Currently Chasing: My Identity

My identity has been stolen twice this month. Not only am I spending money I don't have, but other people are wanting to spend money I don't have. Luckily, and not quite sure how, but both banks caught it and cancelled my cards. Pretty incredible. But how did they know? I mean, I was spending hundreds of dollars on bullshit that was both ridiculous and unnecessary, so how did they decide that the last few charges of ridiculous and unnecessary weren't indeed mine? Was someone in the back room watching the charges come through and thinking to themselves ... Plastic surgery? Yep, that's her. Olive Garden? Definitely. 300 in bath and body products? Of course. Random bullshit she can't afford? uh huh. Other random bullshit she can't afford. FUCK NO THAT'S NOT HER! CANCEL THAT CARD!

Whatever the case, I'm thankful. Back in the day people were just fucked. That money was just gone and you were stuck paying thousands of dollars for stuff you'll never see, instead of just paying thousands of dollars for stuff that you can't remember seeing. Now identity theft is so common that they have learned to spot it immediately...that is both sad and such a relief all at the same time.

Now I'm going to start doing something I haven't done in ages. Something completely out of character for me. Something I'm not even sure I know how to manage anymore. I'm going to start paying for things in cash! At least then if someone robs me of it, I know it. It's a physical thing and not a virtual thing. Although physical things, though you can see them and you know they are happening, can sometimes end with you losing your life and never know what's happening ever again. So that's not good.

Damn it...whoever said money is the root of all evil was so fucking right. Everything always comes back to money. How much you have. How much you don't have. and how much you want what others have. What if we just went back to simple trading. But what would I trade if not money? I don't cook? I burned a ton of rice crispy treats over the holiday break. I don't sew or do anything like useful like that. I could give out short stories? I could be a jester? I could entertain. Oh good lord, I don't like the road this is going down. Seems the road wouldn't be the only thing having to go down if we resorted to this bartering system again. So cash it is. Honest work and cash.

I'm protecting my identity here people. Although, these days, I'm not even really sure who I am anymore.

Currently Chasing: Youth (or wait, nevermind)

Oh yes, it is that time. Monday is my Birthday. 35 years. Holy Moly man, are you serious? And there are all these things around me. Like the new Footloose movie. And the not so new Karate Kid movie. And my daughter still isn’t totally sure who Madonna is, even though Madonna was Lady GaGa even before Lady Ga Ga knew she was a lady!

And I went to a New Kids on the Block concert a couple of months ago and they were more like Old Spices on the Rack. And there are new wrinkles, and more creases, and phones talk to you.

And Kelly Clarkson won American Idol 10 years ago!

I’m reflecting. And sometimes that is scary…and I started to freak out..but then I remembered some things.

1.        I can drive (Kind of)

2.       I can pay my own bills (Kind of)

3.       I can vote (Although I never have)

4.       I am no longer judged for what I wear or what shoes I have on (that’s a lie)

5.       I am a mother (I use that term loosely)

6.       I no longer struggle with my weight and have accepted my body (haha! What a crock of shit)

7.       I own my home (the bank owns it and I pay mortgage, which is a fancy way of saying rent)

8.       I am perfectly fine being alone (as long as someone is with me)

9.       I have savings (thank god I’m not allowed to touch it without severe tax implications)

10.   My glass is always half full (except when it’s totally empty)

After looking at that list, it turns out I’m not so old after all. Still so immature, still flirty with teenage waiters, still text-fighting, still sexting, still a huge gossip, still using the empty-threat method to get my daughter to do what she’s supposed to do, still bribing her with staying up late if she’ll rub my feet, still buying things I don’t need and can’t afford and still making terrible decisions that could ruin the next 35 years of my life.

THANK GOD.  The year is the only thing that changes.

I’ve heard my friends try on clothes and say – “I haven’t fit in to this since high school!”

If I fit in to something I wore in high school, please shoot me! Because this is what I looked like in high school:



Are you fucking kidding me with this starter jacket? Did I know nothing about slimming effects back then? Still can't find me? I'm the one on the left. How could you possibly fucking miss me!



And this is me now:

With less friends, but I've finally got the hang of camera angles!

I went home on leave recently and visited my high school friends. We've all changed so much, but not at all. Yeah, maybe my daughter will never know what a pager is...maybe the only destiny's child she'll hear about is the one growing in Beyonce's tummy, and maybe she'll never know Kevin Bacon as the original bad boy of dance ... but I'm thankful for the years and I like how they've treated me.

At this point I do not feel in danger of growing up. And that's when you know you're a grown up.

Currently Chasing: the good men

*This post was going to be about a woman who owns 500 pairs of panties and wears about five pairs a day. Sleeping panties, morning panties, after shower panties, work panties, lounge panties...and so on. But that pailed in comparison to this new phenom!

Ok, so the first time I heard about this I thought it was a fluke. Indeed there might be one guy out there who is a total and complete absolute freakazoid with a crazy obsession, but surely there isn’t a large quantity of them mingling with modern society and decent humans. Or is there?

A few years ago a friend of mine told me she was on a singles dating site. She said that she had been in communication with a very handsome man who had written to her and taken an interest because she was in the military.

His exact words were, “I like a woman who can take control.”

Now, I’m the first to admit that just being a woman in the military doesn’t automatically guarantee that you can take control of anything. In fact, some people are in the military simply because they can’t take control and they need someone else to dictate their entire days schedule to them minute by minute, which other people (also in said military) are happy to do.

But I assume there are those girls who join the military, hard core and ready…TO TAKE CONTROL. And he was hoping she was one of them.

