I love it!

I saw this over at Water Colour Boy (usually NSFW) and just had to share.

I live in a world of men who came of age to the sights and sounds of Top Gun. In fact, we refer to this generation of aviators as the Top Gun Generation.

And of course, you all know my love of the gays. (I was going to say "homos" there, but I just can't bring myself to do it. I don't think I'm allowed. But doesn't "the gays" sound weird too? And why is lesbian most often used as a noun but gay is most often used as an adjective? And why am I writing a whole 'nother blog post as a fucked up parenthetical phrase?)

So I think this rendition of Top Gun 2: Brokeback Squadron is just genius. (And clearly, I am not.)

Crack my shit up! Fo shizzle.

Okay, I have a list of eleven things I'd like to write about. And not one of them is the least bit funny. And after yesterday's post, well, enough of that boring shit for now.

So I was checking my stat meter and trying to think of something light-hearted to say.

When I came across this. I'm probably late to the game as usual, but it cracked me up. And now I can't stop talking like Snoop Dog. It ain't pretty.

I don't gangsta mizzle at all from mah pimpin' day.

Whizzat, oh what, have they done ta mah preshizzous shawty boy?

Maybe that would makes a good Valentizzles Day gift n shit.

Speaking of which, so a lot of you are men. Right? Or you're married to men.

In all the years we've been together, I can't recall ever once really wowing my husband with a Valentine's Day gift.

Suggestions?

Um, suggestion that cost under $200?

Thanks fo` yo hizzle, playas.

Snapshots, Part 2

Part 1 is here.

While I was in New York, Patrick and I kept revisiting a conversation about memories.

I am awful about remembering things. I can remember lists of mundane facts and schedules down to the smallest detail, but I can't remember the first time my husband told me he loved me. I can't even remember the first time we had sex.

All of my special memories are more like snapshots. They isolate one moment in time and freeze it forever in the album of my heart. (As sappy as that sounds, I was going to say brain instead of heart. But these really are memories more of the heart.)

I don't remember much at all from my wedding day. Oh, I can tell the stories like I remember the moments. But I'm really only repeating stories I've told before. I have a very clear memory of me smashing my head as my father enthusiastically helped me out of the limo before the ceremony. I can remember feeling so afraid that my voice would come out as a cracked peep when I started to say my vows. But I don't remember what we said.

I barely remember my childhood at all. But I have a clear mental picture of stealing my brother's sneaker from the back steps of my grandparents' house, and how my brother chased me around laughing trying to get it back. I wasn't even two-years-old yet according to my mother. Which makes sense, because I can remember laughing around the pacifier in my mouth.

The only thing I remember about my first date with my husband was having a hard time choosing what movie snack we wanted. We settled on Oreos.

I've won some important sports games in my life. My teams played basketball in the Boston Garden, won a state softball championship, and twirled at the World Chamionships. But my only clear memories are of arguing on the team buss, getting knocked out at home plate, and shaving my legs for the first time before a competition. Oh, and there was that one time we lost a couple of softball players at Disney World. There's no way I could ever forget that.

It's sad to me, but most of my kids' lives are a blur up until this point. I'm still at a point (maybe I'm not far away enough from it yet) when most of my clear memories are of bad times. And my son will probably resent it someday, but I can remember the moment my daughter was born with crystal clear clarity. All I remember of his birth is searing pain.

Even my recent memories are hit and miss.

I can recall recent things if I sit and think about them. For example, I can pretty much remember everything that happened when I went to New York in December of 2004 to meet a bunch of bloggers. But I know that over the years those memories will fade and wash out, like old newsprint. Who knows which ones will stick as snapshots? Who knows what moments in time I'll be remembering when I'm a grandmother?

I can guess.

I bet I'll remember the overwhelming feeling of excitement as I got off the plane. I'll probably remember the way Patrick looked when he caught my eye in the terminal. And I might remember saying goodbye to MAK and Patrick in front of my hotel.

Or maybe not.

Maybe all that I'll recall from that trip is the extremely frightening drive through Queens to get to the airport in the hired car.

It took me years to figure out that I'll only keep a few snapshots from these times. But now that I know, I try to hold on to some moments. To be savored later. To hold on to when times are hard. To hold close to my heart and never let go.

My daughter's face during her ballet recital.
My son's reactions on his first day of school.
My husband's speech when he was promoted.
My parent's wonder at my daughter's violin playing.
Patrick's reaction to the gift my husband gave him.
CB's sentiment the day she moved away.

Because just like the snapshots here, these moments in time...these are the moments I want to remember. Moments as beautiful as the people I love.

And if some of these snapshots are of bad times, or injuries, or fights, or yelling? That's okay too. Because as my life unfolds more and more I realize that these moments are beautiful too. Because they are real. As real as the people I love.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

I just read an e-mail my husband had forwarded from work. The subject line was:

DEATH GRATUITY INCREASES TO $100,000

And he wrote:

I am worth more now!!

ME

*****

You know, he's really always wanted to go skydiving. Maybe that would make a good Valentine's Day gift.

Breaking the Curse

I have my own stall at the local Barnes & Noble.

I don't know what it is about that place, but every time I go in there, I end up using the restroom. And when I say "using the restroom" I mean using it in the most used manner possible.

I thought it was just the local store, but I have found this B&N curse to hold true for me in Vegas, Boston, and New York. Even when I don't think I have to go, I can wander around the store for just a few minutes and then have to dash to the Ladies'. (By the way, the restroom in most Barnes & Nobles is located near the children's section. There are probably less accidents that way, I would guess.)

Yesterday, my husband and I got to spend the day together. After sitting through a meeting at the kids' school, we ended up at the Starbucks Cafe, located in the Barnes and Noble.

We sat and talked for an hour.

After an hour, it suddenly occurred to me that not only hadn't I had to run to the bathroom, I still didn't feel like I might need to. "Hey! I haven't been to the bathroom yet!" I told my husband. Woo hoo! The curse was broken. Now I could maybe start looking the B&N employees in the eyes.

We only had about fifteen minute to kill before we needed to pick up my son, so we started to peruse some books.

And, damn it! I had to pee.

"Figures," I told my husband. "I have to pee. I'll be right back."

Well, at least it was just pee.

I did my business, washed up, and returned to shopping with my husband. And not one minute went by, before I had to make a mad dash.

Damn it, damn it, damn it!

"What the hell is it about this place?" I asked my husband as I raced away. He only laughed at me.

Well, on the bright side, at least I know of a place where I can go if I ever get constipated.

Does anyone else have a curse like me?

Before and After Monday Tuesday, Part 2

Alternately titled: What I Did On My Winter Vacation

This is our playroom before the holidays.







Yes. It is humiliating.

And then a dear relative sent us a check for Christmas with a note attached that read, "Do something for yourselves. No paying bills!"

So a thousand dollars and about thirty hours of labor later, Santa was able to fill up a newly organized room with way too many toys. It costs a lot of money to be organized!









Who knew we had blue carpets?

The best news? It's been a month and the kids are still keeping it neat! Woo hoo!

Before and After Monday, Part 1

Alternately titled: What have they done to my child?!

My poor baby boy. This is a picture of my child before the butchers got to him.



And this is a picture of my child after he'd been scalped.



What, oh what, have they done to my precious little boy?

They've turned my child into a future serial killer! That's what. Or maybe a militia member. Whenever you see pictures of those people as kids, they always looked like this. Didn't they?

Every night after his bath, we have a little routine that we go through as we comb his hair.

I rub it with a towel and make it stand up all crazy. He giggles. Then he says, "Make it neat, Mommy. Make me handsome!"

I spike it all up and say, "Do you want to look like Uncle Patrick?"

And he says, "Yes!"

So I do that thing where you smooth out most of the top but leave a little spiked in the front.

And he giggles maniacally and says, "NO! NO! Smooth it out. Make me handsome."

The night before I took him to the barber he asked me if he could get his hair cut like Uncle Patrick for good. He wants the spiky front all the time.

Except, whoops. Mommy doesn't know the right words to get the right haircut and now he looks like his daddy.

My husband says that if he ever goes to bootcamp, we can send him this picture to show him what he'll look like with shorn hair.

I think if he ever finds this picture he's going to come back to us wailing, "Mom! Dad! How could you have done this to me?"

What I Learned in 2005

I'm not one much for looking back. I like to plan for the future, and I can dream about it too. But I'm usually so intent on the present that I don't spend a lot of time in reflection.

But I have another whole year of my life sitting right here on my blog for all to see.

