Who Are You?

So I have a husband named Tom.

At least, I thought his name was Tom.

He’s slowly been morphing himself into Thomas.

It started awhile back when he ordered some pizza. I heard him say to the pizza guy, “My name is Thomas.”

Huh?

I frowned but let it slide past.

Then when he bought his Kevlar tires he was asked for a name.

“Thomas,” he said.

“I thought you were Tom,” I whispered at him.

The Sears worker taking Tom’s name looked up with a start. He was probably wondering if I was some One Night Stand that had gone on longer than planned.

“I can be Thomas.” Tom shrugged like it was no big deal. “The name is on my birth certificate, you know.”

Well. Yes. But he had always been Tom to me. When he introduced himself in high school he said, “Hi, I’m TOM.” Not Thomas. He didn’t tell me, “Hi, I’m Tom but in about twelve years I’m going to go by Thomas. Cool?”

When he signed my Valentine’s Day card I noticed he signed it Thomas.

Then when I was on Facebook the other day I noticed that he had changed his name from Tom to Thomas.

What in the holy heck?

“Who are you?” I demanded. “Am I supposed to call you Thomas now? Because I won’t!”

“Things change,” Tom said casually. I hate how he rarely gets worked up over anything. He just calmly sat on the couch and flipped through a magazine.

“Are you having some sort of midlife crisis?” I wondered. Then I started to panic. First comes the name change, then comes wanting to buy a motorcycle, then comes wanting a fresh wife...granted, don’t midlife crisis’s start when the person is older? Thus the name MIDLIFE crisis? But then again, when you’re an Airman in the Air Force, I imagine midlife crisis’s could come much sooner.

“No midlife crisis,” Tom replied.

“Are you trying to be like a celebrity? I mean Puff Daddy changed his name a lot. He was Puff Daddy, the he wanted P. Diddy, and then he wanted Diddy, and I have no idea what he’s going by these days.” I placed my hand solemnly on his shoulder. “Are you pulling a Puff Daddy, Tom?”

Tom rolled his eyes. “I’m not pulling a Puff Daddy. I’m just going by my given name.”

“But really, am I supposed to call you Thomas now?”

Tom shrugged again. “That’s up to you.”

“You do know I like the name Thomas. It has a Tudor-esque ring to it. You know how much I love Thomas Cromwell and Thomas Moore, God rest their souls. Practically everyone was named Thomas in that time. So if you really wanted me to, I suppose I could be coerced to call you Thomas,” I said grandly.

Tom set his magazine aside. “You can call me what you want. I don’t care.”

He was frustrating me. “What if I just wanted to abruptly change my name?” I asked.

Tom started tugging on a loose piece of skin from his hand. Ew. Why must he do that in front of me? “If you wanted to change your name then fine. I don’t know why you’re making a big deal out of this.”

“I don’t know what to call my own husband anymore, that's why I'm making a big deal over this!”

“And I just told you to call me what you want.”

An evil glint came into my eye. “Fine. I’ll call you Mid Life Crisis Tom/Thomas then.”

“But I’m not having a mid life crisis.”

“Fine! Then to be on the safe side you’ll be Tom-slash-Thomas to me now. So Tom-slash-Thomas, what do you want for dinner?” I wondered sweetly.

“Don’t do that. Call me one or the other.”

(Was so tempted to call him One Or The Other, you have no idea how hard it was not to comment on that...)

“I like Tom-slash-Thomas. It has a fun ring to it," I said happily.

“Sometimes I think you need help,” Tom said, standing up. He headed into the kitchen.

“I love you, Tom-slash-Thomas!” I yelled to his back.

Nostril Recorder Adventures

Dear Yo Gabba Gabba,

Okay, you’ve had some bizarre moments on the show. You sing about a party in a tummy for craps sake. But this time you’ve outdone yourself.

With this:



I mean....is that little girl actually playing a recorder....WITH HER NOSE? Don’t you realize that by showing this it’ll make children run for their recorders so they can stuff it up their nostril?

I’m not kidding.

Watch my kid contemplate doing this.



He’s both disgusted and intrigued. Should I....shouldn’t I.....

And then, finally....



You teach a variety of lessons....from liking bugs, to trying new foods, to not biting your friends...and now I guess you can add playing a recorder with your nose to that list.

So thank you, Yo Gabba Gabba, for putting strange ideas in my son’s head.



It really is SUCH A JOY to see him walk across the room with a recorder up his nose.

(Let's hope he doesn't do this in music class though. I do not want a phone call from his teacher saying something like, "Erm, you have to come down, we have a nose situation going on....")

Signed,
A Baffled You Stuck It Up WHERE?!
Mother

PS. Remind me to buy a lot of sanitizer.

There Is No Talking

**There are no spoilers in this entry**

“So who is that, why do they keep doing flashbacks, is that the same guy from that other show you watch? Party of something?” The questions just shot from my husband Tom’s mouth. For a brief second I was tempted to shove the couch pillow into it.

I mean, it was LOST night.

Tom knows that during Lost night that he has to keep quiet. There is no talking during Lost night.

I paused the show and glared at him. “I’m going to quickly answer your questions so you’ll be quiet: that is Hurley, they do flashbacks to show you what would have happened had they never gone to the island, and yes, that’s Matthew Fox who played Charlie on Party of Five. Now let’s hush.” I even placed my finger to my lips in case he didn’t understand the word. I pushed play, settled back on the couch, and began to watch.

“How is that Hurley guy still fat, aren’t they on an island, wouldn’t he lose weight?” Tom blabbered.

Oh my GOD.

Did he NOT just hear me? There is NO TALKING DURING LOST NIGHT. Just as there is no crying in baseball, there is NO TALKING DURING LOST NIGHT.

I paused the show again.

“How about you go to bed now?” I knew I was treating Tom like a child but he was acting like one. He knows Lost night is the one night that I ask for quiet. During any other of my shows he’s welcome to talk. Like when he’s actually awake for Grey’s Anatomy he’ll be all, “What happened to Izzy, did she die, why does someone always cry during this show it’s really annoying…” I will happily answer those questions. I tell him that no, Izzy is alive, and that I have no idea why someone always cries in the show. I imagine it’s because working in the hospital can be quite trying. Much as living with a husband WHO TALKS DURING LOST NIGHT is.

“I don’t want to go to bed,” Tom pouted. Now he was truly acting like a child. “You know, we have a DVR you can record the show and watch it later if I bug you so much.”

I sighed and rubbed my temples. We had been through this many times before. “I like to watch Lost live. That way when it’s over I can discuss it with people. Now…are you going to be quiet now?”

Tom nodded once so I pushed play.

During a poignant scene Tom snored and went, “What’s Charlie’s problem? What did he mean that he came back to the island because he was broken? Who says things like that, ‘I was broken?’ I feel like I should pull out a violin and start playing.”

I angrily paused the show.

“HIS NAME IS JACK HE PLAYED CHARLIE IN ANOTHER SHOW!”

Tom flinched. “Jesus. Calm down. I don’t watch this show all the time, I have comments.”

“Keep them to yourself. I am not interested.”

“You’re mean, do you know that?”

“Only during Lost night.”

“This is confusing me, do you want to go upstairs for some sex?”

I groaned. “No. I don’t want to go upstairs for some sex. I just want to watch my show in peace. Okay?”

