This is a blog post.

The Man has been nagging me for new blog content for the past week now.  (Has it really been a week since I posted?  Jeez.  I’m such a slacker.)  At first he said, “If you’re not using your blog, you should quit paying umpteen dollars a month for it.”  That conversation didn’t go very well, so he switched tactics.  “You’re going to lose all your readers if you don’t post something on your blog.”  I ignored him, because my readers and I are tight.  (Maybe they’re even glad  that I shut the hell up for a while.)  Finally The Man came to me and said, “Please write something on your blog.  I like to read it.  I am your biggest fan, you know.  Please write something.  Please, baby, please.  I’ll fold the laundry.” 

“I’ll fold the laundry,” he said. 

Those are the magic words!

And this is a blog post.

An Old Wrong Righted

I was happily playing around with my most recent batch of pictures when the awesome power of Photoshop Elements 6 gave me an idea that took my breath away.  “Oh, my goodness!” I thought.  “I can edit our WEDDING pictures!”  And then I fainted and fell off my chair and had a nice dream about Hugh Jackman.

When I came to (The Goobers roused me by waving a piece of luncheon meat in my face - it’s a trick my mom showed them), I dug out our wedding album.  And then I cried, because The Man still isn’t home and he missed my birthday but sent me a meat grinder and there are three burned out light bulbs that need replacing and I have to put gas in the car and I used to be 18 once upon a time and my Goobs will soon be 18 themselves and they’ll want me to pay for weddings I don’t approve of and I’ll be sad and form an unhealthy attachment to my brand new puppy, which I will name Puddin’ Pop and tote around in my handbag. 

Did I mention I cried?  Well, I did.  I cried a lot.  But then I got over myself and scanned a few pictures.

Look at this one. We’re trying our very best to escape the black hole of a reception at my parents’ house, and we’re both thinking, “Man, I’m itchy.”

Actually, that’s what we’re thinking in pretty much all the pictures.  The Man was itchy because he came down with CHICKEN POX right before OUR WEDDING, and had to wash off his protective coat of calamine lotion for the ceremony.  I was itchy because, acting on the advice of my sophisticated maid of honor, I chose my wedding day to wear my first (and last) thong.  Unfortunately, I also chose that day to lose my slip, and I was being slowly driven mad by the scratchy tulle petticoat of my dress.  It was all I could do not to stand up there at the altar and scratch my butt in front of God and the whole congregation.  I never did find that slip.  It’s one of life’s little mysteries.

Anyway.  The photographer offered retouching services for The Man’s pox problem (luckily my own private hell was not captured on film) but it was outrageously expensive, and we were just two crazy kids trying to live on love and Ramen noodles, you know?  So The Man is a mess in all the pictures and it has always made me feel like a punk, because you can bet that if it had been ME who had had the chicken pox, I would have been much more inclined to have those pictures retouched.  So it is with great pleasure that I introduce The Man, mostly poxless:

Wow, that is so much better! But I couldn’t stop there, and ended up with the picture at the top of the post.  I like it because you can’t see the interior of the car.  I’m still upset over that car.  The Man crashed it two weeks after the wedding, and we suffered for it financially for years.  To this day, when money is tight, I think, “If only he hadn’t crashed that car fifteen years ago!  We’d be millionaires and our children would be at space camp right now!”  And then my eyes bleed from my internal trauma - I mean, drama.

Okay, I’m out.  If you don’t see me around much in the next few days, it’s because I’m cracking myself up by removing all of Great Aunt Tilly’s wrinkles and giving my father funky mustaches.   

The 'Stache

The Man is coming home very soon, so I can finally write about him without hanging my head and blubbering helplessly.  Not that you’d have any idea I was doing that (I could be sitting here naked except for the alien mask and you’d never know - thank God for small favors, right?) but when I hang my head and blubber helplessly I end up dripping snot all over the keyboard.  It’s one of the many inconveniences that come with a deployment.

Anyway.  Since he’s almost home I can post about the ‘stache.  It is atrocious.  See?

