How We Met

It was a Sunday night in January. I don't remember the exact date, but I have always remembered it was a Sunday. If I hadn't just quit the job from Hell, I never would have gone out on a work night.

A night or two prior, I had been chatting online when the conversation was hijacked by a young woman named Monica with low self-esteem. She was sending a JPEG of herself to everyone in the chat room and asking all, "Am I pretty?"

Picture of Husband from 2001, looking very pretty.

In a rare display of Internet affection, many of the chatters were agreeing that yes, she was pretty. The more honest people in the room were diplomatically suggesting that the photo was bad and they really couldn't calculate how attractive she was.

What Monica lacked in self-esteem, she made up for in perseverance. "We should all meet up! And then you guys can tell me if I am pretty or not."

I agreed to join in this ludicrous undertaking, mostly out of unemployed boredom. As I wouldn't be working the next day, when Monica suggested meeting on Sunday at a Denny's in Pacific Beach, there wasn't any particular reason to say "no."

Several people in the chat room began begging for a ride to the meet, and I offered my services. A guy named Jay and I sent private messages back and forth for a few minutes to nail down the logistics. He wrote that he needed to talk to me on the phone before he would accept a ride, for safety reasons. This seemed sensible enough to me, so I got his number and called him up. Jay and I talked on the phone for a few minutes until he felt assured that I possessed a vagina. Thusly assured, Jay felt comfortable enough to ride in a car with me and to also offer the news that he and his wife had an "open" marriage.

Thusly discomforted, I yelped into the phone, "Dude! All I am going to do is drive you to Denny's!"

"All I am saying is... you know... hey, if you don't believe me I'll put my wife on the phone and she'll tell you tha..."

"DUDE! You are married and I am not cool with that! Not that I wasn't even thinking of this as a date!"

Finally realizing that I was serious, Jay defeatedly said, "Okay! okay! Are you still gonna give me a ride?"

"Yah, I guess so..."

Before I started my car on Sunday night, I reached under my seat to make sure that my five pound Maglite was still there. Just in case Jay wanted to discuss in person his marital situation.

I drove to Jay's house in Mira Mesa and pick him up and then we headed to Pacific Beach. The particular Denny's in question was located at the end of Garnet Avenue and about a block from the ocean. It featured an outdoor patio where diners were bathed in the glow of the green neon that lined the perimeter of the restaurant's roof. The effect of which made each person look about twenty seconds from upchucking a "Moons Over My Hammy."

Several other people from the chat room were already seated on the patio. However, Jay was the only one I knew in person and I was already giving him the cold shoulder. Everyone say around the long table in complete silence. The social strategy of the evening seemed to call for staring at your knuckles or winding plastic straws around your fingers. The gentleman to my right declined either option and began trying to set the soles of his shoes on fire with his Zippo.

I sat in silence for a few minutes. I heaved a sigh and asked my neighbor to the left if he had a pen I could borrow. He handed me a blue ballpoint. I wrote on my napkin, "Meretrice: A/S/L? :)" and handed both pen and napkin back.

My neighbor laughed and wrote something on the napkin and passed it to his left. Soon the napkin made a complete circuit back to me. Everyone at the table was laughing at making small talk. Several "private messages" were also being delivered as individuals took their own napkins and passed them around -- folded, of course.

About the time my disposable chat room had complete its second circumnavigation of the table, I looked up from my knuckles to see that someone new had arrived. Without saying a word, he went up to the guy sitting across from me and thrusted out his tongue. The tongue was decorated with a freshly installed piercing.

I hindsight, I wish I could say that my reaction was something along the lines of, "There is the man I am going to marry!" or even "You so crazy! I wanna have your baby!"

Rather, I rolled my eyes and muttered under my breath, "Oh, that's mature!"

Nonetheless, the skinny man with piercings would indeed become my Husband. Almost exactly two years after that fateful Sunday night, I gave birth to his Daughter. Today is our fifth wedding anniversary.

Happy anniversary, honey. I love you.

Husband and I two years ago at Megan's Bay in St. Thomas. Irrefutable proof that he never smiles (anymore).

Postscript: Monica never did show up that night.

Postscript 2: Edited to correct some horrendous grammar and to add a picture from about the time we met of Husband looking thuper thexy. THUPER!

Flick Her

At her daycare, Daughter's teachers have been insisting that she call them, "ma'am." Growing up in California, the only people who were called "ma'am" was an 85 year old grandmother, and usually not even then. Needless to say, Husband and I have been amused and bemused to hear our little one call me "ma'am."

Last week, when she wasn't feeling his boobies, Daughter started calling Husband, "Ma'am!" We explained patiently to her that grown-up women are called, "ma'am," but grown-up men are called "sir."

She has yet to call him, "sir." Not sure what that's about.

This morning, Daughter asked me to help her put on a necklace and I replied, "Yes, ma'am!" (I'm funny like that)

Daughter replied indignantly, "I'm not a Mannnnn!"

"I didn't call you a man, I called you a ma'ammmm."

"Oh."

Then the lightbulb turned on, "Is that why you were calling Daddy that? Because you thought you were saying "Man?"

"Yes, Mommy."

Great. For a month now, my daughter has been calling me a man.

P.S. I added Flickr to the sidebar of the blog.

I Don't Know Who Taught Her the Word "Boobies."

As I was making dinner last night, I listened to Husband and Daughter playing in the living room. They were engaged in a rollicking game of "Supergirl."

You probably remember that game. Your father or older brother lays prone on the floor with his legs in the air. Then you balance somewhat precariously on his knees, or if you are really adventurous, on his feet. With both arms stretched out in front, you pretend to feel the wind in your face as you fly faster than a speeding bullet. Of course, when your partner's legs start to get tired, balancing yourself becomes more difficult and you topple down onto the floor, or in Daughter's case this time, on her daddy's chest.

I listened to Daughter's raucous giggles as she exclaimed, "Daddy, I felt your boobies!"

Daddy, who honestly does not have any man-titties, was indignant and replied sharply, "I do not have boobies!"

Daughter wasn't buying this. "Yes, you do! I grabbed your boobies! Daddy has boobies!"

Husband called for reinforcements from the only family member who genuinely has breasts and could explain to Daughter that he did not have boobies. "April! You need to handle this one!"

I came into the living room, and got down on my knees so that I could look Daughter squarely in the eyes. "Daughter... do not grab Daddy's boobies. Those are private parts and you should never grab or touch anyone's boobies. Do you understand?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Now Daughter, you need to tell Daddy that you're sorry."

"Sorry, Daddy."

Husband gave me a look that clearly meant, "That's not what I needed you to say," and then looked back at Daughter.

He sighed, "That's okay."

Why I Believe

My husband is an agnostic. I call myself a Christian. Husband doesn't know if there is a heaven or a hell - and he doesn't care. To his way of thinking, if you make the best of life on earth, it doesn't matter what happens when you are buried under it.

I suppose if I had lived Husband's life, I wouldn't care either. Husband has already spit the Devil in his eye and climbed out of the fiery pits. What Husband doesn't realize, and would probably make him laugh, is that when I doubt, when my faith waivers, I think of what he has been through and I am restored.

Husband was born with the cards stacked against him. He is almost completely deaf in one ear, and partially deaf in the other. He refuses to wear a hearing aid (macho pride!), yet most people never realize that he is hearing impaired. Husband taught himself how to read lips and somehow to maintain his balance perfectly. His hearing impairment was the least of his childhood problems.

Husband's parents both failed him through a systematic program of neglect, abandonment and physical abuse. Their myriad sins are impossible to enumerate here. I don't even know what all of them are, although I am cognizant of what Husband's father did every time I hug him. Thanks to my father-in-law's "wrestling" with Husband, I can not squeeze Husband as tightly as I would like because his ribs were broken numerous times and never healed properly.

Husband's mother - I hardly know where to begin, or where to stop. I think the best way to describe her is "sociopath." His mom does what she wants, whenever she wants, with no care how it affects others, including her children. She abandoned Husband's father and her two children when Husband was a toddler. A formerly successful engineer, she has lost everything due to her selfishness and never ending search for the next high.

By the age of thirteen, Husband was short for his age and wiry. Husband was also an alcoholic. I have heard three separate stories from different family members about finding him literally passed out drunk in the gutter. Evidently, in his family, this was a source of amusement for them. The stories weren't told with sadness or guilt, but as if they were describing how their son and brother blew up his science project in the basement. Cue the laugh track.

At fourteen, Husband turned to his mother's choice of drugs, crystal meth. He was a tweaker. About the time he started tweaking, he escaped his father's house and became homeless. On a good night, Husband would crash on a friend's couch. On the bad nights, and most of them were, Husband slept in the sewers. The streets are not kind to anyone, but they reserve special tortures for slightly-built pubescent boys. While Husband generally doesn't hesitate to talk about his past, he has never told me much about those times. Part of me doesn't want to know.

Then at the age of 17, Husband received news that would change his life forever. His girlfriend was pregnant. Husband realized that he was in no position to be a father, but he would do what little he could. He contacted a friend in South Dakota and he asked if he could live with her while he tried to get clean. As he told me years later, "I figured in South Dakota, there were no drugs."

Husband's friend agreed, and he left San Diego. Husband lived in South Dakota and did indeed get clean. His oldest daughter will be 12 years old this July.

When I reflect on Husband's life, I praise God for seeing him through those hard times and bringing Husband to me. Husband bears his scars with grace and dignity - most people would never guess all that he has been through.

Husband is by no means perfect. He remains an addict, although now his drugs of choice are Dr Pepper and cigarettes. When we argue, he uses the defense mechanisms of the addict: manipulation and redirecting the blame. But when I call him on his bullshit, he will sit quietly for a minute and then we can begin to work through the problem.

