random

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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.