More on Patrick

Okay, guys. I've gotten a few e-mails about Patrick going back into the hospital. I don't have time to answer them all (sorry) and I have only spoken to Patrick briefly. I didn't want to write about him until I knew that he wanted to share. But blogging was the last thing on my mind when I finally talked to him.

So here are the rough details.

He went back to the hospital yesterday because he was running a fever. They gave him a CAT scan last night and found out that he has an abdominal abscess between his lung and spleen. They tried to drain it last night but it didn't work. So they're going to try something else tomorrow.

Either way he's in hospital until Monday.

I'll post more later if I can.

There's No Crying in Blogging

The general has informed me that I must post again. He's sick of looking at the picture of my daughter's "odd" ballet costume.

The problem is that I have just about one thing on my mind all the time lately. And I can't write about it yet.

Well, okay. I do have some other things on my mind. But you've heard all about Patrick, and you can read how he's doing on his own blog. And everything else in my life is just normal mom-type stress, as usual.

The problem with stressing about something and trying to be brave about it is that my angst can show up at the oddest moments.

My kids played violin today at the school's fine arts fair. They did great. They were cute. And when the art teacher was handing out awards, I started crying. I have no idea why. I almost always cry at the kids' performances.

I happened to catch a documentary on Logo the other night. When I started watching they were just talking about Reagan, and the AIDS crisis, and Act Up. And I started to cry. No, actually, I was weeping. Full on, no holds barred weeping.

I cried while reading a story about airmen visiting the Enlisted Village's home for airmen's widows.

I'm crying about everything!

But I have yet to cry about the thing that I know is really bothering me. Maybe I'm afraid that if I start to cry I'll lose control. I'll never stop.

Hell, I didn't even tell anyone about it for a while. Then in one day I told my mother and Patrick, and now I'm a blubbering mess.

Damn reality. I should have just left the picture of my daughter in her "odd" ballet costume at the top for another day.

You've Got Nothing On Me!

You think you've got talent. Ha! You've got nothing on me.

I rock. I rule. I am the queen of all things.

I am the all-time best mother who ever lived.

I have conquered the unconquerable.

I put my daughter's hair in a bun.

Let's review. This is her hair...a stacked bob.




And I managed to twist that tiny amount of hair into a bun for her ballet pictures.




I couldn't be more proud of myself if I had actually done...oh...well...something that was actually important.

I rule seven-year-old ballet hair.

Fly By

In exactly seven minutes, my husband will be flying his aircraft over the crowd at the air show here on base. Then he'll fly that baby right on out to another week-long TDY.

I hate air show weekend. When we were young, we lived for air shows. It was an air show that inspired my husband to go into aviation way back when he was seven-years-old. But after twelve years (twelve years!?!?!) in the military, they've gotten old. It's impossible to drive on and off base, and I've got shit to do. Lot's of shit. Shit I can't skip.

In light of the Blue Angel crash yesterday, I can't help but think about the constant danger of flying for a career. My heart grieves for those Blue Angel families.

To be completely honest, I have a lot more to talk about on this subject. But I can't quite yet. When I can, I will.

But on that note, does anybody else have any bad news they'd like to share. Really? Come on. Go ahead and let it rip. Everyone else has.

Did anyone else notice what an incredibly bad week this has been for just about everyone? Surgery and more surgery, suicide attempts, massacres, break-ups, crashes, and just all-around general crappiness. What the hell is going on out there right now? Did anyone have a good week last week?

I feel like my threshold is pretty damn high right now. So, universe, if you've got any more crap to throw at me why don't you just get it over with right now. I'd like to get on with it, thank you very much.

*****

I hear the engines on my husband's jet right now.

Fly safe, honey. I'll see you in a week.

And a Big Fuck You Very Much

About an hour ago, I got this text from the sicky.

"Tube is out of nose. I took it out on my own and gave it to the resident."

I had just parked the truck when I read that. And I had to stop a minute to shake my head and laugh. God, I love that side of him.

It's hard to relay that in a text back to him though. I can't wait until he's home and I can talk to him again. I miss him.

I do have other things going on in my life. I swear. But it's hard to write about something else when your thoughts are so concentrated on one thing. Give me a bit, and I'll post more.

Back Home and...Empty

I am back home safe and sound. I wish I could say the same for Patrick.

My daughter, especially, is very concerned about him. But both kids think I owe Patrick five day's worth of rent since I stayed in his apartment all alone.

When I tried to explain that it wasn't necessary to pay Uncle Patrick my son asked, "Why? Is he rich now?"

*insert huge guffaws from both parents*

Update on Patrick

I'm home from another day in hell the hospital. Patrick has asked me a few times to go ahead and let everyone know just what was going on with his surgery and his complication. But I'm having a very hard time doing it.

I asked him, "Wouldn't you rather do that when you can?" But he knows he won't be updating his blog anytime soon.

So here is the Reader's Digest, dumbed down version of what happened. I'm sure he (the very well-educated patient that he is) will explain it much better than this if he ever gets out of the hospital.

Back in September, Patrick had surgery to help resolve the three issues that were keeping him from being able to swallow. He explains it all here.

Although it took him a long time to heal, when I visited him at Thanksgiving, I was amazed at what he was able to eat. I had never seen him eat without using pints and pints of water to force his food down. Things seemed to be going pretty well. Not great. But okay. (He can explain that better.)

But the last few months have been a major backslide. In fact, when I went out to dinner with him on Sunday, he was worse than I've ever seen him.

The thinking was that the "wrap" at the bottom of his esophagus was either too tight, or it had slipped. Personally, I was voting for the slip, because it seemed to have gotten so much worse so quick.

But what do I know. It turns out that he had adhesions. "An adhesion is a band of scar tissue that binds 2 parts of your tissue together." He had so many adhesions that the surgeon couldn't tell the difference between his esophagus and his stomach.

And so he accidentally punctured his stomach. Or as Patrick told me while spaced out on morphine in recovery, "I have a hole in my stomach."

Well, better to get it in the OR then on the street.

He wasn't happy when he woke up in recovery and had a tube in his nose. It is draining his stomach for now. On Friday, they will test to see if his puncture has healed, and then he should get the tube out.

He'll be staying in the hospital until at least Sunday. Funny how that day keeps getting pushed up and up.

For most of today he was running a bit of a fever. He was also very uncomfortable because his 85-year-old roommate-from-hell's wife kept pushing the heat higher and higher. I'm going to let him tell that story.

The very wonderful nurse was able to move him to another room but when I left tonight he was still running the fever. Not exactly great news.

All in all, he's okay. He looks amazingly good considering all he's been through. Let's just cross our fingers that his fever goes down and his tube comes out.

He'd appreciate some visits, especially since I'll be leaving for home tomorrow (Thursday). My husband is going TDY (on a business trip) and I have to get home to take care of the kids. Just a fifteen minutes visit would help make the time go faster for him but not wear him out.

I thought leaving him on Monday night was hard, but leaving for the airport tomorrow is going to suck great big donkey butt. Please keep a good thought for him this week. He deserves to heal quick and be comfortable more than anyone I know.

The Gift of a City

One thing that always surprises me about Patrick's apartment is how amazingly quiet it is here. And with his bed moved down from his loft in anticipation of his recovery time, it could almost be described as cozy.

I never thought I would like New York City. Besides a very scheduled high school class trip (which doesn't count) I was over 30 before I visited for the first time.

Now I love New York. I am a convert. I love Central Park and all it's winding ways and green spaces. Green spaces that are soaking wet right now, but still. I love that you can find just about anything within a few blocks. I love how you can walk most anywhere and hop on a subway when you can't. I love that any kind of food in the world is right at your fingertips.

I was feeling very cosmopolitan because I navigated all of the trains and subways to get from Newark to Patrick's apartment by myself. In fact, his subway stop felt pretty much like home to me. It is my favorite subway stop.

Of course to be really cosmopolitan I would have had to take my limo from the airport. But then I wouldn't be a real New Yorker. I'd be a rich one.

I'm feeling like a real New Yorker right now though. I just had my late night dinner delivered to my Upper West Side apartment. Where I will be eating it to the accompaniment of my neighbor's sex chorus. (I don't hear a girl. Maybe he is alone.)

At least I can pretend to be a real New Yorker for a few days.

I wish happier circumstance had brought me here. But I wouldn't have left my husband and kids to fend for themselves during our busiest season for happier circumstances.

Today was hard.

Patrick is doing okay. I still haven't gotten any real details about how things really went, but I know he is much more uncomfortable now then after his last surgery.

