To The Neighborhood Kids

Do you want to know how my weekend was?

Well, it went something like this:

Ding dong!

Ding Dong!

Ding Dong!

No, I wasn’t being called names. That was my doorbell being abused by the neighborhood kids who constantly feel the need to molest it.

For some reason they all like to gather in OUR garage. I do not like this. Why don’t they play in Billy’s garage? Why must they stay in ours? I see that Billy has toys scattered in his garage—aren’t they getting bored with our toys? They must be!

“People aren’t sharing!” kids will whine to me after they’ve leaned on the doorbell.

Go tell your OWN parents. Jesus.

But of course I’ll have to pop out and do the Mom thing even though I was looking forward to quiet because at that point I had just put Natalie down for her nap. I was hoping to type out a chapter in my novel or at the very least, a few pages. Something. But no. I had to give that up and deal with other people’s children.

“Please share,” I informed the group through clenched teeth.

“Chase is being mean!” a little girl told me seriously, pointing to the brat who has been known to make fun of Tommy. His parents seem like fabulous people, really. I went over to introduce myself and I was in the middle of going, “Hi, I’m Amber, I’m Tommy Mo—” but then the father’s cell phone went off and he actually HELD UP A FINGER at me and answered it. Then he proceeded to carry on a conversation about biking (!) so I just walked off and sarcastically said, “It was lovely to meet you too…”

So really, this Chase kid doesn’t seem to have the greatest parents. I haven’t even seen the Mom yet and I’ve been here for nearly three years. I’m wondering if Creepy Biker Dad keeps her caged.

“If you aren’t going to be nice, then you can go home,” I said loudly to everyone because I know it’s not fun to be singled out.

Then I went back inside and started to write a few sentences in my novel. I was starting to get into a groove. The words were flowing, my grammar seemed to be on par, the dialogue seemed plausible, the---

DING DONG!

“For the love of chocolate!” I shrieked and stomped to the door.

“Yes?” I practically yelled at the girl standing there.

“Um...people aren’t sharing the water guns,” she informed me.

“Then go home!” I wanted to shout.

But I’m too nice so I went out and said that people had to share, for the love of God, SHARE! Didn’t they learn that lesson in preschool?

I came back in. I had already lost my writing groove so I decided to watch some Gilmore Girls because it’s possibly one of the best shows out there. I started to get involved with the plot even though I already knew the outcome. But it doesn’t matter, with a show like Gilmore Girls you can always---

DING DONG!

“Why do I even bother?” I muttered as I paused the show. I walked over to the door.

“Some kids are breaking stuff,” the same girl said.

What?

WHAT?

BREAKING STUFF?

I hurried out and saw that they had taken apart one of Tom’s things that he uses for his models. It’s some sort of bottom that helps his diagrams stay up.

Look, I don’t even know exactly what it is. I just knew that it was now in pieces all along my garage.

Right, you little shits, what is WRONG with you all!!? This was on the tip of my tongue but I forced it down.

“Who did this?” I demanded. “Who did this?”

Of the six kids standing there, no one would confess.

“You can’t just take apart people’s things!” I shouted, throwing the pieces into a plastic bag. “Please be good out here! I was in the middle of watching a very good episode of Gilmore Girls where Dean breaks up with Rory since she keeps making eyes at Jess!”

The kids just blinked up at me in confusion. They had no idea what I was going on about.

I wished I could be mean like Tom. The kids are afraid of Tom and if they see his truck in the driveway, they basically stay away. Because one time they started to get rough with one of Tommy’s toys and Tom went out there and went, “How about I come to your house and start throwing YOUR toys on the ground?”

And then when a few of them got too close to his beloved truck he suddenly screamed, “DON’T TOUCH MY TRUCK! You don’t want to know what will happen if you do!”

But I can’t do that. No. Instead all I can manage is, “You can’t just take apart people’s things!” which doesn’t exactly have the same effect as Tom’s “DON’T TOUCH MY TRUCK!”

I went back in and started to watch a bit more Gilmore Girls but then I heard the sound of running water outside and realized they were messing with the hose.

This was my breaking point.

I stepped outside and saw that our poor lawn was drowning in water. It was like a giant puddle outside the front door.

“Okay, it’s time for everyone to go home. The garage is closed. Bye bye now,” I said and started to shut the garage door.

“Wait! Misty is still in there!” a girl shrieked so I held open the door and a terrified looking blond raced out from behind a bunch of plastic totes that they had stacked up. This also infuriated me because hello, don’t touch other people’s plastic totes! Is that not a rule?

I told Tommy he could go play with his friends at THEIR houses if he wished but that ours was closed for business.

Tommy shrugged. “I’m done playing. Those kids give me a headache,” he said.

Tommy is just like me. He doesn’t mind hanging out with people but after a few hours we like to retreat and enjoy some silence.

I am so not going to be the Mom who invites a bunch of teenagers in the house. No way. They can go hang at someone else’s home.

Plus, if one of them accidentally hit Tom’s truck, I honestly think some blood would be shed and Tom would wind up in jail.

So future friends of Tommy and Natalie? Please piss off and go somewhere else. Thanks. Because this house contains a semi anti-social writer and a man semi-obsessed with his truck. Just so you know.

The Right Ear

"Tom, remember to take the trash out," I reminded my husband the other day.

He was on his computer game, his eyes focused on the screen. He moved the mouse as if on autopilot and inwardly cursed when someone apparently took a shot at his soldier.

"Tom," I repeated. "You need to take the trash out."

Tom's fingers started flying across the keyboard as though he were writing his own blog entry. But instead he was quickly gathering ammunition for his soldier. While he was doing this he was muttering, "Take that, asshole."

I massaged my temples slowly. I was already feeling the first signs of a cold coming on. Since Tommy is back at school it means he's been bringing home germs and I'm due for a sickness since it's been awhile. My mouth already felt sore at the base of my throat and my left nostril was getting difficult to breathe out of. I didn't have the patience to deal with a husband who was ignoring me.

I do know there is a way to get Tom's attention when he's on the computer.

And that is why I did this:

"Tom! Breasts and tits! Miranda Kerr naked!" I shouted. (Don't worry. The kids were playing upstairs. I would never utter such a thing in front of Natalie, who repeats everything you say. I can just imagine her sweetly telling the Target cashier, "Breasts and tits!")

Tom's eyes swiveled from the screen. "Huh?" He looked baffled but I noticed he was scanning the room as though he expected the Victoria Secret model to be prancing around our living room clad in next to nothing.

I smiled. "Now that I have your attention, please take out the trash."

Tom looked a little deflated that there would be no nudity. "I will," he promised, returning back to his game.

Ugh.

I decided to give up and fix some lunch. As I was eating I was flipping through a Glamour magazine and I noticed some words at the bottom of the page.

It said something like: "A recent study has shown that men are more apt to listen if you talk into the RIGHT ear."

Hrm.

Right ear, eh?

After I ate I marched back over to Tom and leaned over to his right ear.

"Don't forget the trash," I hissed into it.

Tom shivered. "Why did you just hiss into my ear?" he demanded.

But look! It got his attention! I didn't have to mention boobs at all!

So...maybe it's true.

Later, Tom had still not taken out the trash. No, he had moved from the computer onto the Wii. He was busy playing his Wii Resort game and I decided that I better whisper into his right ear again.

But this proved harder than I thought. He kept bouncing around from one side of the room to the next and I'd sort of follow him around until he was like, "WHAT?" He paused the game, irritated that I was behaving like his shadow.

I stood on my tiptoes and said into his right ear, "Don't forget the trash."

Tom raised his shoulder to his ear to cover it. "Stop doing that! Why are you doing that?"

I just gave him a loving smile.

Later, I saw that our lawn needed to be mowed and I came inside and Tom was on the couch. I plopped down on his lap, leaned over to his right ear and said, "The lawn needs to be mowed."

Tom gave me a Look. "Okay. What's going on? Are you filming this or what?" He glanced around the room as though he expected to see a camera.

I batted my eyelashes at him. "I'm just trying something out."

Tom threw his hands in the air. "What? How to creep a man out?"

"No," I explained gently. "Apparently if you talk into a man's right ear, he listens better."

Tom rubbed his chin. "I don't think that's true," he said thoughtfully.

Well. Maybe not. But Tom DID end up taking out the trash and mowing the lawn.

So maybe, just maybe, talking into a man's right ear helps.

"I love you," I told Tom that night, into his right ear.

"You're crazy," he replied lightly.

The First Day of Second Grade...

The alarm went off early in the morning.

I groaned and buried my head deeper into the pillow to try and stifle out the noise.

It didn't work.

If anything, my alarm became insulted that I was attempting to ignore it and grew louder.

"Okay," I mumbled. "Okay."

I sat up and turned the alarm off. Then I sort of sat there in confusion for a few minutes. What was going on? Why was I up so early again? What in the world is wrong with Heidi Montag? Is it inappropriate that my daughter says, "Sooo Meaty!" since I allow her to watch The Soup on the E! channel?

At least the answer came to me for one of my questions:

Why was I up so early again? Oh right. Tommy. School. First day.

I forced myself out of bed and stumbled to pull out a pair of what I dub 'comfy pants.' Comfy pants are basically the bottoms of those jogging outfits. I have them in a variety of colors: pink, black, brown, purple and when I'm feeling exceptionally bold, white. I always pair that with t-shirt. I try to match but sometimes that just doesn't happen. That morning I made an effort to match because I knew I'd be taking Tommy to the bus stop and I didn't want to embarrass him.

Then I walked over to Tommy's room and threw open the door. He bolted right up from his bed.

"Is it time? Am I going to school today? Second grade! Do you think I'll have homework? Hi Max the Cat, good morning! I'm excited about wearing my brand new shoes. Will they really make me run faster?" He shot off questions, one after the other while I stood there staring blankly at him with my mouth agape. I've never understood how he had so much energy in the morning.

