Musings of a Military Wife December 2010

random

2010-12-29T16:59:00.000-08:00

I just realized I have a lot of couple friends with couple-y names: Jaime and James, Chris and Christine, Nick and Nicole, Jess and Wes. It's slightly amusing.

quickie

2010-12-25T18:48:00.000-08:00

My kids are seriously spoiled. Aaron got more toys today than he can possibly know what to do with, and KCB got a ton of cute clothes and she ISN'T EVEN BORN YET.

Oh well, it's all good. Mama got S1 of Chuck, an iPhone docking station, and a post-natal spa package. So I guess I'm pretty spoiled, too. :)

Come On Now!

2010-12-05T20:20:00.000-08:00

I apologize that I haven't had a whole lot to blog about the past few months. Deployments are so day-to-day, that just getting through the monotony of the day itself without writing about the leaky toilets, recurrence of kidney stones, etc., is key.

But, I digress. The reason for my return to blogosphere is this:

I. HATE. PHILIP. RIVERS.

And, honestly, that's not entirely accurate. I don't hate the man; he does a lot of community service in and around San Diego, so I'm sure he's not a horrible man. I just can't get over the amount of fawning, praising, almost worship-like quality of not only the Chargers fans, but the announcers, sportswriters, and sportscasters as well.

Now, I am by no means an authority on the man's skills, nor do I have a vault of stats in my head to back up any of the claims I'm about to make, so please feel free to throw some numbers at me, tell me I'm wrong, way off base, or just plain mean.

It seems to me, that at 6-6, Philip Rivers just isn't that good of a QB.

Good quarterbacks find ways to win games. Now, I suppose I can't lay the blame solely at the feet of the quarterback; there is only so much one person can do (right, Steve Johnson?). But Rivers consistently overthrows his targets, and is a stinking hot mess when it comes to making big plays in the red zone. He can't rely on kicker Nate Kaeding; one Sunday, Nate's the only one responsible for putting any points on the board whatsoever, and the next, can't sink a field goal to save his life.

Now, I know that the Chargers have had an unfortunate amount of injuries this year. Still. Tom Brady's got a bunch of rookies and hobbits on his OLine and seems to be doing ok. For the life of me, I cannot understand the Philip Rivers love fest that takes place every year in December. If Philip Rivers is such a good QB, how come he can't win a game that matters in September, October, and November? Even if the Chargers win every game left in the regular season, they would still be 10-6. Nothing to sneeze at, obviously, but not stellar in my opinion.

All week, all I've heard is how Rivers is so good, Rivers is the best, Rivers is 18-0 in December. The REAL Philip Rivers is about to show up.

Well, the Chargers were stunned at home today by the Raiders, 28-13, and the REAL Philip Rivers is nowhere to be found.

And, as I and a nation of Patriots fans can tell you, 18-1 ain't all it's cracked up to be.

Hiatus

2010-09-01T19:54:00.001-07:00

Stealing my husband's lingo for an extended absence from blogging, I'll just say that I've been on "a hiatus."

Said hiatus pretty much began the day Ian left. Early in the wee hours of that morning, the call of nature woke me from my slumber and I peed on a stick. The results woke me up faster than a triple shot of espresso injected directly into my veins. "I'M PREGNANT???" WAIT, I MEAN "I'M PREGNANT!!!!!!"

So, yes, I'm pregnant. Needless to say, it was quite the emotional roller coaster that day. We were ecstatic to find out the good news, and were able to celebrate for about 15 hours together before Ian got on a bus destined for Japan. (Well, the bus itself wasn't going to Japan...he had to get on an airplane...oh, never mind.)

Prior to and after Ian's departure, I had East Coast friends visiting. The last one left San Diego just a few days before Aaron and I packed up and headed to the East Coast ourselves. Over the course of about six weeks, I went to two weddings (Congrats Benny and Nick and Blake and Mary!!), spent a week at the family cabin in Maine, saw lots of familiar faces, spent time with family, and even squeezed (squoze) in a week in Newfoundland.

We had a FABULOUS time seeing everyone, but boy, oh, boy, was I glad to get home. There really is no place like home.

But, now that we're here, we've finally had time to let it sink in that Daddy's really and truly on his adventure. I'll be especially blue this Friday, on the 30th anniversary of my love's birth, and I really wish I could spend it with him. Not drinking. Because I can't. Which sucks. But I would TOTALLY DD for him.

At least football season starts soon. (11 DAYS!!) But it won't be the same without a Sam Winter in hand. Well, I suppose it COULD be in hand, just not open. Which is just not as fun.

48 hours

2010-07-03T10:30:00.001-07:00

Ian deployed on his second tour of Iraq in February 2009, a mere 9 months after his return from his first tour in May 2008. As a result, he was "guaranteed" (as much as anything in the Marine Corps is ever guaranteed) at least one year stateside before he had to deploy again. 367 days later, he will deploy to the Asian Pacific, and it seems I can't accuse the USMC of not keeping their promise.

Shake, shake, shake

2010-06-15T20:54:00.000-07:00

It appears that I will have to start dressing a bit more nicely to lounge around my house, since it seems my presence may be required outside at a moment's notice:

Maybe the Mayans were right...

Whippersnapper

2010-06-14T20:00:00.000-07:00

A month or two ago, I bought a membership to the local YMCA. I figured it would be a good time; they have youth programs in addition to a workout facility, a pool, and a sweet playground for the kiddo. In fact, Aaron just finished up a 6-week program called the Y's World of Sports. He spent two weeks each playing soccer, t-ball, and basketball.

More importantly, y'all, they have this glorious thing called Child Watch.

With the family membership I purchased, we get two free hours of child care EVERY SINGLE DAY. They'll watch your kid while you work out or shoot some hoops or whatever it is that you do. They do stipulate, however, that you must remain on the YMCA premises. They're not that dumb. You just sign the kid in, hand him some goldfish and a capri sun, write down your phone number and where you'll be (I haven't yet gotten up the nerve to simply put "napping in my car" in the location field...maybe next week), and off you go.

So off I went.

Today, I tried out the 8:30 am Water Aerobics class. One of the many brochures I was handed along with my membership ID card was the Aquatic Center schedule. It was in this multi-colored brochure that I first saw that this class was an offering. "Designed for ages 12+," it advertised. So I pulled out my new summer bathing suit (yes, it's hotttt.) and headed off.

At 27 years old, I was easily the youngest person in the class. By a lot. Like at least 30 years. The lifeguards must have thought it was "bring-your-great-granddaughter-to-water-aerobics" day.

Apparently, the instructor who usually teaches the class was absent. In her place, Diane the Italian New Yorker, who is everything you're thinking (i.e., accent, talking with hands, Giants fan) gave the lesson. Fully clothed. On the edge of the pool. In long sleeves. She refused to actually get in to the pool.

So imagine the scene if you will. Lifeguards overlooking a heated pool on a balmy Southern California day. Geriatrics and an overweight twentysomething performing such maneuvers as the loud-mouthed, hand-talking instructor called "The Cheerleader," "The Rocking Horse," and "The Penguin."

Maybe I should look in to the 6:15 pm class. I'm pretty sure everyone in today's class would be asleep by then anyway.

In Memoriam...

2010-05-31T08:12:00.000-07:00

1st Lt. Jared Landaker, USMC

February 7, 2007

Capt. Kyle Van de Gisesn, USMC

October 26, 2009

This Memorial Day, please take a moment to remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice so that the country they fought to protect would remain safe. R.I.P. and Semper Fi, Jared and Kyle.

You MIght Be a Military Wife...

2010-05-24T12:02:00.000-07:00

There are, no doubt, a million of these lists floating around the internet, but below is my own personal list of experiences that have defined me as a military wife. Without further ado, you might be a military wife if...:

You can't make it through a rendition of the national anthem. Sing it? Can't even make it to the third line without choking up. Same goes for "America the Beautiful," and "My Country, 'Tis of Thee." Play Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA" to watch me dissolve in a pool of tears.
You know that a 96 is an urban legend.
Your heart breaks a little each time you have to tell your three-year-old that Daddy is on a "trip."
There is one side of your bed that is significantly more creaky than the other.
Similarly, your master bathroom has dual sinks, and one of them has seen a lot more use than the other.
You know to avoid the base commissary on paid weekends.
Your relationships with women you've known for 6 months are stronger than with the friends you've known all your life.
Your closest family member lives on the opposite coast.
Your address book is written entirely in pencil.
You can have an entire conversation in acronyms. Ex.: "We did a DITY move instead of using TMO when we PCSd."
You know that Memorial Day, Independence Day, and Veteran's Day are more than just excuses to have a barbecue.
You recently saw SATC2, and truly couldn't believe it when Carrie was whining about falling into a routine with her husband. Me? I'd give anything to order takeout and watch tv in bed with my husband every night. Two days per week away? Not on your life, sister.
You read the news feverishly and have your google alerts set to display "Afghanistan," "North Korea," "Iraq," and "Marines."
You don't turn your phone off. Ever.
Said phone accompanies you everywhere: the bathroom, the shower, to the kitchen to get a glass of water...
You consider Westboro Baptists the absolute scum of the earth.
You welcome your husband home with joy in your heart, but you know that it means that one of your friends is losing hers for awhile.
You know all the words to the Marine Corps hymn. All three verses.
You curse when you trip over steel-toed combat boots, but you always straighten them back upright.
You got married at Christmas, but your wedding colors were red, white, and blue.
You cheer for a sports team from across the continent.
You couldn't be prouder to be one.

Life Lessons

2010-05-19T16:28:00.000-07:00

THINGS I LEARNED GROWING UP IN THE SOUTH:

If you can get ready and out the door in under 30 minutes, you shouldn't even bother leavin', sugar.
It's called a "po'boy."
(Regardless of flavor) It's called a "coke."
Thou shalt not be seen in public without make-up or with wrinkled clothes.
There is no excuse for not writing a thank-you note.
An iron skillet is a must-have in any kitchen.
College football is a religion and the SEC is God.
If the forecast calls for snow in any amount, your presence is required at the local supermarket.
Tornadoes can happen at any time. Keep cold beer in the basement.

THINGS I LEARNED AT COLLEGE IN NEW ENGLAND:

If you were unfortunate (or stupid) enough to take an 8:30 class, you slept in your sweats and set your alarm for 8:25.
It's called a "grinder."
It's called a "pop."
There is no excuse for rooting for the Yankees.
Sam Adams is a must-have in any kitchen.
The Red Sox are a religion, and Curt Schilling is God.
If the forecast calls for snow in any amount, you yawn and roll over.
A blizzard can happen at any time. Keep cold beer in the basement. (Or wherever.)

THINGS I HAVE LEARNED LIVING IN SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA:

Wearing mini-skirts and Uggs is "fashionable." (I HEARTILY DISAGREE.)
It's called a "sub."
It's called a "soda."
There is no excuse for not eating organic food.
Avocado is a must-have in any kitchen. Also, don't eat the sushi if you live more than 30 minutes from the coast.
The Chargers are a religion, and Norv is God. (But it seems they'll NEVER make it past the first round of the playoffs.)
A "marine layer" is COMPLETELY different than "smog." "May Gray" and "June Gloom" are things you'll just have to get over since the other 10 months of the year are beautiful.
An earthquake can happen at any time. Keep cold beer in a doorway.

Points of Order

2010-05-03T20:14:00.000-07:00

Just a few thoughts:

Yes, I stole the idea for this month's header from Meghan. Yes, I think she'll get over it. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
Irish people should always wear sunblock. The 2nd degree sunburn on my shoulders agrees.
I am currently torn between really wanting to return to work and continuing to stay at home for awhile. In the pro column for gainful employment is the second income that our family has been used to for awhile now, and the incessant stream-of-consciousness ramblings of my toddler will be much more bearable in smaller amounts. In the pro column for staying at home, I can plan an extended trip to New England and Newfoundland in July and August. And, you know, not having to...like...work.
I support Arizona's new immigration law. There. I said it. Maybe I have a slightly different perspective living less than a hundred miles from the border, but the way I see it is this: drug cartels and gangs = bad. By toughening up our immigration laws, we are cracking down on the number of corruptive influences that make their way into the country. Yes, I realize that a number of people come here to find work to support their families. Well, here's what I have to say to that: DO IT LEGALLY. No, I do not think that I should have to support you and your family and have my taxpayer dollars fund your health benefits when you aren't even in this country LEGALLY. I understand that Arizona's new law raises concerns about racial stereotyping and can sympathize with those who are here legally who may be subject to unfair treatment. But on the other hand, these legal citizens have probably been through the ringer in getting legal status, so if it were me and I did all that work, I might be kind of pissed if someone were reaping the advantages not having put in the work.
This "Everyone Draw Mohammed Day" is Stoopid. You're just fueling the fire, people. Stop being immature and leave well enough alone.
The Library of Congress recently archived all tweets. So that years from now, our children's children can look up what we had for lunch on any given day of the year.
This is awesome. I would like to meet this Nerdlington J. Techsupport.
Boston has no drinkable water. And MORE IMPORTANTLY, Bostonians can't get their Dunks and Sam Adams has stopped brewing. This will have HUGE repercussions, people. HUGE. Thankfully, Dunk has found another way for people to get their fix.

Quake

2010-04-05T08:48:00.000-07:00

This is a screenshot of the big earthquake we had here yesterday, and all the following aftershocks. Yay.

Yesterday, as I was making Easter dinner for my family and friends, we had a 7.2 earthquake here in SoCal. Since I had, only a few minutes before, clogged our garbage disposal and Ian was tinkering with it, the two of us originally thought that the shaking was just the disposal trying to purge its contents. But when I looked up and saw the lights hanging from our ceiling swinging and heard the plates rattling, I knew we were having an earthquake. Ian and I both kind of froze for a minute, but when things started getting going, I sprinted for a doorway while Ian went to grab Aaron from his bed, where he was napping.

Let me just say: I HATE EARTHQUAKES. Growing up in "Tornado Alley" outside of Atlanta, and spending time in North Carolina, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts, I can deal with tornadoes, hurricanes, blizzards, nor'easters, etc. I can deal with the potential to be sucked up into the sky, buried under feet of snow. But having the earth fall away at my feet IS NOT COOL.

For the record, neither is being burned up by wildfires. I miss the east coast.

Return

2010-03-08T15:31:00.001-08:00

I had hoped that when I had something important (to me, at least) to blog about, it would be a happier subject. But the past few weeks in North County have been anything but.

On February 25, a local high school student was reported missing, and the following Tuesday, March 2, her body was discovered in a hollow grave on the south shore of Lake Hodges, which we can see from our house. The Chelsea King case provided renewed interest in another teen missing since February of 2009. Saturday afternoon, the remains of Amber Dubois were discovered in Pala, and the local rec park, to which we often take Aaron to play, had its ponds drained in the search.