Over the last couple of nights, I've been re-reading everything I wrote in 2005. And wow. Holy crap. We went through a lot last year.

But like everything in life, I can learn from it. And what better way to culminate a year, then in seeing what I learned in 2005.

• How to spell desert.


• Doctors don't return your underwear to you when they decide you don't need it any more.


• Why I'm always getting Internet searches for tuna tampons.


• Speaking of tampons...When you're going to talk about bloody tampons with someone, it is best to find the hottest guy you can.


• Sometimes my friend's advice is right on the mark.


• And there's nothing like welcoming back an old friend.


• People love urine stories.


• And Poop is funny. No really. It is.


• My worlds can collide and no one will get hurt.


• Apparently, war is hell.


• I really am the worst mother ever! There's no two ways around it.


• My daughter is a suck up.


• My kids are in cahoots.


• My son really knows his fashion.


• And it starts really, really young.


• But still, the pain of labor really was worth it.


• Pictures of hot guys can pretty much trump any writing I could ever do.


• I should really read the directions on my White Strips more carefully.


• I say "fuck" a lot when facing off against a winged creature of death.


• The squirrels will get their revenge for the entire animal kingdom.


• Some bloggers can be very bad influences.


• And Mark can make little girls cry.


• Speaking of which, I learned how to pronounce zeitzeuge.


• Being a fairy can be fun.


• How to drink, and drink.


• And that when I drink, I can take fag hag to a whole new scary level.


• Talking about herpes on your blog will bring you some fucked up Google searches for months to come. (Sorry, Barrett!)


• But if you're going to talk about herpes on your blog, don't include a picture of yourself in the post.


• Always check for a towel before you get in the shower.


• My dog hates me.


• Blog fodder can be hard to come by. (Get it? Hard?)


• It's all about the cookie.


• According to you guys, I should never have washed my husband's jock strap.


• And, oh yeah! Sharing TMI is kind of fun.


• And most importantly, I learned that even when I don't feel lovable, I am loved. I am very, very loved.

Oh, and the one thing I didn't learn? What the hooks in my ceiling are for.

I Hate to be Late!

Oooh. I'm in deep shit.

I went to babysit my daughter's class today while the teachers had a meeting. The meeting was supposed to be over at noon. The other mothers who were supposed to help me didn't show up. The teacher didn't come back until 12:30.

And during all that time, my husband was home for lunch and watching the boy. He was supposed to be back at work as close to noon as possible.

But there I was. Stranded on a playground all alone with 42 first graders. What could I possibly do?

To make it worse, I had forgotten my phone and couldn't even tell him I would be late. And then I hit every red light between school and home.

It's not like he was missing some boring accounting meeting. He was supposed to be mission planning.

As soon as I pulled up in front of our house, he came out of the door and hopped in his truck. With me yelling, "I'm sorry!" after him.

I feel bad. But I'm pissed off too. There is nothing, nothing, that bothers me more than people who are late. Except for people who don't show up at all.

Have we lost all sense of responsibility?

Oh! And to top off my afternoon, the kids decided to play Guess How Old the Substitute Is.

"Thirty-nine?" No.

Forty-two?" No!

"Thirty-eight?" Jeepers!

"37? 36? 35? 34? 33? I know. 32!" Yup.

"That's old!"

Yeah, well, I'm younger than your mother, kid.

The Night Life, Tuna Style

My husband is flying tonight.

It's been a while since he's had a night flight. And it's been half a year since he was deployed.

I've forgotten what it was like to have an entire evening to fill by myself. Albeit, an evening when I cannot leave the house.

I took the kids out to dinner after their homework was done and they had played outside for a while. Then I took them to the bookstore and spoiled them rotten.

I considered renting a movie for myself, but it was getting late and we had to get home for violin practice and baths. So I figured I'd watch some TiVo instead.

But by 9 p.m. I was bored out of my skull. I sprawled across my bed and just thought and talked to myself for over an hour.

I should never ever, under any circumstances, spend that much time in my own head. It is a scary place to be.

I've been cruising along as happy as a clam here for a while. And then wham! Someone must have pulled the emergency breaks. (I'm betting that someone was my hormones. Damn hormones!) And I've been singing the I hate myself song.

Do you know that song? I think everybody has their own version. Mine is to the tune of I Touch Myself by The Divinyls. What does that say about me? No wait. Don't answer that.

Blech.

I know I should go to bed.

Waiting up until 3 a.m. when my husband will probably be home will not make for a happy Tuna Girl in the morning. And I have to substitute in my daughter's class for a couple of hours, with my son in tow. So I need to be on top of my game. God! How I dread that.

But greeting my husband when he gets home, and asking him, "How was your flight?" will make me feel better. And snuggling up next to his warm body and listening to his heart beat and hearing him tell me how much he loves me will make me feel great.

In fact, sucking up some of his good vibe may even give me the strength to deal with 42 first graders tomorrow.

Or not.

I'm betting on not.

Quick! Trade lives with me?

Kids and Pets say the Darndest Things

We were eating dinner at the dining room table the other night. (We do that, occasionally.) I have family portraits on the buffet and the wall in that room, and the kids love to look at them.

Son: (Looking at our wedding picture) Mommy, I was so happy for you when you got married.
Daughter: Buddy, you weren't around yet when they got married. You weren't born yet.
Son: Oh. Mommy, when are you going to get married again so I can see you?
Me: Never, Honey. You only get married once. (pause) Well, you only get married once if you marry the right person.
Daughter: But what if you don't marry the right person?
Me: Well... (looking at my husband for support!) That's why you have to make sure you marry the right person. Like I married Daddy.
Daughter: But how do you know who the right man is to marry?
Husband: (Laughing!) You just asked a question for the ages, Honey.
Daughter: Well...how do you know? (Looking at me)
Me: Stop laughing! When you love someone as much as I love Daddy, you'll just know that they are the right person.
Husband: (Laughing harder!)
Me: Okay. Yes. That was the same thing my mother told me, and it didn't answer my question either.
Son: I'm going to get married! I'm going to marry the right person.
Me: Yeah, Buddy. Who are you going to marry?
Son: (Looking me over, than turning to his sister) My sister!
Daughter: You can't marry someone in your family, Bud.
Son: Yes I can. But, Mommy? I'm not old enough to drive yet, so will you drive us to getting married?
Husband: (Laughing so hard he's snorting now)

So, I thought this was a pretty cute story. Today I had the choice to either masturbate or call my friend Patrick. But I hadn't talked to Patrick in a few days and I have sex every night so...

Me: Oh, the kids said the cutest thing. (Blah, blah, blah and I tell him the story) And she said, "But how do you know who the right man is to marry?"
Patrick: The one with the biggest dick.
Me: Nice.
Patrick: Tell her, "The one who makes the most money and has the biggest dick."
Me: My husband's going to kick your ass, you know.

I should have just masturbated.

I swear I used to be smarter.

I wasn't going to post today, since it is a holiday and the kids and husband are all home. But I oddly feel like they're all playing hooky and I should be going about my normal Monday routine.

It's been an odd weekend, all around.

On Friday, I was headed to the dog groomers when I suddenly realized that it would be a lot more effective if I actually had the dog with me. So I headed back to base.

When I drove through the base gates I saw something odd. There were huge signs for a Coast Guard tenant unit. It's odd because they never post big signs for tenant units. And...oh yeah. The coast is a couple hundred miles away!

I also saw a big charter bus with Coast Guard painted on the side parked on the mall. And throughout the morning, I saw Coast Guard aircraft buzzing around the flight line.

Just as I was starting to think that some major base realignment had happened without me knowing it and that maybe I'd get to meet a blogger friend whose husband is in the Coast Guard, my husband came home.

"Did you see that they're making a movie on base?"

No. But that would explain a hell of a lot. Apparently it's a big budget flick featuring a very famous actor who I won't name. I'm just surprised they couldn't find a Coast Guard base to shoot at. (Wait! That sounds wrong!)

By the way, while I was getting out of the car on Friday, I poked myself in the neck. Don't ask me how I managed it, but I somehow planted the tip of my van key right into the side of my neck. It hurt like heck and I have a stupid looking bruise.

Saturday we spent relaxing, except for when I went to the gym and ogled men--I mean--worked out.

Sunday we took the kids to the new touristy area here on the river. We had a nice day. We saw Hoodwinked and it was really quite good. If you don't have kids to take, you should probably borrow someone's. It was really funny and worth seeing.