The miracle of Husband's story is that despite the hell Husband survived, he is a loving and trusting spouse and father. I have met many of the people he knew when he was a tweaker. Many of them are still doing illegal drugs, and/or have HIV or some other STD. Some I will never meet because they are dead. At best, they are surviving, but are incapable of functioning in a relationship with their partners and children. They are the new generation of abusers and perpetuation that demon cycle.

Furthermore, Husband has forgiven his parents and loves them without blame or resentment. If God can work such a powerful miracle on Husband's heart, I know there is nothing that He can't do and nothing that He can not heal.

Tips for the Aspiring Attention Whore

Last night, Husband and I attended a local meeting to elect officers for our neighborhood crime watch. We have been very active in setting up the crime watch, including starting the new website, designing and printing survey cards, and offering ideas and suggestions to our neighbors. The meeting last night was a great success. Over 80 residents attended and they seemed pleased with our efforts.

At about 5:00 p.m. yesterday afternoon, shortly before the meeting, I received a phone call from my neighbor. She said that Live 5 News was coming to her house in a few minutes and wanted to interview local residents about the crime watch and the problems in our neighborhoods. My neighbor is sick with the flu and there was no way she could appear on camera. Would I be willing to be interviewed? Oh, why the hell not!

First problem, I had been working on Sangaree Connection since 9 o' clock that morning. When I am in full web development mode, I don't eat, I don't bathe, I don't brush my teeth. The only breaks I allow myself is sucking down cigarettes while trying to figure out why Internet Explorer is such a piece of crap.

Fortunately, because of the meeting, I had stopped working and I had just stepped out of the shower when my neighbor called. Unfortunately, my hair was soaking wet, my legs unshaved, and I had no idea what I was going to wear to the meeting. I went to the bathroom and busted out the good makeup that I normally reserve for receiving the Queen and attending movie premieres. I slathered that shit on thick! I raced around the house collecting the materials for the meeting and tried to figure out what I was going to wear. I settled on a pink button-down shirt, blue jeans, and my cutest (and therefore most uncomfortable) shoes. I would regret the shoe choice about two hours later.

Husband had come home from work while I was getting ready. He has immediately pummeled with a barrage of "Do I look okays?" and "Are you sures?" and "You didn't even look at mes!" as I hurdled past him to find my camera and my binder and my purse and my keys and my survey cards. We left the house as quickly as possible and naturally as soon as we reached my Daughter's daycare to pick her up I realized that I still hadn't brushed my teeth. Oh well, I hadn't eaten so far that day, how dirty could my teeth be?

We met with the reporter, Katie, and she asked us some background information regarding how long we lived in the neighborhood, were we scared to live here now, and why we were involved in the crime watch. Daughter supplied her own background information to Katie:

When I was a baby, I had a birthday when I was one! And I ate the wrapping paper! *giggle* Then I had another birthday when I was two. That was my second birthday. Then I had a birthday when I was three. And then I had my fourth birthday when I turned four!

Katie looked perplexed and asked Daughter, "So how old are you now?" In unison, Daughter and I told the reporter that she was now four years old. I then pulled out of my arsenal of Parental Distractions the permission for Daughter to play with my neighbor's cats. She raced on pudgy legs into the house.

Time was running short, so with our neighbors' help, we all agreed that Katie would interview me near a fence that was vandalized. Initially, Katie wanted to interview Husband, but he declined (coward!) some lame comment about how he was so over being on TV when he was a kid. Over at the fence, the cameraman handed me a mini microphone. As instructed, I threaded it up under my shirt and attached it to my jacket. After finding suitable lighting, the camera began rolling. Katie asked me a series of intelligent questions and my mouth began issuing forth noises.

My mind was racing ten thousand miles per hour and for the most part I was thinking deep thoughts such as "Shit, my glasses are sliding down my nose! Shit! I was gonna take my glasses off for this! Oh crap, she asked another question, what was I gonna say?"

When we were done filming, Katie assured me that I had done well and provided her with lots of good soundbites. She practically did a little dance in her sharply tailored pink suit when she thought of my fantastic soundbites.

The video is now online and I have to admit, I didn't come off like a complete asshat. If I were to critique myself (like I ever stop doing that) I would say that I need to stand up straighter, stop weaving my head and neck like I am a hungry chicken, and find a method of digging facts and figures out of my brain that doesn't involve rolling my eyes.

My favorite part of the video is definately the last soundbite where I was talking about the vandals who destroyed $25,000 worth of equipment in our new library, "And these people come in here and they destroy it! And for what purpose?"

That's right, feel my outrage! Boo-yah!

Taking Intimacy to a Whole New Level

"Hey, the next time we have sex... can you call me 'Madam Secretary?'"

"I didn't even vote for you!"

New and Shiny

At last all of your questions can be answered! Okay, no one actually asked me any questions, but let's pretend that there are dozens of people dying to know about my super-secret web development project.

Introducing... Sangaree Connection!

Sangaree Connection is a project that I am starting with some fellow residents of our subdivision. We have become sick and tired of the lawlessness in our neck of the woods and want to organize our neighbors to fight back and build community spirit. The goal of the website is to give the residents a forum to discuss their concerns with each other, as well as earning some money to fund community projects like a crime watch.

This was a very exciting project for me because it forced me to go way outside my comfort level and deal with PHP, databases, JavaScript and other scary, scary DHTML tools. I installed WordPress on the server and I am using it to manage Sangaree Connection's blog. I am quite happy with WordPress thus far. I will probably be dumping Blogger very soon and use WordPress for Once Upon a Time. Husband installed a message board and online calendar also, although I did all of the integration with the rest of the site.

By the way, Internet Explorer can kiss my butt. I hate that broswer. For best viewing of Sangaree Connection, I recommend Firefox or Netscape. IE will work fine too, but I just don't like it.

Overheard: Watching Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle

"There's something un-American about square hamburgers"

"So why do you eat at Wendy's?"

"I don't eat their hamburgers!"

"But you are still supporting them..."

"...and that's just like supporting terrorism!"

If I Could Make This Shit Up I Would Change My Name to Aaron Sorkin & Move to L.A.

If I have just one problem with my Husband, it is that the boy can not remember to flush the damned toilet. He insists that when he was a child, California was going through a drought, and he was taught by his parents not to flush. While this may or may not be true, I would submit to you, dear reader, that if the three year old child of his loins is calling him out on this disgusting habit, the time to re-think his parents teaching has come.

If I have one problem with my cat, it is her disturbing boundary issues. Ever had a cat jump in your lap while taking a dump -- and then snuggle down next to your belly? I have...

Last night, I went into the bathroom to take a bath and the problems came to a head. So to speak...

FADE IN

INT. SMALL WELL-LIT BATHROOM WITH BEAUTIFUL PINK MARBLE TILE ON THE FLOOR. NIGHT

A beautiful woman in her late-20's, APRIL, walks into the bathroom wearing a bathrobe. She approaches the bathrub and turns on the water. As she turns away from the bathtub, she notices that the contents of the toilet resemble the Missouri River after the Dave Matthews Band tour bus has driven through it.

APRIL
(looks disgusted)
Oh c'mon! What the fuck?!

April charges out of the bathroom.

INT. SMALL HOME OFFICE WITH TWO OAK DESKS AT OPPOSITE ENDS OF THE ROOM. NEXT TO EACH DESK IS A TALL OAK BOOKCASE FILLED WITH BOOKS. ONE DESK HAS A STATE-OF-THE-ART LAPTOP COMPUTER AND SIX (EMPTY) DR PEPPER CANS NEXT TO IT. NIGHT

A man in his early-30's with short dishevaled hair, SCOTT, is seated at the desk in front of the laptop. He is wearing a headset and is playing "World of Warcraft." Scott is dressed in a pair of ill-fitting sweatpants, sweat socks, and April's slippers.

Voices from the computer speaker are audible.

April enters and approaches Scott from behind.

APRIL
(angrily)
Hey! If you are going to do that, could you at least flush?

SCOTT
(swivels in the office chair to face April, sheepish)
I did.

APRIL
(disgusted)
Oh God! Well, you need to flush the toilet.. now! And then you need to scrub it. It's so nasty. I was gonna take a bath...

SCOTT
(apologetic)
I'm sorry hun, are you going to bed soon?

APRIL
(ameliorated somewhat)
Yah... after my bath.

SCOTT
(turns back to the computer, and presses a key on the computer which activates the microphone on his headset.)
Hey guys, I gotta head to bed now...

APRIL
(loudly, to embarrass Scott)
No, what you gotta do now is flush!

Several voices are heard from the computer laughing. One voice is heard saying, "Owned!"

SCOTT
(embarrassed, but in good humor)
Uhm yeah... I gotta go now.

Scott rises from his seat and exits the OFFICE. April follows him.

INT. BATHROOM NIGHT

April is running the water in the bathtub, and Scott is scrubbing the toilet with a toilet brush...

APRIL
Can you wash the brush when your done? (pause) And then wash whatever you used to wash the toilet brush with?

SCOTT
(sigh)
You are impossible.

APRIL
(laughs)
Yeah, but you still love me... (under her breath) probably 'cause I flush the toilet daily on your behalf.

SCOTT
Yeah, I do... psycho!

April laughs.

Scott continues to scrub the toilet. April exits the room and returns a few moments later naked. April stands in front of the sink and considers her reflection in the mirror above the sink.

APRIL
(to Scott)
Do you think I need new boobies?

Scott stops scrubbing the toilet and places the toilet brush in the toilet brush holder-thing between the toilet and the sink. He stands up and turns to April.

SCOTT
(obviously, he's had this conversation with her before)
No... you don't!

APRIL
(incredulous, turns to Scott)
Please! It looks like I have two decapitated and dismembered beanie babies stapled to my chest!

A small, tabby CAT enters the room and starts plaintively meow-ing. April and Scott ignore the cat.

