Back Home and Broke

Talk about culture shock!

A couple of days ago I was waltzing around the Upper West Side like I knew what I was doing. Today I was driving through chicken farms in rural Arkansas.

It's time to get the hell out of this area.

But it feels amazingly good to be home. Except I forgot how bad our water pressure is here.

My husband had a very special surprise for me. And no. I'm not talking about oral sex or suspension sex or latex sex. I'm talking about a sweet little something that he probably had no idea would make me so happy.

He's wearing his wedding ring again.

God, I love this man!

If you'll excuse me, I need to go have some suspended oral sex in latex. Ain't nothing too good for my man.

Slap on Some Gingham and Call Me Dorothy

I think it was Crash who said to me, "I have this image of you as being really perfect, and then Patrick led you down the path to hell."

He is so right!

I used to be such a good girl. Now after a week of drinking, dancing, walking my ass off, and playing a drunken game of Pretty, Pretty, Princess (Okay. It was mostly MAK's cosmos that are to blame for that.) I'm feeling like a used up whore.

I'm currently blogging from Patrick's office and I'll soon be Jet Blueing it back to my children. Then I'm putting back together what is left of my kids and my van and driving back to my husband who I miss oh so much.

Give me a few days to get back home and then I'll tell everyone's dirty secrets.

Not Again

It's when we're farthest away that my husband and I have the best talks. I swear there have been deployments where we've actually grown closer.

The other night when Patrick was at work, My husband and I talked on the phone for well over an hour. It was nice.

But, well, he has this thing that he says sometimes. It almost always starts the same way. I can hear in the first syllable where the rest of the words are going.

"So, what would you think if..."

What would I think if we moved here for this job?

What would I think if he volunteered for this tour?

What would I think about moving overseas?

This time it is, " So, what would you think if I checked into this year remote?"

He's at a crossroads and going to Iraq or Korea for a year may be his only answer.

It's not his going that is so hard. It's the always wondering when and if he will go. But this time?

My gut feeling is that this time, he's going. Not until winter, but he is going.

And as is almost always the case, I'm torn between being happy for his opportunity and where it can take us all (never mind the fulfillment of his duty) and being devastated for me and the kids. And him too. Because I know he misses us like mad.

Right now, I can only tell him, as always do, "I think you need to do what you need to do. We'll make it work."

And then I'll cry after he's gone.

Thar She Blows

Alternately titled: The Grossest Post Ever. (Be forewarned.)

Egad. My mood (and hormones) should dictate that I write something either introspective or angry. I was both last night. To the extreme. And maybe I will write about it later, but right now I just don't want to be that person.

I'm on vacation. In New York City. Without kids or a husband. With my best friend who is by far the most fun person I know. It's not time to be angry. Or introspective. Or to think too much at all.

But it is time to go tampooning.

What? Don't tell me you've never heard of tampooning. It's something I was first introduced to as a freshman at basketball camp.

There are at least three levels of tampooning, each reserved for a certain type of victim.

Did you know that when you remove a tampon from it's applicator, dip it in water and fling it against something it will stick?

Yes, this first level of tampooning is reserved for people who are annoying you. Like the drunks in the next hotel room who won't shut the fuck up. You could tampoon their door for a morning surprise. Or a roommate who isn't paying her rent or doing her share. The roof of her car might be a perfect tampoon target.

The second level of tampooning requires a bit more providence. I've also heard it referred to as laying a blooby trap.

This level is reserved for guys who have fucked over your best friend (but unwritten tampooning law says you can never target your own ex-boyfriend) or a landlord who never would fix your toilet. And setting the blooby trap requires that you be on your period and in the bathroom of said asshole.

I know that you know where I am going with this. You enter the bathroom and go about your business. You even flush the toilet. And then you remove your tampon, the bloodier the better, and leave it in the toilet for your favorite person to ewww over. But at least they can flush it away. And you can claim it was an accident.

The last level of tampooning is reserved for the biggest haters. Racists. Homophobes. Misogynists. That asshole who keeps groping you.

It also requires that you be on your period. And it requires good aim.

Yes, you know it. When the racist, misogynist tells you that god brought AIDS as a plague to destroy fags everywhere, you are completely within your rights to whip out your tampon and fling it in his face.

