Homefront Warriors

(Warning: Lots of controversial opinions that you'll probably disagree with.)

When Operation Iraqi Freedom started, my husband was already over there in the thick of it. When "Shock and Awe" started I was warned via a rare email

Don't watch the news!

I passed on the information to my in-laws. Apparently too late, my mother-in-law had already started worrying in her own little way. I spent a lot of time listening to her try and convince herself everything was fine for hours on end. It wasn't ever successful. She kept mentioning the USS Cole, bringing up the images of MOAB's detonating. I didn't have the heart to tell her that C. also took frequent hops in "Desert Duck" or helicopter.

During a few of our conversations my mother-in-law recounted what her son had told her before he left for bootcamp.

You know Mom, I wouldn't mind dying for my country.

It's a typical C. thing to say. No where in his selfish, pigheaded, teenage alpha male brain would it occur to him that the above statement is callous and frightening. He would not, even now with an adult brain, realize how terrifying those words sound to a woman who spent her whole life devoted to her one and only son. He's felt the pain of losing friends and family, but in typical C. fashion, it never registers that others would feel the same pain were he the one who was gone.

I know he still doesn't get it now at age 30 because last week he told me, casually, while we discussed some serious career moves:.

Going back to Iraq would be cool, I'd like to do that. If I die, I die.

This isn't the first time he's said things like this. He's always expressed the desire to be in the thick of the battles, to be the guy clearing the mines and checking the cars for bombs. A visit to Walter Reed recently shocked him as he walked to his appointment through halls of men and woman much younger than he who were missing arms, legs, and worse. He said going there was "hard" but then he added "I could do that."

Well yes, yes he could. But why? Why is he so gung-ho to put himself in the worst possible danger? Why is he so willing to give up those precious gifts we are only given once...our health, our families, our lives?

And he isn't the only one. During the preshow to a movie in Pensacola (a training area for the Navy) I heard a Marine my age say to his buddies "I'm thinking of failing this ********** training so I'll get put into infantry and can go over and shoot stuff."

I remarked on this snippet to the sailors I was with (three men) and they said "That's cool, wish I had thought of doing that when I went through **************** training."

I've tried to ask my husband "why" a few times, but all he's been able to say is "because it's cool." Or "it's fun." He doesn't say these things because he has a limited vocabulary (like most of the younger men who are interviewed now a days) or because he lacks the ability to voice his ideas and feelings. He's actually very eloquent. However, I think this want to put it all on the line comes from two places, and they are hard to reconcile with one another.

In the case of my husband I believe part of his desire comes from altruism. He wants to do something big to help the world. He believes in the cause, he knows what's trying to be accomplished, and he wants to help. He hears the horror stories and the bad news and he wants to fix it.

The other part of it though is the fact he wants to be a hero. I think all men want to be a hero. For some men the worship and dependence of their family is enough. I think he needs the acknowledgement of the whole world. And I believe he deserves it already. But, I think some people need the ticker tape parades and the knowledge they are part of something big in order to feel successful, fulfilled. It's a natural and society-inflicted need. But when paired with the need to be humble and self-sacrificing...it becomes ugly. And I think that's why people can't really say why they need to fight, why they need to risk their life. It's too complex to explain to someone who may never be able to understand. It's too hard to tell someone they love why they need to leave.

And it's even harder to be the loved one who needs to accept it.

I've started to think about this as the Cindy Sheehan story progresses. Of course there are unanswered questions about this war. I wonder about them myself. I have doubts, and fears, and I sometimes find it difficult to believe that the people at the top have a big plan they just can't tell us about. But at the same time, I don't think that knowing any of the details about the big political plan is going to help Cindy Sheehan. I don't think it would help me, or any of the thousands of people trying to cope with this conflict from the homefront. The fact of the matter is Cindy Sheehan doesn't want to know why any of the other men and women have died. She doesn't want an explanation for the pain of all the other families who are now helping their sons and daughters learn to walk with prosthetics or live with PTSD. She wants an answer for her son and her pain. And she has every right to be angry, sad and selfish. But even if the President answered her, even if he spent hours sitting down and talking to her, she would not get what she wanted.

The fact is the only person who knows why her son went over to Iraq and was willing to die for his country is her son. The one person she needs to ask is the one person who can't answer. He volunteered, he went, and it was something in him that made him do it despite knowing the potential consequences.

It pisses me off that she can't talk to her son anymore. It pisses me off that my husband wants to take his place.

And it really makes me sad that even if Cindy Sheehan knew why her son went over there, she might not be able to accept it. Because my husband is here, and I still can't.

