Reintegration

So, today I had to spend three hours at an Army briefing about what to expect when your soldier returns from deployment.

If you've never had the pleasure of being part of an Army briefing, thank your lucky stars. They herd a bunch of people who don't want to be there (briefings are almost always mandatory, otherwise no one would show up) into a large auditorium or conference room, and then people from various departments talk to you about things that may or may not actually be important. Also, there will be Power Point. Somewhere along the line someone decided that you can't gather more than three people together in the name of the Army without having a pointless Power Point presentation. I think it's part of the oath when you enlist.

I used to have to give briefings to new company commanders when we lived in Germany. I often resorted to hurling hard candy at their heads to wake them up. There's nothing like a butterscotch to the eye to make power point slides suddenly seem really interesting.

Briefings involving the spouses are a little more entertaining. Soldiers' careers depend on maintaining a certain decorum in all situations. Spouses have no such requirement. Someone always gets their panties in a wad over something and makes a scene. Add in the stress of one's husband being gone for nearly a year to one of the more dangerous areas of Afghanistan and multiply it by 150 women and your briefing is suddenly a powder keg just waiting for a spark.

Today we had not one, but two wives who had be escorted from the room, and a third who screamed that it was discrimination against infertile couples to forbid her from bringing their dog to the hangar for the homecoming.

Good times.

Army wife drama aside, these are the things we learned that we can expect when our soldier returns home:

• The routine you've created as a means for survival and maintaining sanity? He will completely destroy it.

• He will want to eat All The Things for at least a week.

• He won't be able to sleep for weeks. Could be jet lag, could be PTSD. If he tries to kill you, it's probably PTSD.*

• He might try to kill you.
  

• He will want to spend thousands of dollars on guns and cars. [I had to laugh at this one because Will's last few e-mails have been about buying guns and cars.]

• Flying around war zones in helicopters while getting shot at is kind of a rush. He'll try to recreate it by doing things like going 100 miles an hour on a motorcycle without a helmet.

• He'll want to buy a motorcycle.

• Taliban insurgents are preferable to screaming, whining children any day of the week, so don't take it personally if he would rather go back to war than deal with your kids.

• He will want to have The Sex all the time, but you will just want him to do the dishes.

• Did we mention he might try to kill you? This Power Point slide has the number you can call if at any time he tries to kill you.
  

Not to worry. They also try to prepare the soldier before he comes home. Sometime in the next month he too will endure days of briefings where the main topics on the Power Point slides will be: "Don't kill your wife, your kids, or yourself," and "If you feel like you want to kill your wife, your kids, or yourself, call this number. Just know that seeking help might destroy your career, even though we say it won't," and "If you want The Sex, do The Dishes."

Golly, January just can't get here fast enough!

*I'm not trying to be flippant about PTSD. It's a very real and very serious thing, but that was almost an exact quote from the briefing.

**UPDATED! By popular demand, THIS and THIS are now available in my shop.

Pubic Service Announcement

Ladies and gentleman, there is a fashion trend spreading across our great nation. Spreading like a disease. A venereal disease.

The knitted cowl.

My first encounter with one of these occurred about a year ago when a friend made this and posted it on her blog:

What does that look like to you?
Here, maybe this will make it a bit more clear.

Ladies (and gay men), there is no way to wear these without looking like you're dressed as genitalia for a costume party. It's got to stop. While you may only see warm and cozy neckwear, the rest of us are seeing your head sticking out of a yarn cootchie.

She's crowning! It's a girl!

There are creams for that.
(This came from yet another blogger I enjoy. She made it for her mom.
Bloggers don't let bloggers give their moms knitted labia.)

Elderly and well used.

Zombie hoo-ha.

Maybe right now you're thinking, "Well, I can just wear it differently. Or make one that's not so...gaping." You would be wrong. It's not just lady bits you run the risk of resembling. Oh no. You also run the risk of looking like this:

Obviously not Jewish.

Genital warts are the leading cause of cervical cancer.

Please, internets. Spread the word. Let's stop this before it goes any further. Think of the children.

(The title was actually a typo, but it was so fitting I left it.)

Gifts for the ones you love. Or hate. I can't decide.

Did you opt to sleep in on Friday rather than fight the crowds (while getting pepper spayed) for deals, only to now find yourself scrambling for gift ideas?

I'm here to help.

Remember when I shared some...unique...gift ideas? Apparently those were just their normal, every day offerings. This weekend their Christmas catalog came and it was even more spectacular! I would be terribly remiss if I didn't pass along these gift ideas to you, my internet friends.

Let's start with this. Who doesn't want an adorable statue of a dog urinating? And the great part? The hydrant is sold separately! You could skip the hydrant all together and strategically place the puppy wherever you want! I mean, what could be cuter than putting this little guy next to the leg of your couch? Really, the only thing I could think of that would be better is if I could get a statue of a dog squatting and taking an enormous dump! Maybe next years' catalog...