She chatted with him back and forth for a few days and slowly he let her in on his intentions.

“I want you to treat me badly,” he said. “I want you to make me clean your house while you go on a date with someone else.”

This was a far cry from simply being a woman in control.  She wanted to end the conversation right there…but how can you?

“So you are just going to clean my house while I’m out with someone else?” she asked.

“Yep, he said. Like a good boy. And while you are out with another man I want you to have sex with him. And I want you to let him come inside of you.”

“Why?” she asked. (not that she was planning on doing this…or not for his benefit at least…but she had to ask…I mean, didn’t she?)

“Because if I mess up on the house work I want you to force me to (go downtown!)”

*He used different words…but I can’t even bring myself to say them without throwing up a bit in my mouth.*

It was about that time that she stopped responding to any and all email. As you do.

And that was the last I had heard about this type of freak. Until now!

Another friend of mine contacts me recently with the following email:

“I am on a dating website and this guy winks at me and I think he is cute so I shoot him an email and he responds back that he didn’t mean to wink at me because he is looking for a woman who wants a submissive man. So I need to know more, so I ask him if he means submissive as in dominatrix/submissive and he says no – just a woman to take charge. (do you see a pattern here?) So I said, well I can take charge. He said good because my woman would be my world. Whatever she wants would be her desire.  So a few more emails pass back and forth and then he tells me that he would clean for you too. (oh holy shit, here we go. Crazytown.) I would do the dishes, clean your toilets…whatever. So I said, ok cool. (I have to admit I would have said ok cool too. Does he cook? I mean, there are worse things than a guy who likes to cook and clean and wants to make you his world. Like the guy who wants to eat another man’s come out of your Vag…but that is another story. Or no, wait, that is actually this story. Whatever…onward!) So he asked me what I would do if he missed a spot while he was cleaning. Like would I punish him? So I laughed inside but had to know more so I said – well maybe. And he said that was making him hard and excited – so then he asked…what if I had a hard on while cleaning your toilets…and I said, no problem. (Who cares right? I mean, you can have the craziest situation in the world going on in your shorts…as long as you remember to scrub under the rim you are alright with me.) So then he asked what I would do if he came on the floor while he was cleaning, and I told him that I would make him clean it up. Then it just got weirder from there (um, seriously I can’t even imagine) and I had to stop talking to him. Like he wanted to clean in his undies, he wanted to call me ma’am. He wanted to be my property and if my friends were around he wanted me to let him know his place…so put him down in front of my friends. (Oh my god! I do this sometimes…but I usually don’t have permission and I’m definitely not encouraged to do it!)

Her only response to all of this … “dude.”

My sentiments exactly.  I mean, what else can you say? The guy sounds completely awesome right? This is almost as bad as the guy who used to do his 'O' business on my friends chest and then lick it off. Where have all the dudes who don't want to eat seaman good men gone?

 

Currently (still) chasing - A date with Dane. (the video)

I guess there is no more annonimity going on here.

Currently Chasing: A DATE WITH DANE COOK

Recently all kinds of regular people (as regular as Marines can be) are inviting stars out to the Marine Corps Ball. And at first I thought, man this is cool…and then I thought, geez this is fucking getting lame. And then I thought, I need to fucking get on board with this and finally get that date with Dane Cook.

So with the help of my friends I’m launching a full out campaign. We won’t fund raise or anything like that, and there will be no assembly, no meetings, no fucking conference calls…just tons and tons of spam to your facebook and the begs and pleads of me and my friends to Dane.

We are trying to play on his love for his country and for the military. I myself, having just returned from Afghanistan, would love for him to support his country with a small act of kindness. TAKE ME TO THE KHAKI BALL DANE.

It’s simple really. I’ll buy his ticket because that’s how I roll. And I don’t want him expecting anything from me … so better not to ‘owe’ him. Although in all seriousness, I’d owe him big time if he showed up to this event with me. September 23^rd Dane. Mark your calendar.

Truth is I’ve seen him live nine times. NINE! I’ve come to visit him NINE times, the least he could do is show up for me once! I was a fan before he had a six pack and I’ve taught more “Dane Cook Comedy Lessons” than I’ve taught actual journalism lessons. My students can attest to this. They would count the times and ways I would bring up Dane Cook in a day. It was always in the double digits. My nickname was Mrs. Cook on my toilet bowl T-shirt, and I watched all of his movies, THE DAY THEY CAME OUT IN THEATERS. I didn’t wait to rent that shit. I don’t think I would have been able to wait. It was like Christmas the day before a comedy album, a movie or a comedy show featuring Dane was coming. I’ve spent thousands of dollars on tickets and have driven to Boston from Maryland and then back in one day just to say I was there for the HBO filming. It was a big day for Dane and thus a big day for me.

I bought every album and listened to it until I memorized it. And then I would make others listen and I would finish every line of every joke and they would hate me but fuck them, because I was a super fan and I loved Dane. Love Dane. Love.

This is my plea Dane. Go with me to the Khaki Ball. It would mean the world to me. Just say two simple words….

I do. Er, I mean, I’ll go!

A night rich in military tradition with a bunch of salty old chiefs and me! I can assure you, it doesn’t get better! (Well, it probably does get better. Especially in your world. And the only way it could get better for me, is if you’re there.)

Currently Chasing: Chicken

I’m a very picky eater. Ask anyone I know. If you ask me where I want to go to lunch, I will say Chipotle. If you ask me where I want to go to dinner, I will say Olive Garden…or Chipotle. If you ask me where I want to go on Fridays I will say Denny’s. If you ask me what I’m going to get at either of these places it will always be the exact same thing I got the time before.