Cat Fud

I like Gary Larson, I was always very impressed how well he told a story without telling a story. Much like Hemingway's six-word novel "For Sale: Baby shoes. Never used." It's the way he let his audience do the narrating that made his cartoons so good.

My favorite was always the kid trying to get into the gifted and talented school by pushing on a door marked "pull". (I tried to get a picture of that one to put up here but all the ones on the internet have been edited so the sign says things like "College", "Masters Degree Program" and "West Palm Beach Voting Commission" so I gave up. Damn Photoshop.)

However, there was another one that flashed into my head last night.

Our kitty, the goddess of springtime Persephone, lives in the bedroom. She rarely leaves her little haven, except for the occasionally trips to the living room to let her minions (Husband and I) know it is time for bed and the subsequent kitty-cuddle-time that comes with in. She also leaves in order to get to her food, water and box that lives in the washing machine room. That's it. She doesn't explore the empty boxes, she isn't interested in the new furniture in the office, she likes the bedroom and the cat-food room.

Since she's so timid I wasn't worried last night when I left the dryer open while I carried the first load of laundry upstairs. When I came back down I didn't bother to look around. C. was already in bed and snoring, Persephone was probably curled up with him. Once I got this load into the dryer I could join them.

So I start throwing wet uniforms and slacks into the dryer as fast as I could. Big wads of wet cloth flying into the dryer, I'm not worried about the thunk, ka-thunk noise it's making. That's normal. However, the meow noise I hear as I grab a dryer sheet is a little odd. I look around the door into the hall. No kitty. I pad over to the kitchen. No kitty. I shrug, she's a little kitty but she has a big voice, she was probably talking to C. upstairs. Back to the dryer, throw in the sheet, double check the trap, then something catches my eye.

Did those pants just move? Yes, yes they did. And that shirt is definitely wiggling. I watch with more than a little trepidation, I'm wondering what kind of animal is sneaky enough to get into the house and if I really wanna stick my hand in and grab it. The shirt starts sliding, then it says me-ooooooooooow.

Kitty?

The shirt falls and there is a semi damp and very grouchy cat head peering out at me.

Oh poor poor kitty!!! Commence the rescuing followed by cooing and fawning. Poor little Persephone. She was so brave only to get stuff thrown at her. She's never going to come downstairs again. As I'm fluffing her up and smothering her in cuddles this Farside cartoon pops into my head:



Thank goodness we don't have a dog!

Dr. Congress

There is an article today in the New York Times about when a fetus could potentially feel pain. In it they discuss a bill in the works for doctors to warn women about to have abortions that the fetus may need anesthetic. I am not going to discuss the right and wrongs of abortion, or if a fetus really does feel pain, or if the woman feels pain either. I just want to talk about one thing.

The bill includes a required script for doctors, and part of the script goes like this:

"The Congress of the United States has determined that at this stage of development, an unborn child has the physical structures necessary to experience pain."

Having been a woman facing a surgery like this, but not exactly, I am struck by this phrase.

The Congress has determined? The Congress? That huge bumbling body of detached American representatives are now considered a medical resource? They took my body and put it through committee? What else have they determined? Should I consult them before I get my blood drawn? How about the next time I sprain my ankle...should I ask Congress if I should get an aircast or an ace bandage?

Seriously, they want to take a very personal, private, medical decision, one that is difficult to come to in the first place, one that is overly daunting once you are in that room all alone and one that is most importantly all about the families involved and bring government into it?

How about this, The Congress can go determine whether or not it's a good idea to build a new freeway and my doctor and I can determine whether or not I want certain drugs put into me.

I've never really been a big protester and I've certainly not been known to chant slogans on the side of the street, but I finally understand one of them...and it seems fitting now:

KEEP YOUR LAWS OFF MY BODY!!!

And while your at it...keep The Congress's determinations out of the clinic.

Read the whole article here: Study Finds 29-Week Fetuses Probably Feel No Pain and Need No Abortion Anesthesia

Who needs weights...

I think everyone reads newspapers in their own particular order. Myself I read all the arts and book sections first, followed by business, followed by international and finally national. (Opinions comes dead-last and usually only if it captures me within the first three sentences.)

However, I have never found a book review before that talked more about the weight of the book than about the actual premise. Okay, we get it, it's a big book. But I schlepped around the Riverside Complete Shakespeare everywhere I went for a good year and a half...so 4.75 lbs is not that big of a deal to me.