"Happy first day of second grade," I managed to croak out because I don't want my son's memories of me to be that of a half-dead mother who shuffled around the house in a half asleep stupor.

"Thanks!" Tommy said brightly and jumped out of bed. Because he's my kid he nearly went sprawling to the ground but then he regained his balance. Then he went over to his clothes, which I had left folded on top of his toy chest that I know he'll eventually be too old for. It's blue with a teddy bear on it and I know one day he'll say, "Mom. This needs to go. I'm not a baby anymore."

I settled down on Tommy's bed while he got dressed.

"Don't see my underwear!" he sang and I promptly shut my eyes.

A few minutes later he told me I could open them again.

"Mommy?" he said. "I SAID open your eyes!" He came over and pulled my arm.

Oh. Crap. I had nearly fallen asleep.

Then we headed downstairs and I asked what cereal he wanted. He tapped his chin as though this were an important decision.

"Froot Loops," he finally decided.

I poured him a bowl and brought it over to the table. Then I got him a glass of water and sat down.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Tommy asked.

I rubbed my eyes. "Mommy's stomach is still asleep. I'll eat when it wakes up," I replied.

I really really wish that I liked coffee. I think coffee would help the mornings. But I've never gotten a taste for it. I've tried a variety of flavors and none of them have stuck. I usually get my caffeine in the form of diet sodas but I don't allow myself to have one until lunch.

Tommy ate in silence for a few minutes. Then he cocked his head to the side, chewing thoughtfully. "Will I be on the same playground as first grade?" he wondered.

"I think so," I answered. At the Back to School night I had peeked out the window and it looked like it was the same playground as before.

Tommy sighed. "Oh darn," he muttered.

We took pictures before we headed to the bus stop:





(For fun, here are pictures of him on his first day of Kindergarden and first grade respectively..)





After pictures, I walked him to the bus stop which is just across the street. Usually he walks to it himself but I wanted to be there on his first day. He held my hand at first but when we approached the bus shack, he abruptly dropped it. He said hello to a few of his friends and I said hello to the other mother that was standing there. She was actually dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with her hair neatly brushed.

Crap! Did I forget to brush my hair?

I heard the mother say to her daughter, "Did you enjoy your big breakfast?" and the little girl nodded her head. "I love bacon!" she said happily.

I know some parents cook their kids big breakfasts on the first day. I served my kid cereal. From a box. I looked down at Tommy, who was kicking a rock with his shoe.

"Hey Tommy?" I said softly. "You don't mind that I didn't make you eggs, do you?"

He shook his head. "You'd probably burn them," he said kindly. He wasn't being mean, just speaking the truth.

"Well, I hope you have a great first day," I said, rubbing his head. He allowed me to do this for a few seconds but then moved away so that my hand was left stroking the air. Tommy gives me subtle signs that he's growing up and I know it's inevitable, but it doesn't make it sting less.

"If anyone is mean to you," I whispered. "You tell an adult."

Most kids are pretty nice to Tommy. But there are some, who I've dubbed Little Shits, who make fun of the way he runs awkwardly and the fact that he wags his fingers when he gets excited.

"I will," Tommy assured me but I knew it was unlikely. Tommy has been known to take the cruel jabs and then burst into tears. Sometimes I've heard him shout, "Stop it! You're being mean!" which only causes the brats to laugh. I once witnessed this in our front yard and it took all my might not to stomp out there and spin the brats around the yard by their ankles roughly or take them by their ears and drag them to their homes and demand to know what kind of parent would allow such behavior.

Then Blake, the World's Most Annoying Kid, bound over to us.

"Hi Tommy's Mom!" he said even though I've asked him more than a hundred times to call me Miss Amber.

"Hi," Tommy and I both said in unison. Blake is actually pretty nice to Tommy which is why I tolerate him. But sometimes the Little Shits try to drag Blake away from Tommy just to be mean.

"Why are you here, Tommy's Mom?" Blake asked.

I shrugged. "Ask God, I guess," I replied.

Blake screwed up his face. "What?" Obviously my lame joke went right over his seven-year-old head.

"It's Tommy's first day. I wanted to be here," I explained.

"Why? That makes no sense," Blake said.

Oh geez. It was too early to get into it with Blake. Conversations with Blake could take hours. The kid just doesn't give up.

"I just wanted to see Tommy off since it's his first day of second grade," I tried again. Then I heard the rumble of the bus approaching and knew I was safe. Thank goodness!

I tried to give Tommy a hug but he quickly pulled away.

"Mom." He shot me a Look as he got in line.

Oh. Right. The growing up thing.

"You have a great first day," I said primly even though what I really wanted to do was burst into tears and pull him against my chest and cry into his blond hair. How did you get so big? How are you seven? Weren't you just a baby yesterday???

I waved as he climbed on the bus and waved some more as the bus pulled off and sputtered down the street. I still waved even when the bus was out of sight and then realized that I better stop, that people might be staring out the window and wondering what the Crazy Lady with the Crazy Hair was doing.

I came back inside where Tom was waiting with Natalie, who seemed a little sad that her playmate was gone.

"Brother at school?" she asked me sadly.

I sighed. "Yes. Brother is at school," I replied as my heart tugged.

Back to School Night

“Oh crap,” I said as I parked the car in the school parking lot. We were there for Tommy’s Back to School night so he could meet his new teacher.

I peered down at my flip flops and saw it. The hairs. On my big toe. Normally I remember to shave my toes because fine, I’m hairy. My Mom would always embrace me when I’d bemoan this fact and say in a singsong voice, “We’re just a hirsute family!”

Let me tell you, it’s not easy to be hirsute during the summer. You have to constantly check to make sure you aren’t sprouting hair in places that are frowned upon for women. Like toes. Oh sure, it’s perfectly acceptable for guys to sport jungle feet but if a woman does it then it obviously means she doesn’t love herself enough or something.

This just isn’t true for me.

No, my problem was that I forgot because I’ve been under stress thanks to the upcoming move to Montana.

“What happened, Mommy?” Tommy asked from the backseat.

“I have hairy toes!” I moaned, throwing my hands in the air.

Tommy blinked at me. Since he’s a boy, he’s allowed to have hair wherever he wants so he didn’t understand.

I started to worry that Tommy would be mocked for having a Hairy Mommy.

“Was that a caterpillar on your Mom’s feet?” I pictured his friends taunting.

I mean, the hair wasn’t that thick. It was just a couple of strands. But still. Not attractive. I suddenly had the bright idea that I could pluck them out but when I reached down to try, I only managed to curl one when I tugged at it.

They weren’t budging.

“Why don’t I carry a razor with me?” I muttered, digging through my purse as though my Venus razor was going to magically pop up. Really, I carry so much crap in my purse so why SHOULDN’T my razor be in there?

“Can we go in now?” Tommy begged, getting antsy. He shifted in his seat with his school supplies sitting on his lap.

I sighed. “I guess so. There’s nothing I can do about my feet now.”

We walked in the school and I longed to shield my toes as we stood in line to find out who Tommy’s teacher would be. I mean, I knew everyone would be busy inside, perhaps even too busy to look at my hairy feet, but I do know there are some women who give The Once Over which is basically a quick scan from head to toe. I never bother with it because I’m not into fashion. But there are ladies who are and I’ve noticed them giving me The Once Over and usually they wrinkle their noses slightly because I’m usually clad in a t-shirt with a funny saying (Like my Happy Bunny “Boys are Funny when they try to think”) and Mudd jeans that I picked up from the Juniors Department.

Everyone at the school knows who Tommy is. I’d like to say it’s because he’s such a great kid. But really, it’s because he threw horrible fits in Kindergarten. No one knew what was going on with him. The school called me on a weekly basis to the point where I’d begin to dread the ringing of the telephone. I attended more meetings than I care to remember. It’s not easy sitting there surrounded by a bunch of professionals who are telling you that something is wrong with your kid.

It turns out Tommy has Asperger’s Syndrome which is a form of autism. That’s topped off with Sensory Processing Disorder and ADHD. He’s a great kid but if there is too much going on in his world, he shuts down which is what happened in Kindergarten. He’s doing much better now because he’s pulled out into the Resource Room for Reading and Math where he was able to thrive.

So yes, this is why everyone knows who Tommy is. And I mean everyone down to the cafeteria lady. This is another reason why I’m upset that we’re moving. Everyone knows how Tommy works here. When we get to the new school we have to go through that all over again.

We went down to Tommy’s classroom and the teacher automatically knew who Tommy was.

“Hi Tommy!” she said cheerfully.

Tommy looked at his feet. “Hi,” he mumbled.

“How was your summer?” she asked.

“Good.” (He said to the ground.)

“What did you do?”

“Um…I went to the…the…beach,” Tommy said, still looking down.

“Tommy. Eyes,” I reminded him gently. Sometimes he forgets all about eye contact and will have an entire conversation with his feet.

Tommy obligingly looked his teacher in the eye but his lips twisted in a way that told me he was uncomfortable. I don’t blame him. I don’t really like looking people in the eyes either. I usually speak to a person’s shoulder because the second I look into another person’s eyes, I get this bubble in the pit of my stomach. I’m 27 and I still have to tell my own self, “Amber. Eyes.”

“Well, if you can just fill this form out and Tommy, can you find your cubby and your desk?” the teacher instructed.

Tommy nodded shyly and started to look at the row of cubbies. “Found it!” he said, pointing to his name.

I filled out the paperwork and tried to hide my hairy toes. I didn’t want the teacher to think, “Okay, how can I remember all these parent’s names? Okay, right, Amber was the one with the hairy feet. The Hairy Feet Mom is Amber.”

Then the next time we meet she’ll be all, “Hi Hairy Fee—I mean, Amber!”

I hate being hirsute!

“I found my desk, Mommy,” Tommy said, settling down in the seat. But then he wrinkled his nose at the sign on it. “Mommy, it says Thomas. I’m not Thomas, I’m Tommy.”

“That’s because the teachers want you to be able to spell Thomas,” I explained.