And today was all about taking my van to the shop to get things all perfect so that I won't decide that I want a new one. But the Honda Odyssey is so pretty! (I'm not going to mention how I told them that my van's VCR wasn't working and it turned out that I just hadn't put in a tape. I'm just going to blame one of the kids for ejecting a tape without me knowing it.)

That's my life in a nutshell. I swear I'm not a ditz. No really. Ask around. I just do these cute little things so I'll have something to blog about on a holiday Monday.

No.

Really.

The Good One

I rarely talk about my brother here on the blog. He's a good guy, but we've drifted apart. We're so very different.

When we were growing up, my brother was always the good one.

He was the one who never got in trouble, whose room was always clean, and who helped around the house. He was an Eagle Scout, dressed conservatively, and barely dated. I was in trouble all the time, I had to clear a path in my room just to get to my bed, and I had to be threatened to complete chores. I played sports, dressed to attract boys, and slept with those boys whenever I got the chance.

He studied hard and got good grades. I barely studied at all and got good grades.

He chose a college near our hometown so he could live at home. I got the hell out of dodge as soon as possible.

He married a local girl from a good family and bought a house in our home town. I married a military guy from a crazy family and moved 3,000 miles away.

For a brief time, when I had my daughter, I was the good one, because I had provided a grandchild. But days after she was born, my brother called to say that his wife was pregnant. With twins. How could I compete with that? (Not that I ever wanted to.)

But over the next few years, things shifted.

My parents discovered that my brother had married a bit of a control freak. (Which is my way of trying to avoid using the B word.) And he would let her be absolutely awful to my family. His twins turned out to be brats. And by the time they had their third kid, they were using my parents for childcare and totally taking them for granted.

So for about five years, I've been the good one. I may be keeping my kids way too far away from "home", but we've made sure that they've developed a very strong bond to their grandparents.

Being the good one was a novel feeling.

But then...well, first I made some friends over the Internet. And those friends were mostly male. Shocking!

Then we invited one of these friends to stay in our summer house. (Actually, my husband issued that invite, but they seem to have ignored that fact.) The summer house that my parents had been expecting to make a lot of use of. But they couldn't just come and go with that kid staying there. (Umm, that kid is a thirty-five-year-old man, but okay.) And then they found out that kid was G-A-Y! More shocking still!

But the topper happened over the holidays.

They came to visit and assured me that they would only stay for a few days. But since the kids were very ill, and they weren't able to spoil the hell out of them...Excuse me. I meant to say, spend quality time with them. They decided they wanted to stay longer.

When I told them that I was heading to New York for New Years, well...

Now my husband is the good one. He hasn't pissed them off or disappointed them. They call and talk to him and never even ask for me.

And you know what? I'm fine with it. Because after twenty some-odd-years of being the bad one, it's a more comfortable place for me to be.

Besides, my parents need me to keep them on their toes. If it wasn't for me, they'd never learn anything new.

*****

My mother called me last night to tell me that a good friend of my brother's had died unexpectedly in his sleep. They had gone to high school and college together and had worked for the same company for over 13 years.

My brother is 36-years-old.

I know that this should make me feel something.

I should feel like I've wasted years feeling apathetic about my brother and his life. I should feel a strong need to call him and reconnect. I should feel a sense of shock and loss and grief, not for a man I hardly knew, but for my brother's sake. I should feel that life is precious and short.

I don't feel anything.

Have I spent so many years building up my defenses against the good one, that I feel nothing for him anymore?

I am a good, caring, loving person. In fact, I have been told by people I love and trust that I am the most caring person they have ever known.

So why don't I care about my brother?

Snapshots, Part 1

I downloaded the pictures I took in New York in preparation for uploading them to Flickr. And I have to say, except for one cute picture of Aaron, there's not a good one in the bunch.

I'm not one much for taking pictures. I'm either too busy having fun to take out the camera, or I'm too shy. So I usually only have a few snapshots to choose from when I get home from a trip.

But these, well, I have to admit. I look like crap. I look sick. And tired.

In the last couple of days, my husband and I have had two big talks about appearances. We've also talked a lot about the unrealistic physical expectations of gay male culture. I think my husband was a little surprised at at just how deeply ingrained this is. "Worse than women," was his assessment, and I think he's right.

So I've been thinking a lot about looks. Neither one of us is really all that hooked up on appearances. We tend to see the beauty in everyone. But we're human, and we'd both like to weigh less.

So instead of uploading my New York pictures, I uploaded some older photos.

And as I went through my picture folders, I came across some of my favorite snapshots. And I thought I'd share. You may have seen some of these before, but they're worth sharing again.

These are some of the most beautiful people I know (and there would be more pictures of my husband if he was comfortable with me posting pictures of him in his uniform). And yes there are pictures of me too.

Because, damn it, people. We look good! We're all beautiful and it's time we started acknowledging it.

Besides, to me, these snapshots represent moments in time. Moments I want to remember. Moments as beautiful as the people I love.


Me and Patrick in Cleveland


My kids at my husband's promotion celebration


My man and my boy at Disney World


Aaron in New York


My daughter before her ballet recital


The day I got my braces off!


Patrick at Six Flags


Me, three months pregnant. That smile was all for my husband.

And Answers

We haven't gotten final word on my husband's possible deployment, but we did get a most likely answer.

As it stands right now, he will NOT be spending a year in Iraq. He also WON'T be moving to his new job until this summer. Which means we'll be stuck here through summer of 2009 and his next promotion board.

The good news: He's not going to Iraq. (Yay!)

The bad news: He may not be going anywhere, ever. (Boo.)

He suggests that I start earning the millions I'm worth and he can separate from the military and live a life of leisure on Cape Cod. There may be some holes in his plan.

It's weird because my first feeling whenever I hear that he won't be included in a deployment is guilt. Why should I get to have my husband home when so many other wives don't? I know that's strange, but we can't help what we feel, right?

And then, of course, I feel relief. 2005 was not an easy year for us. But even in the midst of it, I knew that we were working through a lot of shit to get to a place on the other side where our marriage would be even better than it was before.

And we're there. And it was worth it. And I really didn't want him to go away just when things were getting so freaking good.

Anyway, it might not make for the most exciting blog post. But I realized last night (when I realized that I hadn't even told Patrick about the not-going-to-Iraq-thing) that there are people out there who worry for me. And I wanted to set their minds at ease.

*****

If you haven't yet, scroll down and de-lurk. You know you want to.

Oh, and for the record, if I had my way, I'd be playing ring toss with some Krispy Kremes and Paul Walker.

I've always wanted to do this.

Feed my ego.

I have it on good authority that today is De-lurking Day. (Or actually, it is De-lurking Week.)

I've always wanted to ask my readers to de-lurk. Every once in a while I meet non-bloggers and non-commenters who read my blog. And I'm always a little shocked.

But asking people to comment seems a little, oh I don't know...so validate-me-my-blog-and-my-existence-please-ish.

But what the hell. Maybe we can have some fun with it.

How about we each use the comments to say hello? And maybe tell us all the celebrity you'd most like to sleep with. Or your favorite food. Ooh, ooh. Or maybe how you'd like to use your favorite food while having sex with your favorite celebrity.

Or you could just say hello. That will work too.

Don't let me down people. I'm enormously shy and I have an extremely fragile ego.

No, really. It's true.

*****

By the way, thanks for all of your kind comments about my husband's possible deployment. Your support really does mean a great deal to me. I appreciate you all being eHere for me.

See how important comments can be?

Last night...

Four. Hours. Straight.

How can I even consider letting this man go off to the desert?

Decisions, Decisions...Out of Our Hands

I take a certain amount of pride in being a military wife. I like to think of myself as strong, and when things get tough my internal mantra sounds something like: I am a military wife. I can deal with anything!

But I also know myself pretty well. And the one thing I can't deal with is uncertainty.

When I met up with my friends in New York, they all asked me about this decision I've been alluding to. The thing about this decision is that it's not so much a secret as it is just really hard to explain. And I generally avoid talking about my husband's job here anyway.

It's complicated.

You see, my husband's next promotion board is in three short years. And it's a big promotion. He needs to do something pretty big to stand out in these next three years, or he won't get promoted.

He is currently in limbo here. He belongs to one squadron but is working in another. It's all fucked up. And it's all because he is a hot commodity. There are only three or four people on this whole base with his exact qualifications, and everybody wants him.

But the job that he should be moving to is on this base. It's a steady, predictable kind of job. And it is a three year commitment. Which means that we'd be living right here, in this same house, with the kids in the same school for another three years. Which sounds great, but...how is he going to distinguish himself to get this next promotion?