It's gross. It's juvenile. But tell me you aren't fantasizing about doing it to a certain someone right now.

Last night, when the Prada-wearing adulteresses at the bar next to me went to the ladies' room, I fantasized about dipping my bloody tampon in their red wine.

Tell your fag jokes ladies. And enjoy your full-bodied red.

Bloggers Bloggers Everywhere

And a drop too much to drink.

I can't possibly convey in words how absolutely wonderful it is to be sitting here in this tiny, unfurnished, hotter-than-hell apartment with an actual computer with actual Internet access sitting in my actual lap.

Oh god, how I've missed the Internet.

The kids and I had a wonderful couple of weeks on Cape Cod. We did the things we never have time to do at home like swim and fly kites and finish puzzles and talk. The only thing missing was my husband.

(I have to admit that I'm not loving his new overly-demanding job. Especially since it doesn't seem to be making him overly-happy.)

But being within judging distance of my parents was grating on my nerves. So my kids are spending their apparently annual week with their grandparents, and I'm staying the week with Patrick in New York City.

And I am racked with guilt. Especially since my husband got home from his "business trip" sooner than had originally been planned. If one more person tells me how "understanding" my husband is, I'm going to kick his or her fucking ass.

It didn't help when Patrick and I ran into MAK out at the Gym sports bar and the first words out of MAK's mouth were, "Don't you have kids to take care of?"

But I worked through my guilt with four drinks. Here's a tip for any of you straight girls who'd like to get really drunk at a gay bar. Just summon the cute bartender by cooing, "Oh, hot boy! I need a drink!"

I had said it for MAK's benefit only, but hot boy actually heard me (Man, my voice can carry when it's the only female one in the room.) and that had to have been the strongest drink any bartender has ever poured. A glass of vodka with a little cranberry for color for the lady.

I just love pink drinks.

As always it was very nice to connect with MAK for a while. That boy is so adorable that it is distracting sometimes. And no. Regardless of what you may have heard, he didn't hump me at the bar. At least not this weekend.

Being very drunk that night helped me sleep in the pizza oven that Patrick calls an apartment. But only for the couple of hours until I sobered up. And then I snoozed on and off and had nightmares about not being able to find a single Diet Coke in this whole damn city.

On very little sleep we spent the next day in non-stop New Yorker mode. We shopped in Union Square, walked through SOHO, drooled over furniture for the pizza oven and the hottest dress ever (by this designer) for my someday size six body. (Okay, I'd be plenty happy with a size ten body.) I should note here that Patrick rarely lets me eat. I'm going to start calling him Jenny Craig. But I begged him to stop and share some Chinese food.

We also stopped by the hospital to do a friend of his a favor. I begged Patrick to buy a fan for the pizza oven (Which he did in good grace. He even carried it the sixteen blocks home.) And we got home in just enough time to shower and get ready for Broadway Bares.

Broadway Bares was awesome, but I think I'll write about that tomorrow. I need to find one particular picture to illustrate just how amazing the show was.

Upon exiting, I wiped the drool off my face and we walked by the line for the later show to see if we could say hello to MAK and his other half. We also ran into Jase and Crash. I felt so pop-u-lar. Are there any non-bloggers in the naked city?

I had to offer Patrick a blow job* to get him to let me eat again. And I sucked down three Diet Cokes in my favorite little late night diner before curling up next to my new fan.

*A note to my husband: Ummm, that's not really true, Sweetie. That was one of those times when a line just popped into my head and I couldn't help but use it. Hmmm, I think I may have to blog about that tomorrow. I love you and miss you. You're so understanding.

Entertain My Husband

My husband is bored.

He's been reading my archives, Googling my name, and snooping through my nightstand.

Danger, Will Robinson. Danger.

Quick! Someone, please. Entertain him. Distract him.

Just don't let him find the picture of me with the 28 ounce margarita.

Privileged Information

There are certain unavoidable truths about parenthood that nobody tells you. You have to figure them out for yourself. And they suck!

No parent will tell the childless about these things because misery loves company and they want you on their team.

But I've decided to start a list. Let's bring on the truth. The world has enough kids already.

First, it will take you a minimum of forty-five minutes to open any new toy.