In anycase, being the book fetishist I am...I want this book. It sounds fascinating, and lovely, and fun, and I could skip my bicep curls for awhile...right.

Another book to add to my wishlist. The list is getting long, I need to become filthy rich - fast.

Hunger's Brides.

If you understand this post - you're a geek.

The sailor and I are concluding a day of fish watching (we went to the aquarium) with a very rare trip to the Hard Rock Cafe. We're chomping down on our burgers, making funny and insightful comments about the music videos that no one else would get but us, and glaring at the kid who keeps kicking my husbands chair in a temper tantrum. I'm impressed with the patience C. is showing the kid...I'd have almost bet that he'd have scalped him already.

We eat, we pay, we head for the door. Sometimes it's nice when life is so simplistic.

Then I get bumped by someone making a fast exit from the gift shop. I turn around and am faced with a flashback. It's 1968, Vietnam, the jungle. Helicopters roar above my head, the heat is oppressive. I march till I feel I can't march anymore....Jimbo is leading point and...

Then I remember I'm 23 and can't remember Vietnam, the flashback that just walked into me is also probably around 23 and couldn't possibly remember Vietnam.

But he looks like he does.

The boy is decked out in old style green fatigues complete with the ENTIRE gear pack. He has a bandana tied around his head too. The only incongruous part of him is the neon blue canteen that's peaking from his left hip pocket. But I think he needs it cause it's really hot today. Not jungle hot, but really hot.

He has to push past me cause I'm dumbstruck. Following the anachronism in motion is a girl with a weird cat-ear-type hate and a chick in old 80's biker shorts under a blue skirt slit up to the hip.

C. pulls me out of the restaurant while I try and convince my jaw to reset itself.

"What's that?"

"I dunno, pretty elaborate. I think they're CosPlayers."

"No!"

"Yep. I think so."

"No!"

"It is, and he's that guy."

"What guy."

"The one with the long cutscene."

I rack my brain through catalogs of glanced at Japanese Comics, pages and pages of Manga, thousands of episodes of X-play......ooooooh:

"SNAKE EATER" I sing.

Snake from Metal Gear Solid 3 has just pushed me out of the way at the Hard Rock Cafe.

Snake is kind of a prick.

Suddenly I turn around fast, scanning the surrounding area.

"What are you looking for kitty-cat?"

"Raiden." I say, "Naked Raiden."

"Doing cartwheels." We both finish together.

Horse Cookies

We're strolling through Costco happily. C. is doing the skateboard-esque "push push push -riiiiiide" thing with the cart; still flying high off of his newly regained status of "uber husbandly provider" by procuring for me a huge bulk box of macaroni and cheese. I'm glowing as I walk behind the surfing sailor and feeling loved because he thought of me and my cheesy needs. Oh, the ways he loves me, it makes my knees weak.

He's surfing through rows filled with tubs of cookies and candy and suddenly he stops up short. Really short, he's looking up at a high shelf and pointing at a tub of round brown things. His 5'5'' frame is dwarfed by the 6'+ storage device.

"What's that?!"

I look up, I'm not wearing heels today so the mystery box is an additional inch away from me. However, I'm scrappy and do not mind looking ridiculous in the middle of Costco so I climb up the shelf and grab a box.

"Aussie Bites - rolled oats, honey, coconut, peanut butter, sesame seeds....hey! It's horsey food!" I exclaim.

"Yes it is," my husband agrees "horses would love that stuff."

"Yum, yum, yum" I sing.

"What would horses say when they gobble it up?" my husband asks.

I blush and grin wide...I know what he wants me to do...and I want to do it.

"They'd go yummy, yummy, yummy, give me more horse cookies." I say coyly.

"Then what?" my husband is grinning at me slyly.

"They go ppppffffffffffff." I say, blowing my lips out in a horse-like snort, shaking my head and stomping my foot.

My husband horse-snorts back at me. We're both glowing and smiling at one another. It's a very intimate moment.

"Want some horse food?" I ask? He does, we get a box. He starts on his cart-surfing again and I find some hand soap. Every once in awhile I'll blow my lips again and snort. C.'s grin grows wider and wider. He knows how happy I am. I know how happy he is. We may look like a sophisticated yuppie-type couple shopping for groceries...but really we're two little kids in a playground.

We pass by another yuppie-type couple pushing a little kid in their cart. The kid is going "bomp, bomp, bomp!" over and over, making his lips pop each time. His parents look weary, he looks ecstatic.

"He's got a good sound too." I say to my husband.

"Yes he does. Ppppffffff!"

"Pppppffffff" I respond.