Chipotle: Salad, chicken, tomatoes, guacamole.

Olive Garden: Fettuccine Alfredo w/ Wheat pasta.

Fridays at Dennys: Clam Chowder.

If they don’t have Clam Chowder, then I will just leave. It’s what I like. It’s what I want. It’s all I want.

If I venture out and go to subway, it will always be a turkey sub. If I go to taco bell, it will always be a bean burrito.

I do not like seafood. At all. I know you are wondering why then do I go to Denny’s for clam chowder. It’s Dennys!! Come on, you know they don’t actually add clams. It’s just potato soup! Once when I was younger I found a clam in there and I freaked. My father said, “Waitress! Why is there a clam in my child’s clam chowder.” Although he was being sarcastic, it seemed like a completely rational question to me. Like, “Yeah! What the fucking fuck is this chewy thing!” She just stared at us, half smiled and let us continue to marinate in our crazy.

If I go to jack in the box, which I love! I will only get tacos and curly fries. Nothing else. No jack burger or jack sourdough, or jack burrito, or jack shit. Just tacos and curly fries. Minus the cheese. I’m not a big cheese fan. I’ll eat nachos and pizza and even grilled cheese, but if you give me a cheeseburger, I won’t touch it. I will never eat a three cheese anything. If something has white cheese, you can forget about it. If it’s ‘the cheesiest’ anything…no way. If it’s double cheeseburger hamburger helper. No way! One cheese in my cheeseburger hamburger helper thank you. Not double.

So when people want to take me out to dinner and they suggest a new place, I’m always skeptical. As was the case recently when my friend offered to take me out to a place in DC called Againn. Turns out she had won a gift certificate to the restaurant and asked if I would like to go and help her spend her new found $100. It is one of Washington’s top 100 restaurants and I heard ‘grill’ in the description, so I thought…it will be fine as long as they serve chicken. I can pretty much go anywhere and just order chicken. This is what I do at Red Lobster, which is the worst place to go for a person who does not like seafood or cheese…because everything is extra cheese here, extra fish here, extra smelly here, extra cheesy there.

So I go to the website and check out the menu.

First let me say that I’m always weary of a place where they don’t let you choose your sides. You know those places where they group everything for you? Ugh…like they know what the fuck I want with my chicken.

Anyway, I go to the dinner menu and this is the first thing I see:

BRAISED SHOULDER OF SHENANDOAH LAMB 27.
french lentils, swiss chard, spiced yoghurt

Oh my God! Fucking yuck.

Um, you’ve got to be kidding me? Braised Shoulder? What the fuck is that? I don’t want to eat a shoulder!!

So I continue to look for the chicken and I see:

CONFIT OF MUSCOVY DUCK LEG 25.
basil risotto, roasted spring onion, smoked tomato

Goddammit! Really? Duck leg? There is a lot more being smoked here than tomato!

So I continue looking and:

CHICKEN LIVER MOUSSE 9

Ooops, someone took a shit on this and it didn't change the taste.

Ok, now they are just kidding.

And then:

BEETROOT SALAD 9.
naval orange, pickled fennel, ricotta salata, spiced walnuts, honey dressing.

Beetroot? Oh my god! Send me back to Afghanistan where I can go to TGI Fridays!!

But then I saw this:

House made Bangers and Mash.

This looks like a freshy casterated penis.

I thought that was just a song about a penis and balls sung by that dude from Get Him to the Greek.

Needless to say I never found the chicken. Or the will to live on the same planet with this top 100 restaurant. I can only assume that number one on the list sells cheesy fish testicals.  

Currently Chasing: A cure for CRAZY

So I’ve been wondering something. How come no matter what man I ask in my life, be it my brother, my co-workers or my male friends I will always get the same answer to this question:

Why did the two of you break up?

And the answer will always be:

Because that bitch went crazy.

I’m scratching my head over this.

I’ve had a man ask me for my underwear at the end of a date. A FIRST DATE!

“Hey, you know what would be awesome?”

“No what?”

“If you gave me your panties.”

“Well, that could be awesome, but I use them to prevent chaffing. But thanks for asking.”

I’ve had a man ask me if he could masturbate in his car, while I was in the passenger side.

“Hey, do you mind if I wack it while you’re sitting right here?”

“Um, no, if you don’t mind if I report you to the perve services and they document you and turn you into a blue dot on some predator web site!”

Good Lord!

I’ve had a guy suck his own dick on a web cam while I pointed my camera at my bare feet.

I’ve had a guy tell me that I can’t go to his house because his ex-girlfriend is there feeding the dog that they bought together, and that sometimes she still stays the night, and that yeah, it’s usually in his bed, but he promises, they are so over!

I’ve had a guy send me a picture of his penis next to a 9mm pistol.

I’ve had a guy send me a picture of his penis with a tape measure wrapped around it.

I had a guy send me a picture of his penis next to another penis? I don’t know what was more disturbing, that there was a second penis in the picture or that I was wondering which one was his. (OR) that there was a second penis in the picture.

I’ve had a guy call my phone and sing ask me out on a first date. He literally SANG  a song into my voicemail. Something creepy about loving me and staring into my eyes. It was some creepy American-idol audition bullshit.

And after all of this, someone can dare say that the reason something didn’t work out between us is because I’M CRAZY.

Come on! I’ve had this conversation recently:

“So what happened to you and Barbara?”

“That bitch went crazy.”

“Really? It wasn’t that you cheated on her with her sister that the two of you used to visit while she was in prison?”

“No, she didn’t know about that.”

“It wasn’t that you used the bonus money she got from the military to produce your own porn movie.”