And the man suspected in both of these cases, John Albert Gardner, a registered sex offender, lives with his mother about 5 miles from our house.

As a parent, I hope to never have to know what Chelsea's and Amber's parents are going through right now. Their grief is compounded by the community's outrage that Gardner was free to commit these heinous acts in the first place. In 2000, Gardner was sentenced to six years in prison for molesting a 13-year old. In that case, a psychiatrist recommended that Gardner receive the maximum sentence, 30 years, indicating that the callous demeanor and lack of remorse indicated that Gardner would continue to be a threat to young women. Instead of receiving the psychiatrist-recommended maximum sentence, Gardner walked after serving five years.

And now, because the justice system failed in its civic duties, two teenagers are dead, and another is recovering from an attack. This despicable creature, who should never have been allowed to see the light of day after 2000, has pleaded not guilty to charges of rape and murder. This is detestable.

The system has failed both Chelsea and Amber. If Gardner is not given the death penalty for this, the system will have failed all of us.

Postseason Airing of Grievances

2010-01-03T11:02:00.000-08:00

I realize that Festivus has come and gone, but I have a few grievances I would like to air:

Indianapolis and the Great Forfeit of 2009: I have never seen Peyton Manning so close to tears. Jim Caldwell and Colts owe the city of Indianapolis a bit more than a shrug and a statement that they've only got their eyes on the prize. Why wouldn't you want to make history? Despite their support of the coach and the organizations, you can tell the the players are exceptionally disappointed in the decisions made by the Colts' organization.

In general, I think it's a complete cop-out not to play your starters. By not playing at 100%, teams like the Colts are giving other mediocre teams that shouldn't make the playoffs a get-out-of-jail free card, and a pass straight into the postseason. Weak.

I'm typing this as Brian Hoyer is currently playing quarterback for the Patriots and as Wes Welker sits in the locker room waiting for an MRI on his left knee. If Wes Welker misses the postseason because of this, he can take solace in the fact that he put up some of the best numbers the league has seen in years. Although I don't agree with Brady sitting out, at least there's a legitimate reason--dude's been playing with three broken ribs for weeks now. I'd still like to request that he suck it up, but, for some reason, Belichick doesn't consult me on these matters.

It is currently 80 degrees outside. And yes, this is a grievance. It is January 3.

There's Nothing "Warm" About It...

2009-12-07T12:22:00.000-08:00

I've never wanted to live in Seattle so badly...

Pretty Please?!

2009-11-12T15:17:00.001-08:00

I am not above begging. Pretty pretty please with a cherry on top sprinkled with chocolate jimmies and whipped cream and chocolate sauce donate?

Points of Order

2009-11-05T10:58:00.000-08:00

There are TWO WEEKS LEFT, PEOPLE. Dig deep down in those pockets. Pretty please? DONATE. Every dollar helps. Thank you.
The Christmas spirit has struck me early this year. Santa's list has been made, and I'm counting down the days until I can put the tree up. This will be our first Christmas "at home" here in SD. I'm not counting That One Year I Gave Birth to My Firstborn Child Who Was Born 3 Days after Christmas.
Check this out: Traffic Tirades. A friend of mine here in SD started this blog as a safe way to vent her road rage. I update the Twitter feed for this blog. You can follow us on Twitter, and you know you want to. @traffictirades
.backwards is everything now and relocated was work at cubicle My (see what I did there? I'm so clever.)
Ian will begin to commute up to 29 Palms during the week soon, and will only be home on weekends. We're getting a practice go of it this week, and IT SUCKS. That is all.

Down to the Wire

2009-10-03T18:19:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks,

October is National Breast Cancer Awareness month, and here's how you can help: DONATE.

I'm almost there: 57%! And just a little over a month to go. So, give a buck for boobs, a twenty for tits, or a hundred for hooters! :) Every dollar counts, and your support is most appreciated.

~The Pilot's Wife

Murphy's (Clegg's?) Law

2009-08-25T08:08:00.000-07:00

For the past week or so, it has seemed that anything and everything that COULD go wrong HAS gone wrong. And quite frankly, it's pushing me to the brink of insanity, were I not already there.

Settle in, folks. Grab your coffee, because this blog is my proverbial couch, and you, dear reader, are the overpaid therapist.

On Thursday, August 13, the fam all headed to the Great White North for bro-in-law's nuptials. Now, I approached this trip with a little more trepidation than usual. With that being said, those who live with me (Ian) know that I am totally bat-shit crazy when it comes to travelling with our pint-sized human. After all, this being one and the same child who screamed bloody murder for 4.5 out of 6 hours when we flew back to Boston while Ian was deployed. Couple the toddler trepidation with my habit of packing for trips 45 minutes or so before we leave (Gertrude Murphy is rolling over in her grave right now...sorry, Dema!) and you've got a huge ball of criz-zazy goin' on.

But, as it turned out, the trip was perfect. Aaron, seeming to have shed the skin of toddler, was a perfect angel the entire flight. As Ian would later relate it, "...he got a little cranky when we were getting ready to land since we had to turn off his Thomas videos."

Um, excusé moi? A LITTLE CRANKY? This body-snatcher child?! The same one who had me seriously considering throwing either myself or him (possibly both) from the plane at 10,000 feet a mere 3 months ago? A little cranky, my pinky toe.

So after we managed to wrangle our luggage into a rental car (sweet Hay-soos, I can't wait until making Aaron pack and lug his own luggage isn't considered to be child abuse!), we took off for St. Mary's, Ontario. I'm not sure how adequately that map conveys the sense of how deep in the country this place actually was. East Bumfuck is a sprawling metropolis compared to this place.

All of this is not to say, however, that Patrick and MaryAnne's wedding was not charming and perfect and all that, but holy hell, I thought I grew up in the backwoods. (Woods, that now have, apparently, the need for a Wendy's, CVS, Walgreens, Waffle House, and many other fine local establishments. It makes me feel wicked old to actually say "Back in my day, there were trees and fields, and the intersection was a four-way stop. Stop optional.")

Ian was, obviously, in the wedding party, and therefore, unable to assist with wrangling Aaron during the ceremony/reception. But, as it turned out, there would actually be no need for it. 45-minute drive to the church from the hotel? No, mom, I'm cool. 2-hour long Tridentine Latin chant mass? No, thanks, it's cool, mom, I'll just sit here quietly through the WHOLE THING and play with my trains. No sweat.

Ok, who are you, pint-sized child man, and what have you done with my son?

Aaron finally showed up at about 10:30 that night, nap-deprived and showing only a slight and fleeting interest in doing the chicken dance with his uncle Brendan before not even the promise of Thomas (ooh, hey, that's a catchy little phrase) could calm him. So, away we went. Ian "Life-of-the-Party" Brown stayed behind to dance away the night until the wee hours of the morning, and Aaron and I headed back to the hotel.

Side story: Once upon a time, I bought a new car. The dealer made the mistake of telling me that the fuel light in the car comes on when there is one gallon of gas left in the tank. Therefore, once the light comes on, I still have about 25–30 miles of highway driving to get my happy ass to a gas station. I have, on occasion, led Ian to the brink of a heart attack by pushing the limits of my car's MPGs. I always make it, though.

Halfway back to the hotel, my fuel light comes on. Now, I'm usually NOT perturbed by this, but since there was still a good 30 miles to the hotel, and I couldn't recall seeing a gas station in recent memory, I became slightly worried.

(Thought you knew where this was going, eh?)

My worry was for naught, however, and both Aaron and I made it back to the hotel in one piece, where he promptly fell asleep facedown in his Thomas pillow. (Actually, it was quite the sight to see: in the morning, I woke up first, and both Ian and Aaron were in the same position; namely, on their stomachs, one arm wrapped around the pillow in which their faces were buried, the other flung out to the side. Ahh, like father, like son.) Later that day, once Ian extracted himself from his bed, we packed our things again, and headed back to Toronto. Once everyone had arrived, the grandparents kicked the parents out, so Ian and I and Ian's cousin Alice, and her husband, Miguel got a free night out on the town and some delightful lamb chops in Greektown.

The next day, Monday, Ian, Aaron, and I joined Ian's mom, aunt, uncle, Alice, Miguel, and their kids, Miguelito and Pedro, for a trip out to Toronto Island. It was a lot of fun, since the place is an amusement park of sorts, but has many rides tailored to young kids. Our fearless offspring dove headfirst into pretty much everything we threw at him (though, for the record, the spinning teacups are a "no-no." It seems Aaron likes his tea straight up: no twirling. What can I say, he's a man of simple tastes.), but occasionally it was hard to tell who was more nervous about the rides: Miguel or Miguelito. Nontheless, we all had a good time.

Tuesday afternoon, Ian and I headed down to Buffalo to return our rental car and stay the night, as I had to leave at the ass crack of dawn to catch my flight back to San Diego. And this is where it all took a turn for the worse.

As we were rushing out the door, I realized that I hadn't printed off my boarding passes. "Eh, no biggie," I thought, "as long as I'm there on time, I can check in tomorrow morning." I turned on my iPhone, pulled up my email reservation and checked the time of departure: 8:05 am.

We returned our car, and headed off into the sunset to find our hotel. Now, apparently, in my years since working in the hotel industry, I seem to have become what Ian calls a "hotel snob." But hey, I worked for Marriott for like, 3 years, and we had, you know, standards. But since Ian's standards were cheap, frugal, not costly, and inexpensive, we found ourselves at the EconoLodge in South Buffalo. I'm sure you've seen it...on the news.

So, we found our local bookstore, had a delightful dinner, and headed back to the "hotel," where I gingerly peeled back the bedspread making sure that contact between it and my own body was as minimal as possible, and we read for a bit, and eventually went to sleep.

Now, this entire time, Ian has had a cold that has settled in his throat, it seemed, since he was inexplicably coughing himself stupid. He even spent a few nights on the couch in Toronto so he wouldn't wake the entire house with his hacking. At 2:00 am on Wednesday, he broke into one of his fits, except that, this time, he was coughing so hard that he threw up. Needless to say, neither one of us really slept well that night.

My alarm went off at 5:45, and I jumped in and out of the shower as quickly as possible in order to avoid contracting an STD, and, after a few wrong turns, we finally pulled into the airport at 7:00. I grabbed my suitcase, kissed Ian goodbye, and happily skipped into the terminal, ready to begin my huband- and baby-free "me time."

While I was standing in line to check-in, I looked for my flight on the departures board. When I didn't see it, I was a little confused, double checked to make sure I wasn't looking at the arrivals board, and looked again. Nope, not listed. Huh. I turned on my (almost dead) phone, to look for the flight number when I saw my mistake. That 8:05 departure? Yeah, that was the San Diego departure. I was supposed to have left Buffalo at 7:00. Having missed my flight, I was now on stand-by. The lady at the ticket counter was super nice, and after I showed her my military ID, she was gung-ho about getting me back home, stat.

I got on the first available flight to Baltimore, and it seemed like, even though I was completely retarded and missed my flight, I would make it to San Diego only a few hours later than originally planned.

Now, I don't know who that optimistic, life-is-good person was, but it couldn't have been me. I don't do optimistic. When asked whether my glass is half full or half empty, my reply is that it's probably poisoned, that's how optimistic I am.

After not getting on the FOURTH flight, I was getting more and more concerned. After my trials and tribulations with government health care, I was supposed to be back at work the next day, so not getting to San Diego THAT DAY was not an option if I wanted to keep my job. By now, I have also made Frenemies with 2 or 3 other people on stand-by, also trying to get to San Diego.

Now, I say "Frenemies" because, let's face it: we're competing for a seat. It acutally took us a few rounds to realize how the whole stand-by thing works: basically, you're given a priority (I'm assuming High, Medium, and Low), and if you don't get on one flight, your name and priority are automatically transferred to the next available flight, so you don't have to, as I and my frenemies did for two or three rounds, have to race each other from gate to gate to check in first, throw your arms and chest out as the losers skid to a stop behind you. It's just NOT NECESSARY. BUT, they didn't tell us that until we had missed, like, the 3rd flight. So, it was fun while it lasted.

At this point, it's pushing 4:00 EST. With all the flights overbooked, confirmed passengers are being asked to volunteer their seats to accommodate everyone, so all we stand-bys can do is pray that some idiot misreads their departure time and misses their flight. Ahem.

Also at this point, I'm seriously considering changing my final destination to Los Angeles, since it seems that I might have slightly better luck in getting there than to San Diego. It's only 1.5 hours from where I need to be, and I can either rent a car and drive home or take the train. While I'm debating this strategy, the gate agent informs me that I have the highest priority for stand-by passengers, so if there's one seat open, just one seat, it's got my name on it.

Conundrum. Wait it out for San Diego with my high priority or switch to LAX and low priority but better chances? Figuring that if I were to switch to LAX and the next flight to San Diego would have space available, I decide to stick with it, tough it out, and all sorts of other motivational cliches.

And, lo and behold, IT WORKS. Almost.

When all the confirmed passengers have boarded, stand-by passengers can be seen anxiously scanning the halls for anyone who is running. Running people are bad. They're probably running to catcht the flight YOU want to get on. Gate agents page passengers who are checked in, but not on board. In this case, they were looking for one Joe Toscana. They paged him once. They paged him again. They gave him a final warning . Then, cue choir of heavenly angels, they tell me it's a go. My frenemies glare at me as I prance down the jetway and take my seat. I squish myself between two little old ladies, who inquire as to my flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes, and overall countenance of triumph, and I relate my travel woes. But, in the middle of relation, the surfer-boy gate agent starts looking for me. I can tell he's looking for me, and for some reason, I just know they're going to take me off again. I scrunch down in my chair, but it's no use. Apparently, Joe Toscana was in the pisser on the plane when they were looking for him, and he's already on board. Damn you, Joe Tosacana, damn you!

I slink back up the jetway, tears of frustration streaming down my once-triumph-flushed cheeks as various gate agents offer their condolences. Yeah, yeah, yeah, bite me. Just get me on a plane.

And then, Kim appears. Glorious Kim. Angel Kim. Gate agent extrordinare Kim. Kim lowers her voice and levels with me. I feel like we're making a drug deal. She needs 10 minutes. 3 people haven't yet checked in for the next flight, which is direct to San Diego with stops in Denver and Las Vegas. If, in 10 minutes, those 3 people aren't checked in, she can cancel their reservations and get me a boarding pass. In fact, I only need for one of those 3 not to check in. I pray for traffic, for keys locked in cars, for long security lines. 12 minutes later, I'm hovering in a corner near Kim and she slides a boarding pass across the desk to me. A boarding pass. Sweet Jesus, the rapture! Baltimore, it's been a thin slice of heaven, but I am OUTTA HERE!