The waiting was hard. But I'd rather be waiting here where I can charm the nurses into getting me information then back home waiting for phone calls like last time.

I love that my husband gets that. And loves me so much he can happily send me on my way.

Leaving Patrick tonight was one of the hardest things I've ever done. It wasn't as hard as saying goodbye to my husband for months overseas, but it was close.

As I sit here in his apartment tonight, trying hard to think of other things, I am marveling over New York City. And the amazing life it has.

Patrick made a gift of the city to me. For that and many other reasons, I love him so much. I want him pain-free and fully healed right now!

In the meantime, I'll get some sleep so that I can be the best friend I can be in the morning. That's all I have to give him.

"Senior" Prom 2007

"Turning Back Time"

Too bad they couldn't turn back time on my face!

I'm leaving for Patrick's tomorrow. If I can, I'll update everyone on his surgery by Monday night or Tuesday. Keep a good thought for him, please.

Time to go pack. Goodnight!

I'm Not the Only One

Ha! Look at this. I thought I was the only one in the world with a fear of buttons.

Apparently it is a real thing with a real name. It is koumpounophobia.

I've never felt so vindicated. I'm telling everyone!

Take a Gander

The comment thread on this post at Joe. My. God. is quite interesting.

That's all I'm going to say.

Are You Kidding Me?

According to the Associated Press, pay is soaring to keep people in the military.

Yet the very month my husband became eligible for a $15,000 bonus last year, it was yanked away. And we are already seeing people getting "laid off" (the military doesn't call it that) left and right.

In fact our best hopes for a financially comfortable future are in an early-out retirement offer. Or the death of a wealthy loved one.

I'm hoping for the early-out.

I am very glad some Army and Marine folks are getting a tiny, little chunk of what they deserve to keep on serving. But by using the word "military" in its headline, the Associated Press is painting a very distorted picture of life in the military today.

Protecting the Plate

There is a saying in softball.

"A walk is as good as a hit."

For some reason, in my semi-conscience state this morning, while getting ready for the day, that phrase was running through my head over and over again.

A walk is as good as a hit. A walk is as good as a hit. A walk is as good as a hit.

It isn't even always true.

Sure, when you take a walk, you get to advance to first base. But when you swing away, you have the chance of hitting a home run.

You also have the chance to strike out.

So unless you only need one run to win a game, and the bases are loaded, a walk is really only a less bad alternative. You've got to evaluate how the pitcher has been throwing. You've got to evaluate how you've been hitting. You've got to evaluate the needs of the team.

When I realized what I was muttering while half-asleep this morning, I took it as a sign that I need to step up to the plate ready to swing. But the more I've thought about it, the more I realized that it might be a sign that I need to take what I can get.

As long as I get more balls than strikes, I'm at least headed to first.

But as I sit here writing I've realized something.

I can't even remember the last time I was up to bat.

It's time to dust off my cleats and step into the box. Let's see what this pitcher's got.

It's the Not Knowing That's Hardest

Last week's love fest post about my husband was inspired by all the incredibly thoughtful things he was doing at the time. Those things included his encouraging me and arranging for me to go to New York next week for Patrick's surgery.

Yes, Patrick is having more surgery.

Knowing how awful I felt last September when I was here while Patrick was in the hospital there, my husband said, "We'll do what we can to get you there," and then took a week of leave from work. He'll be the stay-at-home dad next week and have to deal with all the shit that's been going on around here, which I don't feel like talking about.

But that post was also inspired by the way he had been dealing with some really crappy stuff that had been going on around him. Work has been harrowing. His step-father was an ass (as usual) and my husband totally stood up to him.

He's just had a lot going on. In fact when talking about his step-father's dickish ways, he said, "He just caught me at a really bad time. With every thing at work and worrying about Patrick and everything you're stressing about..."

But as it turns out, it was way worse of a time than I had thought.

Two weeks ago, my husband got orders to Iraq.

And I'm not just talking about the squadron being tasked to send someone. I'm talking about him being called out by name.

And I'm not just talking about some Air Power fly over shift or a cushy set-up-the-general's-lunch kind of assignment. He was going out on the ground with an Army unit to do his magical, voodoo warrior shit on insurgent booby traps.

Yay.

But he didn't tell me any of this. In fact, he left on his TDY last week without telling me about his Iraqi deployment.

When he got home on Friday he found a quiet moment and said, "We need to talk."

Now, when my husband says, "We need to talk," it can only mean one of two things. Either we're moving or he's deploying.

"You're deploying, aren't you?" I knew this was coming.

"Well, not now, but it was close."

He had just found out that morning from his commander that the powers-that-be (with some help from his commander) had decided he was too mission critical to the squadron here to leave at this time.

I'm not sure how to explain this to civilians, but maybe other military wives can understand. It's not that I'm shocked or upset when he gets deployed. This is what he does. I know he'll deploy. I'm pretty much always just waiting for him to tell me when he's going.

But it is this maybe he will, maybe he won't shit that gets really fucking old.

Yes, I'm glad he's home for another summer. We have fun plans. But I can't get too comfortable in that because for all I know, they could change their minds again tomorrow and send him.

Yes, I'm glad he's not going to be doing some scary ass shit on the ground. For now. But we'll have to wait and see what kind of deployment he gets in September.

Ack. I didn't even realize this was stressing me at all. When I started writing this I had a completely different point. Right now, I'm thinking of my friend Jenn (Who I owe an e-mail) whose husband has been going through some awful stuff during his third year-long tour.

It may sound weird and ungrateful, but sometimes as a military wife you just want to scream, "Send him already! Will you! I just want to get on with it!"

I've said it a million times before. It's the uncertainty that sucks the most.

Practice What I Preach

Today while I was jogging, walking, and crawling on the treadmill I saw the most beautiful man. He was riding a bike just in front of me and I could only see his face in profile. But dear Lord! He was scrumptious. And his calves were works of art.

I watched him finish his workout, stretch, and wipe down his bike. All the while my eyes were traveling from his gorgeous face, to his stellar ass, to his breathtaking legs. I can tell you every detail of the back side of the running shorts he was wearing.

As he went down the stairs and I wiped up my drool so I wouldn't slip, I suddenly realized something.

I forgot to check out his package!

Damn it. Damn it! So much for yesterday's resolution.

I spent the rest of my time at the gym looking for him. I was going to check out the front of those shorts if it was the last thing I did. But he must have left right after his bike ride and I missed him.

I now have more incentive to go to the gym than ever before.

I've discovered a flaw in my crotch-watching plans though. There is a very good reason women look at a man's face first. When you check out the package first, you can think to yourself, "Hmmm. Nice." But then you look up to see the face of the package owner and you think, "Ow! No! My eyes! My eyes!"

Men in their sixties with lower bodies that could belong to a much younger man, should not wear tight jeans to the gym. I mean, sure, kudos for him. He had the waist of a sixteen-year-old gymnast, but damn. I am traumatized.

I could have been checking out someone's grandpa's penis.

The Gift Basket that Keeps on Giving

"I saw the most beautiful man. He had perfect arms, legs, and chest. And his ass? I couldn't take my eyes off it."

"That's interesting. Did he even have a face? Or was he just a headless, beautiful torso with limbs?"

It's funny, because when I hear that a man is beautiful, my first mental image is of a classic face with a full-lipped, kick-ass smile. Then my mental image moves on down to the rest. Which I'm quite interested in. But the face comes first.

Apparently, this isn't so for my male friends.

You can blame it on Nicky that I have packages on my mind. (Oh, wait. Did I just leap onto the subject of packages? Well, they are on my mind.)

Yesterday Nicky posted about the high-five. (Did you know that the first public figure to high-five was a gay major leaguer?) He included this image of John Rocker.

What is shocking to me is that I didn't notice Rocker's massive basket until Nicky mentioned it. But as Nicky pointed out, that seems about right because apparently, checking out the basket is a guy thing. Both gay and straight. They did, like, a scientific study, or something.

Huh. Who knew?

From now on, I'm checking out crotches first. Every man I meet will get the below-the-belt eagle eye from me. I think women everywhere should join me. Maybe it will be the first step to bridging the gender gap.

Or maybe we'll usher cod pieces back into style.

It's the Little Things

I replaced my grubby, government-provided toilet seat in the guest bathroom with a spiffy new privately-bought one.

I am deliriously happy and couldn't wait to pee.

I'm taking that sucker with us when we move.

This Man of Mine

My daughter is so excited that her parents are going to a prom together. You know, before we ever had kids we decided that the most important thing for our children to know was that their Mommy and Daddy love each other. Our marriage is the rock that their lives are built upon.