Tom stuck his tongue out at me but he thankfully kept quiet for the rest of the show. But then when it was over he went, “Wait. That’s it?”

“Yes. Lost always ends with a climax.”

“But I thought it was the final season.”

“Yes, Tom, it is.”

“That was the last show ever?”

I sighed again. “Tom. That wasn’t the last show. It’s just a show for the FINAL SEASON. The final episode won’t air until May.”

“Because I was gonna say what a shitty ending,” Tom said with a frown.

“That wasn’t the final ending, Tom.”

“Oh. That’s the only reason why I wanted to watch. You said it was the final one.”

“I said it was an episode for the final season, Tom.” I got up and went into the kitchen for an Excedrin. Tom was seriously giving me a headache.

Remind me to jabber on during those military shows that he always watches. I’ll ask dumb questions like, “Who is Patton, who is responsible for that awful mustache that Hitler sported, what kind of airplane is that, and that, and that, and that, and oh, what kind of tank is that, and that, and that, and that?”

Let’s see how HE likes it.

Hey, It's Okay Tuesday!

I got this idea from Glamour magazine. They have a section called Hey, It’s Okay and will list a bunch of things to be okay about. I think I’m going to do this every Tuesday now. So without further ado…


Hey, It’s Okay Tuesday


To know that you probably aren’t going to do any of the things suggested in the latest Family Fun magazine (make bunnies from socks? No thanks.)


To rarely buy organic food.


To accidentally nearly set your house on fire when all you were trying to do is make some French Fries.


To tell your kids that if they don’t eat their broccoli that they’ll make Jesus cry.


To never ever work out at 5 in the morning.


To giggle at the celebrities who constantly tweet about meditation and going to yoga and loving edamame beans. Especially when you know that these celebrities have a penchant for partying and not wearing underwear.


To wince when a Toyota drives behind you and hope to God that their brakes work.


To think the American Association of Pediatrics must be insane to say that children under the age of 2 should not watch TV. These people must not have children.


To want to tell Tiger Woods’ mistresses who are whining that THEY didn’t get an apology to shut their traps and get some morals.


To thank the chocolate gods that your kid isn’t crazy about Justin Bieber, who always seems to be a trending topic on Twitter (WHY?).


To have been traumatized within the first 10 minutes of High School Musical and refuse to ever finish the rest.


To have a husband who makes everything you say be sexual. For instance, when you go “I’m going to have a pickle,” don’t be surprised when he gyrates his hips at you and says something like, “I have a pickle for you right here.” You’ll learn to ignore it, I promise.

Too Much Snow

Crap.

There was snow.

A lot of snow.

There was a lot of snow and I had planned on driving to the YMCA to sign Tommy up for swim lessons. I pressed my nose against the window. Maybe the snow wasn’t so bad. I could drive through it, no problem. I could—wait—wait, crap. I squinted and saw that there was a car, about the same size as my own, stuck down the street.

That was not a good sign.

But I had to sign Tommy up for swim lessons. Saturday was the only day to do it.

I decided that my only option was to wake up Tom and have him take me. He has a gigantic truck. I don’t drive gigantic trucks. I don’t drive gigantic vehicles period. I’ve never felt comfortable in them. One time I sat in front of the wheel in Tom’s truck and I didn’t like the feeling. I know I should have felt in charge and powerful but I didn’t. Instead I felt like I was going to piss my pants.

I waited until two to get Tom up. He had worked the night shift and I knew he wouldn’t be pleased. But he had come to bed around six (and woke me up, I might add) and he’s always said that he really only needs five hours to be coherent. If I woke him up at 2, he’d have gotten at least eight hours so it would be okay.

I went into our room and rubbed Tom’s back.

“Tom,” I whispered.

He didn’t move.

“Tom,” I said again.

“Who ate the food?” Tom grumbled, turning over.

Huh? Sometimes he says the weirdest things. I should make a video and post it on YouTube just like that one wife who recorded her husband’s night time ramblings.

“No one ate anything. I need you to take us to the YMCA so I can sign Tommy up for swim lessons.”

One of Tom’s eyes cracked open. “Tommy?” He seemed confused, as though he had never heard the name before.

“Yes. Tommy. Your son. Your only heir,” I added.

Tom groaned into the pillow. “You’ve been watching The Tudors haven’t you?”

He always knows when I’ve been watching the The Tudors because I usually use the words “Majesty,” “heir,” and “we must go to the Tower of London someday!” after I’ve indulged in a few episodes.

“I already shoveled the driveway,” I said grandly. It had not been fun. It felt like the driveway went on forever. I was tempted to snap my fingers at the neighborhood kids who were playing outside and then tell them that I’d pay someone ten bucks to finish up. But I didn’t. I finished the job. My arms are aching now. This means I must be exceptionally weak.

I realized that Tom didn’t thank me for shoveling and frowned. Didn’t he realize how long our driveway was? And I had shoved it all on my own. Plus the sidewalks around our house. I always thank him when he shovels. Where was my thanks? Where was—oh, Tom went back to sleep.

“Tom,” I said, shaking him.

His eyes opened again. “Huh?”

“The swim lessons?”

Tom propped himself up on his elbows. “Fkljdafklj,” he mumbled.

“Okay great. See ya downstairs,” I said cheerfully.

Tom did make his way downstairs after taking the longest shower known to man. It must be nice to be able to shower that long without a child popping their head into the curtain and starting a conversation. It’s like, really, do you REALLY think conversing with me NOW is the best time? (Same with when I’m sitting on the toilet. As soon as I’m on my throne a billion questions are thrown at me. The toilet is NOT question and answer time, kids.)

“Is there any water left?” I joked as Tom came into the living room.

He didn’t get the joke. “Huh?” He scratched his head.

“Nevermind.”

We were on our way a few minutes later.

“At least I get to try out my new Kevlar tires,” Tom said with a grin.

“Mmmmm yes, I hope they keep us safe,” I said noncommittally. I’m used to Tom’s obsession over his new tires.

The roads weren’t so bad. Until we got to the YMCA. The roads leading to the YMCA were pretty bad. I would have been petrified if I had driven there in my tiny car. But Tom’s truck easily got through it. When he parked in front of the building he pumped his fist in the air and went, “That’s Kevlar tire power, baby.”

Um, okay.

I ran in to pay for the lessons.

I’m proud to say that Tommy is now a proud member of the Minnow group. He starts March 1st at 630—remind me to DVR The Bachelor. I like to make fun of it see what sort of nonsense Jake will spout.

“Thanks for taking us,” I said to Tom.

“No problem. You should thank the Kevlar tires too.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thank you Kevlar tires.” I cupped my hand around my ear. “What’s that Kevlar tires? You want to get some ice cream?”

Tom smirked. “Ice cream?”

I pretended to be interested in my nail. “Tom, I’m just giving your Kevlar tires what they want…”

Ten minutes later I had a two scoop sundae.

So thanks, Kevlar tires. For real, this time.

Attack of the Bubble Girl

Shhh.

Let’s be quiet.

I’m hiding.

I’m hiding from Natalie.

Why am I hiding from my two year old?

Because she wants me to blow bubbles for her.

ALL DAY LONG.

I can’t blow bubbles all day long. I just can’t. I’ll tell her that we’re all done with bubbles and hide them.

