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.

Points of Order

Just a few thoughts:

1. 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.
2. Irish people should always wear sunblock. The 2nd degree sunburn on my shoulders agrees.
3. 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.
4. 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.
5. This "Everyone Draw Mohammed Day" is Stoopid. You're just fueling the fire, people. Stop being immature and leave well enough alone.
6. 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.
7. This is awesome. I would like to meet this Nerdlington J. Techsupport.
8. 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

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.

Postseason Airing of Grievances

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.

Points of Order

• 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.

Sticks and Stones and the Kitchen Sink

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.

Apocalypse Now

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

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.

Wedded Bliss

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.

Assimilation

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!