Tommy sighed. “I do! It’s T-H-O-M-A-S!”

Er…

“Well, Thomas is your given name. Maybe when you’re older you’ll want to be called Thomas,” I tried again.

Tommy made a face as though I had just let out a loud fart. “No way! I’m Tommy!”

“Well, you know, Thomas Jefferson liked the name Thomas,” I reminded him. We’ve been studying the Presidents over the summer. He still can’t believe that someone shot Abraham Lincoln or that someone was actually called Rutherford.

“Mommy? Where’s my seat?” Natalie wondered beside me. She looked downright insulted that she didn’t have her own desk.

I squatted down to her level. “Well, you don’t have a seat because this isn’t your classroom,” I said gently.

Natalie stomped her foot. “Where MY desk?” she demanded.

“Sweetie, I just told you. You don’t have a desk because this isn’t your classroom,” I repeated.

Natalie started to cry. “Where MY desk?” she sobbed pitifully.

She so wants to go to school. When she turns 3 I’m going to see about enrolling her in preschool two times a week.

Natalie was still pouting as I picked her up and walked around the room.

“Me! Me!” Natalie suddenly shrieked, waving her finger wildly.

I had no idea what she was talking about. I thought she still wanted a desk so I stroked her head and said soothingly, “I know.”

“Me! ME!” Natalie said again.

I followed her finger and realized she was pointing to a desk that had Natalie written on it.

“Well, that’s not really your desk,” I said thinking to myself, “Holy crap, my kid is a genius!” (Even though she totally likes putting her mini potty on her head but let’s forget about that…)

“Natalie! Natalie!” Natalie practically screamed.

After that we were able to walk around the school. I did that even though Tommy knows where everything is. Everyone kept saying hi to him and I’d just softly remind him about his eyes.

“You feel comfortable about school?” I asked Tommy before we left.

He nodded. “I’m all ready!”

So we walked out to the parking lot, which was a total zoo. People were making up their own parking spots because there were no spaces left. Getting out was horrible—I tend to break down in difficult situations and I tried not to burst into tears when I tried to back out of my spot. This truck had just parked haphazardly behind me so it didn’t give me a lot of space to get out. Then there was a car who wanted my spot and the lady kept gesturing to me to hurry up which made me want to give her the finger but I didn’t because I had kids in the backseat.

I eventually made it out and rewarded myself with Burger King.

“Second grade is tomorrow!” Tommy said happily.

“Yup. Second grade is tomorrow.” I looked in the rearview mirror at my baby boy who isn’t really a baby anymore and sighed. “Second grade,” I said softly. “Please be good to my boy…”

This Is.....

This picture surprised me. Can anyone explain to me why this Mom is being so mean to the delicious treat monster?

What did it ever do to her?



This is my Mom's wedding dress. I love it. I imagine it could be something worn around Henry VIII's time.



This is my Dad at the beach. He's like a big kid.



This is my Mom. She loves bugs, horses and plants.



This is me at the beach. I get cranky when I'm hot. And no, I did not plan on Natalie and I matching. It just happened like that.



This is my husband Tom. He plans on scaring off Natalie's dates by cleaning his shot gun when they stop by to pick her up.



This is Natalie. She doesn't mind getting dirty.



This is Tommy. He starts second grade tomorrow. Where does the time go?

The Air Force is Trying to Freeze Us

When Tom first told me we were moving to Montana, I didn’t take the news well. I had been keeping my fingers crossed for a base in Texas or Ohio so we could be near family. I wouldn’t have objected to Florida or anyplace warm, really.

“Is the Air Force trying to freeze us to death or something? What’s with all these cold bases?” I had fumed.

This is where we’ve been so far:

Nebraska (cold)
England (cold and bloody overcast half the time)
Wyoming (cold and windy)
Montana (COLD!)

Are you noticing a pattern? Because I certainly am. What does the Air Force have against sending us to a place where we can wear short sleeved shirts all year long?

Whenever Tom tells someone where we’re moving to they always toss us sympathetic looks. One guy even sucked in his breath sharply and went, “That sucks.” Malmstrom, the base we’re going to, is known for being small with nothing much to do.

Oh, I suppose there is plenty to do if you like to be outdoors.

Which I do not.

There is fishing, which I suppose I could try. But then my mind with inevitably wander and I’ll be like, “Lalala, is this fish ever going to bite and why oh why doesn’t Malmstrom have a Kohls around it?” I’m still in disbelief over that one. I’m not going to even go into the fact that there is no Gymboree or Toys R Us because it’ll just upset me all over again.

Tom reminds me that I can shop online but his Man Mind doesn’t understand that actually shopping in a store is part of the fun. He doesn’t get the thrill of pushing through clothes on a rack and getting to walk out with a bag of new purchases.

People camp in Montana because the scenery is beautiful. I don’t really mind camping but it’s just not my favorite thing to do. I’m petrified of bugs and bugs come with camping. Just the other day this grasshopper leaped up and bounced off my cheek and I started to screech, “The fucker tried to attack me!” while wiping my face off frantically as though it left behind a trail of piss. If I react like that to a GRASSHOPPER, imagine how I’ll behave if we come across a bear.

My patience is thin lately because moving stresses me out. I constantly worry that the movers will steal something—really, I could care less if they steal something of mine but suppose they take Natalie’s Gymboree clothes? Or all those toys I bought from the Target toy sale for Christmas? What if they take some of the Christmas decorations that I’ve been working so hard to build up? Suppose they break our furniture? I’ve been chewing my nails more often than usual which I know is a disgusting habit but I can’t help it. My fingers inevitably end up in my mouth as soon as I think about moving to a place I don’t even want to go.

Tom has been bothering me. He plays this computer game (Company of Heroes) online and he wears these headphones that he can talk into so he can communicate with the other players. I’ll be sitting on the couch, which is less than five feet away from the computer and I’ll have to hear him go, “We’re screwed…we’re screwed!” every few seconds. Then it’ll be silent again and Tom will suddenly yell, “There’s a sniper, there’s a sniper!” and nearly make me jump out of my skin.

Yesterday I had enough. I went over, lifted up one of his earpieces and said sweetly into his ear, “You’re bugging the crap out of me.”

Then we went to Wal-Mart and Tom practically went into convulsions when he saw the movie Patton.

“This is the best movie ever, I’m going to get it, it is such a great movie, things blow up, blah blah blah…”

“Fine, get it,” I said blankly. I suppose my voice set Tom off because he went, “Fine, I won’t get it,” and I went, “I SAID get it!” Then Tom grabbed the DVD and said, “Well, I do deserve it since I let you get that vest.”

“The vest wasn’t for me, Tom,” I sighed.

It was this vest:



For Natalie.

And can you BLAME me? Is that not the cutest vest ever?

On the way home Tom suddenly said, “Oh, do we have Miracle Whip for my sandwiches at work tomorrow?” He had just bought some lunch meat and cheese at Wal-Mart.

“I don’t know. We have mayo for sure,” I replied.

Tom made a face. “Mayo. Gross! I only can have Miracle Whip or forget the sandwiches.”

Sometimes married to the Pickiest Man Ever wears on a person’s patience. Especially if said person’s patience is already stretched thin.

“Just use the mayo, Tom,” I said through gritted teeth.

“I don’t like mayo,” Tom pouted.

I threw my hands up in the air. “Well I don’t like the fact that we’re going to Montana but I have to deal with it, don’t I?”

That shut Tom up. He mashed his lips together in a tight line and drove home with his fists clenched against the wheel.

When we got home he asked, “Are you going to be like this until we move in November?”

“Probably,” I answered. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Then a few minutes later I felt guilty and apologized.

“I’m still getting used to the idea of Montana and I’m worried the movers will SOS,” I explained.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “SOS?” he questioned.

“Steal our stuff. It’s my code. So when the movers come I’ll say, “Tom, watch the movers so they don’t SOS,” and they won’t know what I’m talking about. Because if they hear me talking about being paranoid about them taking our stuff they’ll probably do it out of spite,” I said with a sharp nod.

Tom still looked confused. “You’re a strange one, Amber. But I like that you’re not snapping at me now so I’ll just let it go..."

Dentists Are Fun???

“I can’t wait to go to the dentist,” my son Tommy told me the other day as we walked inside the dentist office.

I had to bite my lip to keep from saying, “Okay, what’s wrong with you?”

I hate the dentist. The dentist gives me panic attacks. Of course I hide my fear from my children which is why they enjoy going. I’ll lie through my teeth and say things like, “And remember, when you go to the dentist, you’ll get a STICKER and they’ll clean your teeth with delicious toothpaste!”

Delicious toothpaste my ass. I love when the dentist says, “Okay, this is bubble gum flavored,” and then he or she puts it in your mouth and it tastes nothing like bubble gum. Instead it tastes like rotten meat loaf.

“Remember Tommy, when the dentist asks if you floss, what do you say?” I pressed as we pushed open the door.

“I’ll say I do,” Tommy answered with a grin.

Okay. Lying is wrong. I know it. And technically, it’s not a lie. Tommy does floss. Only it’s once per week. If that.

We checked in and when Tommy was called back he gave me a thumbs up.

“Here I go!” he said cheerfully.

Seriously, did he really come from my dentist-fearing vagina? Because whenever I was called back to see the dentist I nearly dissolved into tears and latched onto my parent’s ankles in fear.

Natalie was called back a few minutes later. I went back with her. We were led into a room and Natalie immediately climbed onto my lap and buried her face in my shoulder as the hygienist cooed at her.

“Are you ready to get your teeth cleaned?” she kept asking.

Natalie responded by digging her nose deeper in my flesh. She’s been going through a shy phase and doesn’t much like strangers to address her. Basically if you’re not in our gene pool, she wants nothing to do with you at the moment.

The hygienist got all the equipment that the dentist would need out and then chirped that he’d be in shortly. From my chair I could hear Tommy in the X-Ray room. The hygienists were telling him to bite down, to not move, NO, don’t push it out with your tongue….