“No, she supported that.”

“So she ‘out of the blue’ went crazy on you after 19 years of marriage?”

“I told you, that bitch was crazy.”

I bet she was crazy. Because you fucking made her crazy. I mean, how do you think we get crazy? You think it’s really like that comedian says? That one day we are just sitting there all normal and then you ask us what movie we want to see and we answer by saying:

“Um, I think Green Lantern sounds like a good … holy fuck I’M CRAZY!”

We just totally snap? Um, no. We stand by while you fuck our sister that just got out of prison. We stand by while you produce your porn movie. We stand by while you ask for our underwear. We stand by while you masturbate in your truck. (but for the record, I did not stand by for that.) We stand by while you suck your own dick. We stand by while you forget to tell us you are married. We Stand By. And then finally WE TAKE A STAND. And then, you say bye.

Sing this in the tune of Crazy by Gnarls Barklay.

“Maybe I’m crazaaaaay, cause you made me crazaaaaay, I’ll make you as craaaaaazay, as you make meeeeeeeee eeeeeee!”

That’s how I feel. We are only returning the favor, not initiating the craziness. I mean really. Dudes are always just pushing the buttons. Never really accountable for their shit. I would start dating chicks, but you know, them bitches be crazy.

Currently Chasing: Visine

So I went to the Eye Gazing Party, an event where you essentially speed date, but instead of talking and getting to know each other verbally, you just look into each other's eyes for an extended period of time.

Now, some of you right off the bat were quick to judge. You said it was creepy. You said you'd die laughing. You said no one can do that and keep a straight face.

Boy were you wrong. Some of those dudes made it their job to stare. I mean really stare. And I can tell you how hard it is to stare at someone who looks just like this:

It's hard. Especially when he keeps turning his head and trying to do sign language with his out-of-control eye brows.

Every now and then they had to remind people that there was no touching allowed. If you are an "Arrested Development" fan then just imagine the jail scenes where they yell "No Touching!" Yeah, it was something like that. Although why was that even almost happening. I mean, would you want to reach out and grab this:

Not unless you want an STD on your finger.

For the most part though, it was a good time. Very interesting. 40 men and 40 women lined up and faced each other. Every other person was seated. They did this so that people weren't temped to glance over at someone else while they were supposed to be eye balling the person directly in front of them. Men kept complaining that the lights on the walls were keeping them from really being able look into the eyes of the women. Literally they were verbally telling the girls, "It's no use. I can't see your eyes." They were really taking this seriously. I guess I was too. At one point, even though you are supposed to stay totally silent, I heard a guy whisper to the man getting ready to sit across me "Watch out dude, she means business." 

I guess I did. Although most of the time I was having internal conversation:

"My feet hurt. I'm going to lean on one foot and let the other one rest, then lean on the other foot while the other one rests."

"My drink is empty."

"My straw just fell on the ground....can I pick it up without breaking the stare?"

"My fucking feet hurt."

"This guy is an axe murderer. I can totally see him in an episode of law and order."

"I want to check my phone. Would that be rude to just glance down at my phone while this dude is staring at me."

"Lazy eye."

"I'm going to cut my feet off and walk on my ankles."

Some people were easier to stare at and I had very little head conversation during those times. It was just pleasant. I mean, imagine staring at this:

Not hard to do.

Overall it wasn't an unpleasant experience. However, it's not something I'd do again. My friend did not make a love connection, but we did get our photo snapped about a dozen times by a random eye gazer who happened to bring his professional camera and SB 900 flash to the event.

That particular guy was already a bit off. Raving to island beats in between stare sessions.
Add a camera to his already crazy stare and needlesstosay, I'm sure my friend and I are on the internet photoshopped into his online family albums.

Currently Chasing: The Eye Gaze

So in my quest to be a good friend I have come up with the ultimate way to help my girl meet her Mr. Right. I decided to sign us up for an eye-gazing party. Since I'm already off the market, I'll only be participating as a way to offer support, and also as research for my book on what is wrong with men, perfectly titled, "What is wrong with men?" And also because I want to blog about the event, and tweet about it, and brag that I found parking in DC.

Eye Gazing is kind of like speed dating except instead of talking to someone for eight minutes about bullshit like what do you do and where are you from, which to be honest no one will remember by the end of the night anyway, and which most people lie about, you just stare into a strangers eyes for two minutes.

YOU STARE AT A STRANGER FOR TWO MINUTES. And sometimes you are even encouraged to hold hands. 

After the staring and hand holding, which lasts for a total of 45 minutes, you have drinks and mingle.

The idea behind this is that the eyes are the window to the soul and that by looking into someone’s eyes for two minutes you can tell if this is someone you can imagine yourself dating. 

Before the event begins there is a person who will explain to you a little bit about eye contact and body language so you can send the right signal and give off the right vibe.

My issue is not with the eye contact. As a journalist I make eye contact all the time. My eyes have a shit ton to say. And they often make a far better impression than whatever would come out of my mouth. But there are people that I don't even want to walk past, let alone hold handswith while gazing into their soul window. I mean, "I think you are amazing," could look a lot like "I want to rape you" depending on the face those eyes are attached to.

But I'm willing to give it a try for the sake of my friend. Although she has already asked if she can use the Kung Fu Panda Stare.

I told her if I'm going to endure this evening for her she better not scare off her potential husband with a panda stare or the stare of someone desperate to get married.

Your stare just asked me to marry it!

I will of course let you all know how it goes. I've been staring at myself in the mirror training my stare to say I’m not available. So far all it has been saying is I need to try botox.