SCOTT
April, you look fine!

APRIL
So I don't need new boobies?

SCOTT
No!

Scott faces the toilet and whips "it" out and starts urinating into the toilet.

APRIL
(lovingly caresses Scott's butt with her hand.)
Aww... you are so sweet to me.

SCOTT
(amused)
You saw what I did in the toilet. Are you sure you want to be rubbing that?

APRIL
(annoyed, sniffs her hand)
Eww! Hey! Those are my sweatpants! And you're going commando aren't you!?

Scott laughs.

The cat jumps on the edge of the toilet, pauses, and walks under Scott's urine stream.

SCOTT
(shouts)
Dude!

APRIL
What the fuck? Hailie, no!
Scott! You pee'd on my cat!

April swats at the cat, who jumps off the toilet. The cat meows at Scott and April and bounces out of the room.

SCOTT
(loudly)
She fucking walked into it! How the hell was I supposed to know she'd do that?

APRIL
(turns off the bathtub faucet and climbs in.)
Well, I think you should wash Hailie. That's so gross, what is wrong with her? She is so totally your cat!

SCOTT
(indignant)
Oh! So when she needs to have a bath, she's my cat!

APRIL
(laughing)
Exactly. Oh hey, what were we talking about... oh yeah, do I need new boobies?

The cat returns. She hops up on the sink and meows once.

APRIL
Hey Husband, Hailie's thirsty.

Scott rolls his eyes at the insanity surrounding him and turns on the water in the sink slowly. The cat begins drinking from the thin stream of water, as if it were her personal water fountain. Scott EXITS.

FADE OUT

Anthropology Blows

I haven't been blogging as much recently, and that is primarily because of my new job. My blog entries are primarily about my daily life, and as I have a self-imposed ban on blogging about my work, blog topics are running thin. (Anyone want to buy me this book?)

Also, Husband and I are dealing with some behavioral problems with Daughter. This is probably the first time in her life that we are at loss as to what to do about it. She has out-grown all of the parenting books that we own! Our problem is that she is becoming hugely defiant and stubborn. A simple request like, "Please stop bothering the cat or Hailie will scratch you," is turning into an hour-long ordeal. The first problem begins when Daughter insists that she is not, in fact, bothering the cat. The wisdom of her parents, not to mention the cat and her bared and very sharp claws, are apparently unconvincing arguments.

Imagining that we have some sort of role in disciplining our own child, we insist that she step away from the cat. Daughter counters with "I can't." The girl is literally tries to convince us that she is incapable of standing up and walking away from Hailie. These tactics are immediately infuriating to someone like myself who was raised by strict parents. One, the girl is lying to us. Two, she is being defiant.

This particular evening, Husband finally had enough and he scooped Daughter up to get her away from the cat. She immediately began screeching and flailing in his arms like Michael Stipe on acid. He dropped her into our recliner, where she continued to lose her religion.

Maybe five or ten minutes later, she calmed down the point where she was just sniffling and whining. Her whole body was laying flat on the seat of the recliner, with her legs hanging off the edge. Daughter then began acting like she couldn't get up. No, really. She would act like she was trying to sit up, or maybe roll off the seat onto the floor, but couldn't. For FORTY-FIVE minutes she put on this whiny, shreaky and sniffly one-woman play. At one point I turned to Husband and ruefully quipped, "Who knew that Montgomery Ward's sold recliners equipped with black holes?"

This story is presented to you for entertainment value, but bear in mind that this is just one example of Daughter's defiance and we are reaching our wits' ends. Other prime situations for her to test her limits are naptime, bedtime, lunchtime, dinnertime, bathtime, and primetime. It is getting to be really exhausting having to deal with a conflict over every single thing we ask of her.

Husband and I have different theories on why Daughter is acting out so much. He believes that she is testing her limits. I think perhaps she is trying to get our attention. We definitely need to figure out how to handle this though.

Remembering Nine-Eleven

The media has been in sentimental overload for the past week or so as the calendar approached the fifth anniversary of 9-11. Now that it is here, I'm wondering if there isn't some small part of Katie Couric that wishes the terrorists had planned their attacks for sweeps week. Damn, that would be guaranteed ratings every five years. But I guess that is just the way terrorists are; they destroy everything we hold sacred.

I confess though that I have been thinking about 9-11, where I was and what I was doing on that unforgettable day. In reminiscing, it occurred to me how much my life has changed since then. Although Husband and I were already living together in our San Diego apartment, we weren't married yet. Needless to say, Daughter wasn't around. My parents were still alive, although Dad had already been diagnosed with the prostate cancer that would eventually take him.

That Tuesday morning, I was getting ready to go to work. As I was pulling on my pants, I was surprised to hear my cell phone ring. I glanced at the caller ID and saw my brother's name on the small LCD screen. A few weeks prior to September 11, my brother and I, who had been very close, had a huge blow-up. I was instantly irritated that my brother was calling me at seven in the AM. Did he really need to yell at me about something or other, while I was about to head out the door? I flipped open the phone and growled, "What?

My brother seemed to sense what my thoughts were and quickly said, "No, it's not about that! Turn on your TV. A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center!"

"What? How did that happen?" I was still annoyed. Why was my brother playing Dan Rather when I needed to drive myself and Husband to work? Mentally, I was imagining a small private plane had smashed into the building and broken a few windows.

Brother's voice got louder with shaky excitement. "No one knows, but the building just fell down!"

My stomach heaved, "What?! That must have been a big fucking plane!"

"The news is saying that it was a 767! Go turn on the news, and you'll see!"

"Thanks, Brother." I snapped the phone shut. Husband had been listening to my end of the conversation. I told him what my brother had said as I rushed to the living room to turn on the TV. Husband clutched my hand as we watched the replay of the second plane hitting the tower over the news graphic which read, "America Under Attack."

Husband and I broke the hypnotic grip of the images and we looked at each other. I wondered aloud if I should go to work. We agreed that given the remoteness of the Indian casino I worked at, I would be safer there if the terrorists were also planning to attack the coastal military targets in San Diego. Somberly, Husband and I left the apartment.

We drove together through the suburban streets and listened to the news on the radio. The local San Diego DJ's really did not have any more facts than we did. They were watching the news in their studio and repeating what they heard for their listeners.

The DJ's confirmed that a jetliner had crashed into the Pentagon. There were reports that a plane had crashed somewhere in Pennsylvania, and possibly another in Iowa or Illinois. Both of the World Trade Center towers had collapsed now. The FAA was shutting down all air traffic, even while sources were saying that as many as another dozen planes were missing. It was unknown when these devastating attacks would end.

In the office, the attacks were all anyone could think or talk about. Several co-workers, including myself, were listening to the news on the radio. Periodically, one of us would circulate through the office with the latest updates. However, once you knew how many planes crashed, and into what, there really wasn't anything new worth reporting that day. No one, not even the media, really knew anything. I remember eating in the employee dining room for lunch that day and marveling that there were twelve televisions in the room. Each TV was tuned to a different channel: MTV, ESPN, each of the networks, etc. Every channel was showing the same thing, that damned second plane hitting the Tower 2 while its brother burned in the background.

The days immediately following 9-11 are now a jumble of images and emotions to me. Every day I drove to work and I observed more and more patriotic sentiments. The company distributed American flag pins to every employee. Many of my co-workers displayed pictures of bald eagles or firefighters that had been run off surreptitiously on the company printers.

Most of all, I vividly remember how countless San Diegans expressed their grief in the most public way they knew. They purchased poster board at Wal-Mart, or found old white bedsheets in a closet. With spray-paint and love of country they wrote phrases like, "God Bless America," "We Will Never Forget," and "One Nation Under God," and "United We Stand." Thousands of these homemade signs were posted from the freeway overpasses. Every, single, freeway overpass had at least one sign, most had half a dozen or more. Each sign was a person's or a family's show of solidarity with the rest of the country.

I, like most Americans, had never felt more love and appreciation for our country and our fellow citizens than I did in the weeks following the attacks. I felt pride for our president who was so restrained in his response to the tragedy. Bush repeatedly reminded the country that although Muslim extremists had been identified as the culprits, we mustn't blame all Muslims for what happened. It was about a month before the counter-attack in Afghanistan began.

I wish I could say that the patriotism and hope that was in my heart five years ago was still there. But it isn't. I feel the victims of 9-11 were murdered all over again when Bush used their memories to prop up his flaccid excuses for invading Iraq. The terror attacks have continued, in Spain, England, and elsewhere. We haven't even been able to capture Osama bin Laden. I doubt that any citizen genuinely feels that we stand united behind our "leadership."

The only lasting feeling that I have from 9-11 is the sense that the United States is not safe from our enemies, and the feeling has only grown over the years. That is the ultimate legacy of 9-11 for me.

Worst. Haircut. Ever.

I received the call at about 11:30am from Husband.

"Guess what your daughter did?"

In my typical hyperbolic fashion, I replied, "Ripped the microwave off the wall?"

"Worse!"

"Worse?! Is she okay? What did she do?"

"She got into the scissors."

My heart sank and began to fraternize with my lower intestine. "Ooooh... noooo! What happened?"

"Well, I've known about this for several hours, but I didn't know how to tell you."

"Husband, just tell me what she did."

"She, uh... gave herself a haircut."

She knows she done wrong. Note the utter lack of bangs and the weird feathering on the right.

"She what?!"

"Yah, she cut off her bangs, and a bunch of hair on the sides. And when I found her, she was trying to give the cat a haircut too!"

Hailie: "Geez woman, thank God I'm a short-haired cat! Imagine the carnage!"

"Oh my God, how does she look?"

"Horrible."

"Horrible?"