Tommy always has issues with the X-Ray. He has my gag reflex and will quickly try to push the offending object out and then will be politely admonished for it. Normally it probably takes kids less than five minutes to get the X-Rays done.

It takes my son over ten.

He eventually gets it but it just takes awhile. Usually all the available hygienists have to go in the room and try and distract Tommy so he won’t push the trays from his mouth.

I have the same problem. I’ll start to gag and make choking noises as the thing is pressed against my teeth.

Tommy was finishing up as the dentist strolled in the room. He carried Natalie’s chart and beamed at us. The dentist is this older guy, probably in his late fifties with thinning gray hair.

“How are you, young lady?” he asked Natalie and reached out and rubbed her leg.

Natalie made a hissing sound.

“So how are things?” the dentist wondered.

“Great,” I said even though it was a lie. Things haven’t been great. We’re moving to Montana. To another missile base. The Air Force is screwing us over and they don’t even care. We have to go through another move and Tommy will miss a few days of school and he can’t afford to miss any days because he tends to forget things and then will get frustrated.

Then I had to tilt Natalie’s head back into the dentist’s lap so he could check out her teeth. First he counted them and then started spitting out dentist codes to the hygienist. I think he said something like, “Okay she has A through F,” or some nonsense that meant nothing to me.

“Does she have her two year old molars yet?” I inquired. I had been curious because there have been days where Natalie will just whine and I’ll assume it’s her teeth.

“Not yet,” the dentist said.

Oh. I guess that’s just Natalie’s personality then.

Natalie was doing fine at first. She allowed the dentist to count her teeth and poke at them. But when it came time to clean them, she flipped the crap out. She started thrashing in his lap and tried to bat his hand away.

“Natalie. Let the dentist do his job,” I said sternly and then hummed the McDonalds theme song as a reminder that if she was good, she’d get a delicious McGriddle for breakfast.

Natalie brightened at the thought of McDonalds. She calmed down as the dentist brushed her teeth—but then I saw an evil glint in her eye and the dentist’s gloved fingers were in her mouth again as he flossed.

“Natalie,” I warned. I knew that look. She was up to no good.

And then...

“OUCH!” the dentist shrieked, pulling his hands from her mouth and shaking them. “She bit me!”

Natalie looked quite pleased with herself.

“Natalie,” I admonished even though I was secretly thinking, “Good on you. Get those evil dentists with their rotten meat loaf flavored toothpaste.”

“I’m sorry,” I felt the need to apologize as the dentist winced. “She’s just…well, she’s two.” I shrugged palms upward.

The dentist regained his composure. “That’s okay. It happens.” He grinned at Natalie but it appeared to be forced. When he was finished he said that Natalie had no cavities and that her teeth looked great.

“Goodbye, little biter,” he told Natalie, who made another hissing sound at him.

Then we headed into the back where Tommy was finishing up. I sat down across from him right as the hygienist said, “And do you brush you teeth at least twice per day?”

Tommy nodded.

“Do you floss?” she continued.

Tommy tossed me a Look before saying, “Yup.”

(Again. Not a total lie. He does floss. When he remembers.)

“Good news, Mom,” the hygienist told me, scribbling something down in his chart. I tried not to make a face at this. I detest when people just call me Mom as though that’s my only identity now. My name is Amber. I am a mother and proud to be one, but I am also Amber, the chocoholic who loves to read and hopes to publish a novel one day.

“No cavities,” the hygienist continued. “His teeth look fantastic.”

“Because I don’t drink juice OR soda!” Tommy said proudly.

The hygienist looked startled. “Is that true?” She looked at me with eyebrows raised. Most people are always stunned when they hear that.

“It’s true,” I confirmed.

My son has always been different. He’s never liked juice or soda. He only wants to drink water. We were at a restaurant once and the waitress accidentally brought over juice when he had requested water. Tommy took one sip and blanched as though he had just sipped oil. “This is awful,” he gasped, shoving it away. “I need water!”

Then the kids each got to pick out a small toy. The dentist came in as Natalie chose a plastic elephant and said, “Now, if you bite me next time young lady, you can’t pick out a toy.” He wagged his finger and Natalie just wrinkled her nose at him.

We headed out to the reception area where I was meant to make another appointment in six months. Instead I sighed and went, “Actually, we’re moving in November. So I won’t need to make an appointment.” I nearly cried as I said this. “So can I just have their charts now?” My voice started to come out all scratchy so I had to swallow quickly.

I still can’t believe the Air Force is doing this to us. Sending us to a crappy base. When do we finally get a break?

I was given their charts. “Well, we’re sorry you’re leaving,” the perky receptionist told me.

“Me too,” I croaked out. She has no idea how sorry.

I drove to McDonalds next. When the yellow arches came to view Natalie pointed from her car seat and yelled, “DaDonalds! DADONALDS!”

When I got into the drive thru lane Natalie was all, “Fries? Fries?” even though I had explained several times that there were no fries before 1030.

“You can have a hash brown. Basically the same thing,” I explained as I pulled up to grab the food. I ordered a large hot chocolate to cheer me up.

As soon as I got the food I handed Natalie her hash brown.

“Fries? Fries? Mommy, I want FRIES!” she screeched, hurling the hash brown past my head.

“There are no fries!” I replied as the hash brown bounced off the radio and slithered down into a cup holder.

When we got home I tried to get Natalie interested in her food but she just poked at it.

“Fries?” she said pathetically. “Fries?”

This meant that I not only ate my McGriddle, but hers as well because you can’t let good food go to waste. This meant that I couldn’t have lunch because I had already had at least 1000 calories for breakfast which meant that I was in a foul mood by the afternoon.

When Tom came home from work he asked how the dentist appointments went.

“Natalie bit the dentist!” Tommy offered and then started laughing.

Natalie bared her teeth at this and went, “I bite!”

Do I have a toddler or a vampire? Sometimes I wonder...

Okay, School Can Start Now...

Ding Dong!

Ding Dong!

Ding Dong!

My doorbell seems to go nonstop some days. Of course it’s never John Krasinski coming to whisk me away. No, instead it’s a bunch of neighborhood kids asking if Tommy or Natalie can come out to play.

Yes. Natalie. My two year old. A bunch of third graders love to tote her around and pretend she’s their baby. This means I have to follow them even though they tell me, “You can go inside. We’ll watch her.” Um. I don’t think so. I let Natalie “play” with them because she seems so thrilled—“my friends, my friends are here!” Natalie will tell me when she sees them at the door.

Needless to say, at this point, I am sick of other people’s children. Can’t they go bug someone else?

The thing is, children seem to love me. So if they see me outside as I pretend to know how to grow things they’ll rush over and talk my ear off.

Really, I want to tell them that I could give a rat’s ass.

But I don’t. I just smile and nod as I pull out some weeds.

You know, I was planning on being a teacher. I was all set to get my degree in Early Childhood Education. But then I realized that I don’t really like other people’s children. Heck, sometimes I’m not even sure I like my own. So really, I’d have no business being a teacher because a teacher should be someone who adores children and can sit for hours listening to them prattle on about High School Musical.

I can’t even do that. The neighborhood girls, well, they all love Zac Efron so they always ask me, “Have you seen High School Musical?” even though I’ve told them no at least a dozen times.

“I think that movie would scare me,” I once said, wrinkling my nose at the thought of a bunch of high schoolers dancing around a gym.

“But why? It’s a great movie! You get to see Zac Efron,” I’m always reminded.

Sometimes I think there must be something wrong with me. There are grown adults who will happily sit and endure High School Musical. There are grown adults who actually ENJOY watching shows like iCarly. In fact, just the other day I was talking to a woman who lives on the street and she tapped her watch and went, “Oh shoot, I need to get inside. iCarly is about to start and I want to see if she ends up fighting that one boxer!”

I had to bite my tongue from saying, “Are you KIDDING me?”

I cannot stand children’s programming. If the kids want to watch, they can go upstairs.

I am just ready for school to start. It begins Wednesday, thank goodness.

Because not only do I get to deal with other people’s kids on a daily basis, I also get to hear the fighting that goes on between my own children.

Like yesterday Tommy decided that Natalie was not allowed in his room. He taped a sign to his door:



Yes, he misspelled Natalie’s name.

Of course Natalie kept trying to go into his room because usually he doesn’t care. But yesterday he’d throw a huge fit the second she stepped in.

“GET OUT! DID YOU NOT SEE THE SIGN?” he’d bellow.

“NO BROTHER!” Natalie would scream, equally loud.

It went like this most of the day. Then add the doorbell going off every few minutes.

Wednesday can’t come soon enough.

No More Alien Shows

“Don’t watch it. You know you’ll scare yourself,” my husband warned me in an ominous tone.

I grasped the remote control. I had just finished witnessing a houseguest on the reality show Big Brother have a meltdown and I was on the search for something else to watch. What I had found was a show on ABC called The Outsiders and it was all about people who had an alien experience.

“I’ll be fine,” I assured Tom. I gestured to the screen. “It’s not scary at all.” But then the narrator mentioned that there was a video of an alien looking through a window and that sent shivers up my spine.

“Amber. I know how you get,” Tom tried again.

“I’m fine,” I said firmly as I watched twins talk about being abducted.

“Well, I’m going to bed so you’re on your own,” Tom said, heading up the stairs.

Wait! You can’t go to bed or else I’ll freak out!

I nearly shouted that. But then I swallowed it back. No. I had to show Tom that I could handle this. I’m a grown adult for goodness sakes.

I followed Tom upstairs to tell him goodnight after pausing my show. DVR is one of the greatest inventions ever.

“Tom,” I said as he climbed under the covers. “Were you ever briefed about aliens when you joined the Air Force?” I have it in my head that because he helps defend nuclear missiles that perhaps he was briefed about the fact that the military does not set them off if an extraterrestrial comes down. I picture Tom and a bunch of other soldiers being taken to an underground room and being forced to sign papers that say that they will never ever tell the world that aliens do in fact exist.