The Man is just not meant to have facial hair.  It creeps me out.  Maybe I’m crazy; maybe it all has to do with my dating The Man before he was old enough to have to shave more than once a week, but I don’t think so.  I think he looks like… I don’t know what.

I believe I have his Major to blame for this latest crime against humanity.  Thanks, Major!  Way to go!  Wait a minute.  No woman would go within ten feet of him looking like that.  Yeah!  You rock, Major!

Look at them.  Just look at ‘em.  What a couple of dweebs.

I just called The Man’s Major a dweeb.  Hahahahahahahaha!  I love being a civilian.  I feel so free.  Hey, I wonder what his wife thinks about it.  Maybe she’s sitting at home, dripping snot all over the keyboard and being just as creeped out as I am, but I doubt it.  I think the Major looks all right with a ‘stache.

Thankfully Project Mustache has come to an end, and The Man is once again fit for civilized society.

I don’t know who the guys on the left are, but they look pretty happy to be there, don’t they?  I hope they get to go home pretty soon, too.

Oh, I love him so much.

Please excuse me while I go mop up my keyboard.

Sunday Smatterings

• Hamster Sue is no longer small and cute - she’s the biggest hamster I’ve ever seen.  She needs a bigger cage.
• I can’t bear shopping at the commissary on payday weekend, so we’ve been having some interesting meals.  For dinner last night we had homemade hash browns and a long forgotten link of kielbasa I found at the back of the freezer.  This morning I made spelt crackers (topped with peanut butter and honey) for breakfast.  I made rosemary polenta for lunch, and I haven’t decided what we’ll have dinner.  Maybe oatmeal with apples.  Or maybe McDonald’s.  Who can say?
• The Man and I have hit two milestones lately.  The first is that we’ve reached the halfway point through this deployment!  Huzzah!  The second is the 17th anniversary of the day I started telling other boys, “I’m sorry, but I have plans that night,” without having to think about it first.  Oh, my goodness, we were nerds. 

• The dress code for The Goobs’ piano recital is killing me.  I’ve spent $400 on fancy clothes that we’ll wear only once, and I haven’t even bought shoes yet.
• Speaking of fancy clothes we’ll wear only once, Anemone brought home pictures of the five expensive outfits she’ll be wearing in her dance recital. 

• The kitchen fairy visited my house last night while I slept.  I thanked The Goobs profusely, but they only said, “We’re not the kitchen fairy, Mom.  You must have been a good girl yesterday.”  I am so tempted to go buy them something.
• I keep finding pictures other people took of my Goobs on the internet.  Here is one of JellyMan I found on somebody’s myspace page:

• I didn’t feel like dissecting a frog yesterday, so I have to do it today.  That’s too bad, because I still don’t feel like dissecting a frog.

I Got Scammed

A few weeks ago The Man asked me if we’d seen Twilight yet.  I told him how I’d rather be raked over hot coals than see Twilight, because books are always better than the movie, and the Twilight books were so incredibly bad that the movie had to be a train wreck.  My love, my all, he I hold above all others replied, “It isn’t that bad.  You should watch it.  Be the hero.”

The Man has never steered me wrong, so I put it in our Netflix cue.  I was the hero.  Anemone was excited - she would finally have something to talk about with the girls in her ballet class!  JellyMan was, shall we say, a little less than excited.  He read the first two books, but couldn’t bring himself to continue the series - he and I agree that the use of the word “smoldering” to describe a person’s eyes should be limited to once per two thousand pages.  But, hey.  It’s still a vampire movie, right?  Vampires are cool.

Unless they’re Twilight vampires.  Then they’re just lame.

The Man called about 40 long minutes into the movie, and I reached into the phone, beat him about the head and neck, and screeched, “You told me it wasn’t that bad!”

He laughed (he loves it when I beat him about the head and neck).  “I meant the content wasn’t that bad and the Goobs could watch it without being warped,” he said.  “Of course the movie is crap, you big dummy.”