Enter the decision.

He has the opportunity to do something that will really distinguish him from his peer group. He has the opportunity to go to Iraq and serve on a staff for a year remote tour.

(Notice my use of the word opportunity there.)

And most importantly, after serving in Iraq for a year, he would get his choice of follow-on assignments. The military folks out there know how huge that its. It would open up a world of opportunity for us. We could finally go to Europe. He could serve on a command staff. His next two ranks would be locked in!

So we had to decide. Did we want to pursue this opportunity and break our ties here? Or did we want to live a safe, predictable life together for the next three years.

We talked and talked about it. We weighed all the pros and cons. We talked about our life's priorities and dreams.

And we decided that, yes. This year-long deployment would be worth it in the long run. It was interesting to note that we also both brought up one particular point while we were discussing this.

Duty.

He joined the military to serve. And there are kids dying over there. Who is he to walk away from that just because he has some rank and a cushy job?

So we got ourselves all psyched up and he met with his commander to tell him our decision. Only to have his commander tell him that it is out of his hands now. His interest in the assignment has been noted, and it will be discussed. But the powers that be don't really want him to go. They can use him here.

So we're in limbo. We're floating in the unknown.

If the answer is no, we probably won't even hear. If the answer is yes, he could be packing his bags for the next flight out.

I hate the unknown.

I can deal with anything. Year-long separations. A husband in a war-torn country. Danger and loneliness, and lost friends, and more.

But I'm learning to deal with the unknown. Because that is my constant state of being.

Goodbye, My Friend

Last night, my daughter sat at her playroom window, looking over at CB's house and crying her eyes out. The moving vans showed up on Tuesday.

Tonight, CB and her family came over for one final goodbye.

It was sad.

I have a headache.

I feel very, very alone right now.

Back Home and Broke

What does a thirty-something housewife do when she is let loose from all her responsibilities and spends New Year's Eve in New York City?

She goes to bed at 6 p.m. on the Upper West Side.

And then she plays mother to a certain person she went to visit who went out with his coworkers and got so drunk he can't remember how he managed to get home at 3:30 in the morning.

It's okay though. That certain drunk person is a pretty cute drunk.

"Buzz me in."

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

"I didn't make it."

And the reason I was so wiped out on New Year's Eve is because I had a great few days before hand.

On Thursday, I met up with everyone's favorite Famous Author, Patrick, and some of Patrick's coworkers for dinner. They were a blast and dinner was great. I hadn't realized that everyone else had been drinking before I arrived. Which is why the dinner conversation turned to the strangest place we'd ever had sex. My back of a limo story was a dud compared to everyone else's.

Then Patrick and I joined Rob for a Cosmo or four at Posh. There was quite the interesting crowd there that night. And a certain fellow found it necessary to show Patrick his Prince Albert. I'm not sure how I missed that one.

On Friday night, Patrick and I joined Jess, Marc, and Aaron for dinner at the restaurant where Patrick works. It was a nice place and dinner was excellent. It was also very obvious that Patrick is very well-liked there. (Of course!)

The five of us ended up at O.W. for after dinner drinks, but not before we called Pua. The crowd there was even more interesting. There were no P.A.s in sight, but holy hell there were some very drunk folks. I think Aaron should have FREAK MAGNET tattooed on his forehead.

I had a blast with those guys too. Jess and Marc are as sweet as can be. Patrick and I were going to hang out more with Aaron that night, but I wasn't feeling so hot. So Patrick played nursemaid and took me home and tucked me in.

We spent New Year's Eve day brunching and shopping. I had planned to go to Jess and Marc's in Long Island after Patrick went to work, but I was feeling sicker and sicker. I begged off (which I hate to do) and hit the hay.

Patrick's neighbors woke me up sometime that night. Someone was getting a little New Year's nookie. And they weren't quiet about it. But I at least got to call my husband and wish him a Happy New Year. I also got to listen to the sound of the fireworks. I've heard plenty of fireworks before in my life, but never in such an urban setting. The sounds echoing off all the buildings were really quite eerie.

Patrick was still drunk the next morning, so we had a pretty low key day. We brunched again and walked Central Park and the Upper East Side. He got off of work early that night and just the two of us had a nice dinner. (A certain Famous Author and his boyfriend couldn't stay up late enough to join us.) We capped my visit off with a quick drink at Marie's Crisis.

I had a really nice trip. It was so nice to see Patrick settling into his new home. You know how sometimes you come home from a vacation and you feel like you need another vacation just to relax. I didn't feel that way at all. I was sad to say goodbye to Patrick as I always am, but I was very happy to be going home to my family too.

And my completely amazing husband had completely cleaned and organized our house while I was away. What an amazing thing to come home to!

I feel so positive about everything right now. I have the greatest best friend, the most wonderful husband, and two very special kids. What a great way to start off a new year.

The Best Laid Plans

It's a damn good thing I had done all of my Santa shopping online before I got sick. Because there was no way I could have made it out to the stores before Christmas day. It would have been better if I had picked something up for my husband too. I felt awful that he was presentless on Christmas morning. But there just wasn't anything I could do about it.

I had lots of plans that didn't get fulfilled. I hate that. Tons of gifts I didn't buy. Boxes of decorations I never put up. Letters I didn't write.

Even now, I'd love to blog about this and that, but I have to pack.

Yes, that's right. Tomorrow I'm off to New York City for just a few days. Like Mardi Gras in New Orleans, New Year's Eve in Times Square is something you should do at least once in your life. Even if it sucks. Right?

Besides, the rest of my trip won't suck. I get to see Patrick and his new swanky apartment. My first order of business is to buy a box of tampons to leave way back in his bathroom closet. Every gay man should have some Tampax buried deep in their closet, don't you think?

I won't have any idea of my schedule until I get there, but if you're in the city and you have my cell phone number, give me a ring.

And have a happy New Year. If you're watching the ball drop on New Year's Eve, keep your eye out for us on the streets. We'll be the two very sober people looking confused at all the hub-bub.

Update: There are two things I've forgotten, and I want to mention them before I go away.

First, I just love Christmas cards from bloggers. They're always the best, sweetest, most creative kind. (Except for mine, of course. I just slap on a picture of my kids and call it a day.) Thanks, you guys!

Second, I know some of you were wondering about the decision I cryptically mentioned a few days ago. Well, we've made the decision on our part. Now everything is in the hands of the two separate entities that have a stake in the outcome. And I can't even cross my fingers one way or the other. It is just too complicated. Either way, something major is going to suck. And it will affect the blog, so you'll be the first to know. Or maybe, like, the third or fourth. Either way, keep a good thought.

You can call me Ross.

I was sick enough last night to actually contemplate showing up at a doctors office and demanding treatment.

But I had a 9 a.m. appointment this morning for my son's annual check-up. And then my daughter woke up at 5 a.m. just as sick as me.

So I used that 9 a.m. appointment for all three of us.

In the time it took the doctor to do my son's well check, the boy started running a fever too.

So after having our fingers pricked and our noses swabbed, we have all officially been diagnosed with the flu.

The flu really sucks.

But isn't my kids doctor great?

When I was picking up our prescriptions I realized that in the last four years, I've only seen a doctor twice. And both times it was a pediatrician.

I'd make some really great joke about it now, but I'm too sick to think. So feel free.

Oh, wait! I have something about a gay man and a gynecologist. You guys make it work.

Bad, Mother. Bad.

Yesterday was my son's birthday. He turned four-years-old and I marked the occasion with a snarky little blog post about TiVo.

It's okay though, because for once I planned and executed a birthday party that went off without a hitch.

The theme of his Saturday party was Tuna Boy's Super Quick Birthday Party. The invitations I sent had a picture of a train flying by with both birthday balloons and Christmas decorations trailing behind. We invited his classmates and my friends' kids for ice cream at the parlor right smack in the middle of the shopping district. The idea was that people could just stop by while they were finishing up their holiday errands.

Almost his entire preschool class showed up. They are an especially sweet group of kids and I really like the parents this year. I am making a conscience effort to be outgoing and make friends with them.

We let him open his gifts with each child as they came in the door. So we avoided that present-opening chaos that usually ends a party. And each kid got a really good look at him opening what they brought.

One thing I have to say for my kid is that he is an extraordinary present receiver. His cries of "Oh thank you so much! I love it!" (and on and on) had the parents so tickled.

It's hard to believe that he's four. That means we've lived in this house for five (unheard of!) years and it's been four years since are first deployment experience.