I cautiously walk, once again, down the jetway (no prancing this time, as it did me NO GOOD last time around) and settle in in the last available seat next to the Drunkest. Man. I. Have. EVER. Seen. In. My. Life. And that's saying a lot. I did, after all, go to a Catholic college.

This man was hiccupping, trying to give his trash to the flight attending DURING THE SAFETY BRIEF, and was so drunk, he was slurring his pauses. And, ohmigod, the smell. Kill me. BUT, I am on my way home, and he evenually passes out (on my shoulder).

We land in Denver, and are informed by our chipper crew that they will be doing a count of all through passengers, and once that count is confirmed, we are free to change seats, dance around, throw a rave in the emergency exit row, whatever. So they do the count. It's one over.

Finally haven gotten West of the Mississippi River, I feel it's ok not to hide. So I tell the flight attendent that I was a stand-by passenger who got a seat, and that I'm probably the one not included in their count. Ok, ma'am, stay put, we'll get you a boarding pass, you're fine, and you can stay.

I imagine my euphoria at being told I could stay would be not unlike being told I was accepted by a sorority. But, again, that whole Catholic school thing=no Greek life, and well, I was a theatre nerd, anyway.

So anyhoo, the flight from Denver takes off and I'm on it. The only way they could get me off of it would be to toss me out across the skies of Colorado. And (hopefully) that's not happening.

A short time later, we begin to descend into Sin City. Now, I was an airline brat as a child, taking my first unaccompanied flight around the age of 5, and I eventually grew up to marry a pilot. I've had my share of rough landings. So we're descending (all the while I'm looking for the Bellagio, where Ian and I will be staying in a few weeks for the old man's bday!) and we're probably, what, like 100 or 200 feet off the ground? when there's a burst of power from the engines, and we're thrown backwards as the plane begins a steep, sharp ascent back up in to the air.

Uh....ok. What just happened? The captain comes on over the PA and lets us know, hey, guys, sorry about that, but the plane that landed before us hadn't yet cleared the runway, so there might have been a bit of a collision of sorts if we hadn't waved off the landing.

Comforting. Let's all pitch in and get the air traffic controller some coffee, shall we? All I can think is, Oh Em Gee, I was almost on the evening news.

On attempt numero dos, we actually DO land, and we get the same spiel. Through passengers, stay seated until we get the count, blah, blah, blah. I straight up tell the flight attendant that his count will be one over, and it's me! it's me! so don't freak out, ok?

So, World's Drunkest Man and others deplane, they get their count (it's one over, imagine that), and then it's cool. Until it's not cool.

"There's a man who leads a life of danger/To everyone he meets he stays a stranger/With every move he makes another chance he takes/Scrawny Agent Man, Scrawny Agent Man!/They've given you a number and taken away your name."

"Attention passengers! There is someone on this plane who shouldn't be. There should only be 7 of you, and there are 8. I am coming through with a list of names, and if you shouldn't be here, you will be asked to leave."

OK, whoa. No need for an investigation, folks. I TOLD you it was me. I raise my hand and let Scrawny Agent Man know, um, hello? It's me. I already told you!

"Ma'am. What's your last name, please?"

"Um, Brown."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Could you speak directly into the microphone, please?" (OK, not really, he just asked me to repeat myself, but whatever.)

"BROWN. Like the color."

"Well, ma'am, you're not on the list."

"I know. I already told you that."

"Please gather your belongings and come with me."

Now, to the 7 other people on the plane, they're probably thinking that I've just been busted for meth possession or something (it's baby powder, I swear!!) the way this guy is making it out. Wielding his blue pen of justice, he IS Scrawny Agent Man!

SAM makes me do the Jetway Walk of Shame and tells me that I'll have to check in as a stand-by passenger.

Um, excuse, SAM, I already did that. I was told that the boarding pass I received would allow me to--

Irrelevant, ma'am. You'll need to check in with Mike. Now, he's the one over there behind the (finger air quotes) check-in counter. He's got the short, dark hair, he's wearing khaki shorts, short sleeves... (I'm sorry, SAM, am I now a contestant on a dating gameshow? Check-in desk. Got it.)

Now, Mike, bless his heart, is just so. So. Confused. He asks me my name, I tell him. He can't find my reservation. He asks me for my confirmation number, and I rattle it off without looking. Mike looks up, surprised.

"Wow. Bonus points for that."

"Mike, I don't want bonus points. I just want a seat to San Diego."

"Hmm...(looking at magic computer screen for answers)...well...OK. Tell me about Buffalo."

"Um, it's in New York. It's near Canada. They like, invented the hot wing or something. Have you been to the EconoLodge there? It's just lovely."

"So what happened in Buffalo?"

"I missed my flight. They put me on stand-by. I flew to Baltimore. They, too, have good hot wings. Man, I am HUNGRY. I got on flight 824. Denver to...where am I? Vegas. Denver to Vegas. Continuing to San Diego."

"But why are you HERE?"

"Because they pulled me off the plane."

"But why are you in Vegas?"

"Because the plane stopped here. What am I missing here, Mike?"

"Well, you were supposed to go from Denver to San Diego."

"Yes, Mike, that's what I'M TRYING TO DO."

"Well, you should be on flight 824."

"The one behind you, the one they just pulled me off of?!"

After a few more minutes of intelligent banter with Mike, I run, at breakneck speed, with boarding pass in hand, toss it at SAM, and run back down the jetway moments before they close the cabin door.

Ohmigod. WHATEVER. JUST GET ME HOME.

We take off. We land in San Diego. I fetch my bags from Southwest Baggage Center, where my bags have been since like, oh, 11:00am. It's now 8:30pm, PST, and I'm only like 10 hours later than I had originally planned, but whatever, it's cool. I grab my bags, and head for the curb, where I will be picked up by the courtesy van that will take me to the truck, and I can finally go home. Perky Driver Gal attempts to make small talk, is brutally rebuffed, and I'm finally in the truck. Wendy's junior bacon cheeseburger? Don't mind if I do! I drive home. Finally, I pull in. I throw the truck into park, grab my suitcase, and head to the door.

I turn the knob on screen door. You know the one, it's been there since the house was built in 1986. Orignal knobs that were, I'm sure, at some point, gold or something. They're, like, organic at this point. The screen door for which, if there ever were a key, it's more than possible that the knob would actually eat it if you tried to put it in there.

And. It's LOCKED.

At this point, it all comes flooding back. I've been awake since 2am EST, it's now 9:30pm PST, and I'm locked. Out. Of. My. House.

I let loose with a string of curses that would stun a sailor into silence. Since I do have my own car keys, I can get in to my car to get the garage door opener, but since the door leading from the garage to the house is, obviously locked and dead-bolted, I don't get much further than that. I'm digging through our toolbox, I'm prying screens off windows, and I've got a sledgehammer in my hand ready to take a window out when I hear my neighbor, Ken (Kent? Fred?) in his backyard. After giving him a slight heart attack, I explain my situation, and the two of us spend the next hour trying to break into a house in which I now feel completely and utterly secure.

After Ken/Kent/Fred (I don't know why, but everytime I see the man, "Fred" flashes in my head.) managed to pry open the shower window and climb up into the shower and drop down in, he let me in the front door, helped me with my bags, and I thought to myself, "Finally. I am home. And I can take a shower. And I can go. To. Bed."

But no. Oh, no. No no.

After being on a plane for, like, 5 hours, it occurs to me that I really need to go to the bathroom. But when I try to flush, nothing happens. I then realize that, while we were on vacation, Ian turned off the water to the house, and I have absolutely no frakking idea where the water main is. (Or so I thought--turns out that he actually just turned off each individual line. With the strength of the Hulk. Leaving me and my frail, petite little hands up, ahem, Shit Creek.) After repeated calls to his cell phone, I truly and utterly gave up. It's now close to 11:00 and I have to be at work in the morning. I set my alarm for 5:00, with the intention of getting up and going to the gym for the sole purpose of using their shower on my way in to work.

When 5:00 rolls around, I drag my ass out of bed, jump in my car and get ready to go to the gym. I start my car and drive off, and in my sleepy stupor think to myself, "Man, this car doesn't ride as smoothly as our rental did. Huh. Oh well."

Before I leave my neighborhood, I realize that my tire is flat. SERIOUSLY.

But, you know what? At this point, it was like, hey, whatever. What else could POSSIBLY go wrong? Everything? OK, cool. I'm just rolling with the punches. I switch out the car for the truck, go to the gym, shower the past 32 hours off my body, and go to work. I call Dan, my civilian friend's husband, who serves as Mr. Fix-It when any of the military guys are gone (and, truthfully, sometimes when they're not) to come throw on the spare, a task he's now gotten down to a SCIENCE since this is the THIRD flat tire I've had in the past SIX months. (Seriously, do I have MAGNETIC tires? HOW ELSE could I have run over 3 different nails? It's not like I frequent construction sites and go joyriding in my spare time.) $200 and two new tires later, my travel adventures (and this blog) finally come to a close.

Moral of the story: double check your departure time.

Sticks and Stones and the Kitchen Sink

2009-08-11T11:06:00.000-07:00

As you may have heard, I recently had surgery to remove a fairly large kidney stone that has been an unending source of fun, happiness, and sunshine and rainbows. (I hope the sarcasm is just dripping.) Many of my friends, after hearing of my complications, scolded me for not updating them on my health status. But, here's the thing: IT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE A BIG DEAL. I've had kidney stones before, and, as statistics show, the probability that I'll get them again is high. This was, however, my first time that surgery was required to get them out. (Previous episodes simply involved much wailing and gnashing of teeth as I poised over the commode...P.S. I apologize in advance for anything you don't want to know, but hey, I'm trying to be discreet, and you are, after all, still reading, aren't you?) This was also not my first experience with Navy Medicine—Aaron was, after all, born at NMCSD (Naval Medical Center, San Diego) one balmy eve following the birth of Christ back in 2006—but after this experience, I certainly hope it will be one of the last.

My kidney stone originally reared its ugly head on June 12-13. On the evening of the 12th, I woke up in excruciating pain around midnight. Having had stones previously, I know right off the bat what it was. After I threw up for the third time, I had to enlist the help of my superwonderfulawesomeamazing friend, Lois, for help. While she stayed at the house while Aaron slept, I made my way to the ER down the road from us. That experience wasn't anything out of the norm, and, though it took awhile to get in and out of there, I walked out with pain meds and instructions to call my PCM.

Now, a sidenote about how military health care works. We have TriCare Prime, which means that we can go to our PCM (Primary Care Manager) as much as we want, and it's always covered; but, in order to see a specialist, any type of specialist, we have to be referred by our PCM. Even if I were to find a specialist on my own who accepts TriCare, TriCare will not pay for their services unless a referral comes through the PCM. Hoops, yes, but, more importantly, FREE.

But here's where things get slightly tricky. I went to see my PCM 2 days after my visit to the ER. TriCare did not approve my referral until 7 days later. Furthermore, they did not notify me that they had approved it until 6 days after THAT. Most unfortunately (for me), however, was the fact that my referral was picked up by an MTF (Military Treatment Facility—i.e., a Navy Hospital). The particular MTF to which I was referred was aboard Camp Pendleton, 30 miles and close to an hour away from my house. However, as TriCare operates on a "straight-line mileage" system, (basically, draw a straight line from my house to the MTF, and if it's within a certain radius, boom, it's done.), ultimately cutting both the actual time and distance in half. Whatever. I had kidney stones, I was in pain (albeit not constant), it had already been over 2 weeks since my diagnosis and I needed to see someone, STAT.

And, so, my tumultous relationship with NMCCP (Naval Medical Center, Camp Pendleton) began.

*Ring, ring*
Corpsman: Thank you for calling Naval Medical Center, Urology, this is Corpsman Whateverhisnamewas, how may I help you, sir or ma'am?
Bree: Hi, I have a referral from TriCare. I was diagnosed with kidney stones about 2 weeks ago, and would like your earliest available appointment.
Corpsman: [...][...][...][...]
Bree: Hello?
Corpsman: Yes, ma'am, I'm looking for you now. How about next Wednesday, the 8th at 0820?
Bree: No, I said I needed your FIRST available appointment.
Corpsman: Yes, ma'am, that is the first one we have available.
Bree: Today is June 29th. That's over a week away, and I've been in pain for 2 weeks. Not to mention, I won't be able to make that date since my husband will be coming home from Iraq that day.
Corpsman: [...] One moment, ma'am. [...][...][...][...][...][...][...][...][...] (at this point, we're probably on the phone for about 15 minutes.) OK, ma'am, I just spoke with the doctor, and he can stay after hours for you on Monday, the 6th.
Bree: That's still a week away.
Corpsman: Yes ma'am, but it's the first available appointment.
Bree: Well, in that case, can you put me through to someone who can release my authorization referral to a civilian provider who can see me in a more expeditious fashion?
Corpsman: No, ma'am, since NMCCP has space available, we are unable to release your authorization.
Bree: You mean to tell me that your clinic is claiming to have "space available" and you can't see me for 7 DAYS?!
Corpsman: Yes, ma'am.

At this point, I called shenanigans. I threw temper tantrums at (admittedly undeserving) underlings, I called supposedly higher-ranking powers-that-be, I even tried crying, and none of it worked. By the time I had finished, the "first available" appointment was no longer available. Of course. I FINALLY got in to see a urologist on July 13. ONE MONTH after my diagnosis. After an extensive (and by "extensive," I obviously mean "the doctor spoke so fast I had trouble keeping up, and by the time I left his office, my head was still trying to comprehend the first 7 words he spit out at me") interview, I left the office with a pre-op date, and an appointment for same-day surgery should the stone not pass on its own as well as a prescription for, as the doctor told me in his own words (the three I actually managed to understand) "medicine for prostates."

Um, excuse me, doctor, did you happen to notice that I'M NOT A MAN? I mean, sometimes my fingers swell when it's hot, but the long hair and the high heels didn't give it away? I DON'T HAVE A PROSTATE.

Oh, and maybe I should mention that all of this was arranged without any type of scan. No, no, Doc trusted me. If I was still having pain, then it was probably still in there. Drink a lot of water, try to pass it, and, for God's sake, woman, take your prostate medicine!

2 weeks and 1 day later, I head back to NMCCP for my pre-op exam. In those two weeks and one day, I had had some pain, an occassional flare up, and I assumed that the stone was still there. So, again, the Doc TOOK MY WORD FOR IT. Surgery was set for the next day.

Scans? Who needs 'em? Why bother verifying that the thing you plan to retrieve by STICKING A HOSE UP MY LADY PARTS is, actually, in fact, there in the first place? Semantics.

Wednesday, July 29--Same day surgery. All goes well. I check in, they put me under, wheel me in, take it out, and bam. I'm done. Prove to us that you can, in fact, pee, and you're good to go.

Thursday, July 30--Since I'm on some pretty heavy pain medication, I spend the day sleeping and watching movies.