So whenever the kids make comments about how much we love each other, I get a really ooey, gooey, warm feeling inside.

Last weekend, before he left on a week-long TDY, my husband was showing my daughter how to dance like grown-ups. It was so cute. Later she said to me, "Daddy is such a good dancer, Mommy. You're lucky to have him as your date for the prom."

"Well, kiddo," I responded. "I'm pretty lucky to have him, period. Although, well, you know. It isn't really like I lucked into having him. I made good choices and...yeah. Kiddo, you're right. I'm lucky."

My husband's awesomeness doesn't really ever get proclaimed quite enough. He is the most understanding and compassionate man ever born. Yet he can hold his own in any manly conflict.

I swear after all this time, I am still getting to know him. Or maybe we're both growing and constantly learning about each other.

I could go into details about the selfless things he does. The way he takes my own cares on as his own. The way he has accepted and grown to love my family in a way that I know I can't duplicate for his. The incredible way he balances caring for this family he loves with a calling that he holds dear.

But all in all, I just think it needs to be said.

He's the bomb. And I'm lucky.

Spring Training

Last night my daughter and I were watching television. I hit the channel guide to find some Spongebob or Fairly Odd Parents when she suddenly exclaimed, "Wait, Mom! College softball is on!"

Oh, be still my beating heart!

Last week we were at indoor softball practice when she tugged on my shirt and said, "Look, Mom. That banner says, 'Spring break softball camp.' Can I go?"

Oh, Honey! I don't care if it cost $1,000. You can definitely go!

So it is Spring Break time here and my daughter is attending softball camp during the day and has softball practice three nights this week.

Okay, so basically, one kid down and one to go. And my husband thinks he's going to talk them into loving hockey.

Ha. We'll see. I'm taking my son out to play t-ball right now.

Update:

No, not catcher, Baby Girl. Think pitcher, shortstop, pitcher, shortstop, pitcher, shortstop.

Point your chin to heaven and think of handbags.

Once upon a time, Will and Grace had an exchange that went something like this:

Grace: I'm getting a Belgian wax.
Will: A Belgian wax? What's a Belgian wax?
Grace: It's a regular old wax but it hurts so much I treat myself to a Belgian waffle afterwards.

Well, I just had a Grande Mocha Frappacino and Chocolate Chip Cookie laser treatment.

God fucking damn, that shit hurts!

Who knew my Lamaze training would come in handy for hair removal?

Empathy Lives Here

Patrick once told me about a theory his mom developed. She thought that very empathetic people could actually take on the heavy emotions of loved ones when those loved ones needed help baring the burden.

I think that is a lovely sentiment. But it is a little too touchy-feely, new-agey for me. While I believe strongly in the power of real love, I think most things come down to solid actions and communication.

Still, much like horoscopes--which I don't believe in, yet still read every day and marvel over their accuracy--I'm amazed by how often this seems true.

For example, before Patrick's surgery I felt this constant, raging anger for absolutely no reason. While he was as calm, cool, and collected as someone in his position could possibly be.

And remember that funk I was in just a bit ago? Well, Patrick suffered through a debilitating writer's block at the time. (Bet you couldn't tell.) Now he's cruising along with his writing again, and I think he has passed his block onto me.

My husband is struggling with the class he is teaching right now. I don't like to talk too much about his work, but it is like he is living in a soap opera over there. He's slugging through every day the best he can. And I feel like I'm taking on his emotions for him too. It just doesn't fly to let you emotions well forth in his line of work.

I'm strong, and as long as my hormones are stable I'm happy to take on the emotional burdens of those I love until they have the time, energy, and space to deal with them themselves. But I wonder if I really am helping them in some cosmic way.

Or am I just bogging myself down by being overly empathetic? And therefor being a worse friend, wife, and mother?

Do you believe in the power of empathy?

Bitches, Cosmos, and Prom Dates

I just yelled out, "Oh my god, Buffy! If you don't shut up I'm going to kill you!"

She doesn't like it when the lawn guys are here. She can't see them out the windows, but that doesn't stop her from barking her ever-loving head off.

Still, what kind of idiot yells at her dog in complete sentences? Like any dog will understand that.

Funny, though. She just trotted in and sat down next to me. I guess she could hear the threat in my voice. I swear the little pink bow-bedecked demon dog is smarter than me most of the time.

Oh sure, I have my moments. Just this weekend I came up with a brilliant term for that phenomenon of drinking one (or four) too many cosmopolitans and making bad choices in bed (or backseat, or bathroom stall) partners. It's cosmopolinating.

Get it? See. I'm brilliant.

I can find the humor in lots of things that other people don't. Like, for example, my husband and I have been joking about drinking Smirnoff Ice since we attended a party with two full coolers of them. He even brought me home a six pack of them after work last Friday. I finally got around to drinking a couple of them Saturday night.

He was working around the house and I was laughing at myself drinking all alone. It was like I was back in high school drinking wine coolers. Except I didn't drink in high school. Or break any rules. My husband thinks that's why I'm living a second adolescence on those rare weekends when I get out with my friends.

I'll even be going to prom again here soon. The theme for this year's big school fundraising night is "Back in Time: Who Ya Taking to the Prom?"

I'll be taking my husband. He turned me down when I asked him to take me to prom in high school. He said, "Who should I take to the prom?"

I answered, "I really think you should take me."

And he said, "Nah."

He took my brother's ex-girlfriend (a.k.a. Miss Piggy) instead. And I still married him. I think he owes me. Big time.

He's ordered a tux and a limo. We're doing it right this time. And we're getting drunk. After this prom, he might just get lucky.

My friend SW is making a collage of our prom pictures as a "conversation piece" for that night. I've got to dig ours up. My husband had two dates for his junior prom. He wore a royal blue cummerbund and bow tie for pictures with one girl, and then changed into an emerald green cummerbund and bow tie for pictures with the next girl. I have photographic proof somewhere.

If I can find it, I'm posting it here. As punishment. For not taking me to his prom. Serves him right.

Tuna School of Dramatic Arts

Today for the first time ever, I considered what it would be like to home school my kids.

We had such a great day. The kids were out of school for parent/teacher conferences. But we're the only school in the area that does this. So it was like the kids and I had the world all to ourselves.

We slept late, or at least I did. We packed up some sandwiches and had a picnic lunch at the park. We went to the library and picked out books. We practices violin. All of us. Happily. We cleaned the house including windows. And we took my daughter to ballet class and an evening soccer game.

We were so happy. The kids even exclaimed, "You were so nice today, Mom!"

Okay, okay. We stopped at Target on the way home from soccer to return some clothes and buy a birthday gift. And I may have bought them each a toy and Daddy a Shuffle. But still. I don't think I had to resort to bribery for them to say I was nice.

If I home schooled, I'd never have to worry about another report card day or parent/teacher conference. If only home schooling didn't involve me having to actually teach them anything.

I suck at that.

Now if only I had sex planned into my evening it would be the perfect day.

Oh, wait! I do!

Does life get any better than this?

Abso-fucking-lutely

via Ultrablog

You'll die from a Heart Attack during Sex.

Your a lover not a fighter but sadly, in the act of making love your heart will stop. But what a way to go.

'How will you die?' at QuizGalaxy.com

In other news, my father turned sixty today. How the hell did that happen?

Naughty Moms Need Fun Too

Tylenol PM to the rescue.

After a solid eight hours of sleep last night, I am feeling so much better today. I wonder if I will ever have a positive relationship with sleep.

It's a good thing I'm feeling more myself because today is one of those days.

It's report card day. I never know what to say to my daughter about her report card. She is so hyper-sensitive. But she is slipping a bit in both spelling and reading, things she supposedly excels at. She has too much going on. And I know it. But life has gotten out of control and I hate to reign it back for fear of cutting out what would benefit her the most.

We swore we wouldn't do this as parents.

She has softball practice tonight and I am dreading it! Her coach has taken something I love with all my heart and made me dread it. I kind of hate her. Next year, I'll coach.

The husband is flying today and going to class tonight. I'm going to use this alone time tonight to organize my thoughts and get even more back on track.

As I read over what I have written here I'm realizing something. I need to have some fun. I need to let loose a little. What I wouldn't give to have a local best friend who I could call to come on over and watch movies with me.

I think I'll plan an at-home date with my husband this weekend. No sex required. (Oh, okay. Maybe we can have sex too.)

Not My Best

Today I took a bath.

I haven't been so great at hiding my recent bout of depression. I've been sleeping whenever the kids are asleep or at school and while I do everything to make sure they're taken care of, I haven't been taking care of myself.