He was in his first Christmas program today. He was a reindeer in a "modern dance" recital. It was too adorable for words. And my daughter was an angel. She sang songs in French and Latin.

When the hell did they get so old?

I could go on and on, but the husband and I are in the midst of making a very serious decision. It is superseding everything else in our lives.

Suddenly, annoying friends (and if I still blogged about AH I'd have some stories), obnoxious strangers, bratty kids, and tons of shopping just aren't so important. The two of us have been able to go out after his hockey game every night this week and just talk about the pros and cons.

Life all comes down to our marriage and how very much we love each other, our children and how they are growing, and the people we love. (In that order.) I married an amazing man. He's far from perfect (aren't we all?) but he's perfect for me.

And in all of the hardships and separations of the last four years we've been able to raise a pretty awesome kid.

Happy birthday, baby boy! We love you. Whoo hoo!

What are you trying to say?

In the last two days, my TiVo has recorded at least a dozen consecutive episodes of What Not to Wear.

Is someone trying to tell me something?

*****

To my New York friends:

Isn't it a lovely day for a walk?

One Big Happy

Currently, my parents are one state away.

Yesterday morning, they hopped in their grandparent-mobile (a tan minivan, which is even worse than my blue one if you ask me) and headed South, enroute to the land of Tuna.

The amount of stress this causes me is hard to explain.

They're my parents. I love them. I do.

But I find it hard to fit them into our lives here in my own home. I wonder if this is a common feeling for thirty-something family women.

Before my son was born we had a guest room. My parents would come and they'd have a place of their own. And my mom would help so much with the baby that it was like I was getting a vacation.

Now, my son is displaced to his sister's bottom bunk. My father takes my son's bed. And my mother sleeps on a mattress on the floor near the kids because they "expect" it and she "has come to see them, after all."

My mother still helps, but the kids aren't babies anymore. The grandparents disrupt their routine and their sleep and they get cranky and disobedient. To sum up, they get spoiled.

Which is fine. No really. It is. I swear!

I'm glad that my kids are close to my parents. Being a military family can make maintaining family connections hard. But I don't think my kids are missing out when it comes to their grandparents at all. And that is a credit to my parents.

But it is hard to just be me when my parents are around.

They worry constantly that my husband isn't happy. They think he is moody and brooding. I think he does pretty well, considering. But he is a man who is used to having his own space and time. When he goes to bed at 9 p.m., they think it is because they're driving him crazy. And they may well be, but he goes to bed at 9 p.m. most nights anyway.

They worry that I'm avoiding them because they're driving me crazy. And they may well be. But I go to my room at 10 p.m. now (even though I stayed up until midnight as a kid) because I need a few minutes to unwind, catch up with my friends, and maybe write a little something or other.

I don't know when being around my parents got so hard. But doing the simplest things, like paying my bills and sending my Christmas cards, becomes impossible when they're here.

And you can yell at me all you want about being more assertive, but I have to pick my battles with my family, and getting my father to stop spouting racist comments when the kids are around is a top priority to me. (Forget trying to shift his actual ideals. I've been working on that since I was 8-years-old.)

So tonight I need to hot glue a halo (It's Christmas Program time and I suck at making costumes.), pay my bills, mail my Christmas cards, make beds, fold laundry, and complete a myriad of tasks that I won't be able to get to when they're here. Which means I'll be up all night. Which means that I'll run to my room to have a nap as soon as I get a chance. Which will make them think I'm avoiding them. Which will start the whole stressful mess.

Or I could say, "Fuck it all!"

I wonder how other adults deal with their parents' visits. Am I alone in this? Have I let my relationship with them get out of control?

It's so hard when your relationship with your parents shifts. Don't you think?

At least I have a very supportive and understanding husband. We're a team. But his half of the team has flights and hockey games scheduled back-to-back all week.

Hmmm. I wonder if that is a coincidence.

I told you to shoot me.

We've become one of those couples.

I've been very sick. I was planning on going to a brand new doctor today, but instead I slept late. My husband got up with the kids and took them to school for me.

But he woke me up at about 9:30 a.m. and told me to meet him at the car repair shop. He had just made an appointment for my van.

I stumbled out of bed. Threw on the clothes that were on the floor from yesterday, and jumped into his truck to go meet him.

When I hopped down from the cab to switch places with him, I noticed something.

We were wearing the same outfit. Jeans, and grey hooded sweatshirts. We've become one of those couples.

I bet he wasn't going commando, though.

Like Mother, Like Kids

When we became parents, one of our priorities was to raise empathetic children.

Man, have we succeeded.

Or maybe they were just born with big hearts. Either way, I'm very proud of them.

In the last couple of weeks, my husband has commented quite a few times that they are both just like me. I always scoff. But he may be right.

My daughter can be just a tiny bit of a drama queen. I'd normally never admit it, but...yeah, okay. I can lay on the drama too, if I think it makes for a good story. So, check!

My son is extremely imaginative. He "tells stories" constantly. So much so, that you never know when to respond to him. "He's going to be a writer," I tell my husband. And he says that he gets it from me. That someday there may be a Little Tuna Boy blog. Let's hope he doesn't follow in my footsteps. But, overactive imagination? Yeah. Check.

She can be lazy. Check.

He can be stubborn. And obstinate. Check. Check.

But they are the most caring children I have ever met, and I say they get that from their father. And he says, "Bullshit. They get that from you."

My daughter is very concerned that Uncle Patrick doesn't have a bed to sleep on. She's excited about his new apartment, but is concerned that he won't get his mail. She worries that he works too late at night. And she's upset that he has to walk home on dark streets. That girl thinks too much.

Hmmm, I wonder where she gets that from?

I had no idea how concerned I was for my friends, or how it was affecting my mood, until I reread some of my blog. And now that things are working out so well for my friends, both Patrick and CB and even some other friends I don't blog about, I'm feeling the relief right down to my bones. My friends are great, deserving people.

Now I feel like I'm getting my shit together too.

So, my kid's caring and concerned and dramatic and sensitive and a worrier.

Um...yeah...shit...damn...

I hate to admit it, but...

Check. Check. Check. Check. And check.

All I want for Christmas...

The Clothes I'm In

If one more straw comes to rest upon this camel's back, she is going to crumple like her bones were made of porcelain.

As is always the case with me, it's not the big things that get me down. It is the myriad of small things that pile up to make me feel like I'm suffocating.

Today it was a jacket.

When I want to feel close to someone who is far away, I will often wrap myself in their clothes to feel more connected. When I was a kid, I'd take my mom's t-shirts to camp with me. When my husband is deployed, I wear his thermal t-shirts to bed.

These last couple of weeks, I've been wearing an old suede jacket of Patrick's that he gave to me when he moved. I've been stressed for him (not worried for him...there's a big difference) and wrapping myself in his comfy suede made me feel just a little bit closer to him.

And tonight, while I was berating my kids for leaving their back packs behind once again, I left it behind in the waiting room at music class.

Damn it.

Yeah, I can get it back no problem. But it's one more stop I have to make in my already overpacked week. And it is just more proof that I suck. And I'm not my old self. And I think there might be something wrong with me.

My night only got worse from there. No amount of apologizing can undo the damage you do when you yell at your kid for no reason.

Now, I've wrapped myself in the huge nightgown that I bought when I was pregnant with my daughter because it was the only thing I was comfortable in. It's the only nightgown I own.

Maybe I'm trying to feel closer to her. Or maybe I'm trying to feel closer to the mom I used to be. The one who didn't yell. Or forget to turn in lunch orders. Or have such a messy house that her kids can't find their homework.

I'm running out of other people's clothes to wear. But I'm afraid to face myself.

Playing with Fire

Speaking of blow jobs...

I have a tendency to goad people into doing things without even realizing it.

Last night, my husband broke out the sewing machine to put some new rank on his winter gear. As he was using the seam ripper to pry off the old rank he commented, "I'm turning into your mother."

I know a lot of military wives take care of their husband's uniforms for them, but I don't play things that way. He is the military member. It is up to him to take pride in his appearance and be responsible for his uniforms. I won't always be around anyway.

Of course, that's assuming that I could even sew. Which I can't.

As he was poking, poking, poking with the seam ripper, he remarked in mock exasperation, "Why aren't you doing this for me?"

"You know, hon," I told him. "When you get a wife who gives blow jobs like I do, you don't get a wife who sews. It's a fair trade."

(Now truth be told, I didn't just mention blow jobs. I have a lot of other special talents too. But believe it or not, some things aren't for sharing on a blog.)

"Ack!" he exclaimed. "Do you know how long it's been since you did any of that?"

