Twenty Ways I Can Tell Husband is Out of Town

1. First son "ran out" of clean underwear.
   
2. Instead of washing dirty underwear, I decided First Son needed new underwear.
   
3. The guy at the McDonald's drive-in rolled his eyes at me today and muttered, "You again."
   
4. The bug that I keep feeling crawling on me is really just my unshaven leg hair.
   
5. Eight o'clock in the morning feels like the crack of dawn.
   
6. I only run the dishwasher once a week.
   
7. The kids are begging me to feed them a home-cooked meal.
   
8. I can't remember which bottle is shampoo and which one is conditioner.
   
9. I'm an expert trash compacter, hoping that it can wait until Husband gets home until it has to be taken all the way outside to the big trash can.
   
10. I'm an expert at fooling First and Second Son, telling them: "Oh, look at the cute little spider. He's so sweet. Okay. Now smush it for me."
    
11. I've discovered what my actual for-real-life toenails look like after all the toe nail polish has flaked off.
    
12. Where do I keep the vacuum cleaner again?
    
13. The oven is a useful storage device.
    
14. What's the point in making beds and changing out of pajamas when at the end of the day I'm just going to put on pajamas and get back in the bed?
    
15. Soap? What is this substance of which you speak?
    
16. I'm caught up on all my TV shows.
    
17. My hair straightener is getting a nice long vacation.
    
18. I've forgotten how to work zippers and buttons and snaps. If it's not drawstring, it ain't goin' on these hips.
    
19. Wow! These bound pages of paper with titles on them that are sitting on my bookshelf can actually be read and enjoyed and read again??? What a marvelous invention!
    
20. Did you know that you could use a cell phone for actually talking to another person who is far away from you? Me neither!
    

It’s a Tybee Island Thing . . .

You know how when you drive over the Lazaretto Creek Bridge and you curse the guardrails that are there for some crazy reason like protecting your life or something because they block your view of the Cockspur Lighthouse and then when you reach the top of the bridge and you see the lighthouse, especially at sunset when it looks all pretty and romantic and stuff and you think about the waving girl who used to help her brother operate the lighthouse and then you almost hit an oncoming car that is doing something really stupid, like leaving the island? . . . yeah, I love that.

As soon as I hit the Lazaretto, my blood starts pulsating, my heart beats faster, maybe I cry (Hey, I'm an emotional chick!) because it just feels right.

I've always been a big fan of Breakfast at Tiffany's. I like what Ms. Golightly says about wanting a place where she and things go together. A place that feels right. I'm not sure, because I'm an Army brat who married a Coastie (i.e. I move around a lot), but I think that she means home.

Where is home? Apparently, there's no place like it. Apparently, some people find that their greatest desire is to get back to it. Maybe we all do.

Home can be anywhere.

When you're like me and you have never been able to choose where you live, then you're lucky because you can choose the place that you call home.

The place I choose is a piece of land set apart from the world, isolated by the cut of the Atlantic Ocean. A place that is foreign, yet familiar. A place that is insensible, yet rational. A place that is beautiful, yet disquieting. A place where anyone and no one can belong.

Just remember, when you're leaving the island and crossing the bridge—easing stepping and watch out for oncoming traffic, 'cause you never know when I'll be coming home.

Love Letters from the Edge

Dear Food,

I'm really not supposed to be corresponding with you, I promised myself that I wouldn't, but I just wanted to say . . . I miss you! It's just now coming to my attention how little I appreciated you when I had you. Food, if ever I get you back I want you to know that I will relish every morsel of you. I will not scarf you down as I previously did, but truly appreciate your aroma, your texture, and your unique taste.

Your distant cousins of Steamed Broccoli, Brussel Sprouts, Baby Carrots, Apples, and Bananas are trying to fill the void that you have left behind, but it's just not the same without you, Food. Nothing in my life is the same without you.

My family sees me moping around the house. To be honest, Food, I have been quite short with them because of your absence. They cannot understand! Only you and I understand our unique bond. They tell me things like, "Just go see Food for a little while," but we both know that a little of you is never enough for me.