Friday, July 31--Back to work. Things feel slightly weird, since, after all, I will continue on with a stent in my ureter for 3 more days to ensure everything heals all nice-like. I sit at a desk and read with my red pen poised, and it's not like I do any heavy lifting or anything, so this should be fine. And it is, until it isn't. Once I stand up to retrieve something I printed off, I come to realize that my pants are wet. I take that back. My pants are SOAKING wet. Now, I can't really remember the last time I wet my pants, so this is a little shocking to me. After telling my boss that I have to go home, because I literally just pissed myself, I call the urology clinic on the way home.

*Ring, ring*
Corpsman: Thank you for calling Naval Medical Center, Urology, this is Corpsman Whateverhisnamewas, how may I help you, sir or ma'am?
Bree: Yeah, hi, this is Bree Brown, and I was in your clinic on Wednesday for same-day surgery. I seem to be having some, uh, complications? May I speak with a doctor, please?
Corpsman: Unfortunately, there are no doctors available to speak with you ma'am. You see, we're holding a free prostate screening today, so they're all occupied with that. Is there anything I can help you with?
Bree: (after mentally correcting Corpsman's grammar) Um, well, I'm having some side effects that no one ever mentioned, so I'm a little concerned that something's wrong, and I'd really like to speak with a doctor.
Corpsman: Well, unfortunately, they're unable to speak with you.
Bree: Well, can you go grab one of them? I had SURGERY in your clinic TWO DAYS AGO, and I, apparently, no longer have control over my bladder. I. Need. To. Speak. With. A. Doctor.
Corpsman: Ma'am, I'd like to help, but I suggest that you go to the ER if you think you're having complications.

At which point, the humiliation of having peed myself in public, and the mounting frustration with Navy Medicine get to me, and I say, "Great. Thanks. Good-bye," and go home to change my pants.

But, no, the story doesn't end there. And, if you're squeamish, or don't like reading about anatomy, stop reading now, and know that I'm all better now. :)

So, for those of you who decided to stick it out, when I got home and went to the bathroom, I realized that the stent was no longer attached by a string, as it should have been, but rather, hanging half out of...well, you know. Since things have now obviously gone wrong, I pull it the rest of the way out (um, OUCH, to say the least) and I call the clinic determined to find out just what. The. Eff. Is. Going. On.

**ring ring
Incompetent Civilian Bitch: Urology.
Bree: Hi, this is Brianne Brown. I had surgery in your clinic on Wednesday, and I'm having complications. I need to speak with a doctor now.
ICB: [...][...][...] *sigh* Mrs. Brown, you were told that we were giving free prostate exams today, and you know there aren't any doctors available to speak with you.
Bree: I understand that, but I'm actually a patient of yours, one who had SURGERY in your clinic from which I am having what I believe to be serious complications; don't I rank slightly higher than someone who walks in off the street and who may or may not be sick? What would you like me to do?!
ICB: Go to the ER.
Bree: Oh, yeah, great, thanks.

And just as I was about to ask her another question, I heard a click, and realized the ICB had just hung up on me. At which point, I burst into tears, from both frustration and an ever-sharpening pain in my back. Ian, at this point most likely fed up with me, throws me in the truck, slaps his bluetooth in his ear, and simultaneously drives me to the ER while pulling rank to "bludgeon someone into submission" (his words, not mine). Although his attempts at bludgeonment were, ultimately, lost on the ICB, I still thought it was pretty sexy.

So, we get to the ER after a minor (and brief) struggle as to which ER we should go. He suggested the ER at NMCCP, and I said, no effing way you are...aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh, ooooooooooooo, ohhhhhhhhhhhh, god, it hurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrts...out of your freaking mind if you think...aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, make it stop!!!!!!!!!!!...think I'll be stepping foot in that mother effing...OHHHHHHMYYYYYGODDDDDDDDD, OOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW...hospital again. (Or, you know, something along those lines.)

So we get to the ER, where I am now crying solely from the pain. They want me to pee in a cup, and I can't, since apparently, it all came out IN MY PANTS. In public. At my job. FML. (I won't be spelling out that acronym for you, but if you know what it means, then you know what it means. If you don't, I apologize.) They FINALLY wheel me in to a room, where I change and they start the IV of pain medication. Dilaudid. It's amazing. As soon as it hit my bloodstream, my shoulders went numb, and I was all, like, "Kidney stones?! What kidney stones? This is niiiiiiice. Oooooooooooohhh, shiny lights..."

Eventually, Ian had to leave me to attend to the needs of and procure arrangements for our son, happily oblivious to what he would later refer to as "Mommy's owie." While he was gone, the doctor came in to tell me that, after looking at my scans, I had a kidney stone. And I was all like, well, that's funny, since I just had one taken out, and I HAVEN'T HAD A SCAN YET. (This hasn't been confirmed, but my suspicion is that he was looking at the one and only scan ever taken for this kidney stone, the same one that originally started this whole mess.) And he was all like, "Oh, well we should have you get one." And I'm all like, "YA THINK?!"

Well, they finally wheeled me off for said scan, and apparently, the doc was pyschic: the scans STILL showed a kidney stone. What to do, what to do? Eh, screw it; just send her home with a prescription for some anti-nausea meds to add to her ever-expanding home pharmacy.

I felt like making a tshirt that said, "I spent 6 hours in the ER, and all I got was this lousy Zofran."

Saturday and Sunday were spent muffling my screams of pain and sobbing into my pillow.

Monday Ian took the morning off work and together, we set off for NMCCP to crack skulls. I was originally scheduled to head back there anyway, to have my stent removed, but thought I would take the opportunity to rain my wrath down upon the Urology clinic. Since I didn't have an appointment, I had to wait. And as Ian and I honed our skillz on iPhone Jeopardy, I grew increasingly enraged.

Unfortunately, I didn't really have a chance to rain said wrath, because what the doc said (and I made him speak slowly this time) mostly made sense. Since the stone I had removed was so large, and in such a weird spot in the ureter, they had to blast it into pieces to take them out. During the surgery, it seemed, one of the pieces decided to be all sneaky and wily and head out to go hang out at the bar in the kidney, so the docs didn't see it, and therefore, didn't get it out. When the stent fell out (apparently, not uncommon in women, since the stent doesn't have as far to travel in men, and men don't accidentally tug on the the string when they wipe themselves after they pee) the ureter was raw and irritated from the surgery, and, as Left Behind Stone started to make its way out, it was coming through rather, uh, rugged conditions, if you will. Hence the pillow screaming.

Doc sent me home with, gasp, shock, more pills, including the prostate one again, but also the pill form of the shoulder-numbing IV drio I had had in the ER on Friday.

So that brings us to now. I haven't had any pillow screaming episodes since, and I was able to return to work on Thursday. (Slightly inconvenient for my very patient and understanding boss, since I'll be leaving again for a week beginning Thursday on a planned vacation...oh, well.) I don't know if the stone ever passed, or is passed out in the Kidney Bar, and I still have a pharmacy's worth of pills at my beck and call. I'll soon be googling the street value of Dilaudid. Make me an offer, people.

The moral of the story: Navy Medicine sucks, and while free, it certainly seems that you get what you pay for. Also, Murphy's Law applies; whatever can go wrong will.

Rescue

2009-07-27T14:09:00.000-07:00

I don't seem to have good luck with the iPhone. While on vacation in Boston, I had one stolen. And, most recently, my replacement iPhone had a close encounter with the parking lot pavement, and the screen shattered. When I took it to the AT&T store, the associate merely shook his head (un)sympathetically. Thankfully, though, a gentleman toting his sleeping 2 year old (why couldn't I get a model that SLEEPS?!) was there, too, and told me about this company that specializes in repairing all things Apple. I got my iPhone back today, and it's better than new! (Now, here's hoping I can make it stay that way!)

A Freebie

2009-07-24T16:23:00.001-07:00

Since I have been called out in a public forum for my lack of updating, I offer this olive branch. Not one, but TWO POSTS IN ONE DAY.

OK, so maybe I'm starting to show my age, or maybe I'm just a stick-in-the-mud, but I don't find that viral marketing piece about the wedding entrance humorous AT ALL. You know the one, you've seen it, you've seen the wedding party dance down the aisle to "Forever." Here's my thing:

It's not appropriate. Dancing into a reception, sure. Heck, even dancing to the limo parked OUTSIDE the church, fine. But this is CHURCH, people. I'm pretty sure God's not the biggest fan of abusive rappers. Show some class, that's all I'm asking.

It's Not Because You're Black

2009-07-24T15:37:00.000-07:00

Open letters to President Obama and Henry Louis Gates.

Dear Professor Gates,

It's not because you're black. It's because you're a belligerent old man who was refusing to cooperate. The fact that you think you're above being arrested makes YOU, sir, the racist, in my opinion. This is not, as you yourself put it, about the "vulnerability of black men in America." This is about your thinking that, because you're black, you're above the law. And THAT, Mr. Obama, not the actions of the CPD, is what I consider to be "act[ing] stupidly."

And on that note...

Dear Mr. Obama,

Typically, when a sentence starts with "I don't know all the facts," it is finished with "SO I CAN'T COMMENT." Hope you're taking notes. By admitting that you knew nothing about what was happening and coupling that with the admission that you "might be a little biased" (a LITTLE?! Ya think?!) since Gates is "a friend," you flagrantly pointed out to America that those with connections can avoid the long arm of the law. Or you know, at the very least, claim racism and create a huge stink about nothing. But just so you know, where I come from, talkin' about someone's mama--well, those are just fightin' words.

Love,
Bree

Twitch

2009-04-07T10:08:00.001-07:00

It all began last Thursday night. Maybe it was the stress of knowing someone was in my house whom I had never met, while I wasn't there, and who now had a key. (Yay! Thanks for letting me hire a maid, Ian!) Maybe it was the stress of having to dash home from work and host the regular Thursday night dinner for the squadron ladies. Maybe it was the stress of an absolutely hellish week at work. Maybe it was the stress of not sleeping well, since my two year old wakes up at night and wanders around. Maybe it was the stress of having my husband deployed. MAYBE IT WAS ALL OF THE ABOVE COMBINED INTO ONE GINOURMOUS BALL OF STRESS.

My eye started twitching.

Not like every now and then. We're talking continuous pulsing here. And when I woke up on Friday, it was still going. Around 2:00, the headache joined in, and people at work started looking at me weirdly since they could actually see my eyeball trying to jump out of its socket.

This continued until Sunday.

Random thoughts

2009-03-25T10:48:00.000-07:00

My son likes bbq sauce. I took him to McDonald's yesterday, and he proceeded to dip his fries in the bbq sauce, and lick it off. When that wasn't efficient enough, he decided to eliminate the middleman, and drink the sauce directly from the container.
Also in reference to my son's eating habits--Although there is absolutely no question that he is my son, given his redheaded, pale-skinned attributes, at least I know that he is also Ian's son by the fact that he'll eat 4 bowls of cereal in one sitting.
The last point about my son's eating habits--I think he was dreaming about applesauce right before he woke up. He waddled into my room all disheveled, and said "appasauce." When I said, "What? You want some applesauce?" He looked at me like I was stupid, and said "Yeah." He was as happy as a clam when I fetched it for him, though.
So they say, what, you'll have 7 years of bad luck if a black cat crosses your path? (Or is that for breaking a mirror?) Well, what happens if the black cat that was crossing your path didn't get to finish his crossing before his untimely demise at the hands (wheels?) of your vehicle? I SWEAR I DIDN'T DO IT ON PURPOSE!
Dear Mr. Bicycler, don't glare at me as you swerve to avoid hitting my car. It was YOU, after all, who crossed the street on a Don't Walk signal and who was riding on the wrong side of the street in the wrong direction. Just because your vehicle doesn't run on gasoline means you don't have to follow the rules of traffic that the rest of us have to.
Dear Mr. Driver of Beat-up Honda Civic, was it really necessary to flip me the bird as I passed you on the left? Just be glad I didn't pass you on the right.
My husband recently recommend that I visit my local haberdashery.

Lt. Dan speaks

2009-03-21T18:51:00.000-07:00

Anti-war protesters, take note. Citizens of Berkeley, listen up.

Here is a man who understands what families like mine endure to protect the freedoms our country enjoy. Men like this make what we do worth it.

Auf Weidersehen

2009-03-01T13:46:00.000-08:00

Now, I was never a huge Cassel fan. I'm still sad to see him go. I will definitely miss Mike Vrabel, however. Even if Brady's not up to par by the time August rolls around, at least that gives my boy Kevin O'Connell some field time.

In other Patriots news, Tom Brady married That Woman, forever dashing my hopes.

One week down!

2009-02-19T14:09:00.000-08:00

...and only 21 left to go. Here's the breakdown: (as of 2/19/09, 2:09:22 PM)

Months remaining: 4.95
Weeks remaining: 21
Days remaining: 148
Hours remaining: 3,578
Minutes: 213,757
Seconds remaining:12,822,797.90

And, no, I don't actually have that much time on my hands. Also, obviously, it counts down to a theoretical date, which most likely, will not be the actual date they return. One of the ladies in our squadron and her husband developed this Deployment Countdown for their kids. It's actually kind of fun to watch the numbers get lower.

Doesn't make me miss him any less, though. Especially yesterday, what with it being trash day, and all.

Birthday

2009-02-12T16:35:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is my blog's birthday. I feel I should mention this today, since I will be drowning my sorrows in a bottle(s) of tequila.

5 1/2 months left to go....

Apocalypse Now

2009-02-10T09:42:00.000-08:00

In a further example of impending doom, this morning I had to scrape the ice off my windshield with an ice scraper. Ice. Ice scraper.

More amazing still, was (a) the fact that we still even have an ice scraper and (b) that I remember how to use it.

I can't say the same for my native Southern Californian neighbor, who, as he was walking his dog that's roughly twice the size of me, asked me, "Well, now, what's that nifty little gadget you got there?"

The Pilot's Wife Rules of Driving in the Rain

2009-02-09T15:39:00.000-08:00

Recently, SoCal has been hit by some rather unfavorable weather. In fact, I'm seriously considering asking for my money back: I signed up for sunny and 70, folks, not rainy and 40!

Now, don't get me wrong. I, as much as the next person, enjoy a rainy day at home, in bed with a good book, but what I truly don't enjoy is the Monday morning commute with a bunch of weenie SoCal drivers. And, on days like today, I really envy my husband, who can just fly over all this commuter crap.

So, you see, I grew up in Atlanta, in a part of the state that sees some CRAZY ASS WEATHER. On more than one occasion, my mother literally had to drag me down to the basement so I wouldn't be sucked up into the sky by the funnel cloud of which I so desperately wanted to catch a glimpse. So, needless to say, driving in the rain isn't that big a deal to me. Because, let's face it, on I-285, it's sink or swim, bitches. Actually, more like drive or DIE.