At that point, I didn't know what to think. I think Daughter looks "horrible" if her socks don't match or the pudding stain didn't wash out of her shirt. Husband, on the other hand, thinks she looks ready for the Sears Portrait Studio wearing a party dress over her jeans. If Daughter's cosmetology experiment descended her appearance level to "horrible" in Husband's eyes... oh dear God.

What if George Clooney and Billy Ray Cyrus had a kid?

I forced myself to sound hopeful and asked Husband, "Well, I guess we'll just take her to the barber and have them fix it."

"Honey, I don't know if they can. She literally cut her bangs off. There is almost nothing left on the top of her head."

"Oh... well, I guess there's only one thing to do then..."

"Blog it?"

"Yep."

I think she knows these pictures are part of her punishment.

Overheard: Genetic Deformities

"You're my mom, and you're my dad. That's a joke!" (maniacal laughter)

"Oh great, April! She got your sense of humor!"

Overheard: Doing Laundry

"Mama, what's that?"

"Uh... It's called a bra."

"What's it for?"

(trying to think of the 'correct' way to tell a three year old about bras.)

"Is it for your boobies?"

(trying to think how long it will be until CPS arrives) "Well, uhm.. We uh, shouldn't call them tha..."

"Do I have boobies?

(brain melting, ears exploding)

(lifts up her shirt, points at her upper chest region) "Do I have boobies? Do I, Mama? See? I have them too!"

(wondering if her parents in Heaven are getting a kick out of this) "Uhm, well, you don't have any yet."

(shirt still hitched up, now she points at her nipples) "Well, I've got these. What are these called, Mama?"

"Heeeyyyy! I've got an idea, why don't we stop with the laundry and have some ice cream!"

"Oh-KAY!"

(sigh of relief)

(Husband walks in. Her shirt is still pulled up to her armpits.)

"Hey, baby Girl... What is with your shirt?"

"Daddy, when will I get boobies?"

(shrieks in terror and runs out of the room.)

The Only Six-Pack I Can Find Is In My Husband's Shirt

I have never been much of a soda drinker, so many one of my readers can educate me on something that has been bothering me. What happened to the six pack?

I was at the grocery store yesterday and I had already filled my cart with the necessities: milk, ice cream, strawberries, tofu, and biscuits-in-a-can. Husband had asked me to pick up some Dr Pepper. Given his drinking habits, I knew that I would need two 12 packs for the week.

After I had placed the boxes into my shopping cart, I paused for a moment. All of a sudden, getting a six-pack of ginger ale or strawberry soda sounded really good. Like I said earlier, I hardly ever drink soda. But usually during the summer I'll get a six-pack of some fruity soda. This can last me for three months, assuming children, visitors or husbands don't steal any.

I looked up and down the aisle and located the fruity soda section. Ginger ale: check! Strawberry soda: Check! Now where the heck are the six-packs? The only six packs I could find were of 20 oz bottles. I looked up and down the aisle, except for bottles of various sizes, usually at least 20 oz., there was nothing sold in packs of six.

What the hell happened? Was this just the particular supermarket I was at? Or has anybody else noted that if you only want to by a small amount of soda, you are out of luck?

In Which My Husband Gets Really Weirded Out

*little girl squeal*

Watching... "Feasting on Asphalt"... Alton Brown... spikey-haired geek god of food... taught me more than anyone (except my grandma) about cooking... he's on the road... ISLE OF PALMS? Holy poo! That's like... like... really really close to where I live! Alton was inhaling the same humid, stinky air as me and I didn't even know!

*heart palpitations*

Mt. Pleasant?? Highway 17?? Where in the pluff mud is Jack's Cosmic Dogs!? I must go here and build a shrine to His Wonderfulness! I might be able to extract some of his latent DNA and smear it on the inside of my refrigerator so that part of him will permeate everything I put in my mouth.

That would be so cool.

*siiigh*

Scene from a Marriage: Constructive Criticism

Husband is the type of guy who so rarely complains that I know when he has something critical to say that I better pay attention. Step 2 in his Problem Solving flowchart is "Nuclear Attack." Thus, the conversation from last night:

"Thank you!"

"Your welcome. By the way, just so you know, no guy ever wants to hear 'No, Don't stop, I'm enjoying this more than I thought I would.'"

"I'm sorry baby. But I mean, if you think about it, it is kind of a complim..."

"No it is not! It is like telling a woman, 'You aren't as fat as you used to be!'"

"I know, I'm sorry. I won't say that again." (kisses him)

(silence)

"Did you really think I was fat?"

(scream of frustration, reaches for the red button)

Father's Day

For Father's Day, Husband and I gave Daughter a present. We took her to the movies for the first time. Before that, we made a family trip to the park.

It is definitely summertime now, and really bloody hot. Thus far, it has not been unbearable for us. Then again, we have the joys of modern cooling at our disposal at home and work, which is where we spend 95% of out waking hours. Going to the park and engaging in physical activity really made it clear how quickly humid heat can suck the life out of you. Before we collapsed on the shady grass, we did play with Daughter on the swings and coaxed her a couple of times down the slide. Daughter never wanted to stop. We would have been content to watch her from the shade, but she wasn't comfortable with that yet. So, we called it quits after about an hour and retreated to Sonic for some well-earned slushes.

I am well aware of the crimes against humanity that many parents commit in theaters by bringing small children who have not yet learned to modulate the tone of their voices. Not to mention the morons who bring babies to 10pm showings of King Kong. On Saturday evening, I sat down with Daughter and tried to explain to her what the movie-going experience was all about. I described the big room, with lots of chairs and the biggest TV she had ever seen. I explained that it would be dark, and that she would need to be quiet so that the other people at the theater could listen to the TV. She started to freak out over the anticipated suffocating darkness of the theater. I boosted her spirits with promises of candy and until now, the forbidden soda. Daughter seemed to be suspicious of the offer of soda for good behavior, ("I can't drink soda!"), but I emphasized that for a special occasion like Going To The Movies For The First Time, soda would be permitted.

After grabbing the slushes, we picked up a couple of friends and headed to the theater. We weren't able to get in to see Cars (it was sold-out when we got there), so we settled for Over the Hedge instead. I still was anxious about how well Daughter would act, but I knew that she is generally well-behaved. My strategy involved securing an aisle seat and keeping her drunk on sugar and caffeine. I know it sounds like a ridiculous idea, but it actually worked.

I am proud to say that Daughter did remarkably well. After a few reminders during the interminable previews, she kept her voice at a low volume. She also stayed in her seat for the first two-thirds of the show. At that point, she alternated between her seat (which was the closest to Daddy's soda) and my friend's lap. Also, she only needed one potty break.

As we were leaving, we noticed that a nearby theater was emptying for X-Men 3. My friends and I had seen it a couple of weeks ago. We didn't know at the time that there was a special hidden scene following the credits and so we missed it. We snuck into the theater and caught the scene. (Critic's Note: X-Men 3, two thumbs down and the hidden scene doesn't make it any better.)

Finally, we left and returned to my friend's house for ice cream and general merriment.

Oh, and I learned today that Over the Hedge has a hidden scene after it's credits too. Figures.

Happy Father's Day to all the daddies out there.

Gracie Allen Reincarnate

"Please go ask Daddy to come here and tell him it is about dinner. Can you do that for me?"

"OH-kaaay! I can do THAT!" (runs off towards the office)

"Daddy, it is about dinner!"

"What?"

"It is about dinner!"

"What?"

Idiot Bugs

Here is South Carolina the season is well into the hot and humid period and the bugs have come out to play. Not being an insectologist (yes, I just made up that word), I can only identify by sight two species: mosquitoes and "Palmetto bugs."

Mosquitoes are self-explanatory. Even San Diegans know what you are talking about when you mention them, although they may have never experienced them. "Palmetto bugs" are big and ugly brown cockroaches. I put the name in quotes, because frankly, I think "Palmetto bugs" is a term invented by the South Carolina Chamber of Commerce to make them seem a little bit more cuddly and vaguely patriotic (the state nickname is "Palmetto State"). I am sure that I will discuss the mosquitoes and Palmetto bugs in more detail at a later time, given their omnipresence.

There is another species of bug in South Carolina that I do not know nor understand. This bug a species of nocturnal flying beetle. Husband and I have taken to calling them "Idiot Bugs." They have a shiny, copper-colored shell and they are very heavy for their size. How heavy? So heavy that they can barely fly. As far as I can tell, their maximum altitude is about 3 feet. Their extracurricular activities include crashing into our front door (which we can hear from the inside), crashing into the windows, and crashing into our heads. Not only that, these crazy bugs will fly through the air and then suddenly drop to the ground out of sheer exhaustion. When they crash, the Idiot Bugs tend to land on their back and they spin around upside down like an over-the-hill breakdancer. It usually takes between 3 and 10 minutes for these Idiot Bugs to figure out which end is up. The whole time, they buzz and rattle loudly. I imagine they are cursing God and His aerodynamic stumble on the sixth day.

Any of my lowcountry readers have any clue what these things are called?

I Can't Sing, But I Can Rock the Fishnets

My Husband was a member of the San Diego goth scene for many years before we met. I have pictures of him in makeup and a velvet dress. I really don't think I can ever let Daughter see those pictures, not because there is anything wrong with cross-dressing. But because Husband was an effin size four at the time. What girl wants to see their father looking better in a mini dress than they ever could? If she is cursed with my hips, Daughter definately will not.

By the time we started dating, Husband had downgraded his goth uniform to a black t-shirt and pants. He still enjoyed going out to the clubs though because so many of his friends hung out there. I was dubious at first when Husband suggested that I attend one of these events with him. I wasn't sure what it would be like. Would I be required to drink blood? Where would I get a full-length cape? How exactly do you lace up a corset?

Once I agreed to go though, I really enjoyed going to clubs like Sabbat and Therapy. Every weekend was like Halloween, especially once I acquired a certain basic goth wardrobe. Waist cincher, knee-high boots, fishnets, nipple clamps, blah, blah, blah...