Currently Chasing: Passionate Kisses

And since then I am because you are

And since then you are I am and we are

And through love I will be you will be we will be

I read that today and thought. Wow.

I am because you are.

I AM because YOU ARE.

When is the last time you felt like that about someone? My daughter feels that way about me because it’s true. She is because I am. But have I ever felt that way about a man? Do I even have the capacity to feel that way about another human being?

Do you ever notice that sometimes you are with someone for such a long period of time that you stop doing things that used to give you the feeling those words above inspire?

Like maybe you just stop kissing. It seems like such a small thing. You still hug. You still cuddle. You still hold hands. You still touch each other on the smalls of your backs while waiting in line. You still lean up against each other while deciding what you want from the dollar menu.

But you don’t kiss. Your lips don’t meet. And if they do it’s brief. It’s definitely not tongues swirling all which ways. So into the kiss that you don’t even care that he didn’t shave and now he is performing harsh dermabrasion all over your chin, upper lip and neck region. So engrossed in each other’s mouths that you can’t tell if he’s breathing for just him, or for you both.

A co-worker told me that grade school girls took a survey and answered that kissing was more intimate than blow jobs. Although that is a horrifying declaration, as a thirty something adult, I’m in full agreement. I mean, as a mother I of course don’t want my daughter kissing, hugging, blowing … nada. Zip. Zilch. I want her to have an affair with books. I want her to fall in love with mathematics. And I want her to long only for Apps for her Iphone.

But if someone asked me now, what is more intimate…a blow job or a kiss. I would have to say a kiss. Now, what takes more work, what has the ability to make you physical ill, what makes you wish you had no teeth…a blow job.

But what makes you feel connected, what makes you weak in the knees, what takes your breath away? . A blow job. A kiss.

Cher said it best, “it’s in his kiss.”

So if you aren’t really kissing…then where is it? A blow job?. A sweet gesture? A foot rub? Is it in his words or in his actions? Should you just let things ride and hope the kissing comes back or should you just try to sneak them in when he’s watching sports and his mouth is already open because so and so just missed a crucial shot?

I want to be because someone else is.

The happy ever after is sealed with a kiss right? Or is that just how he wakes the princess…and then from then on it’s just blow jobs the ever after?

Currently Chasing: A joke, perhaps. Perhaps not.

I love going on cruises. I’ve been on four. Two within the last two months. All you can eat. Sun and fun. Overly priced but very STRONG drinks. Life is good on the ship.

This trip was even more significant because I went with a man. Normally it’s me and one of my best friends floating around, getting drunk, singing Karaoke every night, dancing at the night club all night, stumbling to our cabins and then sleeping in the following day and doing everything over again. It’s a blast…but at some point we end up looking around and wishing we had a man to share it all with. Don’t get me wrong, we’d usually find a stand in! But we always figured a cruise with someone you really care about (and of the opposite sex) would really just make the experience.

So when I booked the cruise for me and my guy I was hopeful. Having spent the last nine months apart, I wasn’t sure how spending a solid week together was going to fare. We had spent five years on and off, learning everything about each other and I had hoped that at this point I could do the things I needed to do to prevent the parts of his personality I wasn’t so attached to from showing up.

But I failed before we even left Maryland.

You see, I planned the trip in January. We took the trip in April. Plenty of time for us to make sure we had sunscreen, bathing suits and even relatively flat tummies. I guess what I forgot to tell him was that in addition to those much needed items, he would also need one other thing.  A passport. Or at the very least, a birth certificate. I decided that telling him he needed these documents at the convenient time of, um, 11 pm the night before we were supposed to leave seemed ideal.

It wasn’t.

He was annoyed. And rightly so! I was annoyed too. Why had I not mentioned this? I mean WTF right? But why does this man not have his birth certificate? I mean, isn’t that a better question? Who knows. He did what any man does when he’s in trouble. He called his mother – a call she loved getting at 11:30 pm I’m sure – and asked if she knew where it was and if she could scan it and email it to him. Luckily, if his mother did know where it was (she didn’t) but if she did, she would have had the skills and technology necessary to do what he asked. Most mothers I know would not. So good on her.

Back to the story. No passport. No birth certificate. NO GO.

So he gets online and starts looking shit up, making phone calls, playing the active duty military guy who just wants to serve his country and do the right thing and POSSIBLY get on the cruise ship without a birth certificate? Not possible.

By this time it’s almost midnight. He is running up and down the stairs going through boxes of papers and really searching for that certificate, which tells me one thing. He loves me right? If he didn’t he would have said, fuck this trip. I’m not going. And you’re stupid, get out of my house.

But instead he was actively looking for a way to get on that ship with me. And he was doing something else as well. Trying to remain calm. He didn’t seemed pissed, just concerned that we weren’t going to be able to go on vacation. This was a different side of him than I had seen in the past. And I liked it. However, me appreciating his patience wasn’t getting us on the cruise any faster. So I did something I thought would help. Went to sleep. (on the couch.)

Somewhere in the night I went upstairs and climbed in the bed. He made room for me. Good sign. When the alarm went off at 6 a.m. I was surprised.

“Did you find your birth certificate last night?” I asked.

“No, but I have an expired passport and a military ID,” maybe that will work.

I decided it best to say nothing at that point. Just start getting ready for the flight that would take us to Miami for the cruise.

We spent most of the car ride to the airport and most of the plane ride in silence. I hoped that even if we couldn’t get on the ship, he would still want to spend a couple days in Miami. He had paid for the plane tickets and I had paid for the actual cruise. I didn’t get insurance on the cruise and the web site made it clear. If you do not have the proper documents to board, then you will NOT be getting on the cruise ship and you will NOT be getting a refund. Yikes. Not good odds.