I'm a little surprised at how long it took my people to catch on.

Last night I got my gym bag ready for this morning. I kept telling myself I'd take a shower before bed and be ready to start the next morning fresh and new. Then I stayed up all night doing nothing. At about 3 a.m. I realized that I was avoiding going to sleep because I didn't want to have to wake up and face a new day.

I rolled out of bed and drove the kids to school this morning, then came right back home and fell asleep on the couch. I stayed there until the very last minute and went to pick up my son from preschool.

I planned on staying in my car and hiding. I didn't want anyone to see that I was probably wearing the same clothes for the third day in a row (I honestly don't remember) and that my hair was greasier than a corn dog. Oh, and a lot of facial hair has grown back too. I haven't done anything about that in a while.

But I'm not usually one to hide. So when a friend noticed me in my car with my head buried over my Treo, she jumped right in front of my hood to scare the crap out of me.

Which she did. Quite successfully.

Then I had to talk with her, greasy hair and all.

It's not that I think she noticed or cared. But I knew. And I cared.

I came back home and fed my son lunch. I knew that I had to do something to turn this funk around. So I asked my son for a few minutes of privacy and I set about to bathe, wash my hair, floss, and shave. It took me about forty-five minutes.

The whole time I was thinking about how wonderful it is to have a responsible child who can interest himself in building train tracks for that long.

Just as I was finished, Patrick called. I hadn't been talking to him for more than ten seconds when my son came running up to tell me that he got poop on his underwear.

"You had an accident?" I asked him, a bit more incredulously than I probably should have.

"No, I forgot to wipe!" he cheerfully declared.

"Well, clean up, and get new underwear."

I continued to chat with Patrick while I watched him complete these tasks. Then my son informed me, "Buffy pooped in the playroom!" He was just as cheerful about that.

Buffy has a habit of pooping when she's angry and I had dared to leave her alone for all that time. Apparently, a five-year-old boy isn't a good playmate.

I picked the poop up with a tissue and took it to flush down the toilet. Only to discover pee all over my tile floor.

"Did you miss?" I asked my son.

"Yeah, I peed too fast."

Jeez! I take forty-five minutes to recover from a week of depression and all poop and pee hell breaks loose? I asked Patrick if he wanted to trade lives. He declined.

As I was saying goodbye to Patrick to clean up the sea of pee, my son also informed me with glee, "I dropped my car in there too!"

"And did you go in after it?"

"Yeah. I got it out with my hand."

"Did you wash your hands?"

Of course not.

This is the reality of motherhood. One day they're mathematical geniuses. The next day they're peeing on the floor. If I couldn't find the humor in it, I don't know if I could survive.

But today I took a bath. And it was a triumph. Once I get the kid bathed too, I'm moving nothing but forward.

Tuna Kids Kick Tailfin

The last few weeks have been pretty good ones for the Tuna kids.

I'm not one to brag about my kids. Much, anyway.

*Side note: I deliberated over that sentence for quite a while. Do I brag about my kids? Those of you who know me in real life need to weigh in. If I am prone to brag about my kids at all it is usually about their sweet natures and early bedtime. Right? Anyway...

My son brought a letter home from school last week. He apparently has, "...exceptional promise at and interest in mathematics." The math specialist has put him on an accelerated home study program.

Woo hoo. My kid's smart.

Okay, those who know him would give me a big, "Well, duh!" on that one. Especially when it comes to math. But it is nice to have my own thoughts confirmed.

And my daughter got the lead role in her class play.

This is an especially sweet success for her, and I hope it will be a huge confidence booster. For a week their homework was to read the script and decide which part they'd like to try out for. She kept telling us she wanted to be Cat #6 or Child #3. After much discussion, she finally told us that even though she wanted to be the lead, she knew she wouldn't get it.

That just about broke my heart.

She got big speeches from both of us about how she's just as good, if not better, than anyone and how she has every right to try out for the biggest role. We talked about risk and rejection. And about giving everything your best shot.

I was so happy for her.

Dealing with your kids failures is easy. At least for me. I blame it all on me. Dealing with their successes is a bit more complex.

My first reaction is to think that they were born with these talents. I give them all the credit for trying hard and letting their talent shine.

But I think it is important to remember a parent's role in a kid's success. Maybe my son's innate math abilities were developed because of all of the music education I exposed him to, starting in the womb. Maybe my daughter's innate dramatic flair was developed by all the reading I did to her, starting in the womb.

It's important to recognize your hand in your child's success, especially when it is not your inclination to do so, so that you can learn what works, remember that what you do day in and day out has positive effects, and be motivated to keep working hard for your kids.

All I know is that right now, I'm really proud of my kids. They're all mine and I love them to pieces.

Three Years

Another Saint Patrick's Day gone by means my blog is another year older.

Hard to believe.

Thanks to all of you, my wonderful readers. (You know I have the best readers, right? It's a scientific fact.)

The coolest thing about my blogiversary is that the three bloggers who inspired me on this path are all still blogging. And so are my closest friends.

Here's my annual heartfelt thank you (with accompanying hugs and kisses) to Nicky, MAK, and Mark.

And if you enjoy reading about my life here, you should probably run on by and thank Patrick, who has kept me writing whenever I have wanted to give up.

And last but hardly least, I need to thank my husband, whose incredible good grace and understanding have made me feel safe and loved. (Love you, hon!)

Gone to the Dark Side

My man eats mudbugs.

I'm horrified.

And ashamed.

Lick it Good

Buffy the Wonder Puppy spent about an hour last night licking my husband's stinky hockey pants.

For about twenty minutes, I was walking around the house trying to figure out where that strange sound was coming from. I finally found her in the kitchen (Yes, he opened up that disgusting bag in my kitchen!) going to town on the crotch of his pants.

God, that makes me shudder.

All night long she kept sneaking back there for more tastes.

Dirty, little, pig puppy.

Who wants Buffy kisses?

Stories to Tell

I have been trying and trying over the past twenty-four hours to put together some intelligent thoughts on the Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staff's recent idiocy.

Read all about it at the links below. And read the Servicemembers Legal Defense Network response too.

Pace equates homosexuality to adultery

SLDN demands apology from Pace

But all I can come up with in my rage and disgust is this: Fuck off, asshole!

See, not so enlightened. And probably not going to get me any good press.

(Update: Pace: regrets, but no apology)

Just when I was getting my pulse going and my pen wagging to write to my local paper (a paper I've worked for and still write for occasionally) to drop Coulture's column, they went ahead and did so with an excellent editorial.

Now I have a new fire igniting my rage. But I am so angry that I can't seem to write logically. When I cool down, in a day or two, I'm going to give it a really good try. Then I'll see if my offer to be a recurring guest columnist holds up. And I'll see how many of my husband's colleagues I can piss off.

The insightful Scott of Sardonic Bomb recently said, "It IS making me hate Christianity, because even if this narrow mindset only represents a percentage of true Christians, the rest of them don't yet have the balls to stand up and publicly say, 'This is wrong.'"

Well, I may only be a quasi-Christian, but I'm standing up and saying it.

This is wrong!

It has gotten to the point where I think it is up to us, the military wives, the Republicans, the mid-America housewives, and especially the Christians to fight this fight. Gay America is not the enemy. They are not immoral. They are not akin to adulterers. They are just people, only somewhat different than you and me, who are trying to live life the best they can in a country that hates them more and more.

The top government officials and military leaders are not going to listen to Gay America. They are going to call them a bunch of fags and twist every effort they make into more hatred.

It is up to us.

Gay rights activist Barbara Gittings died last month. She had been fighting since the 1950's. Eric Alva is fighting now. (Read about him in the links below.) I think it is too much fighting, with too much cost, for too little gain.

It is our turn now.

UPDATE: Amen, sister! Paula at Ultrablog has a great take on things.

Any other straighties got something to say?

Related links:

Don't Ask Don't Tell repeal

HRC: Eric Alva story

In his own words at The Huffington Post

Pelosi and Meehan support...add comments

GMA story at Think Progress

Crunch Time

It's crunch time here in the land of pee-soaked sheets, peanut butter sandwiches, and pint-size violinists. And I'm not just talking about my abs.

There is about a month-long period of time from mid-March to mid-April when sports seasons overlap, school testing and evaluations are a prime focus, and this mild-mannered mom barely keeps up.

It's like every brain cell I have is sucked up in motherhood and wifely duties and everything else takes a back seat.

It's also the time of year when the next year's parents' board positions and responsibilities are meted out.

It's been stressful for me because at every turn, people are trying to flatter me into doing the most difficult jobs. I'm not good at saying no. And I really suck at saying no when people are complimenting me. Word must be out because, damn, the flattery is flying.