Since we moved to South Carolina, I found myself really yearning to go out to a club, and getting a chance to let loose and have some fun. Evidently though, the nearest goth club to our house is in Columbia, and hour and a half away. Needless to say, on my recent trip to San Diego, I exploited every opportunity I had to head out to the clubs. Below is a picture taken by my chum Chris, of myself (center), my good friend Vera (left), and Chris' date (its called process of elimination dude) shortly before we headed out to Club de Sade.

Highlighted is the secret to our powers.

Vera and I are already pretty liquored up, which explains why my glasses are sliding down my nose and I do not care. We always get a head start on drinking before going to a club, because we'll be damned if we'll spend $5.00 for a watered-down rum and coke. (Let alone $12.00 for a mudslide!) We all left for the club shortly thereafter.

Some of Vera's neighbors were hanging out in front of their house, and they were obviously enamoured with us. One of them had just returned from a wedding reception and was wearing a necklace of small seashells around his neck. I commented on the necklace, saying some flirty words about how my mom had a similar necklace that she had picked up in Hawaii when she was pregnant with me. Next thing I know, he is placing it around my neck as I slurred out, "Ah-low-HA!"

Taking a break from dancing and making sure my black nail polish isn't chipped. Peep the very un-goth seashell necklace. Werd.

The rest of the night was pretty much a blur of dancing with my friends and at least one devil, and a much needed detour on the way home for a Jumbo Jack with cheese.

When we returned to Vera's house, her neighbors were still partying out front. As we stumbled through her door, I heard invitations to their "after-party" and a couple of "alohas."

Mahalo.

I Can't Sing

Husband, Daughter and I were having a family moment relaxing in bed the other day. For some reason, Daughter began doing some serious pouting and looking very unhappy. In our family, being grumpy is not condoned for long and so Husband and I embarked on some good-natured underarm tickling to try to cheer Daughter up. This disheartened her further.

Seeing that Daughter was determined to mope, I began singing to her that old chestnut from my own childhood, "Nobody Likes Me." My father loved to start singing this to my siblings and I whenever we were pouty for no good reason. The song goes something like this:

"Nobody likes me, everybody hates me,
I'm goin' out and eat a worm,
Long, thin, slimy ones; Short, fat, juicy ones,
Itsy, bitsy, fuzzy wuzzy worms."

Daughter let out a heavy sigh and climbed off of the bed. Husband asked her what she was doing and she exclaimed, "I'm gonna make Mommy stop singing!"

She picked up a pillow that was on the floor and clammered back up on the bed. She pushed the pillow over my face and then quickly ran out of the room.

As soon as Husband was able to catch his breath from his uncontrollable guffawing, I asked him indignantly, "Did you teach her that?"

He hiccuped and said, "No! But that was so perfect!"

Meet Hailie

Since I moved out of my parents' house about 10 years ago, I haven't been able to own any pets because the apartments I lived in did not allow it, or the pet deposit was just crazy. Also, at some point I developed an allergy to cats. Sneezing, itching, watering eyes, the whole nine yards. However, after taking Claritin for a year for my seasonal allergies, I realized that cats weren't making me miserable anymore. I wasn't even allergic to the stuff that I started taking Claritin for in the first place! It was a miracle! I worship at the alter of St. Loratadrine.

Now that we own our own home, we have had passive plans to get a dog at some point. That point being some time following the installation of a fence around our backyard. I know Husband really likes cats, but we had ruled them out for so long, I don't think it was a possibility that we were entirely conscious of.

While in San Diego, I had the pleasure to visit with one of my good friends at her home. She had recently added some new members to her family, two kittens and a dog. The kittens were absolutely adorable and so very playful. The dog she actually picked up while I was in San Diego and I was on hand to take him on his first walk around Lake Murray. It was the kittens that really enchanted me though.

I called Husband while I was still in San Diego and let him know that I would be okay with getting a cat. He sounded astonished, but very excited.

Yesterday, we went to a local pet adoption center and we added a new member to our family. Meet Hailie:



Hailie is about a year old and she is a tabby with brown, white, gray and black coloring. Honestly, I initially selected her because she is so darn pretty. However, it was her heart that won all of us over. She is not one of those cool cats who drift in and out of a room and if you are lucky, they may allow you to scratch their ears. Hailie loves people and she loves attention. Even while we were waiting for the staff member to get the key that was locking her kennel, she was rubbing against the door of the cage and purring. Hailie's mantra seems to be: "Love me! Define me!" She kind of reminds me of myself when I was about nineteen years old. She bonded with all of us, even 3 year old Daughter, really quickly.



About her name, she came to us with the name Hailie, although whoever named her used a retarded spelling, "Haleigh." We changed the spelling, using the way Eminem spells his daughter's name. I'm not sure, but I bet Eminem has never had a groupie use the line, "Hey baby, I named my cat after your daughter." I think it might actually work. I think Slim Shady would give me some action for that.

Final note: Happy anniversary, baby. I can't believe it has been four years already. I love you so much.

I'm Not Funny

Since my mother passed away, I have been receiving her subscription of Reader's Digest (shh! don't tell!). I am enjoying the most recent issue of Reader's Digest. The cover story is "America's 100 Best," which includes FDR's Fireside Chats, the soapbox derby and sandwiches. I'm sure it was only a nail-biting editing decision that left off phones with extra large buttons, early bird specials and the Boxer Rebellion.

My favorite part of the Reader's Digest is the jokes. Ahh... the hilarity. When I find a joke of exceptional comic quality, I like to share it with my loved ones. In the "Laughter is the Best Medicine" was this little gem, which I read aloud to my husband:

"Abe, an old penny pincher from way back, was dying. On his deathbed, peering up through his cataracts, he asked, "Is my wife here?"

"Yes, I'm here next to you," she answered.

"And the kids?"

"We're here, Daddy," the youngest answered.

"Is the rest of the family here too?"

"Around your bed," his wife assured him.

At that, Abe sits up and yells, "So why is the kitchen light on?!"

Husband greeted the punch line with a few seconds of silence and said, "Uhm, that's not funny."

"Well, you just don't have any sense of humor! That's all! You don't even like my stick joke!"

"The stick joke isn't funny either."

I sighed, and began to explain why the stick joke is funny and how Husband's lack of understanding of English parts of speech is why he doesn't "get" the undeniable humor of the stick joke.

I learned of the stick joke at the time some British researchers declared that they had scientifically deduced the funniest joke ever. The joke that was submitted the most often for their consideration was this:

"What is brown and sticky? A stick."

I'll wait while you clean up the milk you just sprayed out your nose. Oh, no milk? okay then... let's continue.

You see, it’s a very funny joke. The joke takes advantage of the dichotomy between the noun 'stick', and the adjective 'sticky.' See, sticks, being small pieces of wood, are not normally 'sticky.' One typically expects that an adjective derived from a noun to be a descriptor for that noun. For example, something that is "silky" has the qualities of the fabric known as "silk." But a stick... isn't sticky! Get it! It is a play on words! It is hilarious!

Husband's response to my well reasoned explanation, "I still don't think it’s funny."

I called my sister the other day to talk and I brought up the above incident. Her response to the jokes and explanation? "I don't get it."

I think some people just have a really retarded sense of humor.

Scenes from a Marriage: The Sexy Asian One

[Husband crawls into bed and begins squirming and putting his cold cockroach feet all over me]

"What is your problem?"

"What?!"

"Why are you wiggling?"

"Because I'm a Wiggle!"

"Which one?"

"The sexy Asian one!"

[I sigh as I realize that the bad-ass man I met five years ago that did his own tattoos is lost to me forever... and it is probably my fault.]

"You're going to blog this, aren't you?"

Moving In: Vital Statistics

Well, we have finally, FINALLY moved into the Casa. It feels so good, I was starting to think that we would never be moved in. We still have a lot of work to do, including unpacking boxes and taking the trash to the dump. I am hopeful that all of that can be finished this week before our first out-of-town guest is scheduled to arrive on Friday. (God help us!)

In case you decide to buy a house previously rented by Mexican mechanics, here are some statistics about what you have set yourself up for.

Times people fell through the ceiling: 3
Times someone falling through the ceiling landed on their brother: 1
Ceiling holes repaired: 4
New appliances installed: 6
Rooms textured and painted: 6
Double-stuf Oreos discected: At least one package
Dr Peppers consumed: 84,000
Hours I spent crying in the corner because the kitchen is so blinkin' impossible: 1.5
Amount spent at Costco last Friday: $1,287.04
Amount spent at Costco last Friday, including Daughter's hot dog: $1,288.54
Amount of time Husband spent at Costco bitching that they did not have Dr Pepper: 10 minutes
Bathrooms: 2
Bathrooms with functioning toilet paper dispensers: 0
Toilet paper dispensers installed: 0
Times the phrase "Would you learn how to flush the bloody toilet?!" was heard: Countless

De-Creaming My Will to Live

It is 3am here in South Carolina. I went to bed really early tonight because I was so tired from unpacking boxes. I woke up just now feeling really hungry. Unfortunately, we haven't bought groceries yet, so there isn't anything in the house to eat. I went to the computer to check my messages, and found Husband's secret stash of Double-Stuf Oreos. Score!

Then I noticed a neat stack about four inches high of brown Oreo cookies that were carefully de-creamed and left on the computer desk. I swear, my husband is so cute I just want to pinch his cheeks.

I hope he cleans those up in the morning.

Examining Gender Roles in Home Decorating

My friend just entered the house where we are staying with a new set of fireplace tools and a wood hod that his wife (also, my friend) picked up at South Carolina's Home Improvement Palace. As he entered the house, I smiled and said, "Oh, she did get some then." (I had let her know that fireplace tools were 75% off and I had picked some up for our new house for like $20.) My friend sighed and said, "Yah but they are silver, not gold. I guess my taste in home decorating does not matter, huh?"