“You know I couldn’t tell you either way,” is always Tom’s response.

I always try to search his face for telltale signs that he’s lying. He usually smirks when he’s lying. But when I talk about aliens he always turns stoic. So that either means that A) aliens do not exist, he was never briefed on such or thing or B) aliens do exist, he was briefed but he’s not going to spill any news.

“Look, just wink if aliens exist,” I pressed. “Then you’re technically not telling me.”

I stared intently at Tom’s face, waiting.

I thought I saw one of his lashes flinch and bounced on the bed. “I saw that! You winked!”

Tom frowned. “I did not.”

“You did, you did!”

“NO I DIDN’T!”

Oh. Well.

“I think the military told you about aliens but you can’t say or else there would be a public hysteria or something,” I said diplomatically.

Tom shrugged. “Who knows?”

He’s frustrating. He’ll never let anything out.

I told him goodnight and went down to watch my show.

Everything was fine at first. But then one of the people on the show claimed he had an actual picture of an alien. Of course it looked fake and I tried to remind myself that it couldn’t be real—but then I glanced up at the little window near our front door and I swore I saw a face looking in.

“Leave me alone,” I squeaked, and curled up in a ball.

I turned off the show after that and put it on Chelsea Lately so I could laugh. This helped for awhile—until I realized I had to switch the laundry from the washer to the dryer but I was too freaked out to walk into the laundry room because it was dark in there. The light switch is unfortunately not near the door so there was no way I was going in—suppose an alien was waiting for me?

When I went to bed I buried my head under the covers. I was about to drift off to sleep when…

The entire room started to shake.

They’re coming for me!

Then I realized it was just a train rumbling past our house.

Oh.

When I woke up this morning there was a note from Tom:

“You left wet clothes in the washer!”

Yes. That’s so the alien wouldn’t abduct me.

Did he not watch Signs? Aliens like to LURK!

Wanna See Eric Bana's Butt?

Yesterday I got to see The Time Traveler’s Wife. I’d see the previews and sigh wistfully and say to my husband Tom, “Doesn’t that look like a fantastic movie?”

“No,” Tom replied bluntly because unless a character in the movie blows up or has an elaborate sex scene, he’s not interested.

I went by myself. I used to be freaked out over seeing a movie on my own. Would people think I was a total loser? But here’s the thing: other people really don’t care about you in a movie theater so long as you don’t block their view or chat on the cell phone during the movie.

I walked into the theater armed with my popcorn slathered in butter and salt and my large diet coke (hey, I meant to get a medium but the teenaged girl behind the counter chirped, “You can get a large for fifty cents more!” and I’m sorry, that just seemed like a fantastic deal..) and found a seat in the middle. No one else had arrived yet so I sat there munching on my popcorn and watching the trivia on the screen. Did you know that Drew Barrymore was the younger person ever to host Saturday Night Live? (She was seven.)

Of course, sitting there alone in a darkened room can be a tad disconcerting. I have this fear that a Crazy Guy will be hiding in the back and will leap out in the middle of my popcorn feast and grab me. So I kept turning around as I ate to make sure no one was going to race out. As I was reassuring myself that I wasn’t sharing the room with one of the guys I saw on America’s Most Wanted, two women walked in.

Whew.

Surely Crazy Guy wouldn’t strike with other people in the room?

You wouldn’t believe all the commercials that air in before the movie. Not previews. COMMERCIALS. I was a little irritated as a commercial for Coke filled the screen. I see enough commercials at home, thanks. I don’t need to see it before my movie.

Then the previews began and it showed one for The Lovely Bones which is a fantastic book. Go read it. I must see that movie.

Thirty minutes later, the movie finally started.

It was….okay, I sort of felt the way that I do when I’m watching Lost. I wasn’t quite sure what was going on. One second Eric Bana was there, the next second he wasn’t, then he was old, then he was young….

I felt like I was in math class again when I couldn’t comprehend why my teacher was trying to get me to understand this thing called a matrix. Wasn’t a matrix a movie? Why was she pestering me to figure out a number?

Oh, you also got to see Eric Bana’s butt twice, but I wasn’t impressed. He’s not my type. Plus I was distracted because I know he speaks in an Australian accent and I had just heard him talking in the movie Funny People in that accent—and then there he was, prattling on in an American accent and I was all, “But no, you’re Australian…”

Also, there is a kid named Alba in the movie. What kind of name is Alba? I understand it for a last name but as a first name? That also was distracting. I kept thinking, “Who would name a poor kid Alba?”

The movie was okay. I thought it would be better. I’d never see it again unless someone offered me a baked good in return for watching it with them.

Still, it was nice to get out.

When I returned home I noticed that Tom’s truck wasn’t in the driveway. Where did he go? Did he leave a message on my cell phone? I turned it back on (I’m a polite movie patron and always turn my phone off—this is something that other people need to learn to do because they STILL text and that’s DISTRACTING. Stop it) but there was no message.

I unlocked the door and hoped to find a note from Tom.

But no, the man has grass for brains and there was no note. So I sort of walked around the house a few times in confusion. I didn’t quite know what to do.

Write your novel. Take advantage of the silence….

So I settled down at the computer chair and brought up my novel. But I just stared at the words as though they were in an entirely different language.

Where did everyone go? Did one of the kids get hurt? WHAT IF HE’S AT THE ER?

I practically lunged for the phone and tapped in Tom’s number.

It went straight to voice mail.

DID SOMEONE ABDUCT THEM?

I started pacing the house again. I was so busy trying to determine what had happened that I didn’t hear the front door open. I nearly collided into Tom.

“Move,” I barked and then realized, hello, he was who I wanted to see!

My eyes immediately swiveled to the children, who looked healthy enough.
“Is everything okay?” I said, resisting the urge to add, “You idiot with grass for brains!”

“Everything is fine,” Tom said, giving me a baffled look.

“I mean, I came home and everyone was gone….”

“I had to drop something off at the office,” Tom said with a shrug.

“And you couldn’t leave a note?”

Tom blinked at me.

“Oh never mind.”

On Fancy Restaurants

My husband and I don’t get out a lot together. We just don’t have babysitters around us. I mean, I guess I could find a local teenager but I just wouldn’t trust her thanks to cell phones and iPods and other electronic devices that seem to take over their worlds. Suppose my daughter escapes the house and is walking into traffic and teenaged Suzy doesn’t even notice because she’s too busy texting, desperate to find out if Chad likes her and ohmigod, should she dye her hair pink?

So it just means we don’t get dates. Which is fine, really. It’s hard to figure out a movie that we agree on anyway. He prefers movies where things blow up and I prefer movies where people fall in love and music swells in the background.

The good news is, when we were at the beach for our mini family reunion last week we had two opportunities to go out on a date.

The first one we got to go out to lunch and see a movie. Granted, my cousin and her husband were with us but we didn’t care. We were KIDS FREE!

This meant that I could eat my food the minute it arrived instead of worrying about cutting up someone’s meat first. This meant I could have an ADULT CONVERSATION that wouldn’t be interrupted by a tiny person’s voice informing me that they have a booger wedged in their nose.

It was bliss.

Then we decided to see the new Adam Sandler movie Funny People which was pretty good but talked about penises a lot. Oh, and there seemed to be a curse word every few minutes. But that’s okay.

The next day we were able to go out to dinner with my cousins. Without kids. We went to this Italian restaurant and our waiter was named John but I really wanted to call him Guiseppe.

It was sort of fancy so I kept inwardly reminding myself to sit up straight and to chew with my mouth closed. Not that I chew with my mouth OPEN but I admit there are times when I probably show more than I should. It’s just, sometimes I get inspired to say something and I have to blurt it out or else I forget since my memory is shot these days.

The restaurant served this delicious warm bread with a dipping sauce that I was in love with. I couldn’t stop eating the bread. I’d take a bite and say that this was my final bite but then a few seconds later I’d reach and grab another piece.

“Hide this from me,” I told Tom, shoving the basket towards him.

“Um where? We’re at a table,” he replied.

Gee Tom, get inventive. Build a tower with the salt and pepper shakers! Cover it with the napkin. Just GET IT OUT OF MY SIGHT!

I also had to remember to fan out the cloth napkin neatly across my lap. I have a bad habit of bunching it in my lap which doesn’t exactly look nice.

I ordered this fabulous pasta but when it arrived, I had to remind myself that I had to eat it politely. I couldn’t slurp up the noodles like I do at home.

So I cut them up neatly and tried to take ladylike bites. If someone asked me a question I’d cock my head to the side thoughtfully as I chewed and would wait until I swallowed to answer. I made sure I didn’t put my elbows on the table. I sipped my diet Coke in a dainty way.

I would have ordered wine but I’m a weird one and I don’t like wine.

My cousin ordered some Chianti and I said something like, “Oh, wasn’t that what the psycho on The Silence of the Lambs wanted?” and a silence fell over the table for a few seconds.

Apparently you’re not supposed to mention psychos who eat people in fancy restaurants.

“This is just SCRUMPTIOUS,” I told the table, gesturing to my pasta. I never use the word scrumptious but saying, “This is kick ass” didn’t seem like a fancy restaurant thing to say.

Tom raised his eyebrow at my usage of the word scrumptious though. “Scrumptious?” he repeated in a baffled tone.

I ignored him.

After we ate, my cousin Anna and I wanted dessert. The men were being strange and were saying they didn’t want any.

How can a person NOT want dessert?

We called Guiseppe over and asked him what the choices were.

He listed off a bunch of things and we both settled on the blueberry pie with cinnamon ice cream.

Guiseppe had mentioned a chocolate cake that had piqued my interest but I was worried that it would arrive all decorated with chocolate syrup swirled around the plate. I HATE when places do that because I’m always tempted to run my finger along the syrup and eat it. But it’s just not the proper thing to do. It’s just meant for decoration which means you’re supposed to LEAVE IT.

That’s like a total waste of food. Who can leave perfectly good chocolate syrup?