So you can imagine my frustration as I attempted to wind my way down the I-15 this morning. On a normal day, the flow of traffic on that highway can be expected to be about 80mph or so, so you can imagine my consternation at having to drive 40 FRAKKING MILES PER HOUR through what can only be described as heavy drizzle.

With my patience wearing thinner and thinner (as well as that of my son, Aaron, screaming from the backseat, "GO GO GO GO!), my exit came into view. THANK YOU LORD. However, blocking my ability to exit the highway is Joe Douchebag, who is trying to merge into the flow of traffic by COMING TO A COMPLETE STOP, sitting in the right hand lane with his blinker on. Really, people, how hard is it to MERGE? (And alternatively, for those already in the flow of traffic, don't be an assface -- let the bastard in!) They even put up those ridiculously asinine ramp lights to help you out with that. (And don't even get me started on those...because really, it makes COMPLETE sense to require drivers to come to a complete stop, before giving them approximately 50 yards to merge into 80mph traffic!) But no, here sits Joe Douchebag, at zero miles per hour, completely blocking the right lane, and apparently oblivious to the horn on which I have been leaning for the past five minutes. (And all I got for my trouble was an extended middle finger!)

So, with that delightful little introduction, I give you, dear reader (and dear Joe Douchebag) The Pilot's Wife Rules of Driving in the Rain:

1) Turn your headlights on.
This really is a no brainer. Combine the fog of the marine layer with the steam rising off the road, and basically any moisture falling on San Diego is going to create a bit of limited visibility. Trust me, this isn't for your benefit alone: it also helps the people behind you from smashing into your rear bumper. Leading me to #2...

2) DON'T TAILGATE.
Taking into consideration that 98% of the population of Southern California reacts to rain in much the same way that Atlantans react to a single snowflake falling from the sky, you'll be doing yourself a favor by allowing a little extra space between you and the car in front of you. So, at the very least, when the idiot in front of you can't seem to remember if THIS is his exit or not (in spite of the fact that he probably makes this commute EVERY DAY OF HIS LIFE) and slams on his brakes in order to squint at the sign, you'll be far enough behind him to react appropriately. A general rule of thumb for this is one car length for every 10mph. That, however, is not to say...

3) See that sign? That's the speed limit!
If the posted speed limit is 65 miles per hour, why don't you maybe try going 55 when it's raining? Really, 35 mph is a bit excessive.

4) Pump your brakes.
Should the cars in front of you not read this blog, and don't know to turn on their headlights or drive faster than a normal person can run, don't slam on your brakes when they ultimately slam on theirs. Water on the road = hydroplaning. Ease on up, huh?

5) If you really can't hack it, pull the frak over.
If you can't stand the heat (or my horn), get out of the kitchen. Pull over to the right, turn on your hazard lights, and wait it out.

6) OBEY THE LAW.
I'm talking to you, truckers! You know that little law that FORBIDS you from driving in the lefthand lane? Well, just because it's raining doesn't mean that it doesn't still apply.

I really think that if everyone took these simple rules into account (read: if everyone was as awesome as I am), we could all just get along swimmingly.

OpLove

2009-02-02T11:50:00.000-08:00

Recently, I signed our family up to participate in a photo session compliments of Operation: Love ReUnited, a non-profit organization in which local photographers can participate by donating their services to local military families.

We had our photo session yesterday at Old Poway Park, courtesy of Tony Eisenhower Photography.

To view our photos, contact me by email at bree.brown@mac.com and I will provide you with the password.

photo courtesy of Tony Eisenhower Photography

2009-01-23T14:12:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Obama,

I am NOT ok with having MY money spent on OTHER people's mistakes. Who do you think you are?

~The Pilot's Wife

SO over it...

2009-01-20T12:24:00.000-08:00

Wah, wah, wah. Obama flubbed his Oath of Office. Wah, wah, wah. I'm not sure, but I were standing in front of, like 2 MILLION people and was being broadcast to the ENTIRE WORLD, I might be a little nervous myself. Cut the man some slack, people.

Moreover, how about a little respect for the man who has led our country for the past 8 years? I'm sick of the the never-ending displays of disrespect and contempt for Former President Bush, and will happily tell those people who engage in such activities where they can stick it.

And finally, to all those people who just can't get over how proud they are to be an American today: I'm proud to be an American EVERY SINGLE DAY, no matter who the president is.

So basically, let's just all get along now, shall we? There's work to be done...

A Post That's Not About Football...

2009-01-19T09:34:00.000-08:00

...you're welcome.

Instead, I would like to address the savage beating my DVR has been taking recently. There is literally no rest for the weary. Here is my schedule, as well as some hard-hitting and spot on commentary on each:

MONDAY:
9:00 - FOX - 24
After the 'remember us? Yeah, you know, from way back in 2006? Don't forget about us! We're still here!' 2 hour 'bridge' wherein we see Jack Bauer living in Africa, atoning for his sins, I wasn't too sure where this season was heading. But last week's 2 day, 4 hour premiere, I am reminded why this show is just so awesome. Things that also rock: hot redheaded, freckle-faced FBI agents. They give the rest of us a good name.

TUESDAY:
8:00 - FOX - American Idol
I have not yet had the chance to watch last week's season premiere(s), but from what I've heard, new judge Kara DiSomething is pretty awesome. I'm also fairly happy that, this year, they've cut down on the horrible auditioners (a la William Hung) to focus on more promising talent. This could be a horrible tease, however, as it might just break your heart that your favorite doesn't have what it takes to even crack the top 24. I just might continue my tradition of not watching until the top 12 are announced.

9:00 - FOX - Fringe
J.J. Abrams' latest venture into Sci-Fi has me undeniably hooked. After 2008's "fall finale" I sat on my couch for a good five minutes, slack-jawed (and probably drooling) wondering WTF had just happened. In true Abrams form, finales like that require you to forget everything you thought you knew, and go back and watch all the previous episodes looking for what you might have missed. Oh, and Pacey -- er, Josh Jackson isn't bad either. Now, if only I could get my hair as shiny as Anna Torv's.

9:00 and 9:30 - ABC - Scrubs
No, that is not a typo. After 6 years with the Peacock, ABC picked up the last season of Scrubs, and NBC is now crying into their money-stuffed pillows. From what I hear, this season won't be as funny as is par for this show, but it's all in an attempt to bring closure to the overall picture. The couple of episodes I've seen have been quite good, though the jury is still out on my feelings for new Chief of Medicine Courtney Cox Arquette.

WEDNESDAY
8:00 - FOX - American Idol
Please see above.

9:00 - ABC - LOST
Wednesday's season premiere is actually being called the "Premiere Event." Event, indeed. The THREE HOUR premiere kicks off at 8:00 with a recap show that will undoubtedly only scratch the surface of the last 4 years of LOST. My parents are flying in to San Diego from Boston that night, and I told them they'll have to find their own way to my house. Should have planned better!

THURSDAY
9:00 - NBC - The Office
Still one of the best sitcoms on TV. Steve Carrell -- love him. John Krasinski -- would leave my husband and marry him. I'll be interested to see in the coming weeks how the Andy-Angela-Dwight triangle plays out, and there had better be some upcoming nuptials for Jam!

9:00 - ABC - Grey's Anatomy
My faith in this show is dwindling, so something needs to happen to get it back on track. I can only deal with sex-with-dead-Denny for so long. And if reports are true about T.R. Knight wanting to leave, I totally don't blame him. We've seen more of newcomer Melissa George's Intern Sadie than we have of George recently. And I am totally not diggin' on Sadie. Give me more of Christina and Owen, Bailey, Callie, and Mark/Lexie and less of Mer-Der, the interns, and the Alex-Izzie-Denny crap. Because for reals, this shiz wouldn't fly at the #1 teaching hospital. No wonder it's no. 12.

FRIDAY
10:00 - SciFi Network- StarBattles for Galaxy Somethingorother
Don't really know, don't really care to find out. All I know is that some other SciFi fantasy show watched by my geeky-yet-hottie husband is taking up space on my DVR.

And there you have it folks. And to think, SYTYCD hasn't even started yet! Where in the world will I fit it in?!

A Few Points

2009-01-03T20:48:00.000-08:00

I can't do it. I just can't stand the Chargers.
A month ago, San Diego was 6-10, and Norv Turner was the most evil man in the city. Today, he is everyone's BFF and they're touting him as a genius. *cough, cough FAIRWEATHER BASTARDS, cough, cough*
Seriously, those freaking powder blue uniforms are SO GAY.
I still think the sudden-death overtime rule is complete BS.
I gotta say, I was really holding out some hope for Matty Ryan and the Dirty Birds.

Blah.

Wednesday Morning QB

2008-12-31T08:32:00.000-08:00

When in Rome...

It would appear that this year, I will be forced by geographic proximity to root for the San Diego Chargers in the playoffs. The thought itself makes me nauseous.

'Cassel' in the Sky:

Much to my dismay, Matt Cassel did not turn out to be the second coming of Tom Brady, try though he may. Truth be told, he didn't do a horrible job, but with an offensive line that was tailor made to fit Tom, he did the best he could. I'm wishin' and hopin' that Tom Brady is back on the field next year, however.

Leavin' on a Jet Plane:

Hahahahaha. Eric Mangini. Hahaha. Oooh. Hahaha. Hahahaha. Ha. Hum.

Leave It to the Pros:

The 2010 Pro Bowl will be moved to Miami and be played one week BEFORE the SuperBowl? Whaaaaaaaaat?

Rocky Mountain High?

After 14 seasons as head coach for the Broncos, Mike Shanahan was kicked to the curb after failing to make the playoffs for the third consecutive year. There is something seriously wrong with the Broncos' management, and I hope some amazing team team snatches him up quickly.

Cowboy Up:

Mike Shanahan should not have been fired. I think Wade Phillips, however, has some 'splainin to do.

Meanwhile...

I'll be in mourning until September.

Tweens Beware

2008-12-27T12:57:00.000-08:00

It would seem that this guy feels the same way about The Curious Case of Benjamin Button as I do about LOST. Except, you know, I would only THINK about doing it, and not ACTUALLY do it. You know.

I'm Dreaming of a ... Playoff Run

2008-12-22T09:14:00.000-08:00

Next week could be one of the only times that I will root for a New York team.

I don't pretend to understand the processes through which playoff runs are decided. All I know is that Miami and Baltimore have to lose in order to give my beloved Pats a chance at a few games in 2009. How that all came about, I don't know. I don't really understand how Miami and the NEP have the same record (10-5), (with the Jets at 9-6), and of the three, the Pats are the team that stands the most the lose. (Mattie, give me a hand here.)

Other things I don't understand (in no particular order):

1.) Why the making of a snow angel is grounds for a 15-yard penalty.
2.) Why, with a 41-0 lead in the third quarter, the starting QB was still in the game.
3.) Why the Good Lord saw fit and deprived MKO and me from our weekly does of Tedy.
4.) Why Brett Favre was named to the the Pro Bowl.

Answers from people more knowledgeable than I are most welcome. :)

Wedded Bliss

2008-12-17T10:45:00.000-08:00

Excuse me whilst I barf. (As I'm repeatedly told by my husband, I'm so unromantic.)

Today is my and Ian's three year wedding anniversary. Thanks to the Marine Corps, we have spent this day together only once. (And that day was actually my due date, and we spent the evening at my company Christmas party, where I got to watch everyone else get drunk.) Yet in spite of all that, the past three years truly have been some of the best in my life. Recap? OK.

December 18, 2005 - The Newlyweds drive to NYC for their honeymoon in Bree's grandfather's Buick. They split the driving, but somehow, Bree ends up driving the last leg through the city. Screaming, wailing, gnashing of teeth, and threats of divorce ensue.

December 19, 2005 - Bree comes down with The Plague.

December 19-21, 2005 - More wailing and gnashing of teeth. But hey, if we were going to be stuck inside, at least it was a nice room (Renaissance Hotel in the middle of Times Square). Yeah, Marriott Discount!

December 21-24 - Did I mention that we were visiting NYC during the transit strike of 2005? This severely limited our excursions to those things within walking distance. We did share a cab with some interesting folks out to Ellis Island, however. We got to see some awesome shows (Rent, The Producers, I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change), went to see David Letterman, and took in the sights.

December 25, 2005 - Bree refuses to drive in the city again. Makes Ian drive first leg back to MA. Streets are obviously deserted, and this is the easiest drive EVER.

December 31, 2005 - The Newlyweds celebrate NYE with friends in Manchester. Little Purple Hands!

January 1, 2006 - Bree drives Ian to MHT airport to catch a flight back to to Pensacola. Ian, having been "overserved," didn't come to bed until about 1.5 hours before we were supposed to leave for the airport. As a result, he is sticking his head out of the car window on the way to the airport and hiccuping through the security line.

Mid-January 2006 - Bree packs up her U-Haul with all her wordly possesions, grabs a co-worker to drive it for her and makes her way to Wilmington, NC, where Ian will be stationed at MCAS New River. Ian and Bree ("Bree-an" from here on out) settle in to their new place, and go about their new lives together.

Mid-March, 2006 - Oops! Is that a plus sign?!

Mid-July, 2006 - Bree-an's lease comes up, and Ian is supposed to finish up training any day now. Bree-an moves into their friend Shaun's beach house.

August, 2006 - 5-months-pregnant Bree and Ian begin their drive West. Before they can leave the house, however, Bree leaves her cell phone locked in Shaun's hosue. The drive "West" goes something like this: North Carolina, Washington, D.C., Boston, Maine, Toronto, Ohio, Missouri, Amarillo, Flagstaff, San Diego. 4 days of searching yields an overpriced apartment in Del Mar.

December, 2006 - One year of wedded bliss. 32 hours of contractions, 3 hours of pushing and voila! Aaron Patrick Brown, in all his glory.

August, 2007 - Sick of the overpriced apartment in college-kid ridden hell, Bree-an and offspring move to an overpriced townhouse.

September, 2007 - East coasters invade and successfully surprise Ian on his birthday.

October, 2007 - Ian deploys for Iraq. One day later, Bree and Aaron evacuate their home from SoCal wildfires threatening San Diego.

December, 2007 - First anniversary solo. Aaron's first Christmas and birthday in New England.

May, 2008 - Ian returns from Iraq!

July, 2008 - Bree-an buys their first home together.

December, 2008 - Ian is away at a three-week training in Yuma, AZ, and Bree spends the second of three anniversaries solo.

So there you have it. Through all the ups and downs, however, we still have the best time. Ian makes me laugh more than anyone else I know (with the exception of those Peyton Manning MasterCard commercials), and there is no one I would rather wait for to come home. I'll always be waiting, and I'll never stop loving you, Ian. I love you. Happy Anniversary.