I grinned and said, "Of course not! You're a man!"

You see, I have come over to realize the past few months that there is some very specific gender roles involved in the world of marriage. Men fix things and install appliances. Women decorate. I believe that this home maintenance division of labor is key to a happy marriage.

While I love men, I am frequently reminded that they are the segment of the population who, when left to their own devices, furnish their homes with milk crates, peanut cans and two by fours. They decorate with license plates and Star Wars action figures. I even knew one unfortunate soul who decorated his domicile with signage pilfered from Taco Bell. Are these the kind of people that we want to trust to pick out window treatments?

I know women who had to invest years of training to subjugate their men appropriately. Tactics that included the surreptitious disposal of Budweiser signs, relocating entertainment centers constructed from plywood and cinder blocks to the garage, and rearranging furniture while the men are out fishing.

I am very fortunate; my husband has an intuitive grasp of this basic concept and we have an unspoken agreement. When we are shopping for paint colors, lighting fixtures and furniture, he has very little say in what I pick out. He can file an appeal in the form of a line item veto, which will be taken under advisement and is generally sustained. Otherwise he keeps his thoughts to himself. If only all women could be as lucky as I.

But really, Husband is much more content this way, and so am I.

Husband would much rather install a chandelier than spend an hour trying to decide between the 75 different lighting options at Lowe's.

"Uplights? or sconces? What do you mean the fan blades should match the armoire? Can't we just hang a light bulb from the ceiling?"

I love getting my shop on. I willingly confess that I am completely useless at tasks such as scraping off old wallpaper.

"Ugh! I've got wallpaper glue under my nails! My scraper is all dirty again! Uhm... Hunny, I gouged the drywall again, is that fixable?"

I am sure that there are some in the audience reading this that are aghast at my "primeval" point of view. This is really about taking advantage of our natural talents. Its not that we aren’t enlightened and don’t realize that men and women are equally capable at picking out china patterns and installing dishwashers. We do understand that. However, being old-fashioned makes our house look prettier, and has significantly reduced the number of gouges in our walls.

A Lover

I bought this comic on a t-shirt for my husband. Yah baby, I love my geek.

Valentine's Day

For some reason it is harder for me to write down my positive, loving feelings rather than my painful or critical feelings. If I like something, I can't write about it. If I don't like something, I could write a 20 page diatribe against it. It is probably caused by two things: 1) I feel that I write the best when I have opportunities to display my immensely sarcastic wit (that was sarcasm right there) and humor. I can't (or rather shouldn't) be sarcastic about something I love, not if I genuinely love it. Okay, I guess there was only one thing.

This post probably won't be my best work, but I wanted to express some of my feelings for the people in my life.

My daughter is the most precious gift I have ever received. She is a gift from God and I am dazzled every day by her wit, beauty, humor and intelligence. I am astonished at how fast she has grown, both physically and intellectually. Just in the past few days, she has learned how to scoot herself up onto a full-sized toilet and go to the potty all by herself. As she watches what I fear is way too much TV, she follows along with the stories and makes comments about the plot and the characters. Daughter can count up to fifteen, knows at least 7 different shapes, can say her ABCs and sings along with my Elvis Presley CD. Folks, she just turned THREE.

More than that she is remarkably mature for her age. Husband and I have basically turned her world upside-down about three times in the past year, and she has taken it all in stride. I know she has been very upset over the time that she has been away from her daddy, and upset because she misses her friends back in San Diego. However, Daughter is still very happy, enthusiastic and excited about learning new things.

I am so proud of this kid, and watching her grow up is the greatest adventure of my life.

Now comes the really hard part... writing about my husband. Be prepared for some unabashed mushiness. Ready? Okay, here goes...

Husband and I have been together for a little over five years now. Neither of us can believe it, it seems like we have known each other for forever (and in a good way). Husband is unbelievably intelligent and has an amazing grasp of mechanics. He can look any broken thing and figure out how to fix it, even if he has never worked with it before. Husband has a wonderful sense of humor and an uncanny ability to see through me and my bullshit.

Also, Husband went through an extraordinary amount of crap throughout his childhood and teenage years. Every social construct that is supposed to protect and nurture children (family, school, courts, etc) failed him in the worst ways. And despite that, he is still a loving, giving, trusting husband and father. His inner-strength amazes me and I don't think many people could have survived what he has gone through without turning into a crack whore, or you know, Dick Cheney.

Now he isn't perfect, he really isn't romantic in the traditional sense of the word. His idea of a romantic act is to install a new power switch for our living room ceiling fan. But you know what? Does your guy install power switches for you without first being nagged for a year and a half? I think I can live with the lack of love poems and flowers.

I love my husband for everything that he is and for everything that he has done for me and Daughter during our life together. I can't wait to see how this new chapter of our lives unfolds, and I know that without his unwavering strength and support, none of it would be possible.

Cramps

I am currently lying flat on my back on an oversized black leather couch. My lower back is throbbing and my uterus is letting me know that it is not happy. I have been prone for about two hours now, because pride and psychological damage forbid me from taking medication until pain is bad enough that I should actually be going to a hospital. At that point, I might take a Tylenol.

This is my second period since I thought I was pregnant a few months back. Obviously, the first period proved that I was wrong. I am pretty certain that I was pregnant. There certainly was evidence pointing to that conclusion. For one, I hadn't had a period for a total of 10 weeks. I was on birth control, and so I was as regular as Metamucil; no reason to miss a period. My tummy was pooching out and I had a really strange adversion to chicken. Seriously, it tasted like eating tar. Plus, and pay attention because this is the really compelling argument, I just felt like I was pregnant.

All of this developed during The Move To South Carolina, The Waiting Waiting Waiting For Husband To Drive Everything We Own Safely Across Three Thousand Miles So That I Can Give Him A Heart Attack When He Arrived and The Christmas Vacation To Puerto Rico.

When Daughter and I flew back to South Carolina in early December, I was already about two weeks overdue for my visit from "Aunt Flo." I took a couple of pregnancy tests when I arrived, and both came up negative. However, I still felt they might be wrong, so I stopped smoking cold turkey and abstained from alcohol. By the way, it really fucking sucks to take your first real vacation, and in a tropical paradise no less, and have to say "no" to the ever-present Mai Tais and Rum Runners.

One night, about four days after we arrived in Puerto Rico, I started cramping: really bad, and non-stop. I probably had cramps for about 12 hours straight before I finally gave up and let Husband give me a muscle relaxant. We both feared the worst, but I wasn't bleeding and there was nothing else we could do. The medicine helped me get to sleep and the next morning I felt fine. Still no period.

In fact, there was no period for about another two weeks. At that point, I decided to suck it up and go to the doctor to find out what the hell was going on. I was now at about nine weeks overdue for a period, and I still was negatory according to the home pregnancy tests. The doctor ran some tests, which also did not detect any pastries in my oven. The doctor gave me a prescription for a hormone that should have jump-started my period. However, before I got the prescription filled, my period started.

Was I ever actually pregnant? I feel that I might have been and the night I had the cramps the pregnancy terminated. It could have been a false pregnancy too. I don't know.

Husband was always pretty ambivalent about the possibility of a new baby. He was mostly concerned though that the timing was rotten. He was right of course. We had just moved across the country. We were both unemployed, had no health insurance and were technically homeless. All very logical reasons to be relieved that I was not pregnant.

In my heart of hearts though, I was pretty upset that it turned out to be a false alarm. Daughter is three years old now, and she would be almost four if I got pregnant right this second. I want another child. I am afraid if we wait much longer, the children would be too far apart in age to be close to each other while growing up. And I want another child.

Right now as I lie on the couch, poking at the keys and thinking over these things, my back, my uterus and my heart are all hurting.

I Deserve Real Q-Tips

By nature, I am a cheap person. I would rather cook from scratch, rather than eat pre-packaged convenience foods. I buy in bulk whenever possible and my clothes and shoes are almost exlusively thirft-store finds. There are exceptions of course. For instance, Husband and I have mutually agreed that the following catagories of products we will and do splurge on:

SPLURGE LIST

• Sheets - 400 thread count or better. We found a set at Bed, Bath & Beyond once for like $30.00. After that, we just can't go back. Anything else feels like sleeping on burlap.
  
• Underwear - It isn't uncommon for my underwear to cost more than the rest of my outfit combined. I just can't abide by Hanes or Fruit of the Loom. In my defense though, I usually only buy undies during the Victoria's Secret semi-annual sales.
  
• Electronics - Husband looks for the best deals that he can, but in general we usually go for the best electronics out there.

A couple of weeks ago, shortly after arriving in South Carolina, I stopped by the nearest wal-Mart supercenter for miscellaneous sundries. Among my purchases was generic cotton swabs. I hate the feeling of water in my ears and I use a cotton swab to dry my ears after each shower. I don't know what kind of material was smooshed onto the end of these cotton swabs, but it is about as absorbant as ceramic tile. It takes about 4 of them to dry my ears, and even then I still feel icky.

I griped to my friend about the situation, and being a rational human being, she told me to just go out and buy some fucking Q-Tips. But I just can't do that. I can't just throw away these shitty-ass cotton swabs. That would be wasteful, and I'm sure that there are children in China who don't even have cotton swabs.

So for the next month, I am going to continue to be grumpy after each shower, yet satisfied in my moral righteousness in that I am not throwing away these worthless cotton swabs. In Heaven, I expect 72 naked virgins in Heaven will clean my ears daily with swabs tipped with cashmere wool.

And when these generic cotton swabs are all gone, I'm going to buy some fucking Q-Tips. My ears are worth it.