I don't know why manufacturers feel the need to use industrial strength adhesives and space age twine to package baby dolls and wooden trains. But I know I'll be sawing through them with the junk drawer scissors while a kid stands at my shoulder and whines, "Can I have my toy yet?" over and over.

Second, without fail, just when you want to make a good impression, your kids will do something gross or embarrassing.

Like they will leave a softball-size poop in a diaper that one time you ask a friend to babysit. Or, like today, they will pee all over the picnic lunch a new friend so thoughtfully provided.

And third, they may go to bed every night by seven p.m. and never make a peep until morning. But that one night that you really need them to go to bed on time, they will build forts, play games, and act out epic adventures.

Like tonight.

Damn offspring. My parents are on their way.

This House

This house I'm living in has a history.

Yes, it is full of my husband's only happy childhood memories. And it is the place where we came together as teenagers when we couldn't be together anywhere else. It is even the house where Patrick spent his summer of transition.

But to me it will always be my husband's grandmother's house. Because she is everywhere here. From the box of slides I found in the junk drawer, to the manuels for seventies era appliances I found in the kitchen. From the hair pins that show up randomly all over, to the rooms full of antique (or just crappy) furrniture.

But she just may be here in a more etheral sense too. Because I swear I've seen her ghost.

I swear over and over again that I don't believe in such nonsense. That shadow I see by the front stairs is just a reflection. Or my imagination. But at least five people have mentioned seeing the same shadows.

And it's freaking me out.

I have way too much time to sit and stare into that dark corner and imagine what my kids' great grandmother has seen in this house.

I bet she never saw hot man on man action until I invited my friends to stay. Nevermind some of the things I've done myself.

This house was once a tavern though, and I suppose my visitor could have been a former patron. Okay. That's even creepier.

And people wonder why I never turn off any of the lights.

Blowing My Load

While hanging out solo at Patrick's New York City apartment last December, I got an invitation from the Famous Author (and Phantom Blogger) to join him and Patrick for dinner in East Midtown. I jumped at the invite but asked for directions.

"Take the E to 51st and Lex," Patrick told me.

So I jumped on a C train on the Upper West Side, tranfered at the 42nd Street station and was feeling pretty proud of myself when I was settled on an E train bound for Queens.

As soon as I saw the station signs for 51st street, I jumped off the train and hauled my superior ass up the stairs.

Only to emerge on 5th Avenue like a bewildered baby chick.

When I realized that I had gotten off at 51st and 5th instead of 51st and Lexington Ave I called Patrick at the restaurant and told him, "I blew my load too soon."

So this past weekend when Rick and I were on the R train going to meet Patrick at his restaurant, I was determined to hold my load until the proper stop, proving what a hot lover--I MEAN--good guide I could be.

From the station, I knew we had to walk a few blocks South (I think) and a bit toward Queens, but it seemed to be taking us a while.

It suddenly hit me as we crossed Lexington Avenue. "Fuck! I blew my load again. Don't tell Patrick," I implored Rick.

Of course I told Rick the whole story and then told him as I shook my head, "I'm a premature ejaculator."

As we sat at Patrick's bar and shared dessert, I told him, "Rick and I had a nice walk here. We decided to check out some of the sights along the way."

"Oh. So you decided to walk across the park after all?"

"No."

Patrick only had to pause for a moment, look at me hard, and he knew.

"Premature ejaculator," he accused.

That set Rick off. "You two are too much. That's exactly what she said.

Yeah. So. He knows me too well. What he doesn't know is that I got off a station too soon on my way to have our farewell lunch on Monday. Well, not until now at least. But he did call me while I was waiting on the platform to reboard a C train, almost like he could sense my shame.

I guess the good news, at least, is that I'll never get lost in New York. I just need to have multiple orgasms to get anywhere.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

I have been on more public transportation in the last five days then I have in my entire life combined.

My trip to New York started out with my parents driving me to the bus. I took the bus to Logan Airport, a plane to JFK, a shuttle train around JFK, a subway through Queens to Manhattan and I even finished out a night of way too much drinking with a cab ride back to Patrick's place.

Today after lunch with Patrick, I repeated the whole process in reverse.

By the way, what is it about me that makes people ask me for directions on the subway? Do I look like a New Yorker?