I was remembering just today how I so used to look forward to seeing you at dinner time. Now all that awaits me is your meddlesome Aunt Salad who has nothing better to do than follow me around all day long. Food, I used to think that I liked your Aunt, but now I see that it was really her companions of Croutons, Candied Pecans, Fried Chicken Bits, and Full Fat Dressing whose company I relished and they are exiled with you.

Oh Food, what a love we had! But alas, a love too passionate, too consuming, and we had no choice but to part for a while. These breaks are good for us, Food. They help us retain a healthy distance. They are good for us. They are good for us. They are good for us. I know this to be true, Food, but I can't make myself believe it in my heart.

Oh, Food! This too shall pass and we will meet again one day. Until that day, you are forever in my thoughts.

Yours Eternally

The Art of Catching a Mouse

'Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Yeah, not so much in this house.

Christmas morning was full of all sorts of surprises for us. But . . . as a mouse will say when approaching a large block of cheddar . . . better start from the top.

Round abouts two to three weeks ago, Husband and I were enjoying some grown-up time complaining about how there is nothing good on TV. Kids were all nestled all snug in their beds and only occasionally calling out "Cannonball!!!!!" and then doing a triple toe loop on their long-suffering mattresses. In the midst of Husband's rant about how Two and a Half Men was the dumbest show ever created and it was always on TV, we heard quite distinctly the scurrying of feet and nails in the kitchen. Husband and I looked at one another wide-eyed and Husband investigated for a total of ten seconds and then declared that the noise we heard was most assuredly the children, because what else could it be, right?

A week or so later, a friend and her family were expected for dinner and I decided to take on the scouring of the house in preparation. I pulled out the couch cushions and lo and behold found that someone or something had, in the previous week, bored a hole in the center of my couch and chewed on the armrests below the cushion line. I showed Husband my new evidence and he declared that it was most assuredly the children, because what else could it be, right?

I tried arguing with him that we had been in possession of these children for nigh on eight years and not once had they taken it upon themselves to deface the living room furniture. Husband shushed me and made an emphatic declaration that it was indeed the children.

Husband seemed so sure that I relaxed on the couch for the rest of the week, watching Christmas movies and enjoying myself. Christmas morning came and after the opening of a large assortment of presents I partook to create Christmas dinner. Husband ventured into the kitchen to keep me company and whist talking to me, stopped mid-sentence and declared that he saw something moving on the floor out of the corner of his eye. I was quite pleased that he saw it and not I or else I'm sure that he would have decided that I probably saw one of the children scurrying across the kitchen floor.

Husband pulled out the stove and only then did I see with mine own eyes the offensive little thing sit up and demand to know where his stocking was. I (truly) screamed like a little girl and jumped on the table. Husband set out a trap and I am quite positive that mouse was thinking: Yeah, first the lady screams and jumps on the table, and then they give me snacks. Nice try folks!

We left town to visit family and I was sure that upon returning I would find a carcass with a broken back. We found an empty trap and more of my couch chewed up and even mouse droppings below the couch. Ewwww!!! Husband set out more traps, tied the cheese to them with floss and gave mouse peanut butter to no avail. Apparently Husband bought the type of traps where mouse must jump up and down on it and dance the Macarena before it triggers. I tried to make First Son a snack and we had no cheese. Mouse was eating better than my children!

So, the couch was out of the question for sitting, I couldn't vacuum underneath it (that one wasn't so bad), and every time my boys turned on one of their Kung Zhu hamsters, I screamed and jumped on the table. Husband finally set out a "humane" trap and mouse decided that he was quite ready for some new digs. We released him into the wild (a.k.a. our neighbor's yard) and pray that he finds their couch more appetizing than ours.

Nostalgia, My Old Friend

Holy cow I love snow!

I never really knew this about myself. I always thought that I was a warm weather, sandy beaches, salt water, coconut suntan lotion kind of girl, but apparently I've been a closet snow nut all along. Ask me if I think that there is nothing more beautiful than snow falling lightly to the ground and then creating a blanket of pristine brilliance on my front yard and I will say, "Oui, oui." [To all of you doubters out there who said that I should have taken Spanish instead of French in high school because I would never use French—well, I just did use my French, so there. Oh, and there was also that time in Charleston when I befriended a drunken French sailor and conversed with him for several hours and every time I said something to him in French he responded, "No speak English." True story.]

This surprising love of snow probably has something to do with my childhood and the years I spent growing up in Alaska.