Default

Goal #2 of moving 3,000 miles across the Great American Continent (a kind of reverse Manifest Destiny, if you will) is that I want to become a full-time web site designer. One of the friends were are kindly hosting us until we move into our new house (Goal #1) is a full-time web site design teacher and part-time web designer. The past couple of days, we have been working together on one of her client's sites, while she evaluates what kind of out-of-date moron she invited to become partner in her budding web design business.

I have been up to my ass in Dreamweaver, "liquid designs", <DIV>, and JavaScript as a part of the project. I think it is going to my head a little bit, in the way that a shot of Ketel One goes to your head.

Husband and I celebrated our new status as Homeowners by going out to dinner at a local steakhouse with our hosts.

I ordered a raspberry margarita to implement in any congratulatory toasts. The margarita arrived at the table, quite curiously, in a liquid format, with solid-state ice floating amid the alcohol goodness.

"Uhm, what is this?"

"The raspberry margarita that you ordered, ma'am."

"But it isn't blended..."

"Well, yes, unless you specify otherwise, we serve all margaritas on the rocks."

"I'm sorry, I assumed the default setting of margaritas was blended... can you take it back please?"

(blank stare)

The American Dream

If you have been following this blog for the past few days, you will know that Husband and I have been in the process of buying a house somewhere in South Carolina.

I am pleased to announce that on Friday, January 20, 2006... escrow CLOSED! (And on time too!)

Turnabout Dictator

"Do you think the next time you stop by the house, you could bring me some shaving cream and my razor?"

"Sure... I don't think I've seen you with this much facial hair in my life."

"Yah... well, now you know why I can never grow a beard. (feeling his own face) Too many bald spots."

"I don't know, you've got a pretty good goatee going on right now."

"Oh come on, I can't even grow a mustache."

"What are you talking about? You've got one right now!"

"There's a bald spot right in the middle! With a mustache I'd look like a reverse Hitler!"

(laughing) "Oh my God, I am so totally going to blog that!"

We keep our character under heavy furniture that is bolted to the wall.

So... as I mentioned earlier, Husband and I bought a house! It is a three bedroom, two bath house. It was previously rented by some Mexican guys, who decided that it would be an awesome idea to run an automotive repair shop in the suburbs of South Carolina. Seriously. When we viewed the house, there was a tow truck, an old Toyota pickup, and a Camry in the backyard. They were fixing transmissions in the den. Let's just say that the neighbors were very pleased to learn that a white bread nuclear family had bought the house and had no ambition to open up a business in the backyard. It increases their property values

Anyone who has ever lived in an apartment knows that renters don't give a shit about maintaining a home, so our house needs some work.
Husband and I decided our first project will be remodeling the master bathroom. It is a tiny bathroom, so it shouldn't require much effort. Husband has a background in construction, and honestly can fix, repair and remodel anything he sets his mind to. He is very particular about his work, and wants everything "done right." Of course, once everything is "done right", he will probably still leave Dr. Pepper cans all over the place, but that's another post.

We decided on a very practical delegation of duties concerning the remodel. I do pretty much nothing, and he does everything else. Before you judge me as lazy (which I don't necessarily disagree with), we do have a three-year old, and remodeling takes a hell of a lot longer when you have a tiny girl trying to apply drywall mud to freshly laid marble tile. Therefore, part of my "pretty much nothing" duties includes keeping Daughter out of my Husband's way.

Every now and again, I go to the house to check up on things. Husband has been doing an awesome job. He has repaired and refinished all of the walls. Thus far he has: repaired the bathtub, including removing axle grease from the drain, re-finished and painted the walls, installed a new lighting fixture, medicine cabinet, etc...

On my last trip over there, I took a look at the floor. Beautiful marble tile as far as the eye could see... almost. In one corner was two approximately hexagonal shaped (read: broken beyond all recognition) pieces of tile, surrounded by way too much grout. Believe me, if I can look at a floor and see something like that right away, something went awry. I'm not known for my attention to detail.

As these broken pieces of tile seemed to run counter to Husband's getting everything "done right" mantra, I decided to make a diplomatic inquiry regarding them.

"Uhm, honey... what's with the broken pieces of tile in the corner?"

"Don't worry about it; they'll be underneath the vanity when we're done."

"But yah, what happened?"

"Well, I broke that tile, so I just made do with the pieces."

(Pointedly staring at an unopened box of tiles) "Well, couldn't you have just cut a new tile to fit in there?"

"Yes, I could have, but I just didn't feel like it. Its okay, it'll give the room character"

"Our bathroom will have all of its character hidden underneath the vanity?"

"Sure, why not?"

Update!

Okay... its been about 10 million years since I have posted anything on my blog, and my sister is hopping mad. You see... I promised her about 7.5 million years ago that I would update this thing more frequently, and I have totally welched on that oath.

I would like to point out my small print disclaimer at the top of this blog, which clearly states "...updated infrequently since 2003." If that isn't fair warning, I don't know what is.

Further, I would like to point out that I have been harassing my sister to re-start her OWN blog for about 7.5 million years. Especially since I specifically PURCHASED HER HER OWN FRICKING DOMAIN NAME. Is anything there?. No!

If she gets to flake, why can't I? Hell, I haven't even updated my other much more famous and well-paying website for about 9 months.

Alright... now that I'm done with that... here is a short list of the dramatic developments in April-land:

1. Around July 2005, Husband and I decided that San Diego is way too expensive for us. We want to buy a house, and we certainly can't afford to do so. Last I heard, only 9% of San Diegans can buy a house in San Diego. Therefore, it was time to get the hell out. We decided to move to South Carolina, where we know exactly 2 people. However, this is 200% more people than we know in any other affordable area of the United States. And we heard they have an ocean.

2. Due to some good deep-dicking from the powers-that-be at his job, Husband quit his job in November 2005. FUCK YOU powers-that-be!

3. Due to our imminent getting the hell out of San Diego, my last day at my job was December 1, 2005. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth by my co-workers. I was much loved there, and the feeling was mutual. (Irony: Husband and I worked for the same company.)

4. December 6, 2005, Daughter and I took way too many flights out to Charleston, SC. Ever fly cross-country with a two year old? No? I highly recommend it, especially if you are curious how much screaming and wailing is required to alienate approximately 200 strangers. Whee!

5. December 8, 2005, Received word from San Diego that one of my best friends commited suicide. You can read some of his words on this blog in various posts. He was Zimiri. Readership of this blog immediately decreased by 50%. (Other 50% of the readership is my sister.)

6. After checking out almost every former crack-den and shit-hole in the Charleston, SC area, on January 10, Husband and I finally found a house we were willing to live in for as long as it takes to avoid capital gains tax if we decide to sell. All sarcasm aside, I dast you to find a 3 bedroom, 2 bath house in San Diego, CA on a quarter-acre lot in the "low 100s." (That's real estate speak for you.)

That pretty much brings us up to the present.

Now, Husband and I are frantically spending a shit-load of money on appliances, marble tile, wallpaper remover, and drywall mud to make the house livable per Husband's high standards. Frankly, I could live with painted over wallpaper, but Husband would rather eat his own ear lobes than endure looking at walls and knowing that somewhere underneath lurks blue forget-me-not patterned wall decoration.

We are still staying with our two friends that we know out here, God bless them. I don't know many people in the world that would willingly endure two months of Husband, Daughter and I without asking for rent. I feel blessed that they care enough about us to put up with our crap for so long.

More updates to follow. However, I would like to let my Sister know that they will probably be more frequent once I have my file server, can properly operate this blog with Movable Type rather than Blogger, and when I am not technically homeless.

Guys I Would Totally Do If I Weren't Happily Married.

In no particular order:

1. Alton Brown - I think it is the flames on his KitchenAid Mixer that really do it for me. No, wait, its the glasses. People who wear glasses are sexy.
2. Eminem - A loving daddy, and a total bad ass. Just like my own man.
3. Brad Pitt - Hell, might as well go for a local boy. *crossing fingers*
4. Rob - I love the hat and the accent. Hell, Ambuh can watch.
5. My husband - See... that's a marriage joke. Cuz married people supposedly don't do it. Get it?

My Husband Told Me to Write This...

I'm just writing to say I don't want to write anything.

Thank you.

UPDATE: Husband didn't tell me to post the other thing from today. I am going to try to be more diligent to post more on to my blog. But things have been kinda sucking lately, and its not always easy.

Update

Husband installed a digital thermostat in our townhome about three weeks after we moved in. This inexpensive and wondrous device allows us to program our central air. At 6 a.m., when I began slapping the snooze button, the thermostat begins cooling (or heating) our home to 79 degrees. At 11:00 p.m., the thermostat allows the ambient temperature to rise to 80 degrees.

Today, the air conditioning dude did not show up.

Husband called me at work around 1 p.m. to report that the thermostat was stating that it was in "Recovery." We could only guess that the 100+ degree heat had thrown our poor little thermostat off the wagon and it was now in an NA group with Mary-Kate discussing their coke problems.

If the air conditioning dude does not show up tomorrow, we are gonna start spraying the baby with canned freon.

Stay tuned...

My Boyfriend is Sleeping with my Husband

About when I was 6 months pregnant, it became vitally necessary to smoosh a king-sized pillow underneath my belly and between my legs. My hubby started called the pillow my "boyfriend." This made me a little mad. After all, my boyfriend had a name, "Antonio."

After giving birth to the baby, (and I still insist her father is my husband, and not Antonio, thankyouverymuch). My husband's knees began detriorating badly. He seduced Antonio, and now they are carrying on a relationship literally behind my back every night. My husband curled up happily, with Antonio between his legs.

(originally posted as a comment at www.lifestudent.com)

Snapshots from My Life

I am now growing onions. I didn't intend to, but after ignoring an onion in my pantry long enough, it decided to bust loose. I felt sorry for the little guy and planted him in my new garden.