And then we have these. I just...Well, I have no words, really. Wait, yes I do. There is a seriously messed up sculptor out there making a lot money off of freaks.

These made it on the list not only because they're odd (I really want to meet someone who would hang these in their home or garden) but because the description in the catalog made me laugh. "Choose your favorite sin OR buy four sins and get three sins free!"

Then we've got this. The table itself isn't so bad. Well, O.K., yes it is. But when I look at it, all I can think of is what the rear view must be.

Speaking of tables and asses, next up we have this little gem. I know that when I'm designing a room, the number one thing I look for in a piece of furniture is whether or not it looks like a serial killer lured a prostitute to his home, severed her body, and turned her lower half into a table for drinks.

And finally we have this. I've always wanted the child murdering tree from Poltergeist in my garden! If only they sold the clown who tried to eat the kid's face, I could have a complete set!

(All items can be bought HERE. Why you would want to, I don't know. But there you go.)

Obligatory Thankfulness Post

Happy Thanksgiving Eve, internets! I hope your Thanksgiving is full of gluttony and sloth and whatever other deadly sins you choose to participate in.

To mark the occasion, I feel obligated to make a list of all the things I'm thankful for.

• I am thankful for public school, where my kids get to be someone else's problem for seven hours a day.

• I am thankful for celebrities who get fat because it makes me feel slightly less bad about my own body.

• I am thankful for bacon.
  

• I am thankful for Adam Levine.

Yummy.

• I am thankful for cats who fall in the toilet regularly, because really, how can you have a bad day after you just watched a cat fall in the toilet and freak out?

• I am thankful for Tim Gunn, without whom my Friday nights would have been far more sad and lonely than they already are.

• I am thankful for Netflix, because it keeps my kids occupied during the hours they're not at school.

• I am thankful for super secret groups on Facebook.

• I am thankful for bacon. I know I've already said it, but that's just how thankful I am for its existence. And that I'm not a kosher Jew. Because if I had to choose between bacon and eternal salvation, I'd pretty much choose bacon every time.

• I am thankful for texting and e-mail and facebook and chat and any other technological advance that allows me to not have to interact with people face to face.

• I am thankful for hand sanitizer and bleach and antibacterial soap, because people are pretty disgusting.
  

• And most of all I'm thankful for the internet. I've said it before, but I'll say it again. I wouldn't have any friends without it.

The Walking Dead

Just a snapshot from our last family reunion.

As I said in my last post, my parents were here for a few days last week. While usually that's a good thing, this time their presence may have scarred Liam for life.

You see, Liam looks a lot like my biological father. He died while I was pregnant with Liam and we weren't very close, so my kids don't really know much about him. When someone talks about their grandfather, they only think of my step father or my husband's father. My biological father never even enters their mind.

One morning Liam was downstairs alone with my mother. Apparently she told him he looks just like his "dead grampy." Liam was a little confused by this. My mother explained further that he died of cancer before Liam was born.

She meant my biological father.

Liam assumed she meant my step father. They guy who was seemingly alive and well and walking around upstairs at that very moment.

Poor Liam grappled with this new information all day. I mean, learning your grandfather is a zombie is a lot for a seven year old to take on board.

He didn't ask about it directly because everyone else seemed to think it was perfectly normal to have a dead guy walking around the house, but in hindsight I can see that he was asking things to try to figure the situation out.

First, he asked if people could be resurrected before Jesus came back. I thought it was an odd question at the time, but I assured him that it was unlikely.

Then he seemed to take a very special interest in my step father's CPAP machine. I explained that it helped him breathe when he slept, because his body wanted to stop breathing. I may have even made a comparison to Darth Vader's respirator.

So, now Liam was not only dealing with the idea that his grandfather was a zombie who apparently was able to stay animated with the use of a special breathing machine at night, but that he might also have gone to the Dark Side.

Tuesday evening my family was out of the house and Liam nervously approached me. His unease at having a zombie grandfather was too much. He had to say something.

"Mom, how many people in our family are dead?"

"Oh, a lot. But most of them died before you were born."

"How about in our house? How many people in our house are dead?"

"None. What are you talking about?"

"Well, grammy said grampy is dead, but I don't understand how he can walk around. I think that breathing machine makes it so he can walk even though he's dead."

"What do you mean grammy said grampy is dead? Grampy is alive. I promise. Dead people can't walk around."

"She said I looked like him and he died of cancer before I was born."

And then I realized the confusion and explained who she was talking about.

He was extremely relieved, but he still eyed my step father suspiciously the next day.
You just can't trust a zombie. They're a sneaky bunch.

Who's gonna feed them hogs?