The Sounds of Freedom

2008-12-09T16:02:00.000-08:00

By now, I'm sure you've seen the news about an F-18 jet that crashed into a residential neighborhood here in San Diego yesterday. (And for those of you who called me personally to confirm that all was well, thank you!) This event, while extremely unfortunate and not without consequence, does not, however, deserve the public's further scorn of military personnel in the area.

Reading some of the comments left on blogs and articles reporting on this tragedy quite honestly make me sick. I am sure that the pilot, who would have received an extensive amount of training before ever setting foot into that aircraft, did everything he could to protect not only his life, but also the lives of innocent civilians on the ground. When there are no functioning engines on an aircraft, there is no power to that aircraft. Without power, that F-18 was no more than a falling rock, and, try though he might to angle the trajectory of that rock into an uninhabited area, there is only so much he could have done.

The answer here is not to relocate Miramar, as so many have voiced their support for. Nor would it be prudent to convert Miramar into a commercial airport. (Because really, when a 757 crashes into your house, it's not going to be 4 lives that are lost, it's going to be about 400.) Pilots are not infallible human beings (though they sometimes like to think so), and paining this young man in a negative light is almost inhuman. I'm sure the knowledge that 4 people are dead as a result of his aircraft's malfunction is something that will weigh heavily on his mind and the minds of many for quite sometime. The pictures of him on his cell phone immediately following the crash are not reasons for his crucifixtion: no doubt, he was calling military emergency crews to the scene, not calling his drinking buddies with a "Duuuuude...." story. And the fact that the military currently has jurisdiction over the crash scene is not something that is being done to "cover up" what really happened. On the contrary: this was a MILITARY exercise conducted by a MILITARY pilot that went unspeakably wrong. And it will be the MILITARY that finds out what exactly that was. So back off.

And, P.S. San Diego, should you be successful in your push to relocate Miramar, don't you dare open your mouth to complain when those helicopters with their ability to dump thousands upon thosands gallons of water on your burning county in the middle of fire season are hundreds of miles away.

Tagged

2008-11-25T20:40:00.000-08:00

My friend Lois tagged me, and now it is my turn to list 7 random things about myself:

1) I silently count stairs as I walk up and/or down them. I think I may have fallen down the stairs or something as a child, but for as long as I can remember, I have counted stairs. If I know how many stairs there are, I won't be in danger of missing one.

2) I memorize license plate numbers. When I was growing up in Georgia, the plates there had 3 numbers followed by 3 letters separated by a space. Since many of my friends had similar cars, I could tell whose car was whose by the plate number. Plates in CA are a bit different, usually one number, followed by 3 letters, and 3 more numbers, with no spaces in between.

3) I silently correct the grammar of anyone to whom I speak. You'll know we are true friends if I correct your grammar out loud.

4) I cannot stand to have unpainted toenails. Even if it's clear, I must have toenail polish on in order to function. I have had some sort of toenail polish on my toes for at least the past nine years.

5) I have a very specific way of eating a cupcake. I usually lick off most of the frosting until there is just a little bit left. Then, I remove the bottom half of the cupcake and put it on the top half, and eat it like a sandwich.

6) I have a freckle in my eye. In it. On the very bottom of my iris of my left eye, there is a little dark spot. In college, I knew someone with two different colored eyes, so I felt slightly better about my eye weirdness once I met her.

7) Until Ian brought home his X-Box from Iraq, I had never owned a video game console in my life. Prior to playing Guitar Hero, the only video game I had ever played was Frogger, and that little bastard never once made it across the street.

Now, I TAG: Meghan, Andrew, Ian, and Steph.

Saturday at the Movies...

2008-11-22T22:50:00.000-08:00

I think I spent more time watching movies today than I have in the past month. Ian granted me a reprieve this afternoon, and I caught a matinee by myself. (Note: By Myself = awesome. I'm not one of those people who has a complex about seeing movies alone. In fact, sometimes, I rather enjoy it.) So I headed downtown (downtown Escondido, which is far less interesting than downtown SD) and saw Changeling, starring Angelina Jolie. I had been wanting to see this movie for awhile, but could never convince Ian that he wanted to see it, too. Finally, I stopped trying to convince him. Anyway, the movie was good, but it was long. I kept expecting it to end, but it just kept going. Parts of it were pretty disturbing, too. The basic premise (SPOILERS ahead, be ye warned) is that Ange, a single mom in the late 1920s, goes into work her shift, comes home and her son has disappeared. She reports him missing to the corrupt LAPD, who eventually return a boy to her whom they claim is her son. She knows that the boy is NOT her son, says so, and then the LAPD calls her crazy and shuts her up in a mental institution. She eventually gets out, goes public with her story, frees all the other inmates who have been committed by the police, and testifies against the Captain who was handling her case. At the end: no son. Long movie, and no happy ending. Lois would have been so pissed.

And speaking of Loie, that wonderful gal let me invite myself over to her place this evening to blow off some steam. We drank so margaritas and rented Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Now, this movie was something I had wanted to see, but figured it would be one of those flicks that I added to my Netflix queue instead of shelling out $10+ to see it in the theatre. And, truth be told, while everyone else is busy killing themselves laughig over Judd Apatow's movies, I, to this point, have been rather unimpressed: The 40-Year Old Virgin? Eh. Knocked Up? Not so much. The one (obvious) exception to this, however, is Anchorman. But I digress. Forgetting Sarah Marshall was really pretty good. There are a lot of good jokes, and although I did see waaaaay too much of Jason Segel's penis to be able to sleep peaceably ever again, it was, overall, a pretty good movie. And, from me, that is a glowing recommendation.

Boring

2008-11-19T23:32:00.000-08:00

It's becoming more and more obvious recently that Ian and I are not being invited to certain social events within a particular group. And, other than getting a little butt-hurt over the whole thing, and not having much to contribute to conversations on the off chance that I AM invited to such shindigs, I'm pretty ok with it. I may only be 25 years old, but my partying and bar-hopping days are long gone. Truth be told, I didn't particularly enjoy it even when I could just go out night after night with no familial obligations. I don't like going to crowded places where you have to pay just to get in the door, where drinks cost as much as the cover, and where you have to yell to the person standing right next to you while migraine-inducing bad music streams from speakers placed right next to your ear. This is assuming that you're not still circling the block looking for a parking spot before you ultimately surrender and cough up the $20 to park in a poorly lit lot no less than a mile from the bar which you plan on attending. Maybe it's just me, but that's just not appealing anymore. Even a couple of glasses of wine with dinner now result in a headache and a fistful of Advil in the morning.

And, when all is said and done, who can really afford that? Congratulations if you you can blow that much money weekend after weekend, but I know many of those people also stay at home with their kids, just like I do. (For now. In other news, I GOT A JOB! But that isn't the point of this post.) I have a mortgage, student loans, car payments, bills, bills, bills, a two year old who is growing out of his clothes before I can buy them, and more bills on top of that.

So yes, I am out of the loop. I'm not cool, I don't like to party. I'm a nerd. I am boring. But when all is said and done, I'd rather sit at home and play trucks with my kid. I'd rather sit on the couch with my husband and laugh. I'd rather make dinner for my family and splash with my son in the tub.

Thankfully, I have a wonderful, close-knit group of friends who feel the same way. While we do occasionally enjoy an evening out downtown, these nights are usually planned well in advance and executed with the logistical equivalent of a SWAT team. However, these nights are few and far between, and you are much more likely to find us sitting around one of our living rooms with a couple of bottles of wine, good conversation, and many, many laughs. We sometimes get a little crazy and play some Cranium.

Crying with Jealousy

2008-11-10T15:55:00.000-08:00

Oh, how I hate Meghan....

President Elect

2008-11-04T21:35:00.000-08:00

There is nothing more obnoxious to me than people who, once their candidate has lost, "threaten" to move out of the country. Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out, people: America is a democracy, and the fact that you even have the right to choose your president puts you above so many other people in the world. America's citizens voted, and if your choice was in the minority, too bad. You have a duty to support the President Elect of the United States, and if you are too narrow minded and closed off from reality to realize this duty, then please, by all means, LEAVE the country. I will help you pack.

Sassy

2008-10-09T16:29:00.001-07:00

Sarah Palin may have just earned my vote...

Hyperbole

2008-10-04T11:49:00.000-07:00

"Joe Biden exaggerates so much, he lives on a completely different planet."

~My GOP-faithful husband, said with no discernible trace of irony

Adventures in Babysitting

2008-09-25T08:44:00.001-07:00

This morning was an interesting one for me. Two days a week, for sanity-saving purposes, I take Aaron to daycare. Those treasured Tuesdays and Thursdays allow me time to job search, go on interviews, get some stuff done around the house, and, like today, go get my hair cut. I wake up on Tuesdays and Thursdays a happy person, because I know that I won't be losing my temper on an hourly basis, fighting the stubborn will of an almost-two-year-old all day long. I don't think I'm a bad mother for those two days, because I think it provides me a breath of fresh air, since it seems that my son inherited his stubbornness, short temper, and hardheadedness from his mama. And when you put the two of us together for an extended period of time, tempers flare and he usually wins.

So you can imagine that this Thursday morning (sidenote: yay Thursday! Tonight The Office and Grey's Anatomy come back!!) I was pretty much happy go lucky. Until I walked into Aaron's room to wake him up and get him dressed. HE WASN'T THERE. Um, ok, so the gate in the hallway was up, so there were limited places he could be. Guest room? Nope. Bathroom? Nope. Did he manage to sneak into our bedroom whilst I was performing -- er, morning duties? Nope, not there either. OK, he can't climb over the gate, so what's going on? I call out his name -- no babbling response. I start to panic. But before paranoia sets in, i walk back into his room. Why is that blanket in the corner? Ah ha. There he is, sleeping soundly on the floor tucked in the corner of his room, fully hidden from view underneath the blanket.

I get him dressed, get his shoes on, and tell him we're going bye bye. (He waves at me.) Ok, let's go. Where are Mama's car keys? .... hmm, where are Mama's car keys?

"Aaron? Keys?"

"teeeeeeees."

"Aaron, where are Mama's car keys? You know, KEYS? For the car? Car goes beep beep."

"Buh-beep."

"Yes, good job. Beep beep. Where are Mama's car keys?"

"Teeeeeeeees."

Getting nowhere fast, I scour the house for the keys, looking in all the usual places: in the sofa cushions, behind the loveseat, in the broiler (yes, that is a "usual spot."), behind the TV. Nothing.

After a full thirty minutes of searching EVERYWHERE, (it's a small house, and there aren't that many hiding places!) I'm starting to fear a full day at home alone with child and no way to leave. The thought is petrifying. So I intensify my search. OK, think like a toddler. Nothing too high, so the keys are definitely below my waist. What did we do yesterday? We ran around the living room. Under the coffee table... no. On the bookshelves? No. Double check the couch cushions and behind the loveseat. No. Windowsill? No. Ok, what else did we do? Pulled out more toys from the toy box. The toy box. YES. The sight of that SAC keychain almost makes me cry. Hurry up, kid, you're off to daycare, and Mama's on her way to sanity.

A Word

2008-09-21T21:55:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting on my couch, watching the Emmy Awards (sidenote: to get to this page, I had to open my internet brower, where my homepage ruined any surprise that I may have had at the conclusion of this show. But that's another rant...) and I just have to say that I am getting more and more annoyed with celebrities who think that they are in any way qualified to tell me that their political views and opinions are valued simply because of their profession. Here's a newsflash, folks, you are ACTORS. I watch you for entertainment purposes ONLY. If I wanted to hear what you had to say regarding the current administration, or your views on the respective candidates, I would require that you have more credibility and the ability to do more than pretend to be someone you're not. Because, let's face it, that's what you're paid to do. Entertain me. And don't for a second think that you will influence my vote. I can think for myself, thank you very much.

My Friend Meghan

2008-09-21T17:17:00.001-07:00

I've been holding off on this post, because I wanted to be able to tell you all about my new job, why I left my old job, and all sorts of other new and exciting things, but since I don't HAVE a new job, and things are more or less the same, that blog has yet to materialize. However, since my lack of blogging seemingly has caused other undue distress, I have decided to make this blog entry about My Friend Meghan.

We often refer to Meghan as MKO. Before she married Andrew (more on that later), her last name was O'Brien. Her middle name begins with a "K." And while I know what her middle name is, I'm not positive she likes having it advertised. So hence, MKO. So if you ever see me refer to an "MKO," it's very likely that I'm not talking about one of the Olsen twins.

Meghan married Andrew (and for those of you who like to combine names, a la Brangelina, Bennifer, and the like, these two are dubbed "Meghandrew." Please don't forget the "h," as Meghan will kill you. Kill you dead.), and Andrew was Ian's college roommate for four years. They have a man love that Meghan and I will never nor ever want to understand. Whenever they're together, it's like Meghan and I are not even in the room. And occasionally, we're ok with that. Other times, such as in 2001-02, we form clubs, such as WACS. (Women Against Counter Strike). Whenever I see this video, I often think of Ian and his BFF Andrew. (Though it is also quite funny of it's own accord.)

Meghan is a Liability Adjuster at The Hanover Insurance Group. Or so it says on her LinkedIn profile. I think that means that she decides whose fault it is. You'd have to ask her to find out for sure, though.

Meghan's favorite TV show is Gilmore Girls, and I think she was seriously depressed when the show went off the air.

Meghan and I wore the same dress to the senior formal, and as a result, we refused to be photographed standing next to each other:

Meghan's wedding had golf carts, and my husband, an attendant in the wedding party STILL talks about how cool that was, and how we should have had golf carts at our wedding. Then I remind him that we got married in DECEMBER, and the Meghandrew nuptials were in JUNE.

This is a picture of Meghan and I when she and some of our other friends came out to San Diego last year to surprise Ian on his birthday. Meghandrew TOLD me they were going to come out to San Diego again this year, but then they went to D.C. I'm still not sure the hurt has fully healed for either Ian or myself, but Meghan assures me that, when I least expect it, she will be sitting on my couch waiting to be entertained. I LEAST EXPECT IT EVERY DAY, MEGHAN!

Meghan and I are both HUGE Patriots fans. When Ian and I move back to New England, we are going to go to a lot of games together. I haven't yet told her about my plan to go in 50/50 on season tickets when that happens, but I think she'll find out about it soon enough...

So that's My Friend Meghan. And since I rather enjoyed writing that post, I might make it a feature, and tell you all about my other friends, too.

Pompous Caboodle-Hole

2008-08-25T16:12:00.000-07:00

(Title derived from a funny Scrubs episode.)

I will tend to do exactly the opposite of whatever Michael Moore proposes. If he told me to go to the bathroom, I would hold it. This would have been a good idea had Mr. Moore not suggested it. And here he goes again with thinking that he's God's gift to politics, this time promoting nation-wide illiteracy. Please, Mr. Moore, don't tell me how to spend my time, otherwise, it just might be spent thinking of different ways to call you an arrogant SOB.