Upon landing I went to the restroom to freshen up.

“How do I look?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It depends on whether or not we make it onto that ship today.”

A joke? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Then he said,

“You should still go if I can’t get on. You deserve a vacation. You can sleep in and lay out in the sun. It will be relaxing.”

“The whole point of going on the cruise is to get drunk and make out!” I said.

“You still can,” he said. “After all, you’ll be a single girl.”

A joke? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

So finally we are in line waiting to get through security. I hand them my passport, which aside from a god awful picture (which if I hadn’t known was me, even I might consider suspect) my passport was accepted. I’m a citizen. Yay me.

My guy handed the agent his expired passport then quickly shoved the active duty military card next to it and smiled his most pleading smile. I smiled a pleading smile too. The man looked at us both, looked down at the passport again then back at us and said,

“Enjoy your cruise.”

AWESOME! We made it on the cruise. And guess what, we had a great time.  We watched the shows, got sun raped, ate to our heart’s content and drank the days away. We played a lot of blackjack. By the end of the cruise I was up 100 and he was up almost 250.

And besides that second to last day at sea where in addition to my Mojitos I began eating the mint leaves that accompanied the drink, it was a good trip. I mean, do the math…10 drinks. An average of 5 leaves per drink. That’s about 50 leaves sitting in my stomach. Not to mention the alcohol. And then the steak and triple chocolate dessert. Needless to say I was in the bathroom the entire night and into the morning.  A very minty puke fest indeed.

But overall, the trip was a total win.

“How do I look?” I asked, as we were leaving the ship.

“Beautiful,” he said. “Like always.”

A joke? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Currently Chasing: A Movie Ticket

Alcohol is a pain in the ass. In Afghanistan we weren’t allowed to have ANY. So you can imagine now that I’m a light weight when it comes to drinking. Not that I could ever drink anyone under the table, but I used to be able to hold my own.

Except that time I went to Atlantic City and ended up incoherent and being shuttled around the hotel in a wheel chair. I ended up in the security section of the hotel until they were sure I could at least pronounce my name and could determine that I wasn’t going to die from choking on my own vomit.

But other than that dreadful night, and the time I vomited for 23 minutes straight outside of the taco bell parking lot, I’ve done alright.

And then there was last night. I went out with a close friend and his buddy. We are sitting around and I decide to order a drink. I take it down like I would take down a five year old in an arm wrestling competition. Quickly and without hesitation. I order another and I’m feeling good. Too good. One of two things happens when I get to my drinking happy place.

1.       I make out with someone. (Most likely someone I know, but that’s not always a guarantee.)

2.       I talk too much and say stupid shit that will haunt me later.

Last night, it was the latter. I start talking about something mildly inappropriate, and then it escalates into something I probably shouldn’t talk about, and then rounds out in the ‘definitely do not fucking say this’ area.

By the time I realized what had happened, the damage was done. I was no longer the cute, funny girl that had sat down thirty minutes earlier. I was now the drunk girl who stumbled up to the cliff and then swan dove right the fuck off. Great. That’s me right? I’m the asshole? Yep. I was the asshole.

So my friend is pissed and I’m trying to smooth things over, but at that point I’m still not totally convinced I’ve done anything wrong. I’m just doing that thing where you apologize blindly and hope that whatever you did to get yourself in trouble solves itself at some point during your ramblings. But not this time. He asked me if I was finished eating. I said yes. Then he got up with his friend and they left.

There was one problem with leaving at that point. I was still, um, not quite under the legal alcohol limit to drive. So I wandered around the mall in JLo Heels that I had no business being in … and made my way toward the moving theater.

I bought a ticket for ‘Take me home,’ which seemed very appropriate, and proceeded to watch a movie by myself to sober up and ‘think about what I did.’

On the downside, I’ll probably be watching even more movies alone in the future due to the fact that I become a plague after one drink.

The upside is, I can finally catch that Justin Beiber flick that no one will go with me to watch! Nothing says winner like a drunk 30 something sitting alone in a Justin Beiber 3D movie. Another upside is, with a little alcohol in me, I may finally understand his hair.

Currently Chasing: A Bed to Myself

I currently live on a bottom bunk. I haven't had bunk beds since I was a kid living in California. I remember sitting on the top bunk being a smart ass to my step father. I also remember him getting ready to backhand me, me moving out of the way just in time, and him shattering the bedroom light with his hand instaed. I remember thinking..damn dude...that was one hell of an abusive smack you were about to plant on my face. If I had been allowed to use the phone, I might have called child services. For the smack of course, and the fact that there were three kids living in one tiny bedroom.

Little did I realize, those would be the good ol' days. Now I'm living six to a room and I'm once again in a bunk bed. I got a bottom bunk though, because rank has its privledges. Those privledges don't include a closet of my own or the opportunity to dress with the light on, but as it turns out 15 years in the Navy scores you a bottom bunk. Awesome.

I got some new roommates recently, which is perfect. One of them loves to cry. She'll cry all night. Sometimes she'll go to the bathroom and cry. Luckily I live right next to the bathroom so I can still hear it. She'll cry in her sleep. Sometimes she'll stay out late crying at the chapel, and then she'll come home and cry a bit more. It's like one of those silent cries. The kind where you don't really want anyone to know you are crying but you refuse to just blow your nose and instead insist on continuing to reinhale your nose juices at irregular intervals. And when someone tries to be quiet while doing something, I for some reason pay even more attention...trying to catch a few seconds of sleep in between her sniffs.