It's kind of like how I was really excited when New Kids on the Block were on television a couple of weeks ago with that other group . . . what's their names . . . Boystreet Back or something. I watched the performance on YouTube way more times than I am comfortable disclosing to all of you. Not that I'm ashamed to admit that I'm a dork, but I don't want anyone to realize just how deep the dorkiness actually runs.

After seeing their triumphant (?) return on national television, I was overcome with a desire to go to another one of their concerts. Yes, another one, because I went to one back in 1990 when I was twelve. At least, it said on the ticket that New Kids on the Block were the ones singing and dancing up on the stage, but it could have been some new kids that lived on my block for all I knew, I was so far away.

And no, not one of them saw me sitting way in the back of the stadium on like the 100^th row and decided that they were in love with me and wanted to marry me that very day. Not even Danny. I know, I was shocked too!

Well, Husband was appalled that his (mature?) wife would entertain notions of driving several hours away to see New Kids on the Block. I must say that I was surprised at his appall. He requested an explanation for this strange desire of mine and I had none to give.

You can't really explain something like nostalgia.

Like the jeweler in Breakfast at Tiffany's who expresses satisfaction that they still put prizes in boxes of Cracker Jacks because it gives one a sense of continuity. Why should he care what they put in Cracker Jack boxes? Really, he doesn't care. He just cares that something that existed when he was a child, still exists.

Since I have lived in the southeast for my entire adult life, I quite forgot about snow and the effect it has. It's nice to know that it's still there and it still smells the same and it still sticks together to make the ideal weapon in a snow ball fight and it still rolls up nicely to make a snowman (though that is quite a bit more difficult now that I am not as close to the ground as I was the last time I saw snow). In the same way, it's comforting to me that New Kids on the Block are still performing the same songs they did when I was a child and they're still all bubble gum and lame. Is that really so hard to believe?

So, the weird thirty-two-year-old lady who is outside catching snowflakes on her tongue and frolicking in the white winter wonderland, making snow angels and throwing snowballs at her kids is not crazy, as it may seem at first glance. She's just reliving some fond childhood memories . . . and probably singing "You got it . . . the right stuff," in her head the whole time.

Let’s Talk Turkey

Ah . . . Thanksgiving . . . a chance to be with family and friends . . . a chance to remember the unlikely cooperation between two very different peoples upon which this country was founded . . . a chance to eat as much as you want without being stared at strangely . . . a chance to wear those old maternity pants once more so that you can eat as much as you want without being stared at strangely.

Love Thanksgiving.

But . . . T-day has brought something disturbing to my attention. It seems that certain members of my family may be under the impression that I am an actual bona fide grown-up. Just to be clear, I am not a grown-up, I just play one in real life.

I . . . my dear friends . . . I . . . was in charge of purchasing the turkey this year. Yes, I know you're impressed.

This came about because in my interest of convincing Husband that it is in the family's best interest that I not get up at six o'clock in the morning to go to an actual job, I have begun clipping coupons and perusing the sales flyers for local grocery stores . . . yes, I have. I know, you're impressed again.

Anywho, in my recent perusing I found turkeys on sale for 39 cents a pound. I didn't know if I should be impressed by this or not, so I texted Mom about it because she has discovered a fascination with the text in that it allows one to communicate without having to actually speak.

Mom says (Beep. Beep.): yes, good, go get one.

Now, I know better than to know that she knows that 39 cents a pound is a good price. In fact, Mom knows that I know that she doesn't know what is or is not a good price on a turkey. And I know that she knows that I know . . . but, we have to pretend like we know what we're doing or else we'll all starve on Thanksgiving.

Now. If it were my mother-in-law that we were speaking of, I would have no doubt in her ability to know what a turkey should cost the week before Thanksgiving. This is a woman who once, no lie, told me where I could get Jelly Belly's ten boxes for ten dollars the day before Easter when I expressed my dissatisfaction with store brand jelly beans. How the heck does anyone know what Jelly Belly's cost????

I'm not a great shopper.

I don't really like it. I don't care that I can get it ten cents cheaper at the store down the road. I will pay you ten cents to let me have it now. I want to be awed when people tell me what they have found on sale, but I find myself either bored with the information or jealous that I didn't find it myself. But . . . I know that to find it myself would mean that I would actually have to go out and go shopping more often . . . and . . . I would rather just pay the higher price.