The Man’s glee was too much for me to bear, so I hung up on him and watched the rest of the movie.  It was just one big groan fest after another, and the worst part is that one of my favorite songs was playing during a vampire baseball game.  It’s a freakin’ travesty.

(imagine clip of Muse video here)

I did like one part of the movie because it reminded me of The Man.  No, not the “I’m no good for you so stay away from me,” crap (What is up with that line?  It’s like they’re born with it imprinted on their brains - even the nice boys say it.), but when the cute geeky kid asked Bella to the prom.  Imagine the following conversation held with big, dopey grins on the faces of both participants:

The Man:  Uh, did you want to go to the prom?

Me:  Um, yeah.

The Man:  Do you wanna go with me?

Me:  Um, yeah.

The Man:  Uh, okay.  See you later.

Me: Um, later.

We were so obviously, um, meant for each other.  :D

Memories!

Yesterday I had to take my car to the shop (again.) While I was waiting in the customer lounge for a report of the damage, I heard a song that took me right back to sixth grade.  At the first strains of “Head to Toe” by Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam, the waiting room disappeared, and I was sitting on the curb in the hot sun with my two best friends, absent mindedly squishing fire ants and complaining about how bored we were.

We all have songs that trigger memories, don’t we? For me, “Little Boxes” by Pete Seeger will forever remind me of the Sunday drives my parents dragged my brother and me on when we were kids. We lived in Oklahoma at that time so there wasn’t much to look at, but we sang and joked and had a good time. My brother and I liked to make up new lyrics to the old folk songs:

Little kittens, in the grocery sack,
Little kittens, made of tuna fishes
Little kittens, little kittens, little kittens all the same,
There’s a smart one, and a dumb one, and a strong one and a stinky one,
And they’re all made out of tuna fishes and they all
Smell just the same.

Hey, I never said we were clever. 

Whenever I hear the hymn, “How Great Thou Art” I think of my old pastor K. Pastor K was a big man with a big heart and a big voice.  Hearing him sing during the service was always a huge comfort to me.  You could tell that he really meant it.

“Get Out of My Dreams” by Billy Ocean will always remind me of the roller skating rink I frequented in junior high school. They played that song all the time, and hearing it now brings back the stale air and sweaty palms and all the smack talk from the arcade.

Every time I hear “Silent Night” I’m in the middle of the candlelight Christmas Eve service when my dad played an arrangement of it on an acoustic guitar. You could have heard a pin drop when he was through. It was beautiful.

When I married The Man, I walked down the aisle to Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major.  Whenever I hear it now (aquariums really love that song - it’s discomfiting to listen to your wedding song while looking at a bunch of sharks) I hear the jingly-jangly little piano underneath all the orchestral splendor and remember how happy I was that day.

I used to sing “Feather Pluckin’ Insane” by The Presidents of the United States to JellyMan when he was fussy, so hearing it now reminds me of how heavy he was and how tired I was and how hard and how easy it was to be a new mother.

The Man used to swing Anemone up over his head and sing, “She’s So High Above Me” by Tal Bachman to her when she was a baby.  They would smile at each other and my heart would just about burst.

Of course, there are songs which bring back not so pleasant memories.  Like that time when the boy I had a desperate crush on asked me to dance, and I was so happy because I could tell he had tried to time it so that we would hit a slow song.  Well, after the last strains of Milli Vanilli’s “Baby, Don’t Forget My Number” faded away, Bon Jovi’s “Blaze of Glory” came on.  I wanted to kill the DJ.  It’s impossible to dance to that song.  It’s too fast to dance slow and too slow to dance fast.  The poor kid and I struggled through it as best as we could, then we retreated to our corners, so embarrassed that we never spoke to each other again.

And there was the uncomfortable canoe episode at the lake with The Man the first summer we were dating.  The canoeing was my idea; I didn’t yet understand that he is strictly an indoor kind of guy.  I was so excited about the whole thing that I didn’t notice his discomfort until we were out on the middle of the lake, when I quit chattering long enough to see that The Man looked bored out of his skull and obviously would have rather been anywhere than out in the middle of a lake in a canoe.  Someone was blasting The Black Crowes from a campsite, so I listened to “Hard to Handle” and resisted the urge to drown myself.

