through the bags of trash piled up in our garage awaiting a trip to the dump to find a valuable birthday gift I wish I had never received.

Maybe by my 40th birthday someone will pull something together. I guess that gives me five years to make some friends.