My poor Husband had surgery on his right knee earlier this week. It was an arthroscopic procedure, so he only has three puncture wounds on his knee. He's been subsisting on a diet of Vicodin and ice cream for the past few days. Check out the difference in the size of his knees. Yeek.



And finally... to make my mother happy. Here is Daughter watching quizically as I take a picture of the Onion. Her new best friend these days is a Spongebob Squarepants sippy cup with a built-in straw. It seems lately that Mr. Squarepants is invading my home more and more. We never watch the show, but now we have a set of these sippy cups and the ice cream that husband is eating is Spongebob Squarepants ice cream. No, really. Its pretty damn tasty though.

Damn you, stop growing up!

Husband called me at work today and reported that he had converted Daughter's crib into a toddler bed.

"Puh! She's only 15 months old. Put it back!", I exclaimed. (Side note: Can one really "exclaim" about anything while using your "Making a personal phone call at work" voice?)

Husband stated his case thusly: She can climb in and out of the toddler bed quite easily. She had already taken a nap in the converted bed with no problem. Plus, she's a toddler. And the damn thing is called a toddler bed.

"But... what if she falls out??"

He retorted that she would fall about six inches at the most to the ground. She suffers greater cranial impact when she flings herself on the ground whenever she throws one of her fits. For those of you who aren't parents, at about a year old, whenever a child suffers any indignity like, being dressed in pants, or being offered a sippy cup when she wants a bottle, all of her bones melt and she collapses to the ground. This usually involves her skull slamming to the ground with a shocking crack.

I was still highly skeptical. There is no way that she would actually stay in the blinking bed. She'd crawl out and start playing with toys, or poking her eyes out on sharp objects or you know, fall asleep on the floor. Which we all know is bad for the back and you don't get enough rest and then she'd be cranky the next day and you know. Stuff!

So, at 9PM tonight, Daughter and I went up the stairs to her bedroom. Yes, she went up on her own; she had to crawl though. I gently picked her up from the landing and carried her to her bed. I tenderly placed her into the bed, turned around and walked away. I turned around as I shut the door. Daughter was whimpering and starting to slide out of the bed. I pointed my Mommy Finger at her and firmly said, "Stay!" and then I closed her door.

About half an hour later, I announced to Husband that I was going to check in on her. I tiptoed up the stairs and oh... so... slow... ly... opened Daughter's bedroom door. I was half hoping that she'd be sprawled out on the floor damaging her spine, so that I could self-righteously tell Husband that she still needs bars in her world. Sure enough, there she was, sleeping in the blinking toddler bed. That girl is always taking her father's side.

As if it wasn't obvious to you already, I just don't like this latest development. Babies need cribs. Little girls need beds. I want my baby. I'm not ready for a little girl yet.

I stalked downstairs and said to Husband, "You are such an asshole!.

"I love you too! You just hate it that I'm always right!"

"You are not always right... you just make really lucky guesses."

Reason #46524 Why I'm Cooler Than You

My husband cleans the bathroom naked.

I'm too distraught to think of a clever title.

Well, I saw Return of the King on Friday. Husband and I were looking forward to seeing this movie for months. We even got into a fight about it on Tuesday night before it opened. He wanted to go see it at midnight, but I wouldn't let him because I had to work the next morning and I didn't want him to see it without me. Husband was trying to bribe me into letting him see it without me.

He offered to take me out on Friday night and we would go to a nice restuarant and then the movie.

I counteroffered with a suggestion that he sit his ass down and wait to see the movie with me. Then he wouldn't have to bother with the nice dinner. I don't need romance in my life anymore, I have an 11-month old baby. Romance is too expensive.

So he waited.

Sponsered advertisement: My sister was kind enough to watch the baby while we went to the movie. (Thanks Shell).

We went to a mexican food joint for dinner. I had a carne asada plate, and Hubby ordered some cheese enchiladas. But they gave him chicken enchiladas. As he said, "This is the first time a restuarant has fucked up my order and it worked in my favor."

I am starting to feel ripped off when I go to restuarants now, because they give you so much food and there is no way I can finish it. I had about 4 bites of my carne asada plate, and I had to give up. Bastards. That wasn't worth $6.10.

We then left for the theater to see "Return of the King." I should preface this review by saying that I have never read the books. My husband has. Several times. He even re-reads the books in preparation for each new movie. Again, this is a movie that we wanted to see so bad that we got into a fight over it.

We hated it. I hope I'm not giving anything away, so if you haven't seen the film yet, you can stop reading at this paragraph.

This movie, like the others was about three hours long. Unlike the others, it sucked ass. As you probably know, the whole point of the films is that Frodo the Hobbit must destroy a ring of power. The climax of the movie happened in the MIDDLE of it. Frodo chucked the ring into the fires of Mt. Doom about two hours into the film, and then about five hours later (relatively speaking) the film finally ended. Star Wars had the right idea. After he destroyed the ring, they should have had some sort of awards ceremony, had Liv Tyler give him a medal and cut to the credits.

But no, they had about 12 hours of stuff so boring I can't even remember all of it. Here's what I can remember.

1. Arwen kisses Aragorn.
   
2. Aragorn is crowned king (honestly, I saw that one coming. I mean it IS the title of the film.)
   
3. Lagolas does, I dunno...
   
4. The hobbits go back the shire and eat more food and smoke some dope (right, "pipeweed", I know)
   
5. Sam gets married to some chick we first saw five minutes before he married her. I didn't have a lot of emotional investment in their relationship. I think he should have married Frodo.
   

About 5 minutes into the film, MeryPippin (I can't tell the difference between the two - and now I'm trying to think of a Mary Poppins joke... nevermind) found Saromon's crystal ball in the water outside his tower. Gandalf said, "Gimme that!" and MeryPoppins handed it over. My husband whispered to me, "That's a weird change."

I whispered back, "What?"

"Well in the books Saruman throws that thing at Gandalf."

"Oh, well I heard that Saruman isn't even gonna be in this movie."

Hubby lost all pretext of whispering and said, "What! He's vital to the end of the movie!"

"Well I heard that Christopher Lee was cut from this one."

"Oh that's lame!"

Yes it was.

After the movie finally ended, Hubby told me what the ending was really like in the book and details of other things that were cut from "The Return of the King." I have to agree with him that the book sounds like it was a heck of a lot better than this movie. Hubby said that in the book as well, the ring is destroyed half-way through. But there is another climatic part actually at the end of the book, and guess what? It all depends on Saruman.

But the number one reason why the movie was a piece-o-crap: Not nearly enough Orlando Bloom.

Ah... l'amore

I'm so excited. I get a three-day weekend this week. Tonight Hubby and I are going to drive to Riverside County and leave Daughter with my mom and dad. That's when the fun starts

Friday: We're going to the fair. Australian Battered Potatoes, Funnel Cake (never had it, gonna try it) and fudge! Here we come! And that's just the food. Can you keep a secret? I'm gonna get extra fudge as a "thank you" present for my parents.

Saturday - Sunday: Retreating to a romantic mountain cabin in Idyllwild. Also planned: lots of sex alcohol and sex. And eating fudge.

Afterward

For your review, a true conversation between myself and hubby as we are driving home with two plastic bags in my hand. The bags hold two koi and two guppies.

Hubby: Don't forget. When you put the fish in the tank, just float the bags in the water for a few minutes before you release the fish.
Me: (puzzled) What? You mean you have to acclimate fish to new water? Really? I didn't know that! Did you know that?!
Hubby: (begins scratching the side of his neck with that finger.)

FATALITY!

My husband has many endearing qualities. One of which is his impulsiveness. It often manifests in wonderful ways. I have come home and found our computers networked, including the wiring strung through the walls, under the carpet and so forth. He has built a backyard pond at our home on his smoke breaks.

My roommate Lisa has a large fish tank that is populated with approximately a dozen very large goldfish. She has had some of them for almost five years. On average they are about 6 inches long. These fish have survived predation by her turtle that lived in the tank until my hubby finished the backyard pond. They are scrappy happy fish.

Two nights ago my impulsive husband declared that he was tired of looking at Lisa's cloudy, smelly fish tank. He was going to clean it. He dragged out the scraper, syphon and bucket and went to work. At the computer, I had a view of his progress. He begin by scrubbing the sides of the tank to remove the algae growth. Then he began with the syphon. Using the syphon, he drained the water out of the tank, concentrating on sucking up the debris at the bottom. Bucket after bucket of water was dumped into the darkness outside. The water level steadily decreased. I assumed he would stop syphoning when the tank was about half-empty because that was how my roommate cleaned the tank.

Nope. He kept going.

Eventually, the tank had maybe 3-4 inches of water left in the tank. Hubby trudges outside and brings in the garden hose. He places it in the tank and goes outside again to turn the water on. The tank is refilled. Sure enough, the water is clear and sparkling. The tank looks beautiful and we both go to bed.

I wake up the next morning and head to the bathroom to take a bath. As I sit in the steaming water, I hear my roommate's mom yell to her, "Lisa! Your fish are dead!"

She must have said, "Which one?" because her mom yells again, "All of them!

In the bathtub, I am burying my face in my hands.

Did I mention that he had not removed the fish from the tank when he replaced the water in order to acclimate them slowly to the new water? And did I mention that he used the wrong dechlorinator fluid?

That day Hubby and me went to Petco and bought Lisa two koi and two guppies.

R.I.P.
Richard the Goldfish
2002 - June 18, 2003

Father's Day

I'm a good wife, check out my husband's Father's Day Present.

Yes, this is one of my Geeky things: I literally said "holy shit!" when I read that scientists thing they have confirmed that Nefertiti's mummy has been discovered.

Ideas That I Shouldn't Have

A Lightbulb Goes On...

Year One

Happy Anniversary, my love...

Sweet...

My sweetie-pie just brought home 512 Mbs of RAM. What a romantic...