As we leave the warehouse I slip my hand into his and he squeezes it. I'm not sure what he's thinking, but I'm thinking about how four years ago I couldn't make any kind of horse sound. He would talk about his horses and I was at a loss for sounds. Too uptight, too depressed, too shy, unable to let myself go and say what I wanted, be who I wanted to be rather than what others told me. I was all locked up until C. came along and said "I like you, even when you're being goofy, you're perfect." He let me be silly, and imperfect. He let me express my own opinion and tell my own stories. He was so good to me. He was so good for me. Wrapped up in his arms, I let inner self out and snorted and whinnied in joy.

"I've never been able to do that before!"

"Really? Cause you're cute when you do."

"Then I'll do it just for you. Ppppppfffffffff"

And I do. And it reminds me of that glow we had when we first fell in love. How free we felt, how light and hopeful. Two people going back to the beginning, back to childhood, and growing up together all over again.

Mmm, horse cookies are good. Ppppppfffffffff.

Tree Hugger

Last fall my husband dragged what looked like a broken carpet-beater without the beater part into the living room and asked for a pot.

"What on earth is that?" I asked.

"It's a tree. Can we use the pasta pot till I can go to Home Depot?"

"You mean it used to be a tree right? Now it's a scratching post for racoons?"

"It's a tree. I need a pot...and some dirt."

"It doesn't have any leaves on it."

"It needs some dirt first."

"There's plenty on you. Where'd you find it?"

"The dumpster. Someone threw it away - help me save the tree!"

And then I looked at my husband. He was cute...he was all pink faced and bright-eyed. For some reason he had decided this was the tree for him. It was torn up, the leaves it did have were brown and crunchy, the stalk was leaning way over and it only had two other huge branches sticking up like a fork. It looked sad, like it would cry if it could. My husband on the other hand was perky - dare I say happy. He found a tree! It needed a little love, but it was a tree. It was a true Charlie Brown moment.

I put the tree in the pasta pot. It took my husband two hours before he found a pot that would be suitable for the tree. We set it up in it's new home...it looked just as sick only now it had a pretty pot which accentuated all the sick parts of it.

Our roommate made fun of it. "That is a dead tree, that is a tree that ceases to be, it is an EX-TREE!" My poor husband moved the tree out of sight.

It lived in a few places. On the patio where it sat between us during dinner. In the bathroom where I started getting these nightmares that the tree was watching me naked. It lived in the kitchen, in the bedroom. Finally we moved it to my husbands desk...right under the air-vent. It leaned over and rested it's trunk on the printer. All it's leaves fell off.

"I think it's depressed." I said one day.

"Well give it some more water."

"No it's not thirsty...it's abandoned. It's lonely. It feels like it's an orphan. It's an orphaned tree!"

"So what should we do?"

"It needs a name. You need to name it."

"I'm not naming the tree." Said the not-so-Charlie Brown husband.

"You have to, or it won't believe it truly belongs to us. We need to make it's adoption official. He needs to know he won't be abandoned again."

"It'll be fine...give it some water."

The tree went nameless. I spent every morning stroking it. I don't know why, but it seemed like it liked having it's branches petted. I'd whisper to it: "You're a good tree, you can make it, all you gotta do is grow a few branches." Secretly I'd leave the radio on for it to listen to music - it preferred jazz.

Slowly the tree grew little green buds that I would massage and pet. It started to stand up straighter and finally the buds turned into leaves.

"Look! Look! It's green!!!"

"Wow! That's a good tree!"

"You hear that...you're a good tree!"

The tree got gold stars everyday. It was a good tree...always little, very quiet, very green.

Last night we were moving the last of the apartment. The tree got moved out to the living room, to the kitchen, to the hall, finally it was lumped outside with miscellaneous boxes and cleaning supplies. It was the last thing to be carried to the truck.

"You can't put that in here, it'll get tore up" said our antagonistic roommate - he always hated that tree.

"It won't fit in the station wagon. He'll be smushed."

"Well, you'll just have to throw him away then."

"NO! He's part of our family. We won't throw you away so we won't throw the tree away!"

My husband punctuated my remark by plopping the tree in the truck.

"It may not make it honey." I said.

"Goodbye tree. You were a good tree. We like you." He said.

"Honey...he needs a name."

"You think?"

"So he knows we're not throwing him away in a truck. We're taking him home...give him a name."

We both looked at our good tree. We nursed this tree back to life for a year - he had endured pot after pot, move after move. He had been taunted, teased and scoffed at. This was a very tough little tree.

"Herman." I whispered.