But guess what happens a few minutes later?



SHE FINDS THEM. All the time! She must have some inner bubble detector or something.

I’m starting to have nightmares. A giant bubble is chasing me...and if it’s not a giant bubble, it’s a bubble wand.

Because I’ll be doing my cleaning, right?

And suddenly I’ll turn around and there she is!



What I want to yell is, “I don’t want to blow anymore fecking bubbles!” But you aren’t supposed to A) yell at children or B) use choice words at them. It could damage their psyche or something.

I’ll politely tell Natalie that no, Mommy is done with bubbles and I’ll continue with my cleaning.

I’ll turn around and....



WHY WON’T SHE LEAVE ME ALONE? I’m really not as entertaining as she thinks. I need my space. Doesn’t she need her space? Bubbles really aren’t that interesting. If you’ve seen one bubble, you’ve seen them all.

But....



AHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I need one of those automatic bubble blowers. But I bet it won’t be the same to Natalie. She’ll frown at the machine, switch it off, tip toe behind me as I do the dishes and when I turn around I’ll see…

Things (and people) That Annoy Me

1. The word vajayjay. It’s called a vagina. I’ll forgive bajingo (from Scrubs) only because it makes me giggle.


2. Commercials popping on after only five minutes of show time (I’m talking to YOU, Lost)


3. Jake (The Bachelor) and his cheesy comments, “When you left, you left with a piece of my heart.”


4. Scrubbing up toddler pee because said toddler refuses to use the potty even though she’s quite capable of doing so. Sometimes I wonder if I have a puppy rather than a kid.


5. Having a nice dress but no place to wear it to.


6. Overpriced purses. If I’m carrying around a Coach purse with the logo on it, I should be paid for free advertising.


7. Tom wanting to watch cartoons all the time. Hello, I’m 27, I don’t want to sit around watching Spongebob. Thanks.


8. Some of the mothers on Toddlers and Tiaras.


9. iTunes charging $1.29 on select songs as opposed to .99 cents.


10. People who let their pants droop down, exposing their underwear. I don’t need to see that you wear Calvin Klein drawers.


11. Cold McDonalds fries.


12. People who use the word “gorge” for “gorgeous.” Is it so difficult to say the entire word?


13. Oh, Tom has one that he’d like to share: Tom is a military cop which means he pulls some people over. He hates it when people don’t know where their information is. Such as their registration, insurance…he finds it aggravating that he has to wait while people dig through their car, searching for it. Tom’s tip? Put it in the dashboard. Don’t toss it in the backseat, don’t let Timmy the Toddler mess with it, don’t shove it somewhere…PUT IT IN THE DASHBOARD.


14. And also, if Tom hears “I left my registration at home” one more time, he might go off the deep end.

Fun Dip!

Tommy had a Valentine's Day party on Friday.

He came home with a bag of Valentine's cards and treats. I peeked in and saw something that excited me.



"Fun dip! Can I have your fun dip?" I asked Tommy, who was a bit confused over his mother's excitement over candy.

I composed myself. Amber, you're 27, you shouldn't be getting excited over FUN DIP anymore.

"You can have it," Tommy said, passing it over.

Sweet!

Tommy doesn't like Fun Dip. He prefers plain chocolate, plain M&Ms....

As I dug through Tommy's bag, I found something that disturbed me. When I took it out I went, "Ahhh!"



"What is it?" Tommy wondered, eyes big.

"Twilight candy." I shoved it away with my index finger. "How can a second grader like Twilight? If Natalie were in second grade and liked Twilight, I'd say, 'If a man ever took your engine from your vehicle, like Edward did to Bella, kick him in the nuts.' I'd remind her that Edward is NOT the type of guy to strive for."

Tommy made a face. "Girls talk about Twilight in my class. They like a guy named....named...."

"Jacob," I sighed.

Tommy nodded. "Yeah. Him."

"Yuck."

"That's what I say!" Tommy agreed.

Ahh yes. My little anti-Twilighter.

I can't seem to escape the Twilight thing though. When my friend Amanda came over, she was bearing gifts.



People seem to like my reaction to Twilight stuff. It's usually in the form of a yelp. I had to turn the boxes around because I didn't like the way Edward was staring at me whenever I came into the kitchen. Who would want their man to stare at them like that?

Anyhow, on the actual Valentine's Day I set out gifts. No Twilight stuff in sight.





I posted what I got in yesterday's entry.

Tommy got workbooks. He loves to do workbooks. He's doing multiplication now. I don't remember doing that until third of fourth grade. But apparently he passed his subtraction test and was able to move onto multiplication and he wants to be really good at it. So he practices. And he practices. And he practices. He's one of those kids who wants to get everything right the first time. If he doesn't, he's frustrated and he'll cry.

He's like this when he swims too. The teacher will tell him how to kick and how to use his arms. If he doesn't get it right he's all, "Let me try again, please." Of course he can't try again because there are other students in the class. So he'll be in the corner, focusing on how he needs to move his arms, how he needs to kick while the other kids splash and giggle at each other.

It's just how Tommy is.

Speaking of Tommy, he was surprised when I made pancakes on Valentine's Day.

"But it's not Christmas," Tommy pointed out.

"I can make pancakes on other days," I answered.

"What are these dark things?" Tommy frowned at his plate of pink pancakes.

"Chocolate chips!"

"I'm not sure if I'll like that, Mommy." Tommy said this knowingly, not meanly.

"Just try it," I urged.

And so he did.

"It's okay," he admitted. "Not my favorite though."



I dubbed them the Pepto Bismol Pancakes.

And for dinner, I ordered HEART pizza:



Yum.

I Understand

I may not understand why Tom is unable to change the toilet paper roll.




I may not understand why Tom can’t get his dirty clothes in the hamper.




I may not understand why Tom leaves his dirty dishes and trash around the house.





But I do understand....







....that Tom does love me.


Because even though writing about his feeling pains him....



....he does it because he knows how much I love to read what he has to say.


I also understand that Tom took it a step further...



...and wrote a love note for me in the base paper. (Yes, he forget the “a” in front of “very” but who cares about that? He wrote me a love note in the PAPER!)

Remember the Stew?

So remember that stew I made on Friday?

The one I slaved over?

Okay, fine, so it wasn’t that difficult seeing as I had to just throw everything into the Crock Pot. But still, I had to cut the bacon, the onions, the meat…and you have to understand, I hate cutting things. I’m not good at cutting. I’m always worried that I’m going to slice off one of my fingers. And who wants to be the mother with only nine fingers? I certainly don’t. (“Oh, that’s Tommy’s Mom, did you know she only has nine fingers? Yes, apparently she lost one in a kitchen accident..)

Aside from the cutting, I also had to deal with Natalie wanting to “help.” Some parents love their children in the kitchen “helping.” I am not one of those people. I’d prefer to have my kids in the living room. Watching. As in, watching TV, out of my hair. Cooking stresses me out as it is. Add children and it just adds to the frustration. (“Natalie…sweetheart…we don’t touch the raw meat...no...no...please stop tossing the flour in the air, it’s NOT like confetti!”)