I do want to help somewhere. And I'm happiest when I'm in charge. But I don't want to spend another two years sucked into the hardest volunteer job at the school.

So I decided that if I'm so great, I should be able to pick my own position. And I did. I chose a job organizing a one-day event with only a one year commitment. And it just so happens my four best friends are the four former chairs of this event. It's going to be a piece of cake. Especially compared to the craptastic fundraising job I had these last two years.

But, well, damn it. They got me. Somehow I'm also going to be the chair of another committee that is so top secret, I don't even know the name of it. Apparently, they don't let anyone know about this committee because they pick and choose who they want on it. And they want me.

They want me to throw three social events for former trustees and big-time donors.

Can you even picture me doing that?

How the hell did I get here, to this place of throwing luncheons, and teaching kids to play softball, and handing out discipline like know what the hell I'm doing?

I have no idea.

It feels like it was only yesterday I was learning to play softball myself.

But I'm here. And I'm me. The same overachiever I've always been. The overachiever who needs a damned break.

I'm counting the days until May 18.

Hot vs. Cute: Hot wins again!

My husband had better stop taking me for granted.

"You know what, sweetheart? You've got competition," I told him last night, after my run through the Taco Bell drive-thru. "The Taco Bell guy hit on me."

"Yeah? Did he have all his teeth?"

"I think so," I replied. "He was missing a hand though."

You see, I have a history.

Once upon a time, I was hot. No really. I was. And I can say that now, because I had no clue of my hotness quotient at the time.

And when I was hot, I got hit on from time to time. Actually, a lot of the time. But I had a boyfriend/fiance and never cared much.

Then I got married and gained some weight from all the stress of graduating college, moving across the country all alone, and finding a job. The military wife life is the life for me, but it still hit me like a ton of bricks starting out. A ton of bricks which I promptly ate.

But I lost that weight. Then I had a baby and gained some weight. Then I lost that weight. And then I had another baby and gained some weight. And then...well. Yeah. Not so much with the losing since then.

But at those times when I was heavier, I still got hit on, just by a different class of men. And most of them were missing teeth. It seems I'm really attractive to country folk. And foreign guys. Just ask the dishwasher at Patrick's restaurant. I guess some cultures find a woman with a little meat on her bones to be attractive.

See, I'm not fat. I just live in the wrong country!

I can tell you though, without a doubt, exactly what the difference is between hot and cute.

Thirty pounds.

I'm through with the Taco Bell guy. Maybe there's a guy at the salad place* who will hit on me.

*That's a joke. There is no such thing as a salad place here on the bayou.

Three Drink Minimum

I learned a very valuable lesson this weekend.

I learned to always get my husband drunk when we go out on a date. Not only is he way fun, he buys me stuff.

My poor husband has been working an incredible number of hours at a very demanding job for months now. Combine that with normal stress over family and money and it's starting to take its toll.

I decided that we both needed a little break from life, so I booked a babysitter for Friday night.

When we had to wait twenty minutes for a table at the restaurant, we decided to get a drink at the bar. Diet Coke for me, please. Jack and Coke for the non-driver. He choked down a martini with dinner and then ordered another Jack and Coke to wash out the taste.

Woo hoo! Drunk Tuna Man is fun.

Actually, I'd say he was far from drunk. I've carried too many cadets back to their dorm rooms to think that. But he was loose and talkative and fun.

After dinner we went to Best Buy where he asked me what color iPod Shuffle I liked best. He then turned to the mohawked sales guy and said, "We'll take a Shuffle in pink, please."

We walked down the sidewalk to Target (because I'm not there enough during the week) and he talked me into buying a watch. Mine had broken in October and I was driving everyone in my life crazy always asking for the time.

Because he picked the restaurant and the after-dinner shopping, I got to pick the movie. I chose Music and Lyrics which was surprisingly good. My husband was happy because he apparently really likes Drew Barrymore. Who knew? Straight guys are so weird. (And Hugh Grant looks damn good for whatever advanced age he is.)

All in all it was the best date we've had in years. Maybe the best date we've had post kids. And I'm not just saying that because I got new stuff.

In other weekend news, Mr. Nathan acquired two new accouterments: A sleeveless t-shirt and a wedding ring.

And a nation of women and gay men mourn.

Now I feel bad ogling him. Damn ring.

Oh, hey! Look at what I have on my finger.

A Matter of Forgiveness

I've got to admit it, and it borders on the overly personal, but I was so mad at Patrick yesterday. So mad.

But you can't be mad at someone on his birthday. It's in the rule book.

I suck at anger. It isn't all that often that I am angry and I just have no idea how to deal with it. I have no anger role-model. My father was the type to completely blow up over any little thing. The whole neighborhood would know when he was mad. And he was mad a lot. My mother was too afraid to ever be angry, so she suppressed, suppressed, suppressed.

I fall somewhere in between.

When I'm mad at my husband I have no problem letting him know why and how he hurt me. Unless it has to do with money. But that's another story. It took us three years of marriage to learn how to fight well. We occasionally don't do so well. The summer of 2005 comes to mind. But for the most part, we communicate very well.

I haven't quite figured out those particulars with Patrick. How do friends express anger? I realized that I haven't had a close enough friend to even worry about this problem since college.

God, that sucks.

So as it turns out, it was a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding over one word, a tiny little pronoun at that. To me "you" was meant to be singular. To him "you" was meant to be plural. It's amazing how one small word can change so much.

He even told me that he was sorry. And he didn't say it in that, "I'm sorry you were upset. I'm sorry you didn't understand," way. But more like he was sorry that the misunderstanding happened at all.

How many people really say sorry anymore? Think about it. Have humans always been so bad at repentance, or is this a recent development?

We've taught our kids that when they do something by mistake they can say, "I'm sorry." But when they do something hurtful or wrong on purpose, they must ask for forgiveness. They must actually say the words, "Will you forgive me?"

It's humbling. But valuable.

I try to remember the lesson myself. It is very hard.

I'm sorry I misunderstood you. It was wrong of me to assume the worst. Will you forgive me?

See? That was painful. And it doesn't count because it wasn't in person.

Do you owe someone an apology? How much would it hurt to utter the words, "Will you forgive me?"

Would it be worth it?

The Day Your Momma Screamed

As much as he'd like to ignore it, today is my best friend's birthday.



Apparently, his birthday is not his favorite day of the year. I'd ignore it completely except I don't operate that way. Apparently, I'm known to be stubborn. (Feel free to deny my stubbornness wholeheartedly in the comments.)

When you're a kid, your birthday is all about you. But as an adult your birthday becomes about letting other people show how much they care.

And I care about him a lot. So, happy fucking birthday, Patrick. We'll drink to your health when I see you next.

A Marine is a Marine

Did I ever tell you the story about when my husband was in flight training and he told me he was going to be home studying with a Marine? And when I got home from work he was home alone studying with a Marine. A very beautiful, very female Marine. Named Candy.

Yeah.

That was funny.

The Best of Times, the Worst of Times

Besides the small detail of having my very worst fear realized, it was a pretty nice weekend.

We started off taking the kids to swim class. My daughter has graduated to the next level (Go Little Tuna Girl!) and has a new instructor, Mr. Nathan. Woo hoo! Now I get to spend an entire hour every Saturday morning ogling hot, wet, delicious, Mr. Nathan. I mean, I get to spend an hour every Saturday morning watching the kids develop as swimmers. Yeah. That's it.

At one point Mr. Nathan hoisted himself out of the water to sit on the side of the pool and his board shorts slipped down just a bit...

I can't go on.

On Sunday, after the boy's soccer game we noticing that someone had smacked into the rear of my car and broken our back-up warning system. This could have happened anytime within the past few days, but I am so disheartened. I stood in the parking lot and declared, "I swear this car is cursed!"

We headed to the local super sports store to stock up on t-ball and softball equipment. Practice starts the week after next. The place was mobbed with soccer players and their parents searching for the right baseball/softball equipment.

Now, if you're not a long-time reader you might not know the importance of softball in my life. Let's just say that it's like a religion to me. At one point my husband left us to get a cart to put all of our purchases in. My daughter and I were pouring over glove choices. And my son was chattering away, as usual.

My husband came back to us and said, "I couldn't get a cart. They're all gone. Where's the boy?"

And I had no idea. I know that a moment ago he had asked my daughter if he could hold her softball, so I figured he couldn't be far. But he wasn't in the aisle.