"Herman? You think?"

"Yeah. He's too small for a tough name...and Herman's are always little. But when you're named Herman, you have to be scrappy."

"Okay then, bye Herman! We'll see you there."

"Bye Herman! We love you!"

And we do, we really, really do.

Moving Day

Today we begin to move our household across town and move into our new place.

I have a lot of books. A Lot

You get the picture.

Oh Yes!!!

Most people I talk to only like to read when the subject is something that they themselves have gone through and can easily relate to themselves.

Ah, we are so vain.

I haven't read anything that has popped like that in awhile (which doesn't mean I haven't adored the things I've recently read). That's over. I just went back to a blog that had been off my radar and was suddenly hit by how easily she describes thoughts and feelings I have myself. Ahem - POP.

Okay, I get it, being a married woman is not that rare, and we fit the stereotypes so well. But hey, at least she makes it interesting to read.

Go here. It's very adult...so you know...be a grown up and only read what won't make you feel weird.

Champagne Trick

I like champagne. It's fun. I've never had any "good stuff." We usually get the $12 bottles or have a $3-$5 glass on special occasions, but still I like it plenty.

Of course it's mostly about the bubbles. And there is something wrong with expensive bubbles. Aren't bubbles those cheap toys that could keep us occupied for hours when we were kids? Aren't they essentially a free kind of magic? Without the bubbles I'd just get a glass of good white wine. I like the bubbles. I like the way they glitter, especially in restaurant "ambiance" lighting. I like the way they pop. I like when they tickle my nose and bite my lips. I spend most of the time watching them line up from the bottom of the tall, pretty flute and wiggle up to the top.

And, most of all, I like the sound. Tinkle, pop, peep, pop. Mmmm, there is nothing better than food that talks back to you.

The other night my husband bought me a glass of champagne. It looked good. It was a pretty color, it sparkled, it came in a pretty little glass. But it wasn't making any noise. I stared at it for a bit.

HUSBAND: What are you doing?

ME: I'm not sure this champagne knows it's champagne.

HUSBAND: I meant why are you sticking your nose on the glass and putting your head on the table?

ME: So I can see the bubbles better of course.

HUSBAND: Why don't you just lift the glass to your face instead of moving your face to the table?

ME: Uh...I didn't think of that.

I lifted it.

ME: I think it's shy.

HUSBAND: What's shy?

ME: This champagne. It's too quiet.

HUSBAND: Were you expecting it to sing?

ME: Yes.

There's silence while C. digests the fact that I'm serious.

HUSBAND: And dance?

ME: It already is. See...bubbles. It's just not loud enough.

HUSBAND: Hold it to your ear.

I did...it bubbled, it popped, it jingled against the glass. It positively roared. I moved it away from my ear. Silence. Closer to my ear: roar! Up, down, up, down.

ME: This is great!!!

HUSBAND: You're going to do that everytime we drink champagne now aren't you?

ME: Yep!

HUSBAND: Guess it's true.

ME: What's true?

HUSBAND: You can teach a cat to do tricks.

ME: Meow - pop - pop - pop. Meow.


And yes, next time we drink champagne I will hold it to my ear. It's better than a seashell!!! Yey! New trick!

Ribbons and Pinstripes

We went to the county fair this weekend. This is one of my favorite periods of summer, when the fairgrounds open up and all the 4H kids are walking around constantly chewing on their nails worrying about their crumble cake and if their squash will be big enough to beat the Jensen kid down the street. Our neighborhood is an odd mix, since the suburbs are literally right across a two lane street from massive working farms. There are fields and fields of tall corn, herds of cattle, yards filled with sheep. Orchards filled with fruit - right next to the supermarket that imports vegetables from California.

The fair is a special kind of celebration. It's a perfect reminder, that yeah, we do live in agricultural bliss, even if we forget because we pass the mall everyday instead of the local Vineyard. Everyone has worked hard all summer and now they're getting together to show off. Well I guess that's what it's supposed to be. Honestly I've noticed that most of the kids in our area dress in Banana Republic khakis to show off their sheep and most don't know the difference between an alpaca and a llama...but it's still fun. My husband likes to watch the goats push each other off bales of hay (and consequently butt the children who are unfortunate enough to get in their way). I like the cows who always look so pretty and have such big round soft eyes. I could spend all day admiring each and every cow. It definitely renews my late summer vow of becoming a vegetarian, not to mention the cows are usually parked right near the farmers market displaying all that perfect August harvest. This year we got to watch the Draft Horse competition. My husband lived on a farm with horses, I didn't, so the horse competitions are more thrilling for me than for him. Neither of us know anything about Draft Horses though. It was truly impressive to watch the way the teams worked. There was something thrilling about leaning on the fence and watching a huge cart pulled by three or four huge horses trotting past you so quick you can only see the ribbons trailing behind. The horses are huge and intimidating, they're muscle-y but in a different way from the sleek muscles on a race horse. And their bellies swell deep into their harnesses. There chains were louder than I thought they'd be, and were accompanied by loud booms from each foot step. Everytime they stomped down the wagon shook making you think it was going to fall apart right there, but since it was a trot these huge horses still picked up each foot daintily, hop point, hop point, hop point. They looked happy and proud. Maybe it was just me though. But they were magnificent.