If Natalie wasn’t “helping” she was asking me all sorts of questions. She brought in her box of crayons and would hold one up and ask seriously, “What color is dis?” I really can’t be distracted when I’m cooking because then I’ll make all sorts of mistakes. I’m bad at cooking, therefore I have to put my full concentration to it. There I was measuring things and Natalie would go, “What color is dis?” and poke the crayon in my thigh until I’d respond.

“Um, blue,” I said absently as I leveled off the measuring cup.

“No, it’s NOT blue, it’s lellow!” Natalie shouted at me. If she KNEW that, then why ask?

Bottom line, making the stew was not easy.

But guess what?

No one in this house ate it but me! I thought it was good. But Tom doesn’t like stew. He says all stews tastes off to him. Oh, but I bet if I brought Megan Fox in here and said that SHE made it he’d at least try a bite.

Natalie just played with hers. At one point she picked up a carrot and squeezed it through her fingers. Orange mush dropped all over the carpet.

And Tommy?

Well.

This was Tommy’s reaction:



I think I'm going back to making macaroni and cheese.

The Bay Leaf

A bay leaf.

The recipe called for a bay leaf.

Problem was I had no idea what a bay leaf looked like. I had never even heard of it before. When I had run my finger down the ingredients so I could start a grocery list, I thought I had read it wrong.

A bay leaf? Surely a leaf didn’t belong in a stew...

Because that’s what I was wanting to make. A stew for the Crock Pot. It’s called Beef Bourguignon. To be honest I don’t even know how to pronounce bourguignon (ber-gun-yun?). But the picture that accompanied the recipe looked good. And plus, one of my New Year’s resolutions was to cook more. So I broke my rule of not making anything with more than five ingredients and decided to go for this. I WOULD make the stew. Well, beef bour—whatever.

I went to the grocery store in search of the elusive bay leaf. I expected to find it right away. In my mind there would be a tiny stand with the words “Get Yer Bay Leaves!” written in big black letters on a sign above it. But there was no stand.

And there was no bay leaf, apparently.

I searched and searched.

“Bay leaf, bay leaf,” I muttered. I probably looked like a crazy person. What’s that woman with the unkempt hair whispering about a bay leaf for?

I found some rosemary and thought I was getting close. Rosemary is a spice, yes? And so was a bay leaf. Right? Sort of? I pawed the area and nearly touched a turnip. Yuck. I definitely would never make something with a turnip in it.

“Bay leaf,” I said again as though I expected one to morph in front of me.

I went down another aisle. The one with all the jarred spices.

“Bay leaf.” I scanned the bottles of stuff that I’d probably never use. I marveled at all the spices. Maybe I should use more spices. I should branch out from the usual salt, pepper, and garlic powder. Sometimes if I’m feeling extra bold I’ll go for some Paprika.

“Bay leaf.”

“Huh?” An old man who had sidled up beside me was tossing me a perplexed look. Maybe he thought I was calling him a bay leaf. For all he knew, maybe it was the latest insult.

“I’m just looking for the bay leaves,” I explained with an isn’t-that-hilarious shrug.

He blinked at me as though I were an idiot. “Over there. In the jar. The spices are in alphabetical order you know.”

Were they? Oh.

“Thank you,” I said and then I spotted them.

The bay leaves.

Finally.

What do they even smell like? I shook the jar once, twice, and the old man shot me one last bewildered stare before walking off.

I also had to buy Burgundy wine for the stew. Or rather, the beef bourguignon. You know what, I’m just going to call it a stew. The other word is a pain to type out.

The thing is, I don’t drink wine. I know, weird. I do like alcoholic fruity drinks though. It took me awhile to find the Burgundy wine because I don’t drink the stuff. Oh, I found all the white wine but no Burgundy wine.

I almost gave up on the recipe. It was already starting to give me a headache and I hadn’t even started on it yet. But I refused to give up. I eventually found the Burgundy wine (by the Chianti, which made me think of that line in Silence of the Lambs which in turn gave me nightmares…)

Then I woke up this morning all prepared to make the stew. I gathered all my ingredients. The first step was to cook the bacon. I could do that.

“What you want to do first is cook the bacon,” I said, flashing a make believe camera a smile. Sometimes I like to pretend that I’m on a cooking show. Which is ironic because I can’t cook. I should be on that one show on the Food Network called Worst Cooks in America. I’d say into the camera, “And I didn’t even know what a bay leaf was for God’s sake!”

I poured the Burgundy wine in—how long does it stay good, by the way? I’d hate to have to throw the rest out. Or maybe I could knock on my neighbor’s doors and be all, “Do you like wine? You do? Then here is some leftover Burgundy wine, just for you!”



And are you curious about the bay leaf?





Aren’t they cute? These are the right bay leaves, right? I was taken aback when I saw TURKISH bay leaves. I didn't need American ones, did I?

The stew smells good so far. I'll update my Twitter and say how it turned out.

Let us pray that it's edible.

No Pamprin Please

“Geez, chill out. Can I get you some Pamprin or something?” Tom asked with a scowl.

What lead up to that comment?

Well, I’ll tell you.

I was getting ready to leave for my movie with my friend Amanda. We were going to see Dear John. It’s based on a Nicholas Sparks book. Have I mentioned that I love his books? Of course he tends to go for the depressing endings but I sort of like that. Sometimes I don’t need to see a couple walk off together into the sunset.

Anyhow, the movie was starting during dinnertime and I wanted to make sure Tom knew what to feed the kids. If I didn’t give him instructions he’d probably hand over a can of frosting and cheese whiz and say, “Have at it, kids.” Then I’d be stuck dealing with their sugar highs while he’d amble over to the computer and think that his job was over since I was back.

No, I’m kidding though, I think he could figure out something on his own. He’d probably grab his wallet and be all, “Who wants some McNuggets?”

“So you’ll be making Sloppy Joes,” I said to Tom, who didn’t seem to be paying much attention to me. He was stretched out on the couch watching television. This drives me crazy. How hard is it to look at me? When one converses with you, it’s polite to turn and face them.

“The meat is in the fridge,” I continued. “The buns and the can of Manwich are on the counter. Okay? Okay Tom?”

Nothing.

“It drives me crazy when you don’t ACKNOWLEDGE me,” I said. I was half tempted to hurl my purse at his bald head. “You’re watching Wonder Pets, how stimulating can it be? A chick, turtle, and guinea pig are saving a zebra. In what universe does that make sense?”

Tom scratched his arm. “I heard you about the dinner. I’m not stupid.” Well, okay, I know that but sometimes I’ve been known to question his intelligence. I mean, he forgot to delete his search history once and I really wanted to know that he was browsing the web for ‘Katie Holmes nude.’ (I got him back by leaving up ‘Lorena Bobbit story’ in my search, don’t worry.)

“I just like to be acknowledged. Okay? OKAY?” Tom was back to watching the TV. Maybe he was concerned for the zebra’s safety, who knows.

“When Tommy gets home from school you’ll need to get him a snack. Okay? OKAY?” Seriously, I should have hurled the purse at him. “If you could just LOOK AT ME I WOULDN’T HAVE TO STAND HERE SHOUTING!”

That’s when Tom uttered the words. “Geez, chill out. Can I get you some Pamprin or something?” He named the PMS medicine that I’ve been known to take. It’s mainly for my headaches and bloating but on the box it says something about helping with the irritability too.

“I’m going to go,” I said to Tom.

Natalie rushed over and attached herself to my leg.