I certainly can’t which is why I went with the blueberry pie.

The pie, by the way, was delicious.

“Scrumptious again,” I said. The cinnamon ice cream was also amazing. If I had been at home I’d have picked up the bowl and licked it clean.

“I want Dairy Queen,” Tom said as I finished up.

DAIRY QUEEN? We’re in a fancy restaurant and he wants DAIRY QUEEN?

Actually, a blizzard sounded really good

“Okay,” I said with a shrug. There was one nearby so we stopped on the way home.

Blizzards rock. I think my cousins were surprised over all that I ate.

“How can you eat that?” they asked, gesturing to my second dessert of the night.

“Er....I have a large stomach?” I replied, plopping my elbows on the table. It felt so nice not to have to be all FANCY. I also slouched back in my seat and slurped up my ice cream. I am not ladylike. I can pretend to be for a few hours but that’s it.

“Is it scrumptious?” Tom teased.

I grinned. “Of course.”

You can never go wrong with Dairy Queen after all.

Wait, I'm Not Checking You Out!

The swimsuit I wore at the beach was one of those tankini things. I always wear those because there is no way I’m going to show my stretch mark ridden stomach to the world. I get that there are some women out there who are all, “Wear your marks with pride!” and I’m all, “Actually, I think I’ll keep mine covered. Thanks.” My bottoms were shorts because there is no way I can wear those bottoms that look like underwear. Mainly because I totally forgot to shave my bikini line. Crap. Thankfully the shorts covered that problem right up.

We headed to the beach and Tommy headed off into the water with Tom and I sat on the sand while Natalie played with her toys.

“For you,” Natalie said grandly, dropping a wad of sand into my palm.

I never know what to do when she hands me things that I don’t really want. I usually say in an unnaturally high pitched tone, “Thank you SO much! This is wonderful!”

This is what I did then. I sort of sat there with my hand dripping with sand as Natalie used a shovel. Then my eyes started wandering at the other beachgoers. They rested on a woman who was a few feet away. She was all stretched out on a towel, her tanned limbs glimmering in the sunlight. She had a black bikini on and her blond hair went down her back. It didn’t even stick out like mine did the second I stepped outside. My hair, it doesn’t like beach air. It’ll immediately puff up and I’ll struggle to get it back down but it’s no use.

I gave a sigh as Natalie stuck a broken shell on top of the sand she gave me. You see, I long for firm body like that but know that it’ll never happen. Mainly because A) I like to eat junk food too much and B) because I cannot afford a tummy tuck.

She’s obviously never had children before, I thought. This is what I always think when I see a woman with a perfect body. It makes me feel better.

But then, almost as though she read my thoughts, the woman sat up and two children barreled over to her with a bag of food.

Okay, she’s probably just the Aunt…

“Here you go, Mommy!” a girl who looked to be around eight or nine said, handing over the bag.

Well. She’s skinny because she doesn’t eat. Surely the food is just for the kids…

But then the boy, who looked to be around twelve said, “We got your favorite ice cream!”

ICE CREAM?

Surely it had to be fat free? But no. The kid pulled out a full fat Ben and Jerrys container (mmmm….cookie dough…) and the woman thanked him as she pulled a plastic spoon from the bag. Then she caught me staring and started to look uncomfortable so I quickly averted my gaze.

Great. Now she thinks I’m a lesbian checking her out.

“Oh, I’m not checking you out!” I wanted to shout. “I just don’t understand how you can be so SKINNY after having two children and indulging in Ben and Jerrys. When I look at a container at Ben and Jerrys I practically gain five pounds then and there!”

I didn’t say that though. I kept my mouth shut and pretended to be really interested in the sand that Natalie had given me. I poked it around and enthusiastically asked Natalie if she thought the beach was awesome.

“Yes,” she said, looking at me as though I were stupid.

Then she wanted to go in the water, which was fine, but she’s not one of those kids who just plop down and let the ocean surround her. No, she wanted to run into the water. Then she wanted to run back to the shore. Then back in. Then back to the shore.
“How about we play with your sand toys again?” I practically begged after ten minutes of doing the ocean relay.

“No THANKS!” Natalie shrieked at me. Then she blew a rude sounding raspberry in my direction which is the new thing she picked up. If she doesn’t like what you’ve said, you get a raspberry blown at you.

So we raced around a few more minutes and then my Mom came over and let me sit down while she followed Natalie around.

As I settled on the towel I surreptitiously peeked over at the Perfect Body mom and saw that she had finished the ENTIRE pint and was sticking the spoon in the container with a self satisfied smile.

Sometimes life just isn’t fair.

The Broken Elevator

Okay, so the whole prospect of moving to Montana sort of got in the way of writing about the beach.

So I’ll do that now.

I was in the car that carried Tom, my Nana Jo and her boyfriend Bill. No children. My parents offered to drive up with them and I think I agreed to that in less than a second. Bill, who is in his late eighties wanted to drive the first half of the way. I didn’t think much of it until my Aunt Vicki casually mentioned that she sort of freaked out a little bit the last time she was in the car with Bill since they went downtown one time.

“I was gripping the seats pretty hard,” she admitted lightly not realizing that my eyes had grown as big as saucers as I took this in.

Wait a minute. We we driving with Bill. Did this mean I’d be sitting there in fear for the entire three hour drive?

It turns out that Bill drove just fine. I sort of watched him for a few minutes before deeming it safe. Then I pulled out a magazine and started reading in silence.

Well, not total silence. Since we were in the elderly car it meant that we had to listen to the orchestra over the radio. But that wasn’t so bad. It’s sort of relaxing to hear a pan flute playing in the background as you read all about Jessica Simpson’s relationship woes.

Tom took over the driving when we were nearly there. We went the wrong way to our condos. We were supposed to take the street way. We ended up taking the beach way. So Tom started driving on the sand and this was when I started to grip my seat in terror because it felt like we were swaying back and forth.

Then I started to wonder how in the world my Nana Jo was meant to walk on the sand. She has a walker. Was the walker beach friendly? I didn’t think so. Maybe Tom could carry her---but, I don’t think she’d approve of that.

“Well. Here we are,” Tom said parking on the beach. The condos gleamed behind us. There was a tiny hill of sand that we had to walk across to get to the office.

A silence fell over the car.

“Could you see if there is another way?” my Nana Jo asked sweetly.

So Tom and Bill decided to make the trek to the office and we watched them go up the hill.

We waited a few minutes and then Tom came back.

“Okay. I found a better way,” he said, sliding behind the wheel.

“What happened to Bill?” I shrieked. I pictured him crumpled in the sand. He doesn’t use a walker but goodness me, he’s in his LATE EIGHTIES.

“Oh. He’s waiting in the office for us,” Tom explained, backing up.

Thankfully we found a way where we walked on pavement. Whew. Then we went into the office to retrieve the keys.

The thing is, when Nana Jo booked the condo she was told there were elevators. When she went to get the keys she was informed that they were broken.

“So how much will the total be since the elevators are busted?” my Nana Jo demanded to the teenaged looking girl behind the counter who looked suddenly looked frightened.

You see, my Nana Jo is this sweet looking old lady. But she does have a temper.

“Er…we can’t do a discount because it’s not our fault that they aren’t working,” the teenage girl whispered.

“Yes it is,” Nana Jo said simply.

Then the teenage girl brought her manager out and Nana Jo was told the same thing.

However, it worked out in the end. She did get 15% off her bill.

After we had the keys we realized that we had to walk up three floors. Tom stood behind Nana Jo in case she fell. We figured he could break the fall.

“Gee thanks,” Tom said jokingly as we climbed up the stairs.

The stairs, they became my enemy. Our room was on the fourth floor. Try walking up four flights of STEEP stairs with no air conditioner when you have loads of groceries to bring up.

“Well,” I gasped as I carried up a bag of fruit. “At least I’m getting a leg workout.”

Although all the junk food I consumed pretty much canceled that exercise out.

When my parents arrived with my kids I pictured them jumping from the vehicle and shrieking that they were never traveling with my children again.

But no. They calmly exited and Natalie waved from her car seat and I was all ???

“Were they good?” I wondered. I was still worried that Mom would burst out with, “NO! They were monsters!” or the worst case scenario was that she’d cup a hand around her ear and yell, “What dear? I can’t HEAR you because your CHILDREN screamed the entire way down here and now I’m DEAF!”

“Oh, they were wonderful,” Mom said in a breezy, non-stressed out tone.

I sort of gaped at her for a few seconds. “But…surely Natalie screamed?”

Mom shook her head. “Not at all.”

Excuse me? NOT AT ALL?

When Natalie drives with me she never fails to pierce my eardrum at least once. And Mom was telling me that she was PERFECT?

“Mom, it’s okay, you can tell me the truth,” I pressed. Surely she was just being polite. She was just being a Grandma and not admitting that her grandchildren were part alien.

“I’m serious. They were wonderful,” Mom assured me.

Okay. It’s official. My kids are angels for everyone else but me. I get it.

At that point everyone had arrived. Tom and I were sharing a condo with my cousin Anna and her husband and her one-year-old son.

Then my Nana Jo and Bill, my Uncle Bob and Aunt Vicki and my parents were in another one.

Many groceries were carried up those evil stairs. By the end of it we were all red faced and gasping for air. It didn’t help that it was over 100 degrees outside. I was close to saying, “Groceries be damned! I need to sit! This is supposed to be a vacation! I shouldn’t be close to death on a VACATION!”

“Can we go to the beach?” Tommy begged, grasping his hands together.

“In a little bit. Mommy is trying to breathe properly,” I said, rubbing my sore calves. I cursed those horrible wooden stairs and wondered why the condo management didn’t put fans in the corner of each landing for its poor patrons who have been rendered elevator-less. I mean, it’s common courtesy for goodness sakes.

“Can we go to the BEACH?” Tommy wondered ten minutes later.