I was a little tickled by the matching outfits of the stable hands, which were not so magnificent. It was like being surrounded in the land of warped twins. Nothing fit right, and I think they made a mistake trying to hide there tattoos and scars. They all looks uncomfortable dressing in matching cowboy shirts with classing colors and bolo ties.

Dress in general was a tad strange. There were a few people who had come directly from church. I watched a little girl skip past in a dark blue satin dress with a huge black toole petticoat. I couldn't figure out if her mother hadn't let her change or if she had insisted on wearing it all day. I can remember those fights myself. Why would I want to change into play clothes when I looked so pretty? But then again, why would I want to keep a big cumbersome skirt on when there were so many things to climb and so many things to scrap my knee on? Being a little girl is a life of constant change - it takes a lot of energy and antibacterial soap to keep up.

Luckily I am no longer a little girl and could join the ranks of fair goers who were dressing in tank tops and play skirts. It was a hot day, I felt sorry for every man, woman and child who was stuck in their button downs and silk blouses. They were all melting and peeling away as many layers as possible. By the end of our trip everyone who had showed up looking crisp, fresh and "saved" now looked like they'd been swimming in some lava pool in hell and were contemplating performing a strip show.

All except one man. Just as we rounded the corner from the sheep barn, fanning ourselves with a well-wrinkled program and handouts on the marketability of Emu Oil I saw him. There, at noon, with no shade, no wind, and an ambient temperature nearing the 100's was a big, husky, man dressed in a black pinstripe suit. Not only dressed, but buttoned up and pressed, not just pressed: starched. He end had his tie tightened up nice and close to his throat.

It was like staring at the devil. We passed him, I nearly got whiplash. I couldn't help but watch him, blatantly walking down the thru-way, dripping sweat down onto his collar and making no one move to unbutton the four buttons of his coat, or loosen his tie. I looked at my husband, his shirt was already soaked, my skin was showing the first pink tones of a sunburn. Who was this guy fooling? Everyone was in the same heat...we were all suffering. There was already a substantial bid going for the next seat in the dunking pool. We all knew it was hot. Really hot. Really really freaking hot!

And he's walking around dressed like it's mid-November.

I was offended. I was insulted. I was just plain mad. The cows shared my indignation. They watched him walk around with wary cow eyes, probably wondering why a species so vain they would suffer in this heat somehow got the upper hand. I could see them all inch a little closer to the barn fans, and a little further away from Mr. GQ.

I mean come on buddy. Give up the ghost. We all know it's hot, we all know you're hot, and we all know the black pinstripe was a bad idea. Bite the bullet and take off the damn jacket. You're still not prettier than me, even if you are wearing twice the clothes, and there is no way you're prettier than the cows. Everyone knows you're sweating. Take off the coat, take off the coat...TAKE THE DAMN COAT OFF!

Two hours later we passed him again, still dressed impeccably. Not a single wrinkle anywhere and completely devoid of the dirt that the rest of us had collected trudging through the barns and sandy grounds. But as we passed I saw his collar, his starched white collar, soaking wet and yellowing.

HA! Should have taken off the coat huh?

Pregnancy Scare Update

For my own piece of mind I'd just like to say:

I AM NOT PREGNANT

It's official. Which doesn't make me any less terrified that something has gone wrong. But at least it's not that kind of wrong.

Pregnancy Scare

Terror. There is only one word to describe the feeling when you've gotten to the last green pill in the box and nothing has happened: Terror.

I'm standing in front of the bathroom sink staring at the two little green boxes. I'm comparing colors. I've never been color blind before, but I must be now because the first green box is empty except for one green pill and the second box is full of lots of pink pills. Two things are bothering me. Why are the "red week" pills green and the "non-red week" pills pink? Also, why am I out of green pills when I have yet to have my period? I must have these backwards. Pink must be the sugarpill thing and green must be the hormone ones. I turn the boxes upside down, but all that does is start the week with a Saturday instead of a Sunday. Something is wrong.