I also now have a roommate who snores. At least it is at a low, steady pitch. One of those noises that you can kind of drown out as background. But every now and then I cue in on it and there I am trying to time my breathing to hers. And she loves to apolgize. Her alarm went off the other day. Everyone but the crier was already up, but for some reason she continued to apolgize.
"Oh geez, I'm so sorry. Holy shit, is that my alarm? Wow, I thought I turned it off. Man, I'm sorry. Seriously you guys, I thought I turned it off. How long was it going off? I'm sorry. How does this thing work anyway? I thought I had it set properly and then here it is just going off and waking up God and country. Wow, I don't know what went on there."
If the alarm didn't wake us, her war and peace apology speech sure would have.

Next door to me is a grandmother. I know this because every single night without fail she calls her grandchildren. For a while it was just one nightly phone call. And I would patiently wait for it to finish, all the while sighing under my breath and making sucking noises with my mouth (not like she could hear any of this) and sometimes whispering to my roommates about how rude this woman was. So one night in particular her conversation dragged on a little longer than normal, but finally, around 10:30 we heard her say goodnight. We unfurrowed our eyebrows and decided to get to some sleep...when all of a sudden we hear.
"Hey baby, it's grandma."

Holy shit, did this woman just sprout another grandchild? It's usually one call a night...who the hell was this second grandkid? One of my roommates had had enough and decided to bang against the wall. We heard her say something, get up...walk to her door and continue her conversation in the hallway...where we could of course still hear every single word she said. Just cause you can't hear doesn't mean everyone else is deaf as well.

Thankfully there is a roommate I totally adore and she is what keeps me sane. Although there are times when I'm watching a scary movie about a little girl who happens to be a vampire, and all the lights are out and she decides to move around on the top bunk, not meaning to, but nevertheless shaking the bottom bunk - making me think I'm being attacked ... this feeling made stronger by the subtle roar from one side of the room and the silent cries from the other -

And don't even get me started on the girl who 'cleans out her throat' in the bathroom each morning. I swear the sound of her drinking a bit of water and then violently hacking it up is down right nauseating. It's possible that sometimes the crying I hear at night, is my own.

Currently Chasing: The Rest of the Dream

I almost had a sex dream last night. I say almost because half way through the man's shirt coming off, my mother came strolling into the dream. AND SHE WAS NAKED. I don't know what this means, and I don't want anyone analyzing it. Anyway, I wasn't even mad that she came into the room, I was just mad that she wouldn't leave. She was dancing, naked, in my room - and meanwhile I'm like, MOM, GET THE FUCK OUT. Finally she leaves the room, and I try to get back to my original dream plan, and all of a sudden she calls my name. I'm like, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT. Geezus! This is my dream for Cripe Sakes.

So I tell him to hold that thought while I run out to see what my naked mother wants. She asks me some question, who knows what, and I'm basically yelling at her because I want to get back in there to my dude. But when I return he isn't there anymore, and instead my bedroom is a tiny diner and people are sitting around having coffee...and I'm thinking...WHAT HAPPENED TO MY SEX?

Man, I've heard the stories about deployment making people crazy and horny and whatever...but I guess I just really only thought that happened to guys. I mean, I"m a chick, I can live without sex right? Married women do it all the time. But here I am, single and celebate, and I'm pissed! And now I can't even look forward to my dreams. Of course I miss my mother, and to be honest, she would have been quite happy with how well she held up in my dream. But damn it, It's my dream. the one time I get to be alone with my own thoughts...and now even my own thoughts aren't letting me enjoy myself. That's pretty sad. I will admit that there was a time my mom was visiting and I was bringing a boy home and I texted her and asked her to make sure she was in another room when I get home. When I finally got home, there she was on the couch in her nightgown and slippers. I was like, MOM, I TEXTED YOU...I'VE GOT A GUY WITH ME. She hurried into the other room. I looked at him thinking...I've just ruined this for sure. But he said, she didn't run into your room did she? I said no. He said, ok then, are we good? Ha. Yeah, we're good. Thank God you're barely 21 and this kind of things happens to you all the time.

Anyway, I'm getting ready to watch a movie, and then I'm going to shut my eyes and pray to go back to the dream about the beautiful Diver. How do I know he was a diver? Because I know the guy...yep. Sure do. I've never had sex with him, never dated him, never ever flirted with him...but for some reason four years after my last real conversation with him, here he is in my dream...and there is my naked mother in the room. Whose dream was this suppose to be again?

Currently Chasing: A Date

Things are tough in Afghanistan. Not only is there no indoor plumbing, but we live right next to a pond full of our own shit, and I’m quite certain I’ve been in contact with enough of it to equal an entire terd. Also, there are an insane number of men here, but you’re not allowed to have sex. And, there are plenty of places you can go while being accompanied by a man, but I’m sorry, nothing you do in Afghanistan can be considered a date. If I have to wear my uniform or PT gear, it is not a date. If you are toting an M-16 around your neck, it is not a date, if there is a chance of a rocket attack in the middle of our smoothies and light conversation, it is not a date, if I have to get to know you while we wait in a bunker for the all clear sign, it is not a date, and if I can’t kiss you at the end of the night, IT IS NOT A DATE.

So needless to say, despite the fact that I had some fun with a certain Brit, a Bad Ass Mother Fucking EOD God, and an amazing-bodied Canadian, I have not been on a date in about eight months. I want to go on a date!

A friend of mine is coming into town Sunday. I say ‘friend’ even though I’ve never met him in person, and I say ‘town’ meaning fucking Afghanistan. It’s crazy to think that I’m actually meeting facebook friends over in this place, but it seems like Afghanistan is the new craze. You guys, let’s go to war, everybody is doing it!