My grandfather and his new BFF.

My grandfather has been a fan of Tom T. Hall my entire life. Some of you may know exactly who he is (Congratulations! You're old!). For the rest of you, he's a Grammy winning, country music hall of fame inductee singer/songwriter. Even if you aren't familiar with the songs he performed, chances are you at least know a song or two he's written (Harper Valley PTA, anyone?).

When my grandfather found out we were moving less than hour away from where Tom T. Hall lives, it became his mission to meet him.

Tom and his wife, award winning song writer Miss Dixie, live a pretty normal, down to earth life. So much so that they're listed in the white pages. Including their address.

So, the first time my grandfather came to visit us here, he insisted that we visit their house. We didn't just visit once. I believe over the course of the trip we hovered at the end of his driveway no less than 5 times. My grandfather had gone from avid fan to stalker.

A few weeks ago my grandfather found out that has very little time left. In addition to several chronic health issues he's already been dealing with, it was discovered that he has cancer that has metastasized to several parts of his body.

The one thing he wanted to do with the time he has left is to actually meet Tom T. Hall. Not just stare down his driveway.

My mother had somehow found Miss Dixie's personal e-mail address (again, they're very normal, un-celebrity like people) and wrote to her about my grandfather's situation and request.
She immediately invited them to their home for a visit, and also to attend a concert where Tom T. (as everyone seems to call him) would be playing.

So, this week was the week.

On Tuesday my grandfather and parents drove down and spent the afternoon hanging out with Tom T. Hall at his home recording studio. I wasn't there, but from what I understand Tom T. pretty much made my grandfather's life.

Wednesday night we all drove back to Nashville and attended the Music City Roots show which was going to be a tribute show to Tom T. Hall, with him performing a few songs at the end of the night. He'd said he was going to sing a song for my grandfather, but I don't think any of us expected him to give so much time on stage to talk about him. If my grandfather's life hadn't been made at the visit on Tuesday, it most certainly was that night.


(Tom T. talking about my grandfather)

After the concert he got to spend another few minutes with Tom. T and Miss Dixie. When other concert goers realized he was the Skeeter Plummer Tom T. had mentioned in the show, they wanted their picture taken with him too.

My grandfather the groupie.

It was a fun night, with good music (even for someone like me who isn't a big country fan).

Most of all, it reminded me that there are still celebrities out there for whom fame is secondary. Being a good, kind person who takes time for others when they are under no obligation (or when there will be no media coverage as they do it) comes first.

(If you're interested, you can watch the whole show HERE.)

Still mortifying after all these years.

In honor of my family being in town for a few days, here's a repost of one of our more mortifying family memories.

(Originally posted July 20, 2009)


Once upon a time there was a sixteen year old named Brandi. She was happily living in the Connecticut suburb of Fairfield, hanging out with friends she'd had since she was eleven, growing up among children of The Very Wealthy and even a few future celebrities like John Mayer (jerk) and Justin Long (nice guy) .

Out of the blue, her evil parents decided that it would be a good idea to pack up and move from the cultured, well-bred suburb thirty minutes outside of New York City to the back of beyond in Evanston, Wyoming.

(Evanston. My personal hell.)

Brandi kicked and screamed and hated her evil parents, but she had no choice but to go.

Eventually she settled into life in Rube-ville, where the only claim to fame is that it's the training location for the Jamaican Bobsled Team. Where the only place to shop is Wal-Mart, and the only things to do for fun are setting off fireworks and getting knocked up. She even managed to make a few good friends.

During the summer after she graduated from high school, Brandi's evil parents moved the whole family into their tiny pop-up camper (long, sad tale about a contract on a house gone sour). Needless to say, quarters were tight and there was no privacy in the camper in Rube-ville. Brandi spent most of her time with her friends and at work anyway.

Since she and her friends were not into fireworks and getting knocked up, they found entertainment in piling into a four-wheel drive vehicle and driving recklessly through the back country. Sometimes they'd spot other vehicles out in the hills. Parked. These would be occupied by the kids who were into getting knocked up.

One form of amusement for Brandi and her friends, when a parked vehicle was spotted out in the dark, secluded hills, was to turn off all the lights and slowly drive up behind the parked vehicle. Usually, the occupants of the parked vehicle were too, umm...busy...to notice Brandi and her friends approaching. Once in position directly behind the parked vehicle, they would turn on the high beams (and fog lights, if available). Hilarity would ensue.

One cool summer night Brandi and her friends were out riding around in the sagebrush covered hills just outside of Rube-ville, when off in the distance they could see a parked car. They turned off the lights and made their approach. When the high beams were engaged, what to their wondering eyes should appear but a white Pontiac Grand Am with Connecticut license plates.

And to this day Brandi's friends will not let her forget about "that one time, when we caught your parents parking..."

The End.