“Stay here,” she begged.

I picked her up and kissed her cheek. “I’m going to a movie. I’ll be back later.” Then I deposited her on Tom’s lap and ran out of the house. Trust me, it’s easier that way. The longer I stay, the harder Natalie takes it.

At the theater I got my popcorn with butter and salt. It was like a heart attack in a bag but so good. The movie was entertaining. I was distracted at first because there was a father with an autistic son in the movie. He looked really familiar and I kept going, “Who is he? What has he been in?” I seriously HAVE to figure out the answer or else I remain distracted. But then it hit me…

He played the kid in ET! Elliot! And the brother in Legends of the Fall who got shot and died. (Sobs!)

I was able to relax and enjoy after I figured it out.

They changed the ending in the movie. That’s all I’ll say so I won’t give anything away. This sort of annoyed me a bit. Can’t they just keep book endings?

It was nice to get out though. When I got home I said to Tom, “Say something romantic to me,” because the guy in the movie was pretty romantic.

Tom replied, “I filled up the ice tray.”

I’ll take it.

Inside Natalie's Closet..

It's no secret that I love to buy clothes for my kids.

So I've decided to start a post called Inside Natalie's Closet.

In this entry Natalie will be sporting an outfit from Gap's Miss Mod line.

"Natalie, do you want to do a fashion show?"



She was in the middle of singing. Yes, it was as loud as it looks. The entire neighborhood got to hear Natalie's rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

"Say cheese!"



She's all, "What is this cheese business?"

So I started dancing around, singing creepy Yo Gabba Gabba songs...



She's all, "Mommy is a dork!"

I started doing the robot for her.



She was amused at first...

But then...



"WTF?"

I started doing funny moves again. I think if more photographers in Wal-Mart or Sears began to just get jiggy with it, they'd have easier success with kids smiling.





Yes, the hat is a little big but you know how much I love matching hats with outfits.

Natalie started to sing again:



And then she pulled a John Mayer...




This segment of Inside Natalie's Closet is guest starring Tommy...dressed in a shirt from Gymboree.

Hey, It's Okay!

Glamour has this bit in their magazine titled “Hey, It’s Okay…” and then lists a bunch of stuff to be okay about. I decided to steal this idea and make a blog entry out of it. So here we go..


Hey, it’s okay...


...to be a little afraid of the people who wear shirts that say “I do whatever the voices inside my head tell me to.”


...to briefly contemplate selling your children after a disastrous day.


...to think that the newest Bachelor Jake is attractive but a bit of a drama whore who probably should see a psychologist.


...to not understand the popularity of Jersey Shore and the chick called Snoopy. Or is it Snooki? Snoopy? Snooki? Sneaky?


...to prefer shopping for your children over yourself.


...to curse the people who refuse to use their turn signal while driving. I mean, how hard is it to flick your wrist and let other vehicles know of your intentions?


...to purposefully misplace your daughter’s copy of Snow White because you can’t stand to watch another minute of that ditz singing.


...to not understand what the CRAP is going on in the show Lost to the point where you can’t even join in on conversations about it because all you have to offer is, “Can you believe that giant smoke monster thing?”


...to wonder if the guy who plays DJ Lance on Yo Gabba Gabba ever thinks to himself, “THIS is what I do for a living?” but then realize that he probably laughs all the way to the bank.


...to wonder what your combined name with your husband would be if you were a celebrity (for the record, mine would be TomBer.)

On Going Away Parties

“We’re having a going away party for one of the guys at work and you’re coming,” Tom told me a few days ago.

“Why?” I responded. I rarely go to those things because I never know what to say to people. After I say, “hello” I’m usually at a loss. Sometimes I want to say, “Doesn’t the Air Force suck ass sometimes?” but then I worry that the person who I said it to will get all huffy and spout on about how fantastic the Air Force is and shame on me for thinking otherwise. And okay, for the most part I like the Air Force but it’s been known to tick me off. Like that one time when they tried to send us to Malmstrom AFB in Montana. And when they keep my husband away from home on his days off.

Plus, and here’s what really bugs me, Tom spends most of the time talking and barely even realizes when the kids act up. No, he just stands there with his drink, conversing easily while one of our children goes streaking across the room. Then I have to look like the bitch wife when I screech, “TOM! Could I get a little help over here?” I mean honestly, if roles were reversed and I just stood there yapping while the children turned into mini devils, Tom would have a fit too.

So yes, I admit it, I usually don’t go to Air Force stuff.

But this time Tom wasn’t letting me off the hook.

“You’re coming,” Tom repeated. “There are some people who don’t even believe you exist. I talk about my family yet you guys are never seen.”

“I’d rather stay home,” I insisted.

“But it’s at a place where fried food is served,” Tom pointed out.

Crap. He knows how much I love fried food. I was already picturing a pile of onion rings. Oh, and maybe some stuffed jalapeños.

“It should be for no more than an hour,” Tom continued, knowing that he had my interest.

I agreed.

But then I remembered that Gymboree was having a sale that day.

“Could we just stop into Gymboree before we show up?” I asked sweetly.

Tom frowned. “It starts at 11.”

“I know. I’ll be quick.”

Tom eyed me suspiciously. “When have you ever been quick in that store?”

“I will!”

“Can’t you just go afterwards?” Tom wondered.

“No! Someone might take the size I need if I wait too long. And I have to get this ultra adorable green dress with daisies, I just have to. Gymboree usually only carries two of the sizes I need so they could be GONE by the time we get there and—” I rambled.

“Stop. Okay. We can go. So long as you’re quick,” Tom broke in. I think he wanted me to shut up.

So on the day of the farewell party, we stopped off at Gymboree. I stared at some of the clothes, hand on my chin. I went, “Hmmm,” and then moved to the next row of clothes. “Does this remind you of anything?” I called out to Tom, who was sighing impatiently behind me.

“Um. No. You nearly done?” Tom tapped his wrist. This looked ridiculous because he doesn’t even wear a watch.

“I’m you! When you were looking for your truck tires,” I said with a laugh. (See previous entry for that story.)

Tom shook his head. “I didn’t look like that.”

“Trust me, Tom. You did. I would know. I was shooting the back of your head all sorts of evil looks since you were taking so long and leaving me to deal with the kids,” I replied. I grabbed the dress that I was looking for and held it up. “I’m ready. We can go. Isn’t this adorable?”

Tom shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a dress.”

“Come on Tom, you made me describe your Kevlar tires for you,” I argued as I brought the dress to the counter to pay.

“Fine, the dress is adorable. Happy?” Tom said, picking up Natalie.

“And your new tires just look like regular tires. Happy?” I shot back as the Gymboree worker handed me the bag that contained the ultra adorable dress.

When we got to the restaurant where the farewell party was taking place, our table wasn’t quite set up yet. So we started chatting with another couple that had arrived. I’m not the greatest with the small talk as I’ve mentioned before. The woman and I exchanged pleasantries and then sort of blinked at each other. Then she said, “I like your perfume,” and I went, “Thanks, I rubbed it on from my Glamour magazine. It was something called Chloe and it had a picture of that chick from Big Love --you know the one who is the daughter of the prophet?—so I guess it’s her perfume.” I shrugged and ignored the Look that Tom was shooting me.