Recently my mom and I were talking about the time I got lost in a store. She swears I wandered away. I swear she wandered away. Either way, it is one of her most vivid memories of motherhood. And I can understand why.

I didn't actually panic. But I wanted to. I made my daughter hold my shirt and we started looking down every aisle for him. I was worried he had gone outside looking for his father.

My husband found him in the cleat section, which is the last place we had been.

A friend asked me if I was ready to kill my son. But I wasn't. I was ready to kill me.

A Saturday afternoon at a sports store filled with little soccer players has got to be a dream come true for a child predator. And a little boy wandering around calling for his mom has got to be a prime target. If someone had held out his hand and told him that his mom was looking for him over here, he probably would have gone with him. A predator could have been out of that store and miles away before we knew it.

I was a little freaked. It was one of those things that I had to let go, just to move on.

We spent the afternoon playing softball together.

My little girl has an arm! I cannot in a million years explain to you how it feels to spend an afternoon playing softball with my daughter. And I had no idea she was so coachable. Why can't violin practice be this fun?

It's funny how life is. Before I had kids, I had good days and bad days. Now I have good moments and bad moments. And sometimes I have stellar moments and horrifying moments.

It's a wonder that parents can survive at all.

Brownstone Dreams and Aircraft Wishes

Patrick and I were talking on the phone yesterday when he happened by this Upper West Side brownstone for sale. While I looked it up online, we were each dreaming about how nice it would be to own a home in New York City.

For a measly 3.8 million dollars, I could be a landlord with a triplex owner's apartment less than a block from Central Park.

I still happened to have the page up when my husband came home. "We should call about it," he said. "How much would the monthly payment be?"

Now before you start hating me, I should mention that it is completely unrealistic for us to buy a Central Park brownstone right now. But maybe someday. Still, owning real estate like that is something my husband has been dreaming about for ages. It is a dream we share.

A guest house in Provincetown. A brownstone in Manhattan. A beach house on Key West. And our own home on Cape Cod. Plus a small aircraft to commute between them all. Those are our retirement dreams.

And retirement in only nine years away. Four, if this downsizing continues and the military offers some good early out packages. (Writing that just completely freaked me out.)

I love to do the math. If we put so much down, and charged so much in rent, our profit would be what? I love to do the math even more than I love to make lists.

Many of my good friends have lists of things they want to do before they die.

It bothers me that my list of things to do is really a list of things to own. Homes. An airplane. And I'll throw a boat on the list to appease my husband.

Besides writing a book and running a race there isn't a single thing I want to do on my life list. Have I really become that materialistic? Have I truly succumbed so blindly to the unfortunate American dream? I've been thinking about it a lot lately.

I suppose the owning of these things is really an indication of the kind of life I want to have. Except for the book and the race, I've already done everything I want to do. I already have everything I want to have. I'm unbelievably lucky that way.

Is it so wrong for me to envision a life where my husband and I get to really enjoy each other? Is it so wrong to picture my friends helping me to run a guest house? Is it so wrong to dream of my family traveling wherever we want, whenever the mood strikes us.

Is it so wrong to picture my grandchildren playing on our beach?

Someday I will enjoy all of these things. While having the resources to start a foundation to support the causes we care about. My husband has worked hard and our family has sacrificed so much in the last eleven years.

Of course he may need to get a second job if we're ever to afford these things. I keep telling him the new Starbucks is hiring. He keeps giving me that look.

Godspeed, Dear Jockstrap

Does anyone know how to bake a cake in the shape of a jock strap?

Because it is time to celebrate. After more than thirteen long, sweaty, stale, smelly, stretched-out years, my husband is finally retiring the old jock strap. He bought a new one for his hockey game last night.

*sidenote: The fact that he's scored fifteen goals in twelve games makes me super horny.

I thought maybe we could have a burning ceremony for the old one, but oh no. He wants to save it. Just in case. I'd assume with his scoring streak that he was saving it for luck. But the last time he wore it he took a slap shot in the nads and the strap broke. And that doesn't sound very lucky to me.

I've got him half convinced to sell it on eBay though. He just doesn't want to pose for an enticing photograph. Anybody have a picture of themselves looking all hot and jocky to donate to the cause?

Welcome to the Bayou. Plastic Beads are Half Off!

I hate this time of the year down here on the bayou. Truth be told, I hate the bayou period, but home is where the military sends us (for eight freaking years) so I make due.

But Mardi Gras season is when I hate it the most.

The streets are lined with RVs, staking out spots for the next parade. The streets are also lined with port-o-lets, litter, beads, beer bottles, and more plastic throw crap than you can flash a tit at. Traffic is fucked for an entire month. And for the record, moon pies and King Cakes suck ass.

This morning when my kids were discussing the Mardi Gras celebration they'd have at school today, my daughter mournfully announced, "We don't celebrate Mardi Gras," the same way she'd state that we don't celebrate Hanukkah or go to church.

The entire Mardi Gras season is based on the kind of excess and extravagance that my puritanical New England heart finds most abhorrent.

You wouldn't find a bunch of Bostonians out drunk in the streets flashing their body parts at each other. Well, except for St Patrick's Day. And St Anthony's feast. And New Year's Eve. And, well, Fridays.

But still.

This time of the year always finds us trying to make escape plans. This year's escape plan involves a year long remote tour with a choice follow-on assignment. We'll see if anything actually comes of it this year.

If I see one more bead whore desperate for a tacky piece of plastic crap, I will consider it a year well spent.

So here's to Ash Wednesday and the entire Lenten season. By Fat Tuesday every year, I am ready for the somber and sacrifice. Maybe in forty days, I'll be ready to live my life on the bayou again.

Just in Time for Valentine's Day

"I'm quite popular with the boys, you know."

I fear that my husband's fervent hopes that my daughter won't turn out to be just like me (after all, he knows I had sex as a teenager) are about to be crushed.

At school she writes in a journal every day. Yesterday the teacher advised them to write about Valentine's Day and who they love. I'm sure girl after girl wrote about her daddy. Or at least her mother, siblings, relatives or friends. Not my girl.

"Who did you write about, sweetheart?"

"Michael Ledbottom."

Michael is a boy in her class.

Apparently, she is quite popular with the boys. As she was writing out her little Valentine cards last night she told me, "I know all the boys' personalities. All the boys like me, you know. Even Brian. He loves me. But he won't admit it. And Sebastian loves me too. He gets in trouble all the time trying to get my attention. He got sent to the principal's office five times yesterday! I don't know why he acts out to try and impress me. I'm not impressed. I should tell him that. 'You don't impress me, you know.' Then maybe he wouldn't get in trouble so much."

Let's see. She writes everyday. She loves the boys and they love her back. She's more long-winded then a preacher on the pulpit. Add in her sweet concern for our faraway friends and yes. I think Little Tuna Girl is only a year or two away.

Won't Daddy be proud?

How Not to Blog, Part 2

I think a commenter at The Zero Boss says it best.

"But engaging writers can generally get away with most anything..."

True dat, Paula. I completely agree. That, being said, let's see how much I can embarrass myself while pulling together yesterday's suggestions.

Don't blog about the weather: Or any of the minutia of your daily life. That's what diaries are for. Only the people who love you the most will be fascinated by your chore list.

My chore list right now includes taking down my Christmas tree. Top that, bitches!

Don't blog about other people's problems: One, they are not your stories to tell. And two, if people are coming to your blog to read about you, they don't care what your neighbors are doing. Unless it relates to you, leave it be.

But I can't leave this one be. A friend of a friend is currently (like right at this very moment) attending a Find a Last Minute Valentine party sponsored by these guys. He's too adorable to be competing for the attention of guys wearing "I'm ready for love!" t-shirts. Gay personals that treat you like a person? Great in theory. Needs some practice in execution.

Limit blogging about blogging: You never hear a bestselling author complain about how hard it was to write a book. Why would you let us know that you have nothing to write? Blogging about blogging is like talking about talking. Just do it. (Unless you're writing a brilliant post about blogging guidelines.) Ahem.

Memes are okay in small doses: We've all been tagged. And it can be fun. But a steady diet of memes makes you no better than a MySpace teenager.

Hell, people. This meme drove tons of traffic my way, thanks to FARB's arch nemesis. (Can I get away with saying nemesissy?) But I've also got bloggers linking to it and calling me a homophobic ass. (I take back the nemesissy.) I didn't write the damn thing. Interestingly, my husband was more angry about that then anything else that's ever been said here about me.

Unless you want to be an advertisement for YouTube, limit the number of videos: I don't know about you, but I never watch YouTube videos from blogs. I don't have that kind of time. If you feel strongly about it, and it is relevant to something you've written, go for it. But post after post of YouTube videos just isn't interesting to me.