I suppose I must have tons of stories about my long gay blogger weekend stored up in my brain somewhere. But I'm too tired to extract them at the moment.

Unfortunately, this is the last night I'll have computer access for a while since I'm kidnapping my children and taking them to the Cape for some Tuna-family-only time. And doesn't it figure that my parents' computer isn't working right.

Don't worry. I'll figure something out. I can still mobile blog. Maybe I'll even write some posts out longhand and mail them to Patrick or my husband to post. How retro cool would that be?

All in all I should say that I had a great weekend. Patrick is a fabulous host and I had a blast meeting new bloggers, spending time with old friends, and making some new friends too.

If you look around hard enough you'll find plenty of pictures of me that can be used for blackmail. And no, I'm not telling you where to find them.

Woo hoo!

Want to know how my trip to New York and the Blogger meet-up is going so far? Check this out.

He's such a bad influence.

I had a blast and a long walk in the rain today with Mark and Brian, and Palochi. It's time to shower and head out to Barrage. Woo hoo!

I Feel So Dirty

I'm doing something I've never done before. Something many of you do in furtive secrecy every day. Something that could get you fired!

I'm blogging from the office.

What office would that be, you ask. I'm sitting behind a desk at work with him and him. And I'm reminded of why I will never work again!

When I was a secretary during college, I had absolutley nothing to do. But I had to sit at my desk and look pretty and answer the phones and flirt with male callers. (I never did that, Honey. They just thought I sounded so cute.) So I would write letters to my military boyfriend or read romance novels.

And every time someone came through the office door I had to quickly hide away what I was looking at like it was S&M dyke porn.

Sitting at this desk today, I feel the same need to hide what I'm doing. Like I could get in trouble. Like the guys in this office haven't seen me drunk off my ass and giggling.

But the Internet and computers can get you in so much trouble.

I was reminded of that fact last night when I innocently looked in the Recycle Bin on my father's computer and found a file about a Love Plug.

You'll excuse me, won't you, while I go drink some bleach.

You can't go home again...

...unless you have a really, really good sense of direction.

Late Friday night, after driving for two full days, I pulled off of the highway and into my hometown. The town I grew up in. The town I was lucky enough to be forced to escape when I fell in love with a man who had wings on his heart.

It was a clear night but the roads were dark. Very dark. Dark and winding and the most impossible roads to navigate you could ever imagine. These are the roads that horror movie victims traverse in unease.

And I turned the wheel and stepped on the gas and drove across town by memory.

Whenever I come back to the town that my parents call their own, I am shocked at what I left behind. Did I really drive my little, red 1984 Ford Tempo down these skinny streets in the dark and rain and snow? Did I really pump gas there, and go swimming there, and go parking there? Did I ever really think of this place as home?

It's not home now.

It would kill my parents to know that. Even the dusty, haunted halls of my husband's Cape Cod house feel more like home to me.

This town is filled with commuters who drive their cars or take the commuter rail into Boston everyday for work. Yet I rarely went to the city in all the years I lived here. It was a scary place, I was told. A place you should never go alone. A place with impossible traffic. A place that was dirty, stinking, and not worth the stress of getting there.

On Monday, Patrick and I spent the morning in Boston. And I walked the streets and the commons and saw my city in a way I've never seen it before. I took a deep breath and blew out the stress that my parents instilled and I really enjoyed Boston for the first time in my life. Now I get why people want to visit here.

I had felt like Patrick had made a gift of New York for me. And now I feel like he's made a gift of Boston for me too. Boston. My own city. A tourist had to give me that.

What a waste.

If I can wrench my children away from my parents and my brother's new pool, I'd like to give them that gift too.

But maybe the gift isn't the city itself. But a love of exploration. A love of discovering new things. A love of adventure and travel.

And the roots of a heart-based home to which they can always return.

On the Road Again

I had so much I wanted to share before I left on my trip. But now time has run down and I haven't packed yet and I'm starting to pull my hair out and I just can't do it!

I made the decision today to leave my computer at home.

Can you believe it? "What am I going to do without a computer?" I asked my husband.

"I don't know. Relax. Read. Go to the beach. Write a book on paper."

Yeah right!