So don't be surprised on Friday if I'm all nice and snuggled down in my bed in my flannel pajamas that let out in the waist to make room for that second helping of pecan pie that I had which we all know is like 150,000 calories a slice or something while you are circling a parking lot looking for a spot so that you can elbow your way through crowds to get five dollars off an X-Box.

Good luck with that.

Boo! Scared ya didn’t I?

Another Halloween has come and gone and still . . . the Great Pumpkin didn't come to visit Lionel in the pumpkin patch. Poor Lionel. I'm kind of like Lucy, I always had a little crush on Lionel. Really, you have to admire a man (or child) who doesn't care how stupid he looks, doesn't care what anyone thinks about it, doesn't care about the taunts of his sister—he's carrying that blanket by God!

Another Halloween has come and gone and still . . . my boys kept up their streak, three years running (which is like fifty years for a five and seven-year-old) of dressing like characters from Star Wars. This year's costumes were quite nifty geek-spotting-radar devices. Anyone who didn't know who they were, we knew were cool. If someone came yelling, "OMG! Look it's the father/son duo of Jango and Bobo Fett!!!" we knew they were geeks of the highest order.

Another Halloween has come and gone and still . . . I ate my weight in mini chocolate bars like I swore I wouldn't do. But, I have made a deal with my body that if it takes the chocolate and distributes the fat from it evenly over my entire frame instead of depositing it all on my thighs like it is wont to do, then I will take it to the gym five days a week for the next two months. We'll see if my body holds up on its end of the bargain. Traitorous thing is known for reneging on its deals.

So . . . I Guess I’m Blogging

Okay . So . . . yeah, apparently I'm blogging now. Believe me, I'm as surprised as you are about this fact. You see, what had happened was that I was straightening my hair this morning and as I picked up one mottled clump of hair and prepared to sizzle it between two extra hot plates of metal so that I could achieve the sleek straight hair that all of the magazines say I should desire, I suddenly said to myself, "I think I'll blog. Hmmm, good idea." (Not out loud of course, that would be crazy!) So here I am.

Hi.

I mean I signed up for this blog, like, a year ago and it's just been sitting here doing nothing. And it already had my name on it. See up there, yeah, that's me. And it also had all these nifty tidbits of info about me like . . . I really enjoy listening to Keane, and . . . I like to write, and . . . maybe sometimes I run, and stuff. So, I've got that going for me and that's good.

So . . . what to blog about? Hmm.

Well, let's start with me and go from there. On the outside, I am pretty much your typical mother of three stay-at-home-mom who drives a minivan and makes cupcakes that look like animals and sews my kids Halloween costumes whenever they let me and who almost always has a knitting project on my nightstand along with my paperback book and alarm clock that rings at 6:30 in the morning so that I can get up and iron for my husband, fix breakfast for my family that I can't eat because I'm always watching my waistline and pack lunches for everyone who is leaving the house and then I go to the gym because of the waistline again and get home and play Barbie and make lunch again and clean and cook and get the kids from the bus stop and then do homework while cooking and cleaning and keeping the other kids entertained and then do more cleaning and bathing and reading (for kids) and tucking in and set my alarm clock for 6:30 the next day. Sound familiar? You're probably thinking that you've met me many times in your life. But actually, I'm not that woman at all.

Well, who am I then? I like to think that I am a writer. I feel like I'm deluding myself if I say this, but it's true. I am. I am a writer. I've written three novels and am actively seeking representation for the third one. I still love the first two and am trying to revise them in the hopes that one day they too will be ready to make the query rounds. But even if my mom is the only one who reads these novels, that's still okay, because the joy of getting them published can only be marginally better than the joy I received from actually writing them. I have other hobbies as well to keep me occupied because I feel like I've been getting more and more stupider since I had children, but the writing is the king of the hobbies and is really less of a hobby and more of an obsession.

I feel a bit foolish for starting this blog. I have the same questions going through my head that I did when I wrote my first novel: Who cares? Who would want to read this? Why, oh why would they want to read it? But I got over that feeling around chapter 20, so maybe I'll get over this one too. We'll see!