"Not that long," I replied.

He thought for a moment and then insisted, "It's been almost a month."

"That's not that long," I scoffed.

His jaw dropped in disbelief.

Do you think I goaded him into what transpired in our bed last night?

Speaking of which, why can I always remember to put my retainer back in after I eat but never after I have sex?

My husband is a saint.

But you knew that already. He is married to me after all.

I think every long-term relationship has its ups and downs.

We've been married for ten years, and we've taken our bumps just like everyone else. We've had our days of miscommunication. We've had our days of misunderstandings and hurt feelings. But in the end, he's the only man I've ever loved and the absolute right man for me.

We're a team. But there are times when he's my hero.

Take these last few days for example.

I need a break. Not from the kids, or the dog, or him. But from myself. I'm sick. Not just with a cold, but so, so sick of myself. I need to be stopped before I completely turn into my father.

He said he understood. And then he proceeded to systematically make my life easier. He made phone calls I've been dreading. He even fired the cleaning ladies for me.

He offered to fill in for me and substitute in my daughter's classroom. I said, "Really? I'd love you for life!"

He said, "You love me for life anyway."

I said, "True," but what I thought was, I so owe you a blow job for this!

He's gotten up early the last two mornings and driven the kids to school so I can sleep later. He's made lunches and brought me home Diet Coke instead of ice cream as a treat because he knows I'm trying to be healthier.

And he's just been so damn cute. He makes me laugh. Sometimes too much.

Just last night we were watching television while we were getting ready to get busy. (When you're in your thirties and have been together for sixteen years you'll know what I mean by that.) Something on the show made me laugh, and I couldn't stop.

When he rolled on top of me I laughed really hard. And when I laugh really hard I make this really pathetic, almost silent wheezing sound.

"You sound like a ten-year smoker," he told me. Which only made me laugh harder.

So there we were. Him trying to get going and me laughing until I couldn't breathe.

"Ow! It hurts. Wheeze. Wheeze. Wheeze. I can't breathe! Wheeze. Wheeze. Wheeze."

Finally he rolled off me. "Shall we try again later?"

"Okay. Wheeze. Wheeze Wheeze."

When I finally subsided into giggles, he put the moves on me again. Only a man who is damn sure of himself could get laughed at like that and still be able to do his duty.

He's a saint, I tell ya. A saint.

Heck. Being married to me can't be a walk in the park. Unless you're talking about a walk in the park after midnight when you might be dragged into the bushes to be mugged, but you might be dragged into the bushes to be ravished.

Either way, it's one hell of a ride.

(Love you, Hon!)

A View from Here

I told you things were about to get exciting.



This is my default view: a sea of mini vans and SUV's (luxury ones in most cases) lined up as far as the eye can see.

Want to trade lives?

A real post is forthcoming.

Christmas came early!

Now, let's see if this works.

For Christmas this year, my husband bought me a fancy shmancy Treo phone from Sprint. This was a present for Patrick as well, since it should reduce his phone bill by a couple of hundred bucks a month. You've got to love free PCS to PCS calling, especially when your friend is as talkative as mine.

And now I can blog from the place where I spend the majority of my time--the front seat of my mini van in carpool line. Exciting, huh?

It's a good thing I'm a master of two-fingered typing.

Maybe I'll post a picture of the view from here as well.

Hold onto your seats, boys and girls. Things are about to get wild.

Rock Bottom

A while ago, I commented at Stale Betty's site that while dreaming about blogging is bad, composing blog posts during sex is even worse.

But I think I've hit rock bottom with this one.

Last night I dreamt that a delivery person brought me food (of course, I dream about this all the time). The handsome thirty-something delivery man insisted on bringing the food into my home and setting it all up for me. I started eating and he flirted with me for a while.

I began to feel really warm and he explained to me that he had stuck around to deliver the most important part of my dining experience. The massage.

I was feeling languid and oddly sleepy and while I kept wondering if it was strange for him to make such an offer, I let him do what he would.

Things got rather, well, heated, but I couldn't resist the urge to fall asleep.

When I awoke, half of my stuff was gone. And what was left was vandalized and stabbed with a large knife.

I was still feeling sleepy and dazed, but as I wandered around our house from place to place I realized that he had drugged me, had his way with me, and then raped and pillaged my home.

This was also when I suddenly came to realize that I was married. And I was going to have to explain what I had done to both the police and my husband.

And my primary and recurring thought through all of this? Wow. Now I really have something to blog about!

Not only did I dream about blogging, but I dreamt about composing blog posts while having sex.

That's fucked up.

Know what I hate?

When I'm taking a late night shower to prepare to go to my husband's late night hockey game so that his late night friends won't think I'm a late night skanky whore.

And I pull open the curtain and step out of the shower to find that my towel isn't hanging in its customary place.

Because it was used as a cum rag after a late night tryst.

And all the other towels are in the linen closet. In the hall. Across from the six-foot-high window that looks out over the enlisted housing complex.

And I'm freezing.

So I wrap myself in the robe my husband has had since high school and washed as often as his jock strap.

And I'm instantly right back to smelling like a late night skanky whore.

Is it just me?

Or is this mortgage company advertising their low rates by using fifty little erect penises?

I mean, I was a marketing major. I know sex sells. But a penis-eating bird (he actually hops around chomping up the little buggers)? That just seems wrong. Oh! And they turn all red and get a little bigger when you "click" on them.

By the way, check out my happy, happy horoscope in the screen capture. Woo fucking hoo.

Snapshots of My Mundane Life

Today I substituted in my daughter's first-grade class for about an hour. I was responsible for taking twenty-one little hellions to lunch so that the teacher could have a break.

This caused me undo amounts of stress. I'm not good with kids. At all. I hate other people's kids and I'm a little bit scared of them. It can't take much for them to realize that there are twenty-one of them and only one of me. They could overpower me so easily.

But I was a little extra stressed today because I was pulling away from the house on my way to school, I saw a typed note on my mailbox.

Those of you who have lived in base housing know exactly what I'm talking about here.

A note on Housing Office letterhead in never a good thing. The last time I received such a note I was written up because my American flag was faded. And the time before that, I was written up for not trimming our tree branches.

I think after three write-ups you get put on housing probation. I know that you get reported to your commander.

But I drove away from the house without checking to see what the note said because I was running a tiny bit late.

The kids were actually pretty good. Though I did have to use my mom voice to stop one kid from burping the alphabet. I'm not used to rude humor. My kids know that would never fly around here.

When I got back home, and while my son went through the ritual of hugging and kissing all of the eight-foot tall blow-up Christmas figures in our yard (pictures forth-coming to my ultimate shame) I read the note.

I wasn't written up for anything. But this may be worse.

Housing maintenance has selected our garage to be remodeled. We have to clear out an eight-foot area back from the door for the contractor to have room to work.

Ummm. Great.

Does anybody remember the great garage investigation back in January? (I deleted the actual post after a few weeks which I almost always do when I post pictures. Also, I didn't want to antagonize my man any more than really necessary.)

Clear an eight-foot swath out of that packed to the rafters mess? I think I would have rather been written up.

There is a vortex.

There's magic here on the bayou. Black magic, or so I hear.

I don't put much stock in the mystical realm. Science is what I believe in. Pure, cold, hard facts. But even a skeptic like me has to believe that there are mysterious forces about when the evidence is straight in front of my face.

I used to have a cabinet full of travel coffee mugs. This mortal occasionally needs some magic of her own (in the form of a chocolaty, caffeinated treat on the way to carpool) to escape the grip of Morpheus in the morning. But this morning, I brewed and brewed my heavenly concoction, only to find that I have no vessel in which to transport it.

I believe there is a vortex here. A place where objects go and never return. A magical travel mug-eating vortex. And I believe it may originate at the entrance to the husband's pick-up truck. Or maybe it has even infiltrated the confines of his office.

It is no fault of his. I believe this to be true. Occasionally, he will break the grip of the mug-loving bayou gods to return a treasured mug to me. But it will reek of the black magic.

Oh sure, it may just smell of moldy coffee to you, but I recognize it as the smell of death and betrayal. It is a smell, and taste, which cannot be washed away. Not with a thousand dishwasher cycles. Not with a rinse of boiling water and bleach.

It is a smell I am familiar with. For I live with the death smell everyday, as the husband has so gallantly captured it in his hockey bag.

Ah, my warrior. He is traveling this week, off to the far off place where we first consummated our union. But he leaves behind for me these scents to remember him by.