Goodness sakes. I longed for a nanny at that point. You see celebrities vacationing with their children but they actually get to relax. They just send the kiddies off with the nanny and they lounge around with fruity alcoholic beverages.

“The beach?” Tommy squeaked five minutes later.

“Don’t you want to....watch Spongebob?” I gestured to the TV.

Tommy shook his head. “No. I want to go to the BEACH!”

“We’re here for a week. There is plenty of time to go to the beach, I assure you,” I promised, resting back on the couch. I pressed my water glass to my forehead. Couldn’t scientists figure out a way to stop Texas for getting so HOT? Maybe create a built in air conditioner in the sky somehow?

“You know what would be fun? Going to the beach,” I heard Tommy say to Tom.

Needless to say we went to the beach less than an hour later....

The Teenaged Saviors

Well, we're home.

The vacation is officially over.

It's always tough to come back. I feel like I'm behind on everything. I don't even know what in the world is going on in Big Brother. I recorded those episodes while I was gone. I also haven't watched my daily dosage of celebrity smut on E! so I don't know who is boinking who and what starlet had the latest meltdown. I did hear a snipet about how Miley Cyrus apparently danced on a pole on some award show. Can her father even see??? First he lets her date a twenty-year-old and then he lets her dance on a pole? Trust me, I'm no prude, but I just know my husband would never allow it. If older men come sniffing around for Natalie, well, he's already said he's pulling out his shotgun.

I also forgot that I'm now expected to cook.

Tom asked what was for dinner and I blinked at him in confusion.

What's this dinner that you speak of? And why are you looking at ME?

Then I realized that we weren't at the beach anymore. Food wasn't going to magically morph in front of me. I'd actually have to make it if I wanted to eat.

Dang.

Needless to say we got McDonalds.

I'll deal with the cooking thing tomorrow.

Anyhow, the flight back went okay. As well as can be expected. You see, I hate to fly.

It didn't help that there were TEENAGERS around the emergency exit. We were on Southwest which means you choose your own seats. Tom picked the seats right in front of the emergency exit.

"Gee thanks. The death seats," I said, settling down. Hasn't he watched enough action movies to know that a plane splits down the middle which means we'd go flying out?

Then when the teenagers shuffled in and sat down behind me I started to panic.

"So if we go down, our lives depend on a kid with a STUD in his nose?" I hissed across the aisle to Tom.

Seriously. The kids looked like they could care less. You know if we went crashing down that they'd totally forget that they were supposed to help other people out and save themselves.

I really think the rules should state that people over 25 can sit by the emergency exits. Not 15. The kid closest to the door had skinny ass arms. There is NO WAY he'd be able to yank open the door. Plus, none of them really paid attention when the flight attendant went over the rules. They sort of just nodded and she said in a chipper voice, "I need to have a verbal agreement that you'll be willing to perform the duties of sitting in the emergency row exit!"

Then they all muttered, "Yeah..."

Then the flight attendant LEFT. I mean, HELLO? Did she not see the STUD in the nose? She was seriously allowing these HOOLIGANS to be our saviors?

So yes, I was nervous.

"You look pale," Tom pointed out as I pulled out some books for the kids.

"If we go down, we're goners," I whispered. "You think those kids will do anything?" I jerked my thumb in their direction. I swear, one of them let out a massive fart and they all guffawed about it. Ew.

"We won't go down," Tom assured me.

Then the plane started to move and I always squish my eyes shut just in case it bursts into flames. That way I won't have to see the fireball rushing towards me.

When it was safe I popped in a DVD for the kids to watch and pulled out my book. I was trying to distract myself and was getting absorbed in the story when..

..the plane shook! I'm not kidding! It sort of rumbled in an unhealthy way.

"What was THAT?" I shrieked at Tom.

I expected Tom to assure me that it was nothing. But he looked a little frightened.

WHAT?

WHAT?

"What was THAT?" I repeated. Come on Tom. You're the sane one. Talk me down here...

"I...don't know," Tom admitted.

WHAT DID HE MEAN HE DIDN'T KNOW?

"Is the plane splitting apart? Are pieces shooting off into the sky?" I craned my neck to peer out the window but didn't see anything amiss.

As I was having a freak out a flight attendant came by and asked what I wanted to drink.

"Excuse me, what was that shuddering noise?" I burst out. How could she be asking me what I wanted to DRINK at a time like this?

She looked at me as though I was the one with a stud in my nose.

"The flaps going in," she said slowly as though she were speaking to a child.

Oh. Well. I had never heard them be so loud before. Excuse me.

When the flight attendant walked away I leaned over to Tom. "Just the flaps," I said lightly.

He nodded. "If we did go down I bet you'd wish you have slept with me last night," he said, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.

Ugh. Yes. The night before he kept trying to get down my pants and I was all, "Tom, I can't, you know I go into a state when I'm about to fly," and he said something like, "Why?" and I said, "Because I worry we'll crash," and then HE said, "Well, if we all die, wouldn't you want to have sex one last time?"

(My answer was still no.)

The rest of the ride went off without a hitch.

And now we're home and I need to unpack but I keep glancing at the huge suitcase and groaning. That thing is fifty pounds. When Tom put it on the airport scale and it clicked to fifty I held my breath because Southwest only allows luggage to go that high.

Tom muttered beside me, "I swear, if we have to open this suitcase in front of EVERYONE like that one time I'm going to be pissed..."

Okay. Well. We only had to rearrange ONCE on our way home from Disney World. It wasn't my fault. Can I HELP it that Disney makes such cute stuff? I had no problem opening it and pulling things out. But Tom sort of stood there with a red face and he was mumbling, "You are NEVER packing again!"

Geez. You overpack once and you're blamed for it for life.

The Cable Quandry

I woke up with a start around three in the morning.

"What if they don't have CABLE in Montana?" I burst out, sitting upright.

I don't know why I said that. My mind isn't quite there that early.

(And for those who don't know, Tom got orders to Montana. We're moving. Our report no later day is 30 November.)

Tom stirred beside me. "Huh? Is it time for work?" he mumbled into his pillow. He usually wakes up around 330 for work.

"No, it's not work. It's CABLE," I said dramatically, grasping the covers to my chest.

It also didn't help that I had gone from sleeping in a comfortable, spacious king sized bed and had been transported to a full sized one that I'm expected to share with my shifty husband.

My night had gone like this since I had climbed into the small bed with Tom:

*SHIFT SHIFT SHIFT SHIFT FART SHIFT SHIFT SHIFT SNORE SNORE SNORE GROAN SNORE SHIFT SHIFT SHIFT SHIFT FART SNORE GROAN*

I mean, he did all of that in the King sized bed at the beach. But it didn't matter because I had my own entire corner and was unphased.

In a full sized bed, that's just not the case.

So I didn't feel so bad over the fact that I had woken HIM up.

"What about the cable?" Tom mumbled.

"What if Montana doesn't HAVE it?" I hissed. "How am I supposed to find out if Izzy lives on Grey's Anatomy? How am I supposed to figure out what in the world is going on in Lost? . I need to watch the new season of The Tudors even though I know how it all ends but STILL...

Tom made a strangled noise. "Geez Amber, it's MONTANA. Not some remote village. Of course they have cable."

Oh. Right. I was mistaking Montana for those places that people trek out to on The Travel Channel where tribes dance around for fun and get high because they claim the Gods tell them to do so.

"Okay," I said, relief washing over me. I laid back down and went back to sleep..

...or at least I tried because as soon as I was about to drift off Tom's man arm went across my neck and his hot stale breath blew right into my face.

Ew.

And to think, some women LOVE being that close to their man at night.

Maybe something is seriously wrong with me?

I mean, suppose Michael Phelps were my boyfriend. Would I want my space then?

Probably. He's very very tall and I imagine his very very tall legs would toss all over me and this would cause me to be like, "Michael! Would you keep your massive ligaments on YOUR side for craps sake? You may have won gold medals but it doesn't give you the right to hog the bed!"

I just like my space.

When Tom woke up the next morning he and my Mom went down to the base to see about sorting out the orders.

You see, we don't really want to go to Montana.

So Tom was going to try to argue it.

It didn't work out well.

When he returned home he came bearing Burger King. He probably wanted to distract me with food.

"I got you an angry whopper!" he said in a sing song voice, waving the bag. This alerted me because Tom doesn't usually speak in a sing song voice unless he's nervous.

"Thanks," I said distractedly. "What about the orders? Do we still have to go?" I crossed my fingers hopefully.

"Er..." Tom paused as Mom walked in with some bags of food.

"Are we going?" I tried again, my voice faltering. I already knew the answer.

"Yes. I'm afraid we can't change the orders. Apparently they desperately need K-9 handlers in Montana," Tom said with a shrug.

I sighed. "Oh..."

Crap. Crappity crap crap.

"So..back to the cold for us, I suppose?" I said lightly. I was really working on being a Supportive Wife like the ones on Army Wives.

"Yes," Tom said.

"There's no Gymboree in Montana," I said in a small voice. I had looked up all the stores while he was gone just in case. No Gymboree. No Gap. No Kohls.

Target, yes. That's something. I thought at first there was no Target.

"But there's a Golden Corral," Tom reminded me. He had woken up early and had done a bunch of research. For me. He had scribbled down all the places he thought I'd be interested in and when I woke up he showed me the paper.

"There's a mall. A small one but a mall at least. And..I can drive you to Missoula I think it is and I believe there's a Kohls there. There's a Wal-Mart..a McDonalds...a Quiznos...Furniture Row..." Tom prattled on as I stared at this list.

"This was sweet. Thank you," I said, giving him a hug. That's Tom's way of being romantic. He may not be the type to surprise me with a limo and wisk me off into the sunset but he does try.

It looks as though we'll be going. Tom may ask around when we get home tomorrow but if Montana needs K-9 handlers then he's probably stuck.

*Le sigh*

Apparently We're Moving...

"Oh crap."

Tom's voice wafted in the air as I carried Natalie down after giving her a bath. I set her beside him and didn't think much of it. Tom had his laptop balanced on his thighs as he sat on the couch and he was staring at the screen in horror. I assumed that he was losing one of the video games that he plays on there.