In other news, I'll soon be posting in exquisite detail just what, exactly, I've been up to recently. I know you're on the edge of your seat, squirm-ily dancing in anticipation.

The Big One

2008-07-30T14:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was an interesting day for me. As I sat in my cubicle around 11:45, thinking about lunch while exchanging phone calls with our escrow officer as we desperately tried to close on our house, I got a little dizzy and started swaying.

Or so I thought.

After a few seconds, I realized that I wasn’t the only thing swaying. So was my computer, and the walls of my cube, and the plants all around the office. I heard a co-worker exclaim as though she were on a roller coaster; someone else yelled out “Earthquake!” Then, the swaying stopped and the shaking started.

Now, I’m a die-hard east coaster. Give me a nor’easter or a blizzard or a tornado or a hurricane any day of the week. I’ve lived through those, and I know what to do when they occur. And although the first time wasn’t necessarily a charm, I’m now a bit more educated in the wildfire scenario as well. Earthquakes, however, a bit new and mostly an unwelcome experience for me.

When things started shaking, and the walls began moving back and forth, the voices on my floor elevated. This wasn’t a typical earthquake—something you usually classify as momentary dizziness and dismiss before looking at your neighbor, who seems to have come down with the same case of dizziness simultaneously, before you’re both like, “oh, wait, what? Was that an earthquake?”—no, this time there was no questions. I stood up (why? I don’t know. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? No? Oh well.) and looked around, watching a few of my more experienced coworkers run for doorways or hit the floor. It eventually went through my head that I probably didn’t want to be standing right then, and I kneeled under my desk for the next terrifying 15 seconds or so.

When it stopped, things were still a bit shaky. It was like I’d just been on a boat for hours and stepped onto land—that woozy, discombobulating feeling. While my coworkers shared their various clichés, (“That was a doozy!” “ Holy cow!” and the like) I jumped onto my computer and Googled “recent earthquakes.” Within seconds, I was able to inform them that it was a 5.8 (which would later be downgraded to a 5.4) magnitude quake that hit Chino Hills. (Which sparked another debate as to the location of Chino – wasn’t that in NorCal? You know, up by Stockton? No, that’s Chico—Chino is outside of L.A.)

Thankfully, as The Governator later reminded us, L.A. came out rather lucky. CNN also reports that “The Big One” is still to come – that within the next 30 years, there’s a 99% chance that California will experience an earthquake of 6.7 magnitude or greater. (Good thing we just signed a 30-year loan! Hello, irony.) Hopefully by then, I’ll be shoveling my way out of my driveway in New England.

The Light At the End of the Tunnel...

2008-07-24T14:26:00.000-07:00

My time has come, people. Today, I put in my two weeks' notice at my job. After almost thirteen months, I just got tired of being told to hurry up and wait for an opportunity to arise. Now, I will actively seeking opportunities myself, and not waiting for them to come to me. So, if you have any friends and/or contacts in the San Diego area looking for writers/editors/proofreaders, please think of me. You will receive a shout out on this world-famous blog.

Don't Believe the Hype

2008-07-23T13:02:00.001-07:00

Don't panic. If you haven't yet seen The Dark Knight, it's going to be ok. It can wait.

Now, I'm not saying the movie wasn't good. It was. But, with all the hype and excitement surrounding the release, I had great expectations. Was the movie thought-provoking and intriguing? Yes. Heath Ledger's performance was admirable, yes, but in my opinion, hardly worth all this posthumous Oscar win buzz.

Overall, it was a good movie, and an unexpected and enjoyable night out, but I'm now much more excited to see Mamma Mia! (with my own Mamma!)

We Are ... Blubbering Fools

2008-07-20T12:46:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I signed up for the most basic Netflix package there was. Recently, my queue included We Are Marshall, starring Matthew McConaghey and Matthew Fox. To me, there could be absolutely nothing better than a movie about football with Matthew Fox in it. But then I sat down to watch it.

Within minutes, I was sobbing uncontrollably. I was also watching this movie with This Guy I Know, to Whom I May or May Not Be Married. He, too, was more than a little misty-eyed. Now, I have, in the past, been accused of being cold-hearted... well... ok, a bitch. While my four other girlfriends were sobbing their faces off during P.S. I Love You, it took every ounce of my self-control not to throw my head back and groan at the sheer sappiness and utter predictability of it all. Obviously, I have no heart. So, clearly, We Are Marshall can even tug at the heartstrings of an unfeeling wench.

Next up on our queue is Blades of Glory... I'm pretty sure no tears will be shed over that one. However, Saint Lois has agreed to babysit (a.k.a. "wrangle") for us tonight, so we're heading out to see The Dark Knight, and, from what I've heard, Heath Ledger's performance just actually might make one reach for the hankies. I'll keep you updated on that one.

Coming Soon to a Bedroom Near You...

2008-07-12T07:53:00.000-07:00

(get your mind out of the gutter, people.)

... A Toddler Bed. Yes, that's right. This morning, I awoke to a loud thump, followed by the sounds of my child's screams. Fear not, everything and everyone are fine; I think Aaron was more scared by what had happened than he was hurt. Nontheless, we have lowered the mattress in his crib to the lowest possible setting, but given Aaron's recent tendency to climb everything (including into his high chair, on to the kitchen counter, up onto his changing table, and into our bed), I am under no illusions that soon, he will be the proud occupant of a Toddler Bed. Yes, apparently my son has monkey genes.

Excuse Me, Where Could I Find An 'I Love Your New Hair Color!' Card?

2008-07-11T14:39:00.000-07:00

I recently went into a Hallmark store in search of a meaningful parting gift for the outgoing COW (a rather misleading acronym referring to the spouse of the squadron's commanding officer). While I was there, I was rather astonished to behold the sheer number of "category" cards present. No matter the situation, be it a loved one's "coming out," the abandonment of one's dream, or even being overlooked for a professional promotion (I think I have many of those cards lost somewhere in the mail), Hallmark has just the card for you. So next time you wish to send your heartfelt congratulations to a friend who was just selected for a reality TV show, swing into your local Hallmark to pick up a card that says just that.

Lazy Saturdays...

2008-07-11T14:34:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER: Apparently, I posted this blog on the wrong website. For those of you who read my LOST blog, you were probably a bit confused. This blog should have been posted here, on Saturday, June 28.

I love Saturdays like these. 3.5 hour naps, big breakfasts, and cheesy Lifetime movies. I'm telling ya, ya can't beat it. (Well, Sundays during football season give lazy summer Saturdays a run for their money.)

Still not much going on in the Browns' life. We're in escrow until the end of the month, then, for the 4th time in 2.5 years, we'll be moving. Yay military life. (Though granted, the last two moves have been inter-city, and more or less our own choice than that of the military.)

Ian and I enjoyed our monthly Parents' Night Out last night. After mandatory fun at a squadron hail-and-farewell, a military tradition of welcoming the newbies and bidding adieu to those moving on in their military careers, we headed to the movies to catch Get Smart, the new movie starring Steve Carell and Anne Hathaway. Some discussion had been made as to whether to see this movie or the new James MacAvoy/Angelina Jolie action flick, Wanted. Though I'm a HUGE JMac fan (Becoming Jane? LOVED IT. Atonement? Cue heavenly angels' chorus!), I wasn't at all disappointed by Get Smart - the humor was there, the dialogue was witty, and the twist was pretty good, too. Still, I am more than willing to entertain offers of babysitting in order to go see Wanted. :)

I'm A Horrible Blogger...

2008-06-19T18:47:00.001-07:00

...but in my defense, there's not been much happening in the Brown household as of late. Oh, except for the fact that the Brown household will be relocating (yes, AGAIN, and NO, you don't have to help us move!) come August. Over the course of a head-spinning EIGHT days, we met our realtors for the first time, applied and got approved for a loan, viewed two properties, put in an offer on one of them, flew across the country (where the local Kinko's workers came to know us quite well from our prolific use of their fax machine), and finally ended up with our dream house. OK, so maybe it's not our DREAM house, but for our first time around the block, you gotta admit, it ain't that bad:

And I will try to be a better blogger. Cross my heart.

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted...

2008-06-06T10:17:00.000-07:00

Currently coming to you live from Boston, where it is cold and rainy and I LOVE IT. The Celtics won game 1, and hubby and I are in the throes of offers and counter offers and counter counter offers. Yes, we're well on our way to becoming homebuyers, and all that that entails. Ooh rah.

Hahahaha

2008-05-16T12:37:00.000-07:00

Maybe only an English major like myself can appreciate the utter hilarity I found in the following:

"Haikus are easy

But often don't make much sense

Refrigerator."

Military Spouse Appreciation Day!

2008-05-09T17:46:00.000-07:00

To all my sisters out there, Happy Military Spouse Appreciation Day! The following has been circulating around the MySpace bulletin board this morning, but (with a few edits for grammatical errors!!) I thought it was worth reposting.

Here's to you, the one who waits, no matter the distance, no matter the time.

Here's to you, the one who fights your own battle at home, between the tears and sleepless nights.

Here's to you, the one who will never give up, even when everything around you seems to be falling down.

And here's to you, because while people may think they know how tough it is to be a hero, no one but us will ever know how tough it is to love one...

Semper Fi, ladies! :)

Blog It Out...

2008-04-29T19:33:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was a very dark day in my life. As I am wont to do, I let my gas tank get down to the point where I would have been That Crying Girl on the side of the road who pushed her car to the limit and lost if I didn't stop for gas ASAP. So stop I did, and that is where it begins to get all fuzzy.

The Chevron I pulled into was selling regular unleaded gasoline at $3.99 a gallon. As I threw up in my mouth at the thought of having no choice but to fill my tank with most of my day's earnings, it occurred to me that I was also lacking milk at home to give to my son with his dinner. So I swiped my card, filling my tank, and headed inside to pick up the moo juice. I found the whole milk my son requires and stopped. And STARED. The price tag below the gallon indicating the price was typed in Bold. $5.99. I took it to the counter and once again swiped my card. And then I died on the inside.

After I pulled out of the lot, I called someone who I felt would also feel my hurt on this particular subject, given his propensity for outrage at paying $3.30 at the pump. After we discussed (in no particular order) juice, UTIs, Democrats, and the superiority of the East Coast over the West, we got down to the heart of the matter, and after I cried and gnashed my teeth, Andrew suggested I Blog It Out. So, though you may or may not share my pain at the pump, your sentiments of outrage, shock, despair, and/or disgust would certainly be appreciated.

The Lawnmower Man

2008-04-26T15:03:00.000-07:00

To: The Anonymous Lawnmower Man

From: Bree

Re: My Lawn

On April 23, 2008, someone mowed my lawn. And weeded. And edged. And pruned. And cleared out that nasty area around the palms. And I don't know who it was.

My first guess was that it was the handiwork of my super fabulous next-door neighbors, since, on several occasions, Lt. Col. Mike and the girls have been out there weeding, etc. But, when I thanked Ralita, she knew nothing of it. Yesterday, she confirmed that no, neither Lt. Col. Mike nor her father had done my lawn, but that her father had mentioned seeing "some guy" out there working.

So, to you, "some guy," thank you. I know my botanical upkeep has slipped since Ian has been gone, but hey, it was winter, and it was ok. But now that it's warm again, and since I got that letter from the HOA telling me that my yard was "unacceptable" (but that's another angry story for another day wherein I tell the HOA to PISS OFF) I have felt slightly bad that I lack the ability to keep anything green alive. At least the inside of my house (when it's clean) looks substantially better than when Ian left! I feel slightly victorious about that.

So anyway, thank you again, Anonymous Lawnmower. That was very nice of you, and if you come forward and reveal your identity, you will receive an award.

Most Sincerely,

BriBro

Dear Pennsylvania...

2008-04-23T13:21:00.000-07:00

I don't like you very much right now, as it seems all you are doing is prolonging an already exhausting election process. At least a win for Obama would have (mostly) solidified the Democratic nomination in his favor. At this point, my bigger issue is that neither candidate can seem to close the deal, and that doesn't leave me very confident that Democrats have their s**t together in the first place. Maybe the Dems need another four years to get their ducks in a row?

Assimilation

2008-04-04T20:51:00.000-07:00

While I in no way consider myself a Californian, there are a few things of which I have recently become aware, that frighten me to no end. (Most notably, the fact that as temperatures dipped into the low 60s and the day was overcast, I thought to myself that "it's a bit chilly today.") I like lists, so we'll do it that way:

The word "dude." While it's always been a part of my vocabulary, it has never had such a prominence in my vernacular until living in SoCal. Everyone is a dude. Duuuuude.
"The" is, apparently, a requirement in preceding any highway. Directions to my house include: Take the 5 north to the 56 and head east. Take the 15 south to the Mercy Road exit. Also of note: never before, in all my travels on the east coast, would I have made it to a destination relying on cardinal directions. Here, it's pretty much a given, but I constantly mentally think, "Never Eat Sour Worms."
Flip-flops. All. The. Time.
Bicyclists. Man, do they effin' annoy me. But, when gas is at $3.60 a gallon for the cheap stuff, I can't say I blame 'em.

Now, don't get me wrong, there are still puhhhhlenty of things about the left coast that still really piss me off. Numero Uno: It's called sarcasm, people. I don't actually mean it. Numero Dos: No Dunkin' Donuts. Numero Tres: Fires = NOT COOL. Give me a Nor'Easter any day of the week. Numero Next One: No Dunkin' Donuts. Numero Next One: Celebrities everywhere who actually think I give a shit about what they say, especially in regard to politics. And, lastly, there's no Dunkin' Donuts.

But, I think, when it comes down to it, when we do eventually meander back to the east coast, there are a few things I will definitely miss.... ok, really, only one thing is coming to mind: mexican food. I do love me my cadillac margaritas!

40 Days and 40 Nights

2008-03-24T10:16:00.000-07:00

Now that Easter has come and gone, and Lent has gone with it (and yes, I managed the WHOLE 40 days without celebrity gossip, and I feel like I'm a much better person for it... I will, however, be getting the scoop from Perez here momentarily, thankyouverymuch), my son and I will be embarking upon another 40 day stretch. Except this time, at the end of 40 days and 40 nights, our family will be whole once again.

I still have a punch list I'd like to finish up before Ian gets home, but I'm pretty happy with what I've already accomplished while he's been over there. I'm pretty proud of myself, too, for being able to handle everything that has been thrown my way. (Albeit, with less grace than I would have hoped for, but hey, I can't split hairs like that.) I never thought that I wouldn't be able to handle everything, but I'm surprised that I haven't had more meltdowns. And, aside from a bump here and a bruise there, Aaron is none the worse for wear, either. I know I should hardly expect a gold medal or a mother-of-the-year award, but I know I've done the best I can with what I have. I am, however, looking very forward to a nice, long vacation that involves a lot of sleeping and massages.