“Oh,” the woman said, a bit stunned. Maybe she’s never met anyone who has rubbed on perfume from a magazine? Or maybe she’s never seen Big Love. If not, she doesn’t know what she’s missing.

Our table was thankfully ready at that point. As we walked to it, Tom hissed, “Did you have to tell her you put on perfume from a magazine? Couldn’t you have just said thanks?”

“I was being honest,” I answered as I sat down. We were seated at this long table and handed menus. Natalie was thankfully given crayons so she scribbled on her paper menu.

Some other people arrived—most of them were in uniform. I half expected Tom to point at me and go, “Here she is. My wife. She exists.”

I ordered a baked ham and cheese sandwich with some greasy fries. Then Natalie decided she didn’t want to sit anymore and yes, while I was wrangling her Tom just sat there talking. I mean honestly, is he blind?

“Here she is,” I said cheerfully after the fifth time of grabbing Natalie. I plopped her in his lap.

“How am I supposed to eat?” Tom asked because our food was arriving.

“You’re a smart man with Kevlar tires, you figure it out,” I replied sweetly. Does he forget how many times I’ve had to eat with a child in my lap? It is possible. I mean, sure, the kid usually winds up with ketchup or crumbs in their hair but you do what you have to do to get sustenance.

We left a little while later. Tom had managed to get Natalie to sit in her chair—he might have bribed her with one of his onion rings.

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Tom said as we drove home.

No, it wasn’t.

When we got home, Natalie wanted to try on her new dress. I’m not kidding, she actually asked. Normally I like to do fashion shows outside but it was too cold. So I managed to get a few inside—it was difficult because Natalie kept running around the house.

So here it is:





The ultra adorable dress.

Much cuter than tires, I must say.

The Kevlar Tires

Tires.

They don’t really thrill me, you know? But they thrill my husband Tom.

He needed new tires for his truck. So we went to Sears and he looked around.

And he looked.

And he looked.

Oh, and he looked.

“Jesus Tom, what are you looking for? If you’ve seen one tire, you’ve seen them all!” I moaned beside him. Seriously, I was trying to keep my mouth shut. But he’d stare at a tire, rub his chin, make this “hmmmm” sound, and then step over to the next tire. If he continued on at that pace, we’d be in the store for hours.

“I want to make sure I make the right choice,” Tom mumbled, stroking his chin again.

Then a Sears worker approached and they started speaking tire back and forth.

I was bored.

And I was trying to get Natalie to stop climbing on the display tires.

“I climb,” she’d say proudly and I’d have to scoop her up. Of course this pissed her off so she’d start to thrash and Tom still stood there LOOKING AT THE TIRES. It must be nice to shop and tune out everything. When I shop I still have to focus on the kids. But no, Tom was in the Land of Tire.

“And this tire is lined with Kevlar,” the Sears worker was saying.

You’d have thought that he had said that Megan Fox came free with a set of four tires or something. Tom’s face just lit up. I guess Kevlar is a magic word for men.

“Kevlar,” Tom repeated, doing the chin stroke thing again. He touched the Kevlar tire tenderly. “Kevlar.” It was like he was in a trance. I suppose I can understand. I get that way when I first step into Barnes and Noble. It’s like I can’t believe that there is a place filled with my two favorite things: books and cheesecake.

“I want the Kevlar lined tires,” Tom practically drooled.

“Wow, wow,” I cut in. “How much?” It really is a good thing I come with Tom when he makes big purchases. He seriously could be swindled. If he wants something, he just starts to hand over his credit card. He doesn’t even ask about any discounts.

We were told the price—it was pretty much what I estimated for a big honking truck—and then we told the guy that we’d come back when we got Tom’s bonus in.

Tom was a little crestfallen. “Not now?”

“Not now, Tom,” I said, pulling him from the store.

A few days later we had the bonus and we were back in Sears.

“I want the Kevlar tires,” he said proudly to the worker.
“I’m sorry. We’re out of stock. We can order them for you,” Tom was told.

You’d have thought that the worker had told Tom that there was no such thing as sex anymore by the look on his face. He wanted the Kevlar tires NOW.

“Are there any other tires you were interested in?” the worker continued.

Tom took out a piece of paper that he had scribbled other tires on. He had done his research, I give him that, and he found that the Kevlar tires had good ratings. He also wrote down other tires just in case.

“What should we do?” Tom’s voice broke into my thoughts. I had been daydreaming about the latest Lost and was trying to make sense of it all. Was Tom really asking me what we should do about the TIRES? Doesn’t he realize that I know nothing about tires? I’ll walk into a store and go, “Will the tires get me from Point A to Point B? Yes? Can I get a discount? Yes? Then put ‘em on.”

“Huh?” I said dumbly. I took Natalie off a tire.

“What should we do? Get another tire? Or order the Kevlar ones?” Tom shrugged.

He seriously was asking me.

“Do what you want. It’s your truck and your tires,” I answered.

“I hungry,” Natalie said, giving me a pointed stare. She was giving me the Look that said, “I’m being polite now but if you make me wait another five minutes, I’m going to scream until my face turns an unhealthy shade of purple.”

“Just…make a decision, we have to eat,” I added.

Tom picked another tire that apparently got one point higher than the Kevlar ones.

“Those are also out of stock,” the worker said.

Tom sighed. I bet he wanted to shout, Can’t a man get some FREAKING tires around here? “Order the tires,” Tom said, deflated. Poor guy.

We ate at Chilis for dinner. The thing that bugs me about eating out is that when Tom’s food comes, he immediately starts to dig in.

“The children!” I’ll always say. “You have to help the children with their food first.” Why doesn’t he get this? He’s had a kid for seven years now. Why doesn’t he get that he has to cut up their food before he can eat? The kids come first. THE KIDS COME FIRST.

“Oh. Right,” Tom said, setting down his burger. He reached over and helped Tommy squeeze out some ketchup. You have to do it for Tommy, otherwise Tommy goes ketchup happy and gets it everywhere. (He’s usually in charge of Tommy, I’m in charge of Natalie when we go out to eat though sometimes I’m stuck taking care of them both when he starts to pig out on his food.)

When we got home, Tom was still in a bit of a funk. He sat down in front of the computer and half heartedly started to play a game.

Then the phone rang.

It was a man asking for Tom. I passed the phone over.

“Is it work? It’s probably work,” Tom sighed, taking it.

It wasn’t work. It was Sears, saying that the tire Tom ordered was actually discontinued. And that oh, they actually DID have four Kevlar tires in stock if he wanted them.

I didn’t know this was what they were saying obviously. I just saw Tom’s face brighten and he went, “Really? REALLY? Awesome. Yes. I’ll be right down.” Then he hung up and rushed to grab his keys.

“Hello?” I said, following him. “What’s up?”

And he told me.

“I get my Kevlars!” he yelled as he ran outside.

Nerd.

He came home about two hours later. I had just finished giving Natalie a bath and was drying my arm off. When I give Natalie a bath I feel like I get one too.

“They’re on!” Tom said. “Do you want to see?”

“I can see tomorrow,” I said, hanging the towel up.

Tom frowned. “Tomorrow?” He looked surprised. “No, you have to see them now. They’re beautiful.”

Beautiful? Huh?

I gave in because I figured he’d be rambling on about the stupid tires if I didn’t. When I saw them I nodded. “They’re….nice,” I offered because what in the world do you say about tires?