"Oh no," Tom said again.

It was on the tip of my tongue to remind Tom that it was okay if he lost; that he didn't always have to win.

But then Tom went, "I just got orders."

A prickly feeling went down my back. Orders. Orders, for those who don't speak military, basically are papers that tell us where we move to next. We had been waiting for orders ever since Tom finished his K-9 school. Our hopes were that we'd get Texas or Ohio.

"I just got orders to Malmstrom," Tom said sounded somewhat pinched. He looked as though he had just been sucking on a lemon.

Wait a minute. This couldn't be right. Malmstrom was in...Montana...who wants to go to Montana? Plus, Malmstrom is another missile base. We're currently at a missile base. How can we be tossed right back to a missile base? That certainly wouldn't be fair. That certainly wouldn't be...he had to be kidding...right?

"Tom," I snapped. "That's not funny. You don't JOKE about things like that." I gave him a dirty look for good measure. Shame on him for teasing me! Shame on him for...wait...why was he looking at me like that? He had a look of pity across his face...why...why...

"I'm not kidding," Tom finally spoke, swiveling the screen towards me. He pointed to his virtual military page and there it was in black letters:

MALMSTROM AFB, MONTANA

My heart dropped.

A lump instantly formed in my throat.

This couldn't be right.

Wait.

Montana wasn't even on our list of bases that we wanted. Of course I knew it was long shot that we'd even GET a base that we wanted but I assumed it would at least be a NON missile base.

"But.." I sputtered. "But..."

The words wouldn't form in my mouth. It felt as though I had been sucking on cotton.

"But.."

"Maybe you'll see a bear!" my Dad said cheerfully from the couch. I hadn't even realized he was there.

Okay. Don't panic. You have to be a supportive wife. Squeeze Tom's shoulder and say that everything will be okay so long as we're together. So it's Montana. Who cares? Yes, we'll have to go through cold winters all over again. Yes, we'll still have the strong winds that rattle our windows. Yes, there may not be a Target around but surely that's okay? Who needs a Target anyhow? I need to cut back and..and...

Suddenly a sob escaped my throat.

"I don't WANT to see a bear," I gasped out and then huge tears started dripping down my cheeks.

Stop Amber. Stop. You're not being a supportive wife. Stop crying.

I tried to force a smile on my face but I ended up frightening Natalie.

"What Mommy doing?" she asked Tom, staring at me in shock.

"Mommy is..." Tom began but I didn't hear what he said because I darted into the guest room and rushed for the shower. I had to get away. I couldn't let Natalie see me distraught. I turned on the water and stood with my back against the wall as the water spilled onto the shower floor. Then I slowly slid down and hugged my knees to my chest.

This can't be happening. Why? Why is the Air Force doing this to us? Is it so hard for them to send us someplace warm? It doesn't even have to be warm. I'd settle for anywhere but Malmstrom or Minot, which is in North Dakota. Please....why...

The sobs kept coming.

Okay. Think of the starving children in Africa. People have it so much worse than I do. Crying over this is ridiculous. At least it's not Europe. At least it's...

Fresh tears dripped onto my knees.

Stupid Air Force. Why? Tom is a hard worker. Why do they keep giving him crap assignments. He got Top Dog in his K-9 class for craps sake. Shouldn't that account for something?

I stood up and shut off the shower and backed up onto the bed. I settled down as Natalie walked in.

"Mommy?" she asked timedly.

I quickly wiped away my tears and pretended that everything was fantastic.

"Hi darling," I croaked out as my Mom poked her head in the door.

"Are you okay? I just heard," she said, her voice masked with sympathy. I knew a part of her was crushed too. She was so hoping we'd get stationed in Texas.

"I'm..." Another sob came up. Mom hurried over and settled beside me and pulled me into her arms.

"It's okay," she said in a soothing voice. I suddenly felt as though I were seven and not twenty seven. I tried to calm myself down but I kept picturing bears wandering around and the cold winters in Montana and I couldn't.

The thing is, Tom can't deny the orders or he'll be kicked out of the Air Force. Or really, it just means he can't re-enlist next year.

But Mom mentioned that we could try to argue them. She gave us a list of numbers to call. She suddenly looked like the Colonel she used to be as she ticked off the things we could do to try and get the orders changed.

"It may not work," she reminded me. "But at least you could try."

My heart lifted a bit. "We could try," I repeated. I was suddenly inspired. Why SHOULD we just lay back and take this?

So Tom is going to call some people.

I'm going to write letters.

We have to do something. It's just not right for them to send us to another missile field. That should be illegal. I'm tired of the Air Force treating my husband horribly after all he's done for them.

We've got to at least try. We have seven days to at least try.

King Sized Bed Dreams

Okay. I've been converted.

These condos we've been staying at have King sized beds.

I've decided that we need a King sized bed. We have to have a King sized bed. My happiness depends on a King sized bed.

In a King sized bed I don't have to worry about man legs being thrown over my waist.

In a King sized bed I don't have to worry about stale breath being blown on my face.

In a King sized bed I don't get a blast of fart in my face if Tom has consumed a lot of cheese for dinner.

In a King sized bed things are better.

Why have we stuck with a Queen sized bed all these years? Why have I put up with the man legs, the stale breath and the farts for so long?

Oh. Right. Because we live in base housing which means we may not always have space for a King sized bed in our room.

But, really, who needs to be able to walk around when a King sized bed is involved?

I will give up pacing around my bedroom if it means I get a King sized bed.

Walking is so overrated anyhow.

I'm Down with Jesus

I'm still here.

On the beach.

I return home next week.

Being at the beach can either remind you that A) you're horribly out of shape when you see a tight stomached woman effortlessly race past you or B) that actually, you don't look that bad when you've just noticed that woman with her stomach practically hanging to her knees gasp beside you.

But anyhow, I'll back up some.

On Sunday, I went to church with my Grandma. Otherwise known as my Nana Jo. Oh, and her boyfriend Bill. Isn't it cute that she has a boyfriend? When I met up with her she informed me that there would be communion at church. I sort of blinked at her in confusion.

"Communion?" I repeated stupidly even though I had a vague idea of what it was. It had something to do with bread...and wine...wait...did this mean I have to go to the alter and have the preacher (reverand? pastor?) place one of those disgusting wafer things in my mouth? I had that in my mouth before and it tasted like paper and didn't seem to want to dissolve. So it sort of sat at the roof of my mouth in this funky tasting blob.

"Communion. You'll take a piece of bread and some grape juice and pass it down," Nana Jo said, probably thinking that I was some kind of heathen.

"Geez Amber, you really need to go to church more," my husband Tom said beside me. He was definately looking at me like I was some kind of heathen.

Then we all walked into the church, which is actually inside my Nana Jo's retirement home. We settled down on a pew and I made sure to keep my knees together because I was in a dress. I'm not a fan of wearing dresses or skirts because I am not ladylike and I'm always worried that I'll forget to keep my legs closed and expose my panties that I got at Wal-Mart to everyone. I remembered to do so at church because I didn't want to give all the elderly people around a heart attack. So I sat up straight and pretended like I came to church all the time.

I'm not a heathen. I know exactly what I'm doing...

I thumbed through the hymn book that was in front of me and nodded in a businesslike way as though I knew exactly what all the songs were even though I barely recognized any of them.

Nana Jo introduced me to a few of her friends and I shook their hands and said hello. I wanted to add, "By the way, I'm totally down with Jesus. Don't worry, I won't taint your church," but I thought that would be a bit much.

Then the service began and we opened with a song. Thankfully a list of the songs we were going to be singing was being passed out so I had the lyrics in front of me. I admit, I lip synched the words because no one wants to hear me sing that early in the morning. Or anytime, really. I sort of squawk and I'm always offkey so really, it was best that I really didn't sing.

You know, something about the church service was that we went into prayer a lot. Sometimes the pastor (reverand?) would start talking and all of a sudden I'd notice everyone around me had their heads bowed in prayer. It would be nice if he went, "Let us pray," at first so I'd know. Because I'd just be staring ahead dumbly and then a few seconds later I'd noticed the bobbed heads and be all, "Oh crap! and quickly lower my own head. This happened more than once.

Church wasn't so bad. The reason why I don't go is that I never quite feel uplifted enough to attend. I just nod along and am all, "Okay, yes, Jesus is good," and, "Yes, I suppose God was nice to give us his only son.."

The elderly people were sweet though. I love their names. Rose and Dottie--("oh like from A League of Their Own!" I had said to the startled white haired lady) and Marion.

The communion wasn't horrible either. It was just a piece of loaf bread that actually tasted like bread and a tiny swig of grape juice in a thimble which made me briefly feel like a giant.

(Fe-fi-fo-fum me giant who drinks grape juice..)

After church we went to the Officer's Club for brunch. Tom sort of made a noise as we entered because he sometimes gets it in his head that Officers think they're better than Enlisted which is so not true. I get offended if any enlisted person bad mouths an Officer because I'm all, "Hello, my Mom was a Colonel and worked her tail off. Hello, my Nana Jo's boyfriend also worked hard..."

Tom sort of joked when we sat down at the table, "Wow, this is a step up from the Enlisted Club. We're usually at wooden tables!"

Not true.

Just Tom being cocky.

I ended up getting a Belgian waffle with strawberry syrup. Yum. Oh, and did I mention that we had no kids with us? They were back with my parents. So it was bliss sitting there and not having to tell someone to use their indoor voices or not having to cut up their food and urge them to eat. It was just me, sitting there with my knees closed casually sipping on champagne. CHAMPAGNE!

Tom got some pancakes with boring old maple syrup. When I mentioned that he could have strawberries on top he pulled a face and you'd have thought that I said he could put anchovies on top or something.

It was a lovely brunch. After that, we went back to Nana Jo's retirement home so she could pick up a few things.

And then...

We started heading for the beach...