I realize that I'm rambling, and that this post is probably one of my least prolific and verbose, but it is, after all, Monday morning. Give me a break.

It (Updated)

2008-03-06T15:48:00.000-08:00

I suppose the time has come for us to talk about It. But, it must be said, we really don't want to. This was a conversation I had with my hairdresser recently:

Sia: "Blah, blah, blah, blah..."
Me: "Uh huh."
Sia: "Blah, blah blah, blah bah."
Me: "Oh yeah?"
Sia: "OH! And I haven't seen you since It happened!"
Me: (pregnant pause... just because I like that phrase. It has nothing to do with me being pregnant. Because I'm not. That would be awkward, and I would have to do some serious explaining to Ian. In retrospect, this explanation wasn't worth the fun expression...) "Sia! I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!"
Sia: "Oh, neither do I, trust me, honey. Worst night of my life. But I love that you know what I'm talking about."

That's right. My very Greek hairdresser and I, we're Patriots fans. And in a city like San Diego, once you utter those words, you are either met with laughs and jeers, or outright hatred. Here in the Whale's Vagina, sympathy, empathy, or simply someone who won't spit at your face is hard to come by. So we, the few but faithful, have to stick together, and we have managed to do that by honoring our silent agreement to just not talk about It. Since that fateful night in February, we've just sat here, our heads in our hands, wondering just where it all went wrong. We've only dared to peek through the slits in our fingers to see if Moss would ever get the ink in his pen working, and now that it is certain that 12 + 81 = 6 will return for another season, we can begin to assess the damage.

Sometimes, it feels like we're just emerging into the sunlight after a huge storm that swept everything away. We've lost a lot; our house is destroyed, and we lost some of our family members (i.e., Samuel, Stallworth, and Gay). There was so much hype, this was going to be the year. From week 4, all anyone could talk about was the Pursuit of Perfection, yet our boys kept their game faces on, week after week, chanting their mantra, "One game at a time." Bill "I'm a Football God" Belichick fed them regular doses of Humble Pie, and by the time Week 16 rolled around (in what would be a chilling precursor to The Night Which Will Live in Infamy), we were ready to make history. Which we did. Sorta. Not that that is what will be remembered this season. What will be remembered? SpyGate, the Perfect Collapse, and how much it hurt when we had to swallow that jagged little pill and admit that almost doesn't count.

Some people have laughed at us, looked at us right in the face, and said, "Cheaters never prosper," "What goes around comes around," and other cliche-ridden sentiments that can hardly capture our disappointment. What these people fail to realize however, that no matter what they say, or what comes out about our team (no matter how scandalous) that the Patriots will always be Our Team. We can no less cheer for the Chargers (unless, of course, they happen to be playing the Colts) than we can go a day without breathing. Through the good times (now) and the bad times (every year prior to 2001), the Pats will be our team. So go on and hate, because nothing you say will change that loyalty. Which (must get in a subtle dig here) is more than we can say for you, San Diego, and your fairweather fans who chant "Mar-ty, Mar-ty, Mar-ty" 3 games into a regular season.

Now, all this might seem melodramatic and over the top, but when you're as emotionally invested in a season as Patriots fans were this season, it's bound to be a crushing blow. For those of us who actually have to work at it in order to even see the games, it's especially hard. We can't wake up, go to church, head to brunch, chat with friends and then come back home to settle in for a night of football. We actually have to get up, and find a place where 1) the game will actually be broadcast and 2) a place where it's well lit or 2a) there are other Pats fans in attendance. This year, after fighting and ultimately losing my battle (and subsequently, my Sunday Ticket) with DirecTV, it was more difficult for me to get out and see the games, especially once the single mother thing kicked in. So yeah, I was emotionally invested. And yeah, I did cry when It happened.

But I'm over it. And though August is a long ways off, I'm more confident than ever that our boys will be back next year in top form. So watch out, 'cause here come the Pats! :)

The Best $10 I Ever Spent (This Weekend)

2008-03-03T09:48:00.000-08:00

One of the best birthday gifts I ever received came from an ex-boyfriend. (Sorry, Ian! You showing up unexpectedly in Manch was top-notch, however.) For my 19th birthday, this guy took me to see the Goo Goo Dolls at The Tabernacle in Atlanta. For those of you unfamiliar with the venue, The Tabernacle was formerly an old church, hence the name, and is a smaller space, so to go to a show there means that you are within striking distance of whomever is performing.

Prior to the show, I had obviously heard of the Goo Goo Dolls and could even sing a few of their songs. After seeing that show, though, I was hooked and they became My Most Favoritest Band. I immediately had their album Gutterflower downloaded, and also picked up Let Love In when it became available. This weekend, while pushing a screaming child through the aisles of Target, my eye caught sight of this:

On sale. For $9.99. Love it.

Trying

2008-03-02T08:18:00.000-08:00

Well, we are right about there with only 2 months to go in this deployment. And, try as hard as I might not to, I'm getting really excited. It's not that I don't want to be excited, it's just that there are still 2 months -- 8 weeks -- left to go, and I should focus on getting through those rather than think ahead. All this is made more difficult by small things that keep my mind unfocused. For example, receiving an email from my KV regarding the Return and Reunion Brief scheduled for March 29. All the talk of the relief squadron's advance party making preparations to leave. People asking me whether or not I'm excited. (Duh.) In short, as long as I can make my mind think about the fact that there's still 8 weeks to go, and a lot can happen during that time, and not focus on that number of days left getting smaller and smaller, I think I'll be ok.

And on a similar note, here is something that I have discussed in the past with my fellow military wife, Jaime, whose husband returned from Iraq in March 2007. PLEASE don't ask us if we're excited. I mean, honestly, I truly love it that you care, and I have really appreciated all your support during this deployment, but the answer to that question should be overly obvious. In fact, so obvious that I think I might change my answer from "Yes, really excited," to "You know, I hadn't thought about it. But I guess it will be a little awkward when I have to kick my boyfriend out of the house." You know, just to see how you'll react.

That made me think of this: Things You Should Never Say to a Military Wife. Learn it, live it, love it. (Courtesy of Lois)

THINGS NEVER TO SAY TO A MILITARY WIFE!!!

Things Never to say to a Military Wife...Especially those whose loved ones are deployed...

1. "Aren't you afraid that he'll be killed?"
(This one ranks in at number one on the "duh" list. Of course we're afraid. We're terrified. The thought always lingers at the backs of our minds ---but thanks, you just brought it back to the front. Maybe next you can go ask someone with cancer if they're scared of dying.)

2. "I don't know how you manage. I don't think I could do it."
(This is intended to be a compliment. Though, its just a little annoying. Here's why: it's not like all of us military wives have been dreaming since childhood of the day we'd get to be anxious single moms who carry cell phones with us to the bathroom and in the shower. We're not made of some mysterious matter that makes us more capable, we just got asked to take on a challenging job. So we rose to the challenge and found the strength to make sacrifices.)

3. "At least he's not in Iraq."
(This is the number one most annoying comment for those whose husbands are in Afghanistan. What do they think is happening in Afghanistan? An international game of golf? Guys are fighting and dying over there. And Africa is no better either…where do you think the bad guys are hiding out?!)

4. "Do you think he'll get to come home for Christmas/anniversary/birthday/birth of a child/wedding/family reunion, etc?"
(Don't you watch the news? No! They don't get to come home for any of these things. Please don't ask again.)

5. "What are you going to do to keep yourself busy while he's gone?"
(Short answer: Try to keep my sanity. Maybe there's a military wife out there who gets bored when her husband leaves, but I have yet to meet her. For the rest of us, those with and without children, we find ourselves having to be two people. That keeps us plenty busy. We do get lonely, but we don't get bored, and drinking massive amounts of alcohol can occasionally help!!!)

6. "How much longer does he have until he can get out?"
(This one is annoying to many of us whether our husbands are deployed or not. Many of our husbands aren't counting down the days until they "can" get out. Many of them keep signing back up again and again because they actually love what they do or they VOLUNTEER AGAIN and AGAIN to go back to Iraq b/c there is work that needs to be done.)

7. "This deployment shouldn't be so bad, now that you're used to it."
(Sure, we do learn coping skills and its true the more deployments you've gone through, the easier dealing with it becomes. And we figure out ways to make life go smoother while the guys are gone. But it never gets "easy" and the bullets and bombs don't skip over our guys just because they've been there before. The worry never goes away.)

8. "My husband had to go to Europe for business once for three weeks. I totally know what you're going through."
(This one is similar to number two. Do not equate your husband's three week trip to London/Omaha/Tokyo/etc. with a 12-15 month or more deployment to a war zone. Aside from the obvious time difference, nobody shot at your husband or tried to blow him up with an I.E.D., your husband could call home pretty much any time he wanted to, he flew comfortably on a commercial plane, slept between crisp white sheets and ate well, paying for everything with an expense account. There is no comparison. We do not feel bonded to you in the slightest because of this comment and, if anything, we probably resent you a bit for it. Comparing a 12 month combat deployment to a few weeks business trip is like comparing a crappy ford taurus with mercedes convertible.) (... I recently had a co-worker admire me, since when her husband left FOR FOUR DAYS, she almost went crazy.)

9. "Wow you must miss him?"
(This one also gets another big "duh". Of course we miss our men. There are some wives who do not and they're now divorced.)

10. "Where is he exactly? Where is that?"
(I don't expect non-military folks to be able to find Anbar Province on a map, but they should know by now that it's in Iraq. Likewise, know that Kabul and Kandahar are in Afghanistan. Know that Muqtada al Sadr is the insurgent leader of the Mahdi Army in Iraq and that Sadr City is his home area. Know that Iran is a major threat to our country and that it is located between Afghanistan and Iraq. Our country has been at war in Afghanistan for seven years and at war in
Iraq for five years. These basic facts are not secrets, they're on the news every night and in the papers every day ---and on maps everywhere.)

11. "Well, he signed up for it, so it's his own fault whatever happens over there."
(Yes, he did sign up. Each and every day he protects your right to make stupid comments like that. He didn't sign up and ask to be hit by anything, he signed up to protect his country. Oh, and by the way, he asked me to tell you that "You're welcome." He's still fighting for your freedom.)

12. "Don't you miss sex! I couldn't do it!"
(Hmmm, no, I don't miss sex. I'm a robot. Seriously...military spouses learn quickly that our relationships must be founded on something greater than sex. We learn to appreciate the important things, like simply hearing their voices, seeing their faces, being able to have dinner together every night.)

last but not least....

13. "OH, that's horrible...I'm so sorry!"
(He's doing his job and he's a badass. Don't be sorry. Be appreciative and please take a moment out of your comfortable
American lives to realize that our soldiers fight the wars abroad so those wars stay abroad.)

So there you go. Perhaps some are a little harsh, a little more sarcastic than maybe I would have said to someone who said one of those things, but you get the general idea.

BUT, on the bright side.... only 2 more months!!

Drool....

2008-02-29T15:36:00.001-08:00

Dear God,

Thank you.

Love,
Bree

hotness.

Will Work for Football

2008-02-25T11:08:00.000-08:00

Though I'm not quite ready to talk about what happened on that fateful night a few weeks ago, I'm already starting to feel its void in my life. My Sundays just aren't the same. I do, in fact, feel an actual pull to ESPN on Sunday mornings, and am dismayed that instead of seeing Jimmy, and Boomer, and all those other tools in fancy suits, there's bowling or something else equally boring on. How many more months until the preseason? :(

Maybe It's Me...

2008-02-23T17:23:00.000-08:00

...but stuff like this doesn't endear her to me in any way. I've never been the biggest Hilary fan as it was, but this just makes her seem like the little girl who got her pigtails pulled on the playground and went and told the teacher.

Angry...

2008-02-13T07:36:00.000-08:00

Seperate from my LOST blog, which, by rights, does not delve into anything other than topical posts on the TV show, I have started this blog to purge my thoughts on other subjects. (Although, admittedly, thoughts that have nothing to do with LOST are few and far between.)

With that said, I don't claim to be a member of the Democratic party, nor of the Republican party. If forced to choose, however, you will find that I have more conservative tendencies. If you are looking for heated debate from a liberal perspective, I suggest you go here. If you read that, and find you disagree with what he says, you will most likely find that this guy does, too. Then, finally if you wish to read running commentary about the Gilmore Girls, go here. (Shameless plugging of friends' blogs: check.)

I don't usually wax on all things political, philosophical, vegetable, animal, and mineral (stupid song's stuck in my head now), and you will probably find that I will contradict myself on a number of occassions. No need to point it out, I'm more than well aware of it. I'm Catholic, but not a very good one. I'm a parent. I consider myself educated. I'm Irish, and have the temper to prove it. I married a Marine, who is currently deployed in Iraq, and I hate it when people say they support the troops, but not the war, since supporting one requires support of the other. I (sometimes unwillingly) am a resident of the State of California, and I find it hilarious to say that The Terminator is my governor. With that said, it paves the way to my reason this morning for blogging...

Berkeley, California is a disgrace to the human race.

Now, I understand that this war the military is fighting (because let's face it, we are not a country at war, we are a country whose military is at war, and to dispute that fact is just plain ignorant.) has dragged on for quite some time, and believe me when I say I wouldn't be the happiest woman on the planet if the war was over and my husband could come back home. But that is just not possible. To pull an entire military out of an as-yet-unstable and unsecured location would be to negate every good thing for which they have worked. Granted, however, you don't see the good stuff on televsion, and you don't read about the good stuff in the newspaper. But good stuff is happening, and we are making progress. Citizens of Berkeley, though, make every good thing that has happened over there all for not.

Now, please don't get me wrong. My husband, my friends, and their fellow marines are fighting for our rights every day. And those rights include free speech and the right to assemble. But, if you are going to take a stand for something, if you are going to buck tradition, if you are going to cause a commotion, you better be prepared for the repurcussions. It seems that Berkeley, however, has bitten off a bit more than it can chew. When the City Council announced that marine recruiters were not welcome in the city, and that if they chose to stay there, it would be as "unwelcome and uninvited" guests, they had to know that they were starting a maelstrom of ill will from military supporters. In a Wednesday night meeting, however, the spineless City Council members rescinded their vote, proving to the world that when it comes to money, your principles don't really matter. So here's to you, Berkeley, and here's to you, Cindy Sheehan, and finally, especially, here's to you, members of Westboro Baptist Church, because we will still fight for you, abhorrent human beings though you are. I look forward to watching you in the afterlife, sucking scum from hell's fiery pools of acid, while the men and women you disrespect, denegrate, and deride for performing their civic duties are exalted, honored, and can, finally, rest in peace.

And to you, my husband, my friends and fellow Americans, thank you. I love you, and I am so very proud of you.