“And?” Tom pressed.

And what?

“Rubbery?” I continued. “They look…bigger.” Men love it when you say things of theirs are bigger after all.

“Not really bigger. Just wider. What else?”

What else?

What did he MEAN what else? I already said they were nice, rubbery, and bigger. What more did he want from me?

“Er….the grooves are nice?” I added. It was true. The tires did have nice grooves.

“The better to travel through snow and ice,” Tom said proudly. It was like we were discussing his kid or something.

“Can I go in now?” I begged. It was cold and I was sick of staring at a tire.

“Yes,” Tom agreed. He remained outside for a few extra seconds. I think he was gazing lovingly at his new tires.

That night we did the nasty and afterwards a horrified thought passed through my brain. What if he was thinking about the tires as we were….you know. But no….surely not…

“What’s up? You look weird,” Tom observed.

Normal people would say something like, “Penny for your thoughts.” Tom says that I look weird.

“I just…you didn’t picture your tires as we…you know…”

Tom laughed. “Ew. Gross! What do you take me for?” He pulled me close and kissed me on my head. “Although, now that you mention it, they are beautiful tires, huh?”

Oh for the love of God.

Would you like to see the beautiful tires?

Here:



Don’t they just look like TIRES to you? (And oh, Tom wants me to let you know that the blue paint on the tires will rub off and normally he likes his truck shinier but it’s been too cold for him to wash it. *Insert eye roll here*)

An E-mail to Tom

Dear Tom,

I’m trying to get myself in the habit of e-mailing you since you’ll be leaving in August for Korea. When you’re in Korea, I plan on e-mailing you a lot just in case we aren’t able to speak. And if we are able to speak, we have to work out the time difference because, Tom, I love you dearly but I cannot wake up at four AM to talk. The conversation would come out like this:

You: Hi, how is it going?

Me: Blarrgggggggg…..

You: What? I didn’t get that.

Me: BLARGGGGGGGG

I seriously cannot carry a conversation that early, Tom, I just can’t. So if e-mailing is all we can do, so be it. We can pretend like we’re Internet lovers or something. I know you roll my eyes when I suggest things like this but really, it could be fun. (I still think one day you should knock on the door with flowers and say that you’re my date, ready to whisk me away. It’s not weird, Tom, it’s called being sweet. If you tell me one more time that because we’re married you don’t have to court me anymore I may have to throttle you. And not just for saying that, but for using the word court in 2010.)

Anyhow, I’m writing to you to say that you produce loud children. I’m not kidding. I was in the middle of folding laundry—don’t laugh, I really do fold the laundry, I don’t always just stuff it in the drawers. I mean, okay, most of the time I stuff things in the drawers because I don’t see the point in folding them. Like underwear. Why bother to fold underwear? It’s a waste of my time. As I was FOLDING some pants, I heard a scream from downstairs. I know you always say never to leave the kids alone but I had put on Nick Jr and assumed the strange show Max and Ruby would entertain them. I know we’re always wondering where Max and Ruby’s parents are—maybe they’re upstairs folding laundry in every episode? Who knows?

When I heard the scream, I hurried downstairs. I found Natalie on her knees with her face buried in her hands. Tommy was covering his ears because you know how he can’t take loud noises.

“What happened?” I shouted. I assumed that someone was injured.

Natalie peeked up. She appeared to be unharmed. “Tommy hurted Snow White,” she sobbed. Then, as if remembering the pain she felt she repeated, “TOMMY HURTED SNOW WHITE!” and burst into fresh tears. Seriously Tom, I think she has a future in acting.

“Tommy, what did you do to Snow White?” I asked calmly.

Tommy pointed to the couch.

And that’s when I saw her.



Well, the bottom part of her.

Tom, please explain to your son not to stuff Snow White into the couch. I mean, suppose he tries to shove a real girl in the couch like this? Don’t we want him to grow up being sensitive and caring? Don’t roll your eyes, Tom, it’s okay if a man is sensitive and caring.

I pulled Snow White free and handed her to a sniffling Natalie.

“Sorry. I didn’t like the way she was watching me,” Tommy explained.

Is that normal? Should we be concerned? Should I book an appointment with a psychologist? I mean, I guess it’s normal. I once had to take down a photograph of Jonathan Brandis that I had hanging in my room when I was around thirteen or so. I had pulled it out of a Tiger Beat magazine and after I had taped it to my wall, I swore Jonathan was watching me. So I took it down. (Poor Jonathan committed suicide a few years back. May he rest in peace.)

So that was my day. How was yours?

I love you,
Amber

PS. Do the catbox.

A Tiny Entry

I knew she existed before anyone else did when the plus sign appeared on the pregnancy test....


I sat by the toilet for the few months of pregnancy, willing away the sickness.....


I carried her for nine months and counted the stretch marks as they appeared on my stomach......


I pushed her into the world (with the drugs, for my sanity)......


I nursed her for a little over two years....


I changed her diapers, bathed her, got up with her when she decided that two AM was an appropriate time to wake up....


I stay home with her all day...


But still....







.......she is a Daddy's Girl

Let There Be Light

It happened yesterday around 11:30 in the morning.

I had just returned home from another adventure at Wal-mart—I swear, the store is like stepping into an entirely different world. Suddenly half the people you pass look as though they’re about to keel over and the other half have stepped right out of a page from peopleofwalmart.com. I passed by a woman in a leopard print jacket and pants (!) sniffing a bag of grapes. She had her nose in the bag and was inhaling. I wanted to ask her what she was doing but, well, she was sniffing grapes and I was worried that she might hurl the bag at me. So I just quickly walked away.

Anyhow, so I get home, put all the stuff that I bought away (mmm, cookie cake) and then there was a pop and....

...nothing.

It was absolutely silent.

It took me a few seconds to register the fact that our power had gone out.

Crap.

I sent a text message to my friend Amanda asking if her power had gone out. But no, hers was on. So then I started to panic that it was just our house. Did I push a wrong button? Maybe I shouldn’t have thrown the remote across the room. I decided to ask the neighbor if her power was out.

“Huh?” she said.

“Your power. Is it out?” I answered.

She scrunched up her nose thoughtfully. “Huh,” she said again and then flipped a light switch. Nothing happened. “I guess not.”

So it wasn’t just my house. I felt a little bit better but still slightly annoyed. Why was the power out? Didn’t the military know that I was eager to watch the latest episode of Inside Edition? It’s like People magazine except the TV version.

An hour went by. My lips were hurting because I had to keep blowing bubbles for Natalie. How can she be so enthused over a bunch of bubbles? Didn’t she want to play with something else?

“How about we color?” I suggested hopefully. Please. For the love of God please no more bubbles…

“I want bubbles,” Natalie said and stuck the bubble wand at my face. A trail of soap trickled down my cheek.

“I have to make a phone call,” I said, jumping up and rushing into the kitchen. I had to get away from those bubbles. For a brief second I contemplated taking the No Spill bubble bucket and hiding it in my car. (“I don’t know what happened to your bubbles,” I pictured myself saying to Natalie, arms out in mock confusion.)

I dialed the number for housing maintenance. Since I live on base it’s the number I have to call if I have any issues with the house. At that moment I had a big issue. My power was out and I was pissed.