So for the next month I'll be blogging from my phone, and Patrick's computer, and my father's computer. Maybe I'll get creative and audio blog or photo blog. We'll see. One thing for sure, I'll be taking lots of pictures at GB:NYC3 next weekend, and avoiding the cameras as much as I can. (You can still join us! I got Jet Blue tickets for $100. It might be worth it to see me drunk.)

Right now I have twelve hours before I hit the road for our 1730 mile drive. If I don't start doing laundry, I'm going to be driving naked.

See you guys in a few days. Wish me luck!

Hubris

Note to self: If you're going to come out of your shell and comment on a blog with a huge readership like Joe My God, at least make sure you have something decent posted for the new visitors who will follow the comment link.

I've been thinking about blogging lately. No, no. Don't run away. This isn't going to be one of those blogs about blogging. Or at least not really.

I've long thought that blogs have a life cycle. Many of the blogs that I read are in the two-year-old range. I think it was probably in 2004 that blogging really broke out to the masses. And now a lot of those bloggers are running out of things to say. Me included. I mean, come on! Have you been reading this drivel?

But I still have consistently more hits than ever. (And less comments but that's another topic.)

You see, the thing is...I haven't really run out of things to say. I just can't say a lot of what's on my mind because my blogging circumstances have changed so much in the last two years.

For one thing, I used to talk about sex a lot. It was cool when it was just me spouting off to a dozen or so gay guys and a couple of fellow housewives. But now I've met a lot of you people. And some of you have met my husband. And I have a lot more military folks reading. And do you really want to read about how my husband mistook my ***** for my ***?

See. Ew! I get the creeps just typing that.

I also used to use my blog as a way to articulate my feelings and disappointments and fears. Because I hovered in complete anonymity, I could get away with ranting about people, insulting so-called friends, and getting all feisty.

But now, some of my closest friends are fellow bloggers. My best friends are bloggers. What used to just amount to me blogging about my life, would now become a serious breach of trust and friendship.

I treasure my blog because of the connections I've made through it, while I hate it for the living, breathing, thing it has become.

To write is to have faith. I know that. Faith that you will once again come up with a funny one-liner. Faith that you will have a story to tell that will draw people in. Faith that you'll touch someone, even if only to make them laugh at you. Faith that the words won't just go away.

I'm keeping the faith. I am. Right now I'm just spewing word vomit in the hope that something interesting will come out.

My daughter has been writing stories lately. Her computer is littered with Word files filled with tales of goldfish and birds and horses and princesses. Her Daddy told her that Mommy writes stories too. "Everyday she writes a little bit," he told her. I know he thinks it's amazing that we like to write. I know he's proud of me and encouraging her.

Sometimes I wonder if it is worth it.

And then I think of what my life would be like without it.

Sometimes quickies are best. Try to keep up.

My husband left this morning for a short TDY (business trip). Does anyone else think it's odd that he had to drive?

Remember when I said that I was just trying to make it through to May 27? Well, my daughter exerted her influence and we've decided to leave for Cape Cod on May 25 instead. Actually, her begging to leave early didn't affect me at all. I just realized that it would probably be easier to drive before the holiday weekend.

I don't know if it is cosmic payback for making fun of my friends for being old, but I've hit 33 and suddenly I'm totally out of gas. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I never sleep and I never slow down while I'm awake. Hmmm. I'll have to think about that.

So I have three days to completely pull my shit together before we head off. So far, all I've done is coordinate the in-drive entertainment. DVD players for everybody!

My husband will be home briefly on Wednesday night, before we all head off in different directions. You can bet there'll be some sumpin, sumpin going on. He owes me birthday sex.

He took me out on a birthday date on Saturday night. For some reason, I've wanted nothing but Mexican food lately. We also went to see Mission Impossible 3.

I didn't think I'd be able to put aside T.C.'s freaky-ass weirdness to enjoy the movie. But I actually didn't think much of it, after I calculated how much of my ticket purchase would go toward Scientology. What I was really distracted by were Tom's teeth.

Dude! You went through the humiliation of adult braces. You should have worn your retainer!

Ole' Tom's teeth were so far off midline that it was distracting. I'm sure another set of braces are out of the question now that he has to save for college.