I'm standing, looking at the mirror, looking at the pills, looking at my stomach. This isn't right. This is my body. Mine. I'm in control. My mind, my body, my soul. When the world falls away all that's left is me...I own this and only this. I say when things will happen. I'm looking at my stomach and the pills. Okay, so where the hell did it go?

My mind is beginning to berate my body out of principle. Listen buddy! This is a partnership here. You gotta tell me what's going on. I get to know these things, I'm the one who decided whether we walk off a cliff or not. What the hell is going on? My body is unresponsive and unworried. My mind tries to work it out. I feel...unwomanly. I haven't gained weight, I haven't lost weight. I'm not cramping, I'm not craving. I feel an utter devoid of anything. I'm not even roused by the thought of chocolate. I can't put my finger on it.

I'm talking innocently with a friend online, he randomly asks "Are you pregnant?"

WHY, WHY, WHY did he ask that? What possessed him to ask me that? Where'd he get that idea? Am I speaking like I'm pregnant? Do I look pregnant? Why did he ask that? What made him think that?

I'm doing the girl dance now, turning to the side, pulling my stomach in, flattening my belly. Does it look bigger? Is it softer than it should be? I'm turning in a circle, staring at my hips, my breasts. Is my bra just a little tighter than it should be? I can't tell. Is my skin breaking out, why do I look so tired? I stop turning around in circles, now I can't tell if I'm dizzy cause I'm sick or because I've been pretending to be a ballerina for the past three minutes. I don't think my body has changed. I'm the same Katy. And I took all the pills when I was supposed too. Okay, so where the hell did it go?

I've been pregnant before, it didn't end well. There was a whole lot of dying going on and I was on the wrong side of the bar. So okay, I'm alright now. No baby, but I'm okay now. There is no reason to think that it would happen again, other than the fact that it happened in the first place. But I'm too young. I'm 23, I'm still in the "me stage" and right now my "me" is saying it doesn't want to die for an "it". No matter where the "it" comes from.

I'm not pregnant, can't be, if I was I would have thought of it right away right? If I was pregnant I wouldn't have had to have some guy ask me about it before I figured it out. If I was pregnant wouldn't I know? Wouldn't it be in the back of my mind? But I didn't think of it for eight whole days.

I can't be pregnant. I don't want to be. Pregnancy equals death. I'm thinking about that now, thirty different pills, two pill boxes, one really scared girl. Really scared. Crap, I wish my husband were here. I really want to hit him. Hard. Really hard.

Why did he ask if I was pregnant? Why can't I stop thinking about that now? How did he know I'm late? More importantly, how does he know what to ask and my husband is completely oblivious? Even more importantly, why is the fact that he asked making me even more nervous?

Damnit, I'm doing the dance again. I don't feel sick, I should feel sick. Last time the morning sickness was really bad. So was the afternoon sickness, and the evening sickness, and elevensies, tea-time, half-time...all bad bad bad. I don't feel sick now. I want an avocado. Is this pregnant food? I can't remember what I ate the last time. I eat weird things anyway, how do you know if it's weird pregnant food or weird "I'm katy" food.

Terror, terror, terror. I'm sick of it. It's not fair that I have to take pills that reverse the natural working of my entire body just so that my husband doesn't have to wear a condom because - "it annoys him." Grrr, get a damn banana and practice. Why is it always the womans responsibility to take care of these things? Why is it never okay to discuss it with my partner? How is it that a man who shoots guns, blows stuff up and generally wars his way through life is too squeamish to sit for two minutes and listen to his wife agonize over pink pills? It isn't manly to be so...so...freaking manly!

I'm offended. I'm offended at the pills that are green when they should be red. I'm offended that my body isn't doing what it's supposed to be doing. I'm offended that it took eight days and guy who doesn't know me that intimately for me to realize I could be pregnant. And mostly I'm offended that I'm a woman and if I get through this month I'll have to do this all over again. I'm angry that I'm terrified and I'm terrified that I have no one to be angry at. I'm more crazed at the idea that this pregnancy scare is more lonely to me than if I didn't (maybe) have a child inside of me. Shouldn't I feel connected to the world, or to my loved ones, or to something?

I guess I almost hope I am pregnant because it's a scary thought that I can be this crazy without any mitigating circumstances.

Blog on Blog Action

I recently read an article about the blogging trend (and I'd post the link to the article but I forget where I read it...in fact I think it was actually in hardcopy *gasp gasp*) and how it's helping to bring back the lost art of journal writing.