Unless you lost a bet and have to go take this dance class. Then I'm going to be real interested and I'm going to post the video.




Don't tell inside jokes: That's what the telephone is for. You'll only insult your readers who aren't in on the joke. It's boring and tedious.

I'm so bored, I think I'll go make some rice. LOL. (Two with one stone.)

Don't gossip about other bloggers. Unless you're linking to their new porn: That's what e-mail is for. Except for my very best friends, I try not to ever blog about bloggers. It only leads to hurt feelings. It is interesting to me how many times I've had other bloggers think a post was about them, when it really wasn't.

For the record, if and when Patrick turns to porn to make rent money, I will post links. But I won't be watching myself. But I will watch him. (NSFW AT ALL!) I miss Billy's blog.

Do not use emoticons or texting abbreviations in your posts: Those are fine for comments and e-mail. But if you have to tell us that you're funny by typing LOL, you're probably not that funny to start with. Write appropriately.

Do not blog as therapy: Let's face it. Writing is therapeutic. But if all you ever do is write as though a therapist were listening, you probably need to invest the money and get some help. (On a serious note, I know nothing about the civilian sector, but I know the military has places you can go and people you can talk to. Start with your first shirt or a key spouse and go from there.)

Really excellent writers make you feel like you know them inside and out, while still maintaining a good bit of themselves just for themselves.

Do not go fishing: We're all guilty of this from time to time. It's best to be honest about it. Saying, "I need some positive reinforcement right now," is more interesting then boo hooing until all your faithful readers can fill you comments with compliments about how wonderful you are.

Let's check out my latest deep sea fishing expedition here, shall we?

Don't take yourself too seriously: We're not journalists. Or rock stars. Let's remember that anyone with access to a computer and an Internet connection can be a blogger. Lots of people around the world think blogging is a joke and bloggers are pathetic. If you're not writing for yourself and having fun, why are you doing this?

Do practice good blog linking karma: I try to link to everyone who links to me. But it can be hard to keep up. I only delete links if a blog hasn't been active for a couple of months. (Deleting a favorite link who hasn't been active can be heartbreaking, like losing an old friend.)

Do not beg: I remember a couple of years back there was quite a debate about how appropriate it was to post PayPal and Amazon wish list links. Personally, I don't care one way or the other. A good blogger can get away with just about anything.

And I completely support my friends who post about a charity project on their blogs. All those hits can generate some excellent support for wonderful causes. I've done it myself twice. But I wouldn't feel comfortable doing in more than a couple of times a year. That's why I pick and choose which charities I will support.

It also doesn't bother me in the least when people have advertising on their blogs. Unless it is so cumbersome that I can't read your content, have at it. But I won't ever have advertising here.

A while back I was lamenting to my husband that all these bloggers I know were getting cool swag. I wanted cool swag! Then I got a slew of offers. From tuna to evening gowns. And I just couldn't do it. This is my place to be irrepressibly me. Hits and money be damned. If I'm going to think twice about broaching such topics as dipping tampons in red wine then blogging just isn't worth it to me.

Do have fun: Unless your fun involves posting pictures of me drunk and drooling.

I think I sprained my ankle jumping down off this soapbox. And I promise, I've had my fill of blogging about blogging until...oh, whenever the mood strikes me again.

But if someone were to come up with Guidelines for Blog Readers, I'd sure as heck link to it.

How Not to Blog, Part 1

"I don't care about your blog."

I may have noticed the woman's stellar rack before I noticed what was written on her t-shirt. Or it may have been the other way around. Either way, it made me laugh.

Like everyone, before I started a blog, I was a blog reader. I was lucky enough in those early days to stumble upon some wonderful blogs. Some of them have gone away, some of them have deteriorated into "Nobody cares what you had for lunch!" drivel, and some of them are still going strong. But I learned from them all.

I think my blog friends and I have an unstated set of...well...not rules, per se. But guidelines. Basically, ways to ensure that your blog doesn't suck. If you even care about such things. We may break these rules all the time, especially when we don't care about sucking, but we still acknowledge that they exist.

Since I am a staunch rule-follower (seriously, it's a real problem for me) this week I am going to be discussing and breaking these rules. But first, in homage to The Sardonic One, let's come up with a good list. Shall we?

Disclaimer: Because enough people hate me already, please take these with a grain of salt. I'm not talking about you. Even Internationally Famous Superbloggers write posts about baby poop.

Don't blog about the weather.

Don't blog about other people's problems.

Limit blogging about blogging.

Memes are okay in small doses.

Unless you want to be an advertisement for YouTube, limit the number of videos.

Don't tell inside jokes.

Don't gossip about other bloggers. Unless you're linking to their new porn.

Do not use emoticons or texting abbreviations in your posts.

Do not blog as therapy.

Do not go fishing.

Don't take yourself too seriously.

Do practice good blog linking karma.

Do not beg.

Do have fun.

Is there anything else you're dying to ad to the list? You know you have blogger pet peeves. What are they?

The Deed is Done

I started the morning quite chipper. But by nine I was flat on my back and all I could smell was burning hair. All I could feel was searing pain. It was like being stabbed with hundreds of very tiny, but very real needles.

"How does that feel?" the woman in pink scrubs asked me.

"Like butterfly kisses, bitch. What do you think?" I mumbled back. I don't think she heard me though, since she was stretching my mouth in unfathomable directions.

It feels like a rubber band being snapped against my skin...MY ASS! It feels like exactly what it is. My hair is being burnt off my face. By a laser. And I voluntarily signed up for this? What the hell was I thinking?

The $66 anesthetic cream I put on before my laser hair removal procedure seemed only to make my lips numb. A lot of good that does. My lips are the only skin on my body not covered by hair.

"Do you think it's better with the cream," Cameron Mannheim in pink scrubs asks me.

"Well, I wouldn't know. I've never done it without." It was hard not to add a bitch onto that one too.

"Oh, that's right."

If it hurt this much with the cream, I can only imagine the agonizing hell I would be in without it. Actually, the surface of my skin didn't hurt. It was the burning up of my hair follicles that was a wee bit ouchy.

After twenty minutes of this torture, Cameron handed me a mirror and asked me if there were any places I felt like she'd missed. Hell, bitch! It feels like she removed my face and sewed it back on.

"No, it felt quite thorough," I replied without one whit of sarcasm.

I expected my face to be red all over, as if I had stayed in the sun too long. But it was actually more just blotchy in a few places. Especially along my previously alabaster neck. "Will it get worse?" I asked Cameron.

"Oh, no. In fact, I'll put some Aloe on and it will look even better in a minute." She slathered on the Aloe and then left me alone to...I don't know...fix my hair or something. It wasn't like I had to get dressed.

So I readjusted my ponytail and took a look in the mirror.

Holy shit! That hair that's been along my jawline since I was twelve is gone. It's just...gone. The very dark hairs on my chin are mostly gone too. And the one's that remain are actually fried and singed. Cameron tells me those should fall out in a week or less. And the cowlick in my eyebrow is gone! Gone, I tell you!

Suddenly all the pain is worth it. The worst stabs were just where the laser was doing its best work. In my memory those stabs feel almost satisfying now, like the sharp pain I feel when I pluck out a hair that has been bugging me.

I don't even know who I am without hairs to pick out of my chin.

I have five more sessions and then a two-year hair-free guarantee. Cameron is my new best friend. And the next appointment and I discussed laser procedures while I waited for Cameron to process my gift certificate.

"I'm afraid I'm going to get addicted to hair removal," I told her. And I suddenly realized how true that is. Man, can you imagine never having to shave your legs again? Or your bikini area?

I wonder if they do Brazilians. (My husband's ears just perked up all the way out in his aircraft!) I've got anesthetic cream. I can do anything!

As I walked out of the hospital, ready to show my new hair-free face to the world, a janitor sprayed Windex on a sliding door. A gust of wind blew that Windex directly in my face. Suddenly that $66 cream wasn't worth a fuck.

And I'm rethinking the Brazilian.

Sick Day

The problem with five-year-old boys is they don't appreciate a good sick day.

The problem with thirty-three year old moms is that sitting around watching cartoons all day makes them fall asleep.

I don't know if my son is any better, but I've never been so well rested.

Drool Changed My Mind

I am totally changing my tune when it comes to Patrick and Aaron living together.

Now, I love it!

How else would I get Picture Mail of one of them passed out drunk? And drooling? Labeled Drunky McDrunk?

No. I won't post it. But I will make it the contact photo that pops up when he calls me. Oooh, and my screensaver too.