You know, I could go on and on with the songs that bring back uncomfortable memories, but they all involve boys so I think I’ll stop there for now!

So, what songs take you back in time?

Like Father, Like Son

When I met The Man, he was a poet.  Seriously.  The Man Boy wrote poetry, and he wasn’t the least bit ashamed of himself.  He flaunted it openly, even going so far as to write a poem about his poetry, which to this day ranks high on my list of the most irritating things ever written.  He kept a little book of his poems, and every five years or so I read through it, laughing, reminiscing, melting, muttering darkly, and marveling at the tumultuous mind of the American adolescent.  Thank the good Lord we tend to wear ourselves out after a few years, right?

Sadly, our JellyMan is right on the verge of that troubled time.  Happily, he inherited his father’s love for the written word and the ability to turn a phrase.  Even more happily, I am benefiting from both - JellyMan gave me an illustrated collection of his poems as a Christmas gift this year.  Most are too personal to share here, but JellyMan has given me permission to post this one, entitled, “St. George.”

          O, sing of drake, both strong and fierce,
          Through whom a savior’s lance did pierce.

          The drake demanded virgin maids,
          A debt, he claimed, that must be paid.

          Not one soul offered, girl or elf,
          Until the princess gave herself.

          The king, he wept, thought all was lost,
          But then he saw a scarlet cross.

          ‘Twas on a shield of hard oak wood,
          The shield of George, knight true and good.

          He swore to help the poor young girl,
          And then went off as storm clouds swirled.

          He fought the creature, speared its head,
          He and the princess left it dead.

          So fought St. George, knight good and true,
          His tale lives on through me and you.

I love my present.  Thanks, JellyMan!  I’m very happy that you found a new hobby.  Just try not to be as irritating as your old man, all right?

Four - It's a Nice Square Number

Jeez. First Applie tagged me. And then Kristy tagged me. And then Lisa. Then Sheri. All right, already! I’ll do it! Quit nagging!

I’m kidding, of course.  Nobody tagged me.  I just like to pretend I’m popular.

Here is the Four Things Challenge:

1) go to the 4th picture folder
2) go to the 4th picture in the folder
3) tell 4 things about that picture
4) tag 4 more people

1. This picture is from the 1995 spring fair in Puyallup, Washington.
2. We were too poor to sit for one of those fancy keychain pictures, so we sat in a photo booth instead.  I remember laughing because it didn’t want to accept our raggedy dollar.
3. I was in the long process of growing out the decidedly butch haircut I got during USAF basic training.
4. I was pregnant with JellyMan, but I didn’t know it yet.  I think The Man might have known, though.  He looks pretty pleased with himself.

Now I have to tag four people.  To make it interesting, I’ll let you guess who you are. 

And just for kicks, here is the 3rd picture in the 4th folder - the one I would have posted if I were a big cheater like Lisa:

I’ll skip the four things and let you use your imagination on this one.

A Conversation

Woman:  Sir, you know that pumpkin is lopsided, right?

The Man:  Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Me:  Don't mind him.  He's funny about his pumpkins.

The Man:  Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Woman:  Would you like me to call someone for you, dear?

Me:  Nah.  I keep a taser in my purse.

The Man:  Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Feeling Less Than Inspired

Some days I just don't know why I started this blog.  Sometimes it seems like such a good idea, but then on days like this, when I haven't left the house in four days, the laundry baskets overfloweth and I haven't yet brushed my hair, I start to re-think my position. 

I do have this, though:  The Man is soldering some teeny tiny little something on our twelve year old Technics stereo system (if I could reach back in time I would slap my 19 year old self for spending so much money on a stereo) and he's singing this song:

Oh, I can't get Melly out of my head

No, I can't her out of my head

Now my old world is gone for dead

'Cause I can't get her out of my head, no, no.

Name that tune.