Lost art? Who hasn't kept a journal before? You can't tell me that every girl and woman hasn't at some time had a little book where she wrote "Jess is soooo cute." a hundred times. And even if she managed to skip the Mrs. His Last Name phase if she read Harriet the Spy you know she kept a spy journal for at least a week!

And boys, if they read either Dear Mr. Hensaw (which I know they did if they grew up in the U.S. because they force you to in public schools) or watched Doogie Howser had to have tried it once or twice.

What blogs have done is made people want to keep it up. I've kept journals since I was seven. If you go back to read them it's much the same as hitting the "random" search on blogger. You'll find a little of everything.

There are the "This is what I did today" blogs, there are the "Themed" blogs, the "Opinion on Themes" blogs, the "Special time in my life" blogs, the "Dedicated to the one I love" blogs, the "Social observation" blogs and of course the "Rebel without a Cause" blogs.

Then you have blogs like mine...the "Trying to fill a whole" blog. It's like having an empty rubbermaid box and a miscellaneous pile of junk. You start by trying to organize the junk. Papers here, toys here, things in envelopes in it's own pile, till you realize that none of these things is anything like the other so why not just dump it all in the box, sit on the lid till it closes and shove it in the back of the closet.

Look Ma! I cleaned my room! And wrote a run-on sentence...all in one go.

My head is a lot like that pile of junk...there are a lot of ideas bumping around and they just keep piling. I would never bother to express these ideas while having conversations with real people. Honestly, there are very few people in my life that I can trust to just let it all out. I bite my tongue a lot, either because I know the other person won't understand, or care to understand, what I'm saying. Or they'll feel offended because I don't agree with them. Or because I know that pretty girls should have opinions. Or, you know, if you don't have anything nice to say...

Also, I'm shy. Oh I can talk your ear off on thousands of subjects but it takes awhile before I'll do it. I prefer to listen, hear all your opinions first, all your stories, then maybe I'll share a few of my own.

The one person I never had to be reserved with though was my husband. It didn't matter how stupid, how moody, how embarrassing, insightful, smart; I could tell him everything - anything. It was great. He's smarter than me, usually, so he challenged me - which I crave. He was open, so things he didn't know he'd be willing to learn about without feeling inadequate. He didn't mind debating for the sake of debate, nor did he mind if I played devil advocate for hours just for the heck of it. We both knew opinions can't be changed, but you can talk about new ideas.

If you're observant you'll notice that the previous paragraph was written in past tense: my husband is no longer my outlet. And being far away from my closest friends and family (thank you Navy) means that since my husband has resigned from his post of sounding board - I have no outlet. Besides this blog.

Everything on this blog is stuff I can't really talk about with other people. It's ideas I'll get from conversations that I know I can't say to the person I'm speaking with. Or it's things that you're "not supposed to talk about" but which I have too...or I'll go crazy. I'm literally at the point where if I have to keep anymore emotions or thoughts inside I'm going to explode. Everyone around me, including my husband, needs me to be a certain Katy. Happy Katy, Capable Katy, Together-Katy, Cheerleader Katy. I've been letting all those feelings out and keeping all the others in. There is no more room, I am full!

So why am I qualifying my eclectic style blog? Because I haven't posted in awhile, and I haven't posted because all the things I needed to say this week I've said. Save one, and that will be a post later on. This week I haven't had a lot of time to think at all, but when I did, I said it. And I feel good about it. I feel clean for some reason. I feel like I get to be me rather than what is projected onto me. It's been a freeing week.

So the blog suffers. That's actually a good thing.

Who knew I was worth that much!

I'm busy, there is too much to pack, there is too much to do, there is not enough time to do it, there is not enough money to fund it.

In lieu of a real post here is an article I found particularly satisfying in my current state of frazzled employee and wife:

------- Would You Like An Invoice With That Divorce? -------

ALBANY - Ind. - A woman divorcing her husband is trying to
get a paycheck from him for all the hours of work she did as
a wife. Kathy Thompson is sending her soon to be ex Gary a
bill for almost half a million dollars for housework she says
she did and kept track of over the years. She's even created
an itemized bill that displays what she thinks Gary should
pay her after their five years of marriage. The bill includes
charges like $35,200 for cooking, $17,600 for laundry, and a
measly $1,200 for yard work. "It's not about the money. It's
about standing up for women's rights and the respect they
deserve and their duties around the house," claims Kathy.


(Found at Bizarre News.)