Speaking of kids, I've seen the face of Satan and he's disguised as a three-year-old. I somehow got roped into manning the water slide at my son's preschool end-of-year party. (And no, Patrick, I didn't not say no. I just sort of did it because the kids were hurting each other as they fought to get up the ladder!) SW was on one side and I was on the other and we were physically pulling kids off of one another. God, I hate parents who ignore their kids disgusting behavior!

Which reminds me, my mom asked me to help her babysit all of my nephews on May 31. I hope I live to tell about it.

Is it bad that I'm starting to count the hours until I'll be on vacation? Responsibility-free in T minus 106 hours. Woo hoo!

It's All About Me

Since my husband has to work all day today, he gave me my birthday cards this morning.

"I'd walk for miles for one of your smiles. I'd crawl through glass for a piece of your..."

Yeah. He gave it to me when the kids weren't around.

He has this thing about buying me multiple cards on holidays. Especially Valentine's Day and my birthday. I think that is really adorable.

He also gave me the School House Rocks DVD, Brokeback Mountain DVD, an iTunes gift card, and a new workout bag. I've really been wanting a cool new bag for the gym, and this one is pink. I love it.

"See," he said. "I listen to you."

To celebrate my 33rd year on this earth, I'll be shopping for forty pinwheels for the first grade picnic, going to AH's kid's birthday ice cream outing, going commando wearing a thong that I found at the back of my drawer, doing laundry, and not wearing my retainer.

Woo hoo. Go me!

Update: Never open a package containing a $50 box of Godiva truffles in front of your four-year-old son. If you do, tell him they have alcohol in them and distract him with the bubble wrap.

Another Update: My mother had to call to ask me how old I am turning. "I'm your child!" I told her.

"Well, I'm 56 so you must be... *thinking* *thinking* ...31."

"Mom, I'm 33."

*pause*

"Oh my god!"

Yet Another Update: When my mother was my age, her kids were 13 and 10.

*pause*

Oh my god!

Still Yet Another Update: My parents sent me lobsters for my birthday.

Godiva and lobsters. Do you think the people who love me know me at all?

That River in Egypt Boils Over

Damn my husband. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him!

Okay, don't actually damn him. I love him. I love him so much that he has the power to set off my emotional trip wire.

And he did it, but good, today.

I've been down for a few days. Maybe even a few weeks. And I haven't even been trying to hide it. Which is something new for me.

I've been telling the people who love me, "I'm down." Sometimes I can honestly add, "I don't know why." But when I do know why, I've been trying to be honest about it with some seriously mixed results.

I've been worried and stressed. Mostly about money. Often about the kids' stuff. And sometimes by people and things that let me down. (Why does someone volunteer to be a room mother/board member/hostess if she doesn't actually want to do anything? And why do I always pick up the slack? And do I have some magnetic field surrounding me that causes every computer I touch to have cardiac arrest?)

I've been blaming my hormones for my vacillations between anger and despair, but that can only account for so much.

Hovering just below the surface is that thing that I'm not thinking about. That news that I've been expecting yet still shocks me.

My father is sick. And getting sicker.

And in all of my quiet moments I keep thinking about that day when I get the phone call that he is gone and I have to tell my children that their grandfather is dead.

My daughter still talks about her damn dead goldfish.

It's going to be devastating.

So as my husband and I were sharing a nice lunch of leftover pasta, he had to drop a casual bomb on me.

"I hate to say this but I think once your father starts to go, he's going to go quick."

And I started to cry and I haven't stopped yet.

I love that man but he's made this weepy mess. And he's going to have to deal with it.

Appreciate Me

I'm sort of sad that Mother's Day is over. I've been using the May trifecta of Military Spouse Appreciation Day, Mother's Day, and my birthday to, oh, get my way here and there.

"Appreciate me!" I tell my family when I want them to stop watching car shows, or clean their rooms, or buy me stuff. Once my birthday is over, I'm going to have to go back to good old fashion bribery to get what I want.

My husband had to work on Sunday, so he brought me a box of Godiva chocolates on Saturday night. Smart man. You know what I hate about Godiva chocolates? That eventually, they're gone. I could live on that stuff.

My kids made gifts for me at school. Now I have a Preschool-3 handprint plate from my son to match the one my daughter made at the same age. Their preschool teacher also has the kids complete a "language experience" where they fill in the blanks about their mothers.

Here's what my four-year-old had to say about me.