I am positively gleeful.

Go Colts, I Guess

I found this on the kitchen table this morning.



Who knew we had a Colts fan in the house?

Last night when I was putting my daughter to bed she told me, "Mom, when I grow up I want to have an all-girl football team and call it The Foals."

I think she's more interested in the name than the high contact sport. Because this is from the girl who always passes in soccer because she's nice.

Restraint

I was so proud of my son at swimming class. He did great, despite getting nervous right before class started. He even swung from the rope swing into the deep end twice, while sitting on Mr. Nathan's lap of course.

Lucky boy.

He came up with an analogy for the whole experience. "It's just like when I wanted to ride the log ride at Sea World but I was scared. But I was brave and did it anyway. And it was so much fun."

But something happened after class that had me seething. At a complete stranger.

I can count on one hand the number of times I've yelled at a complete stranger. There was that one time when a woman cut in line and then proceeded to be excessively rude to the clerk. And there was that one time I yelled, "That's some great parenting right there! Why don't you blow some more smoke in your kid's face!" to the pregnant woman who was blowing cigarette smoke right in her toddler's crying mouth. Repeatedly.

It took every ounce of my considerable restraint not to scream at the mother in the dressing room who was smacking the shit out of her kid.

I had noticed the kid earlier when he had kicked and then hit a teacher, not because he was scared, but because he wanted another turn on the slide. He was standing on the edge of the pool and kicked the teacher right in the mouth.

His mother grabbed him and dragged him into the restroom. I was hoping she was dealing with his behavior right there (but doubting it).

A few minutes later my daughter and I were in the changing room. This mother-of-the-year and spawn came in and the mother was giving him a calm talking to.

"We're leaving right now. You can't act like that and expect to stay. You don't yell at me like that. Ever."

I was ready to give her the benefit of the doubt. We've all been there, when our kids behave in a way that completely baffles us. But she was doing and saying pretty much what I would do and say.

And then she smacked him.

She'd smack him and then he'd scream. And then he'd smack her. And then she'd smack him. And this went on and on over and over. At least fifteen times.

You know, I don't care what your parenting philosophy is. I don't care if you have, "Spare the rod and spoil the child" tattooed across your chest. You do not expose my kid to that kind of violence. Especially in a situation like we were in where my daughter was desperately trying to change clothes so we could get out of there.

I was pretty much just mentally rolling my eyes at the whole heart-warming mother and son scene until my daughter looked at me with tears glistening in her eyes. She felt bad for the kid and uncomfortable with the whole situation.

I grabbed her clothes and wrestled her into them myself. I grabbed her shoes and loudly told her, "Let's just get out of here and put your shoes and coat on by the front door."

It was only the fact that my daughter would have been so upset if I had yelled that kept me from laying into this woman.

In the car, I sat my daughter down and had one of those talks with her. I can remember my own mother teaching me about being a mother in the same kinds of moments.

"When you're a mom..." I started.

What that mother was doing was not discipline. Not in my book. She probably thought it was, but whatever. It doesn't matter. If my father had been there, I can tell you exactly what he would have done.

He would have got all big, pointed at that woman and bellowed, "If you hit that kid one more time, I'm going to knock out all your teeth!"

It scares me that I was so close to doing the same thing myself.

Restraint. Discretion. Sometimes it is the better part of valor. The best I could do for my kid was to get her out of there and explain what I thought of the situation.

And I'll fantasize about yelling every quiet moment I get.

Fear

I am dreading tomorrow. I am dreading tomorrow with every last fiber of my being.

Tomorrow is swim class day.

You wouldn't think that swim class cold be such a traumatic event. But for my son it is the most terrifying thing he has ever had to face. I think that he really and truly believes that he is going to drown and die.

I put off signing him up for classes again this year because he begged me to. But, well, we have a house with a freaking beach! My father has a boat. My brother has a pool. How can he not learn how to swim?

We decided to bite the bullet and signed him up for the post-holiday session. Now that he is five, he's too old for the class with the mother-type teacher who holds him close and sings Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star to calm his fears.

Now he has Mr. Nathan.

I don't know if Mr. Nathan really is a former Marine or if that's just the rumor, but he certainly has the body for it. If I wasn't going through my own personal motherhood hell, I could sit all class and just watch Mr. Nathan's muscles play under his wet T-shirt.

He also has the Drill Sargent bark down pat.

The first week of class, my son was nervous, but he was excited to have a new teacher and a new bathing suit. When the girl next to him swam back and forth across the pool all by herself, he pretty much just lost it. But Mr. Nathan wouldn't let him get away with anything.

"Put your feet in the water!" And he did.

"Let go of me, now!" And he did.

As hard as it was to watch, I figured that it was what my son really needed. He's usually so brave and adventurous. I really don't know why he is so scared of the water. By the end of the class I was hiding my tears.

For the next week, whenever my daughter would mention swim class, my son would dissolve into a watery, shrieking mess. We finally had to forbid her from even mentioning the words.

On Saturday morning, he was a wreck. About an hour before class he decided he had to go to the bathroom. He may have been scared, but he is smart and manipulative too. He was smart enough to realize that the one thing a parent really can't argue with is a kid who has to go to the bathroom.

And he really did stretch it out for an hour. When his bowels were empty, he just started peeing, little tiny spurts. I was absolutely amazed at how long he could keep that up for. And if you tried to convince him that he was out of pee, he just stated that he was going to throw up. And he'd gag and heave until something came up.

I knew that if we could just get him to class and "trust the process" that he would eventually love to swim. I figured that this could be a defining moment of his childhood. So I joked with him as much as I could, coaxed out a few smiles, and gave him a thirty-second countdown to get off the toilet.

When I finally heaved him up, he peed on me, just to prove that he still could.

"You peed on me!" I honestly couldn't believe he had done that. But I could either dwell on that, or get him in his bathing suit and out to the car. I put on his bathing suit.

With a stroke of genius, my husband called my parents when we got to the parking lot. Having my son talk on the phone to them, and tell them how horrible we were, was just enough of a distraction to get him in the door and poolside.

It took two of us to get his shirt off, and I pretty much gave myself a mental "fuck it" and picked him up and heaved him to his little seat on a turtle.

It was in that moment that I was reminded how strong women can be. My husband may have flown 22 combat missions, but he could not deal with swim class. I was okay, for a bit. I promised myself I would be totally stalwart and strong (and casual) but then my daughter started crying. Seeing my daughter cry because she feels so bad for her brother set me off. I had to dry my eyes with his crocodile towel.

Then Mr. Nathan took over. By the end of the class, my son had stopped crying and actually swam a few feet on his own. He got to ring a big bell (a reward for superior effort) and go down the slide.

As I wrapped him in a big towel and a bigger hug at the end of class, he told me, "That wasn't so bad. That was actually kind of fun!"

Any doubt or guilt I had about traumatizing my own child was gone. Part of being a parent is making your kid suffer for his own good.

But I still dread tomorrow. He's still unsure, and he's been counting the days down on his calender. I'd hate to have to get peed on every Saturday until this summer.

Oh, and yes, cameras are allowed at the pool. But I know from experience that the lens just fogs up.

My Boys

A couple of weeks ago, Aaron (formerly of 1,000 words and more, lately of his phlog, world famous on flickr, owner of the most atrocious pair of purple camouflage pants I've ever seen and one of my best friends) moved from Florida (the country's wang) back to New York City.

Which is great. Except it has been just plain weird for me.

You see, he didn't move back into his old apartment. He moved in with Patrick.

Side note! After editing this post I realized that it sounds like the two of them moved in together because they are romantically involved. Which made me throw up a little. That reeks of incest to me. Aaron is just staying with Patrick until he can find his own place.

Having the two of them living together is...well...I can't find a word for it. It's just plain weird. It's like I'm involved in some kind of trippy fag hag love triangle. All the lines are blurred.

And it makes it way too easy for me to mother from afar.

I ask Patrick, "Is Aaron eating?"

And I ask Aaron, "Is Patrick eating?"

I ask Patrick, "How does Aaron look?"

And I ask Aaron, "How does Patrick look?"

Ugh. I don't know how they stand me because I can't stand myself.

The very first night I met those two Aaron exclaimed, "Wow. You really are a mother. Aren't you?" (Patrick probably doesn't remember that because he was rather inebriated.)

I don't know. I can't help it. But I will tell you this. If Aaron wasn't staying with Patrick, I'd probably be worried sick.

My husband says that I'm collecting "my boys" in New York City. I don't know how they all ended up there. But it sure would be easier to smother the hell out of them if I lived there too.