“Yes, hi, how long is the power supposed to be out for?” I asked this politely even though I wanted to say, “Is the power going to be up so I can watch the newest Bachelor tonight?” I swear, I’m not an avid fan of the show. I just like the drama. And making fun of Jake, who seems to be a bit of a drama whore (“do I have to give out two roses?”)

“It should be up in an hour or so,” I was told.

Ugh.

I hung up and when I turned around, Natalie stood there holding the bubble wand out.

“For you,” she said.

I’m going to have nightmares about giant bubbles chasing me, I just know it.

As we sat on the floor blowing more bubbles, I could hear the rumble of a truck outside. For a second my heart lifted—MAIL, I HAVE MAIL!—I had thought it was the UPS truck you see. But then I remembered that I hadn’t ordered a thing. I peeked out the window and saw three fire trucks. I thought, hey, maybe they came to fix the power!

A few minutes later, a fireman knocked on my door.

And he was an attractive fireman too. I immediately felt ridiculous standing there with my wild hair and my sweatpants with my sweatshirt that says, “CRANKY” across the front under Oscar the Grouch’s face. I wanted to hold up a finger and say, “Could you hold on for a sec?” And then I’d shut the door, brush my hair, throw on a shirt that didn’t depict children’s characters, and swipe on some makeup. But obviously I couldn’t do that.

“Yes?” I said, surreptitiously trying to neaten up my hair. Why does it have to be so thick and unruly? Why? The only time it likes me is when I put expensive cream in it and I’m sorry, that’s not always going to happen.

“Your neighbor’s carbon monoxide alarm went off and as a precaution, we want to check your house to see if everything is okay,” the fireman that I named Charlie, after my favorite character on Lost, said. He was standing there in full fireman gear too. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked, and at first I thought he asked me that because I was just staring at him. But then I realized he wanted to make sure I didn’t have carbon monoxide poisoning.

“I’m great,” I said, opening the door to let him in.

The fireman fixed his eyes on the carbon monoxide alarm that I had pulled out of the plug. It had started to go off and I assumed it was because the power had gone out. (In my defense, our upstairs not plugged in carbon monoxide alarm had not gone off.)

“Did you do that?” he said sternly.

I was tempted to say, “My daughter did that! Shame on her!” But I couldn’t do that. Especially when Natalie was standing right there. She has a mouth on her and I imagined she would have said, “I DID NOT! MOMMY LIES!” So I went, “Err…yes….it wouldn’t shut up. I mean, it wouldn’t stop beeping. And I assumed it was because the power went off....” (I didn’t tell him that I had contemplated kicking it across the room if it wouldn’t have shut up..)

The fireman did not look happy.

“You can spank me if you want,” I added. I’m kidding. I didn’t say that. But in my mind the words, “You can spank me with your hose if you want,” filtered through my brain. I mean, how inappropriate is that? His hose can be taken in so many different ways and I could have been slapped with a sexual harassment suit. (“I was just making sure this poor housewife wasn’t poisoned by carbon monoxide and she told me to spank her with my hose,” I could see the fireman tattle in a courtroom.)

“I’m sorry,” I said meekly.

“Next time, you call us, even if you do think it’s because of the power. It probably is because of the power but you need to be safe,” he lectured.

“Yes,” I said, nodding. I almost added “sir,” to the end.

Then there was another knock on my door. Two more attractive firemen stood there.

Good gracious, was it my birthday or what?

“We’ve come to help sweep your house,” one said. When he smiled I could see a row of sparkling white teeth. I named him Dan.

“Come in,” I said, opening the door.

They carried equipment and started going through the house. When they walked in the laundry room I remembered that I had UNDERWEAR in a basket in there. It was clean but still. I practically sat on top of the basket when they came in. I pretended it was a perfectly acceptable chair.

“Are we okay?” I wondered, because they had gotten silent as they stared at their machines.

It turns out we were.

Phew.

“You guys wouldn’t happen to know when the power will be back on, would you?” I asked before they left.

“I heard 1245,” the one named Charlie answered.

I checked my cell phone. “It’s already past one.”

He snored. “Typical Air Force.”

And then they left.

Typical Air Force indeed.

What I found amusing is throughout all of this, Tom kept sleeping. He works the night shift so he sleeps during the day. You would have thought that he would have heard the male voices but no. So this means I can have John Krasinski over and he wouldn’t even know. Sweet. (Kidding, Tom.)

When he finally did wake up, it was going on 4 and the power still wasn’t up.

“What’s happening?” he asked, blinking. He frowned at the blank TV.

“The power is out,” I explained.

He scratched the side of his head and spun around. “Why?”

“I decided to try out a life without electricity. Newsflash, it sucks,” I said sarcastically.

Tom doesn’t get sarcasm when he firsts wakes up so he was all, “I’m confused.”

He understood it all ten minutes later.

When he left for work a half hour later, the power was still out.

I couldn’t cook in the dark (YAY) so I took the kids to Olive Garden. It was my first time going to a restaurant without Tom. But guess what? My kids were fantastic. They sat and the only mishap was when Natalie dropped a delicious breadstick on the floor (“we must be kind to the breadsticks, Natalie, they’re like little sticks of Heaven..”)

When we got home, the power was still out.

I was seething.

And then, right when I was about to send a text to Amanda over how the Air Force could kiss my pale ass, the power came back on.

“Let there be LIGHT!” I shrieked and did a happy dance in my living room. “I had a fantastic daydream about all you lights...and you were there, and you....” I said, speaking to the sources of light in the living room.

“Mommy, why are you hugging the lamp?” Tommy asked.

Oh. I hadn’t realized that I was.

I just got carried away, I guess.

This just proves that I could never go without electricity.

Beautiful, beautiful electricity.

The Amish don’t know what they’re missing, really.

Is It Sad?

1. Is it sad that my two year old knows how to walk in high heels better than me?





2. Is it sad that I’m a little embarrassed to buy stuff in Victoria’s Secret? I worry when I slide my sexy lingerie at the cashier to purchase that she’ll know that I’m buying it for when I have sex with my husband. But I can’t very well say, “It’s not for what you think. I wear this when I do dishes.” Then I worry that she’s thinking, “Poor lass. She seriously thinks she can pull this off with her chunky thighs.”





3. Is it sad that I can’t stop laughing whenever I try Yoga? I’ve attempted to take it seriously but I can’t. I always worry when I bend over that I’m going to fart. Or if I don’t fart then somebody else will and I’ll be the only one laughing about it because everyone else will be in some tranquil state that I can’t seem to master.





4. Is it sad that I’m so excited for when Lost comes back tomorrow? I love that show.





5. Is it sad that my daughter has more shoes than me?





6. Is it sad that I ate an entire package of Reeses Peanut Butter Cups? In my defense, it wasn’t all in one sitting.




7. Is it sad that I refuse to do the nasty with my husband after he’s just made a number two?




8. Is it sad that I cursed the state of Wyoming for doing this to my car? (It took off this rubber thing on the top. Not sure what the real term is, I don't speak car.) Well, technically it was their high winds but still. I was in the middle of screaming, “Stupid f-ing state!” when my neighbor walked outside. I apologized for the curse and he chuckled and went, “No problem. I’m not a fan of Wyoming either. One of my tools was blown away and I’m still pissed about it.”