My Mom

My mom is 40 and a half seconds years old.

My mom is the prettiest when at Mom's Day.

My mom likes to make a person.

My mom always says, "No."

My mom is funny when she makes me laugh.

Can you explain what he means by "a person" because he can't? And it is a damn good thing he added that "seconds" part to the forty and a half, or we'd be having words.

At three-years-old, my daughter had this to say.

My Mom

My mom's job is to take care of my baby brother.

The best food she cooks is eggs.

We like to play outside.

She looks pretty when she's wearing a dress.

What she probably should have said is that the only food I cook that she'll eat is eggs and that I so rarely wear a dress that it is shocking when I do.

All in all it was a nice weekend. I'm a little down right now, but I'm sure that by the time school let's out next week, I'll be back to my old self. At least I hope so, because I'm facing a 28 hour drive in a mini van with two kids and a dog and it is best to start out in a good mood.

Tuna Out of Water

We're simple folk.

We really are.

We live pay check to pay check. In fact, this month, I had to do some creative shifting of funds to even make it to our next pay check. Don't worry for the Tuna Kids though. One of the reasons we live pay check to pay check is because we put away huge chucks of cash for them.

My husband may be an officer in the military, but it is not the glamorous life some civilians expect. He's what I would call a mid-level officer. And I know for a fact that he makes about 60% of what he's worth in the civilian world.

Yes, we live on base (which means we don't get a housing allowance) and our house looks pretty nice from the outside. But inside it is mostly creaky floors, rotted doors, and tampon-clogged plumbing.

But, because of the extreme generosity of a member of my husband's family, we are able to own a summer home, drive decent cars, donate to some worthy causes, and most importantly send our kids to a private school.

Every year this family member makes a sizable donation to the school in our kids' names. So every year we are invited to the Donor's Dinner for people who donate more than $5,000 to the school.

This is the first year that we have been in town and able to attend.

Holy crap, you guys! You should have seen the neighborhood we went to for this party. It was a country club neighborhood with an actual armed guard at the gates. The houses could justifiably be called mansions. The one we were in was decorated to an inch of it's life. And that includes the back patio which looked out onto the golf course.

They had valet parking, but at least half of the guests arrived by golf cart.

How the hell much does it pay to be a doctor these days?

I'm sending the Tuna Man back to medical school. The I-fly-in-an-airplane-for-a-living-stuff just isn't cutting it. Of course, the Tuna Man quickly pointed out that I could succeed in medical school just as well as him.

We did have fun though. SW was there and we were cracking each other up. As much as my husband and I are technically out of our element, we always find a way to enjoy ourselves and fit in.

The whole experience has me thinking. As much as the life of an officer's wife has a certain amount of pomp and circumstance to it, it's nothing like this. Most of the officer's wives I know would have been blown away by the house and intimidated by the people.

Most of the people at that party are very good, very nice, very well-respected people. But they could never understand the life of a military spouse.

Today I sat in traffic on base for about ten minutes while two squadrons ran by on their weekly PT. Today I sat in traffic again while a parade of golf carts filled with sombrero-wearing aviators made it's way from the officers' club to the golf course. Today I heard someone complain about how their husband will be away for an entire weekend and I shook my head. Today I heard someone complain that they had to move and I thought of the eight times we had to move in the first four years of our marriage.

Today is Military Wife Appreciation Day. (Appreciate me, damn it!)

While I have been unsuccessful at convincing my son to remind Daddy of that fact, I'm not really thinking of myself today.

Because as I swim in and out of these social groups, I know that I am lucky. Very lucky. Extremely lucky!

Today is a good day to remember all of the military spouses who make food stamps stretch to feed their families. Remember the spouses who stand in line for bread at the chapel. Remember the spouses who are afraid to watch CNN because they don't want to find out about their husband's fate that way. Remember the spouses who are by their beloved's bedside nursing him or her through a lost limb. And remember the spouses who have received the folded flag off of their husband's coffin with grace and dignity.

I'll remember them as I remember to be thankful for every safe return, every dinner invitation, and every day my husband is by my side.

I'll give thanks that my luck hasn't run out yet, and I'll try and prepare for when it will. While living in one of those country club mansions would be really nice, for now, I'm happy to be here on base, with my sisters in military spouse-dom.