And if his cohorts at work should find a way to dispose of the tainted mugs piling up in their shared office before he returns, so be it. And if his loving wife should find a way to dispose of the death infused jock strap and protective cup before he returns, so be it.

For when he makes me an offering of replacement travel mugs, only then I will feel it is my duty to find a replacement jock strap and cup. Until then...

He can let the gods of the bayou protect his jewels, with their distinctive smell alone.

Alternate Plans. Grey Goose Required.

My kids have the entire week off of school. I thought I'd make it until Wednesday before I'd start pining for school to start back up. I made it until 9 a.m. on Monday.

Okay, I'm exaggerating. Well, sort of. We're having fun, though I always spoil them and spend a lot of money when they're on vacation.

My husband has an idea though. He said, "Let's make a small turkey and have Thanksgiving dinner for just the four of us. Then after we put the kids to bed, let's get drunk."

I had to laugh at that, because we never drink together. Before last year (December 3 of last year to be exact) I never really drank at all. The only time I can ever remember drinking together was in New York last summer, while my parents had the kids.

My fear is that we'll be having an evening cocktail, and one of the kids will fall out of bed and crack his or her head open. And we wouldn't be able to drive them to the emergency room. We'd have to call 911 and get an ambulance. And then at the ER, the doctor would notice that we're both tipsy and call Social Services on us. And we'd lose our kids.

Yes, that is really how my mind works.

Maybe I'll just have one Cosmo. Enough to loosen up but not so much that I wouldn't sober up immediately in an emergency.

In the meantime, I'm going to sign off until after the holiday. The kids take a lot of energy to entertain.

I hope you all have a wonderful (and sober) Thanksgiving. Remember, family is what you make it. Speaking of which, for my family who reads this, I love you guys, and I'm thankful for you.

Be safe.

Be happy! Damnit!

My husband claims that I am not a happy person. Of course there is nothing in the world that makes me unhappier than his saying that. But he hasn't seemed to catch on to that little tid bit yet.

I wholeheartedly disagree with him.

Yes, I don't sleep well. And sleepless nights leave me cranky and lethargic. But in general, I am very happy.

But I've learned something. When you're in a relationship, you can only be as happy as the least happy partner.

Does anyone know what I'm talking about?

And so I've realized that in these last couple of year of hearing over and over again from the man I love, "You're never happy," and "Why don't I make you happy?" maybe what he is really saying is, "I'm not happy," and "Why don't you make me happy?"

So fuck that shit. I'm sick of it. I have bags under my eyes that droop to my chin and more stress-induced acne than I sported at 16.

I can't make everyone happy. I can't make my mother happy with my choices in friends and plumbers (It's a long story.) I can't take care of my friends' every problem. I can't force my children to be happy with every parental decision I make.

And I can't make my husband happy just by willing it so.

But I know what I can do.

I can stop trying to struggle through his problems with him. I know this sounds counter-intuitive to good relationship skills, but I think it will work better for us.

If he's struggling with his weight and health issues. Fine. I can't fix that for him. But I can fix it for me. On my own. I can go to Weight Watchers every week. I can take the kids out for "fun runs". I can cook myself healthy dinners even though I know he won't be home to share them with me. And I can eat ice cream guilt free, secure in the knowledge that I've planned it all into a healthy meal plan.

If he's struggling with a bunch of crap going on at work. Fine. I can't fix that for him. But I can get organized myself and take the stress out of my "work" life. I can be on top of things enough to do the things I enjoy. Like writing. Oh, and going to the gym. See how it all works together.

For too long I've been projected my insecurities on him. And letting him project his insecurities on me. No more. I'm done with that.

But here's the zinger. I know, for a fact, that if I'm getting healthier, happier, and more productive, he will too. He follows my lead. I've known this for a long time. But I think I just didn't want to admit it.

Because, you know what? Being happy for the both of us is a big freaking responsibility. And I'm not sure I can handle the pressure.

Quick!

I have a question.

So suppose you stop and pick up a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts for you and yours. You take them home and are the first to arrive.

How many doughnuts do you cram into your mouth while standing over the sink before anyone can catch you?

I just want to know that I'm not alone.

Typical

It bugs me when people say things about my son like, "Oh, He's all boy," or "He's just a typical boy, isn't he?"

He's a very deep and complicated character. Don't try to sum him up in a few flippant words, because you will be so wrong.

My son is empathetic, brave, strong, and imaginative. Unlike my daughter, who only had a brief one-day relationship with an imaginary friend, my son has developed the dynamic Brick. Brick has moved from Cape Cod to New York, has lots of friends and money, and has a birthday almost every day.

My son is sensitive, nurturing, and fun. He has befriended the girls at school, who gush about him to their parents. When his special girl friend tells him that she only wants to play with other girls, he cries for a bit and then says, "Fine! I'll play with a boy until you figure out what a good friend I am." She came running back to him in two minutes flat.

My son is smart, and musical, and sweet, and beautiful, and...and...

Okay. I admit it. He can be a typical boy.

He found a ruler the other day and set about measuring things. He measured his train. Three inches. He measured his bed. Eighteen inches. He measured his pillow. Ten inches. He took one look down at his body and pulled off his pants to measure his...ahem.

Twelve inches!

Freaking typical.

Some of these are just for me.

Patrick is fond of saying, "Never piss off a bitchy queen!" And he's right. I've seen it first-hand.

But you know what is even more true?

You should never piss off a bitchy queen's best friend. Ever.

I'm so mad right now I'm actually shaking.

I'm generally pretty easy to get along with. There are only two things that will make me fly off the handle: Treat me like a child, or do anything at all to hurt someone I love.

And if you manage to do both of those in one fell swoop, well, damn. First I'm going to get all superior and bitchy with you. And then I'm going to blog about you.

So right now I'm on a mission to make a certain business person's life a living hell. And he might not know it yet, but Patrick is going to help me. First I get mad, then I get even. If I don't get even enough, I'll use my blog as a weapon.

I have to. Using sex as a weapon only works if you sleep around.

Oh, wait. Paaatrick! I need your help.

I can swallow!

For some reason, lately whenever I pop my retainer out of my mouth, it makes me gag.

Yeah, yeah. Okay. Let the gagging jokes commence.

But this morning, I suddenly realized just why that is.

I have the feeling back in my mouth! Whoo hoo. (I guess. It was sort of nice not to have a gag reflex for a while. And yes, those gagging jokes can re-commence.)

Can you believe it has been a year since my jaw surgery? I can't. That means it's also been a year since I was crazy enough to let Patrick guest blog. Which also means it's been a year since I was almost divorced.

Kidding aside, I think that if it weren't for my very bad experience in the hospital that night, I wouldn't really think much about it now. But I really thought I was going to die that night. And I'm not really sure that I'm completely over it.

Only the two closest people in my life know how I really felt that night. I don't want to seem too overly dramatic to anyone else. Well, except a handful of blog readers, of course.

Even though the surgery was probably much safer than giving birth, the experience itself was far worse. And considering how long it took me to stop having flashbacks of my son's delivery, I guess it is no wonder that I still can't get the night of my surgery out of my mind.

And this leads me to a question. How many of you have ever really and truly thought you were going to die?

I wonder how many people come close to death before they finally die. And I wonder just how much the experience might change a person.

I'm going to have to go back and read my blog from the last year, and see if I really have changed in any fundamental way.

*****

In other news, I had a very involved dream about Rob Byrnes last night.

Quick!

Someone send me some porn.

Coming soon, to a Babylon near you...

I've been seeing billboards all over town for weeks advertising the local appearance of Franklin Graham and Friends.

Considering where I live, I immediately assumed that Franklin Graham was some relation to Billy Graham, and that he would be coming to spread the word at our local arena.

Knowing only that much, I was having fantasies of organizing my own little group to stand by the entrance to the arena with Marriage = Love signs, and such. But, not only is that not the kind of thing I would do, I also needed to do a little research to find out just what kind of message Mr. Graham and Friends would be spreading.

It's wrong of me to assume that just because he is a Jesus freak, he is also a hate monger. (Funny, though, how those two things go hand in hand. I wonder how Jesus would feel about that.)

Then, I saw a commercial for the festival on television. I happened to be speaking to Patrick on the phone when it came on. So he got to hear my complete and utter shock.

"Oh, my god! Patrick. This...is...oh my god. They are actually advertising Bibleman on T.V. Did you hear me? I said Bibleman! That makes me want to go stand in front of the arena and scream!"

I had to go to the website and investigate this Bibleman.

I really did try to do a little research about the Franklin Graham festivals too. But I just couldn't bare the website.