He has invited me to dinner. My initial reaction when people I’ve never met invite me out is … tell me what is wrong with you up front so I don’t have to spend the entire meal figuring it out. But this guy is a colleague. He reads my blog, knows I’m insane, and still wants to pay for me to eat, so he can’t be all bad right? Besides he wins points for the line, “I’m sorry I won’t be able to make it this week, but I’ve waited my whole life to meet you so one more week won’t kills me.”

But this will not be a date. Refer to the above rules. He will not be toting an M-16…but I will be in some sort of official uniform and I will be carrying an M-9 (for protection…although the only thing I’m really afraid of around here is the possibility that I may accidentally shoot myself.) And, we will be in AFGHANISTAN. Nothing date-like happens here. Although my roomie said she saw some people making out by the laundry room like a couple of teenagers, but let’s face it. They probably were teenagers. As war gets older, the warfighters seem to get younger and younger.

Last night I went and had coffee with a great friend. He may have wanted to call it a date, but it wasn’t. It was coffee. And even this sign in the coffee shop reminding you to keep your heavy ass weapons away from the glass is a constant reminder that you are eating a brownie, but it’s a brownie you got in ball sack Afghanistan.

What I’m telling you is that when I get back to the real world, I want to go on a date. My friend datemedc has been going on all kinds of dates. Someone took her to a swingers club and then snow tubing. That is the kind of spontaneous, ridiculous shit I want to do. What I don’t want to do is pretend I’m dating you as we stroll through feces particles while wearing body armor and pretending that everything we eat doesn’t taste like dry rat. I’m chasing America. I’m chasing a date.

Currently Chasing: the Box

"I'm nobody, until I'm somebody, then I'm that guy." That is what he said to me. He wanted to be significant, but the only thing that makes him stand out in my mind is that quote and his height. Short. Very short. He assured me that not everything is proportionate, and that objects in his pants may be bigger than they appear. And I know he wasn't talking about his legs. I've seen those. They're short.

But still...there is more to life than a big dick and a good catch phrase. So he went back into the box.

"I am more concerned with your success and happiness than I am with my own." That is what he said to me. He was hoping to be significant, but ended up annoying and clingy. And he could never measure up to his words and I was tired of giving him a boost. He had a boat and a house and said I could make myself comfortable in both.

But still...there is more to life than boats and houses. So he went back into the box.

"It took me 30 years, but I finally found the one." That is what he said to me. He wanted to be significant. And he was for awhile. But one day I just couldn't stand the way he laughed anymore. He would open his mouth so wide and he would laugh so hard. He would laugh at a joke before he got done telling it. Before the rest of us had a chance to assure him it was funny. He had a promising career and great teeth.

But still...there is more to life than a career and great teeth. So he went back into the box.

"I couldn't be luckier to have someone like you care about me." That is what he said to me. He wanted to be significant. He could have been. But there was something needy about his words. It festered into an overall neediness that I was too selfish to embrace. He was strong and creative.

But still...there is more to life than a great body and creativity. So he went back into the box.

I'm starting to wonder about this more to life part? The only other more I've seen is the more where I'm alone with a box of blogs. And there has got to be more to life than that.

Currently Chasing: Body Armor

Yesterday I went on a convoy. I put on 80 pounds of gear, loaded my weapon and rode in the back of a huge tactical vehicle known as an MRAP. It was uncomfortable, cramped, bumpy and totally awesome. You see, I hate the process of going outside the wire, but once I’m outside that vehicle, walking around and taking pictures (while trying not to accidentally step on an IED) it’s incredible.

On the way I managed to catch glimpses out of the small dusty windows. Most of what you see is horrible. Everyone seems like they want to hurt you, even though most are just there to live like anyone else. Animal meat is hung and placed for sale. It looks dirty and diseased. People are outside at all times of the day and night, even in 20 degree weather, with just flip flops and thin clothes. I would probably stay outside as well, especially if I didn’t really have anything to go home to. We pay attention to every single bit of their nothing, waiting for something, while they barely even notice our huge military vehicles kicking up dust down their poorly constructed road. It’s crazy, they cross the street in the middle of our convoy, like we would cross the street on a deserted back road. Except that on the top of our trucks are these huge weapon systems that could take out most of the neighborhood, but they don’t bat an eye as they cross.

What is more incredible is the way the children just stand two feet away from you smiling while you hold a fully loaded M-4 at the ready. Not threatened by your weapon in the least. They say whatever English word they know, which is usually them asking for something. Everything is a question. Water? Candy? Pen? Yep, they want your pens. I saw an entire fight break out over a tube of toothpaste. They just … want. And they will settle for simply getting your attention. I take their photos and they smile and wave and stare right through you. It’s eerie and haunting and incredibly rewarding. I’m the one ‘getting’ something out of these exchanges - a renewed sense of purpose for why we are out here. And I’m getting tiny glimpses of their soul, and it’s not all bad.

I got back in the vehicle, looked through the pictures and knew that the day meant something. The 80 pounds of gear felt a little lighter, the MRAP felt a little less cramped and the bumps…well they were still a sonofabitch … especially when a girls got to pee. The one thing I will never be able to ‘get over’ is the lack of restroom facilities and the shrugitoff nature everyone seems to have about going to the bathroom in a bag and then burning it. Nope, war = holding that shit for 12 hours. But the children, well, they are a beautiful thing.

Although there was that one who pointed his cliff bar at me as if it was a weapon. My brothers used to play with fake guns that looked quite real. They would sometimes point them at me…they were never as scary as that little boy with the cliff bar.