But I found this. This is Bibleman.

By the way, before you click on the link you should know that:

"Please NoteYou are visiting a site outside of the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association. Outside sites are not endorsed by BGEA. Click here to continue or close this new browser window to return to www.grahamfestival.org."

Because, God forbid you should have to think for yourself!

Bibleman is the main character in a Fight for Faith video game. If you can stomach it, click the View Clip button to see just what the right is teaching their children with now-a-days.

For just $19.95 your children can be filled with the spirit of Jesus Christ (as it battles for faith with advanced weaponry) too. It is also important to note that admission to the festival is free. God's love is for everyone after all. But please note, "A love offering for Festival expenses will be received each night, if needed."

Aww. A love offering. To cover expenses. How...lovely.

Mother/Son Moments

Yesterday, my son asked me what my breasts were.

That was a first for me. I don't think my daughter has ever asked that question.

I should have been expecting it, but for some reason, I was still a little tongue-tied,

Or maybe it was just the way he asked that set me back a bit.

"Mommy?" he asked, looking at my chest. "What are those big things?" He lifted his own shirt and patted his chest to illustrate. 'Right here?"

Big things? Big things!

Why do I see a subscription to Jugs and a therapist bill in his future?

The women will get this one.

Wham! Bam! Whoosh! Crash!

No, that's not the Foley track of our sex life.

That's how our life has been lately. Good news flying in. Bad news slamming me down. Great news sneaking in under the radar. Bad news slamming back in to keep us humble.

I'm getting whiplash and so many things are up in the air.

And how do I respond?

I got my hair chopped off.

'Cause that will fix all my problems. Right, ladies? Can I get a whoop, whoop?

Script of Life

My husband and I often joke about our script.

One time, years and years ago, we were arguing about something. And all I really wanted was for him to say one very specific thing. All he had to do was say that one thing and I would have been happy.

So I told him, "You're not following the script. Just follow the script and we'll be fine. When I ask, 'Am I weird?' you say, 'Honey, you're the most special and unique person in the world and I love you.' Okay. Got it? Now you'll know that for the rest of our lives."

Because so many times when I ask him something, I'm not really looking for an answer. I'm looking for reassurance. Or affection. Or just a simple compliment.

After all these years, he should know the script forward and backwards. Am I right?

When I ask him in an exasperated tone of voice, "What are you doing?" what I really want is for him to be doing what I'm doing.

When I ask him, "Do you have plans for dinner?" what I really want is for him to go buy me dinner. Preferably something with cheese.

When I ask him, "Are you tired?" what I really mean is, "Do you want to have sex?"

When I ask him, "Are you tired? Are you in a good mood?" what I really mean is, "Do you want to have kinky sex?"

And when I yell at him, "This house is a mess. Why don't you ever help out around here? Are you seriously just going to sit there? How can you do this to me?" what I really mean is, "I'm so sad that my friend is moving away. Won't you just hug me?"

I mean, come on! How can he not get that by now?

Friends

I always get the worst news in the most casual settings.

Today, we had a squadron picnic on the lawn in front of the Officers' Club. While we kept an eye on my son playing in the "jumpy thing", my husband was chatting with a friend.

This friend happened to mention, "Hey! Did you know that Slick (not his actual call sign, but half the guys around here are named Slick, so let's pretend) just got short notice orders? He's going Command and Staff. Isn't that just like the military. They make you wait and wait, and then all of a sudden they tell you, 'You're late. Be there yesterday!'"

I was only half paying attention as there was some little girl monster tackling my kid in the inflatable house. But I suddenly thought to ask, "Wait. Who's Slick?"

Slick is the husband of my best friend, commonly referred to here in the pages of this blog as CB.

Damn it all to hell. CB is moving. Right away.

I guess it is good news for them, but I'm going to really miss them. And not just for the babysitting services they provide.

We've lived next door to each other for almost four years. That's the longest friendship I've ever had. We cruised together and celebrated holidays together. We were family for each other when our families were far apart.

Damn it again. This is one of the crappy things about being a military wife. And it comes at a time when I'm feeling like I have very few friends anyway.

Fuck.

Oh, and by the way, she doesn't even know about it yet. So, shhhh.

Attention to Detail

I have been worrying myself sick about something I was expecting in the mail for weeks now.

Everyday, I'd check the mail numerous times. And everyday when the envelope I was expecting wasn't there, I would feel ill.

Today, it came.

Very good news. Not great, as I was unrealistically hoping. But still very, very good. We are extremely fortunate people.

But now that my envelope is here, I feel...almost...let down. It's anti-climatic. I still feel compelled to check my mailbox over and over, even though it is safely in hand.

It was addressed incorrectly. And that makes me want to scream. For weeks I've been consumed by stress. All because of two transposed numbers.

Does no one pay attention to detail anymore?

He doesn't love me for my stories.

I was telling my husband this story last night.

I didn't think he was paying attention to me because the hockey game was on. He has this way of fading out and staring slack-jawed at the television when I talk to him.

But I lamely wrapped up the story by saying something like, "And he said a lot of other stuff too. I can't remember everything he said. You know my memory sucks. But I know it included words like pussy."

And then he exploded.

Apparently, he was listening, and he was pissed off. All I can say is that it is a good thing we don't live in New York, or ignorant waiter boy would have been facing down both a PMSed Tuna Girl and her testosterone pumping husband.

But that's not the point of my story. (See what a great story teller I am!)

I've had marriage on my mind these past couple of days. It seems like everywhere I turn, someone else is getting divorced. Luckily, it hasn't been friends or close relations of mine, but the friends and close relations of theirs seem to be splitting up left and right.

And this one little episode of my husband feeling just as strongly about something and someone as I do really reaffirmed the strength of our marriage.

It hasn't exactly been an easy year for us. There has been so much going on with money and, well, the blog has been an issue from time to time. And with my surgery last year and his subsequent deployment, things haven't been as easy as they usually are.

The little things that I can usually overlook (or even find kind of endearing) have been driving me crazy. And I know it's not all him.

But ten years after I chose him, I'd still choose him all over again.

It's not the piles of laundry, or lack of money, or annoying habits that make or break a marriage. It is a shared vision of where you are going and who you want to be on the journey. It is the fundamental sharing of values and priorities. That's what makes two people partners.

My husband has a generous heart. He is faithful and committed. Even if it is a struggle, he accepts me for what and who I am.

And if this last year has been harder than normal, it is only the growing pains of a marriage that will mature into something we both want. When it comes right down to it, we still like each other. We'll always love each other. And we're teaching our kids what a real relationship looks like along the way.

Besides any man who brings me home Cheetos and a Kit Kat the night before I get my period deserves my undying love.

Come to think of it, any man who comes home at all the night before I get my period deserves my undying love. And a medal.

Not Just for Lesbians Anymore

As part of my never-ending quest to get the kids exercising more, we went for a walk this weekend.

We walked down to the "orange playground" which is situated right in the middle of the lodging buildings (that's like a hotel on base). The kids like to play there because there are usually a few kids to play with.

This Sunday, just after we arrived, a family came and joined us. They had two blond kids.

You couldn't help but notice the blond hair because the two-year-old had a huge blond afro, and the three-year-old had a mullet.

Yes, I said a mullet.

It was a really, really long mullet too.

And I realized that my kids had never seen a mullet before. Because they couldn't stop talking about it.

"Those little girls have blond hair."

"Her little sister has really curly hair."

"She has really long hair."

"That little girl is chasing me."

"Why is the little girls' father calling them son?"

I kept trying to get my kids attention. Finally, I grabbed my daughter and quietly told her, "Honey, those are little boys. You know that people look lots of different ways and some boys have long hair and some girls have short hair."

But she was fascinated.

"But why does that girl think she's a boy?"

"Does she even know that she's a boy?"

"Are those boys sisters?"

Jesus! She's seen men kissing in Provincetown and was less confused.

It finally got to a point where I said, "Honey. Stop talking about it. You're making the little boys uncomfortable. We'll talk about it at home in private. Don't say anything else."

I felt really bad. The parents were...well...pretty stereotypical of parents who would give their kid a mullet. Frankly, I didn't want to piss them off.

But after my son repeatedly asked the little boy what his name was, only to be ignored, he announced to me, "I don't think she talks!"

At which point the kid announced. "See. That's why I need a haircut. They think I'm a girl. I'm getting my hair cut."

And the mother said, "What you blabbering on about, boy?"

Yup, that's my kid. Ridding the world of mullets, one little boy at a time.