Chloe

I still remember the day I first met her. I was in high school back in 1996 and my family decided it was time to add another new family member to the group. We piled into the minivan and drove to a little shop called "Le petit chien".

We didn't really have in mind what we were looking for, but instead were waiting for her to find us. The owner went into the back and brought out two tiny silvery gray miniature schnauzers for us to hold. Little Chloe decided that we were the family for her and chose to come home with us.

None of us had had the pleasure of living with a puppy - we had only the memory of our old mutt Muffy and she was already well into her adulthood when us kids came along. To have a teeny puppy to train and love was just such a novelty. We adapted quickly.

Chloe was the most docile sweet dog you would ever want to meet. If you could overlook her stank poop breath (it is well understood that she liked to 'snack' on her own body's producings) and her constantly wet muzzle from her rather nasty habit of licking whatever was near her, (ie - carpet, clothes, furniture, people) that was harder to break than a heroin addiction, you would have just as easily fallen in love with her too. Chloe flourished in our home where she was dressed up like a baby (mom), showered with treats (dad), cuddled in bed every night (Fush, Cesaro, myself), taken to 'Stupid Dog Trick' training camp and groomed every month. Chloe loved it when you noticed her new haircut and fancy bandana and would put her little chin up on your chair for a good rub down.

When Chloe was about 4 years old, we turned her stable and loving world upside down by thrusting a neurotic little 2 lb. black mini schnauzer named Pepper into it. To see a puppy not even 6 inches long launch an attack on our full grown Chloe was astonishing and amusing. Chloe hid out beneath an end table for months, lamenting the perils of her new existence. Eventually though, the two pups became inseperable and could often be found at the end of a long day lying on their bellies facing each other, kissing.


In my humble opinion, dogs are family members, albeit much cuter, sweeter, less annoying family members. When you share your life with one of these creatures for 12 or more years, you tend to grow a bond so tight even you aren't quite aware of it until your little pal is taken away from you.

Chloe was never big on exercise, and had been known to down 3 bowls of dog food in one sitting as well as being caught after stealing and finishing off a 1 lb. chocolate bar. It is a wonder she never ended up on Jenny Craig with her own commercial alongside Kirstie Alley talking of all of the weight she lost after realizing that her eating was not out of hunger but out of emotional necessity, and then going on the Oprah show to talk about her screwed up puppyhood complete with crossdressing as a human and dealing with an annoying and neurotic little sister after which she would inevitably don a bikini and show off her svelte new figure.

Alas our little pup went the other direction and ended up with a terrible heart condition. We first noticed it when my parents took her on a springtime walk and she collapsed from the exhertion. (We thought she was just being melodramatic but turns out she wasn't kidding). Several months later we found out she had congestive heart failure. We put her on meds that would give her a greater quality of life but would only delay the inevitable. Chloe seemed to have her old pre-Pepper puppy spark back and we thought we were out of the woods for a while.

Then on March 22, 2009 Chloe decided enough was enough and left us.

Dear Chloe,

Today marks nearly two weeks since you decided to go bounding across that great rainbow bridge in the sky toward an afterlife filled with endless bowls of meat chunks, licking parties and bark-fests. I never fathomed that this day would ever come. I have tried to write this letter to you many times over the past weeks but find that even though I thought I was getting over it all, it all comes rushing back in a wave of emotion complete with tears, snotty noses and several bowls of peanut butter chocolate chip ice cream.

I often find myself looking for you in your little bed whenever I come downstairs at night. Every so often I go up to dad's office where he put your collar on your favorite Garfield toy and jingle it just to remember you. I always tried to shush your incessant barking whenever I (or anyone else) walked through the front door, but I now find myself longing for your head jarring voice. Pepper and Lucy wait by the outside door everytime we let them out to play, looking for you, not sure when you are going to be coming back from wherever you went. The first few days after you left us, whenever we mentioned your name they would run around the house trying to sniff you out. Knowing that those two pups were grieving your loss breaks my heart.

I can't honestly say you are in a better place because I know how much you loved your life with us. We loved you so very much. You weren't hurting or in pain when you went in Mom's arms, thank goodness. I just wish we had a little bit more time with you.

I thought I was doing good until your vet sent us your very last paw print with "Chloe 3/1996 - 3/2009". It all seemed so permanent.

Enjoy your romps through fields of dog biscuits and the occasional turd. Be sure to wait for us at the pearly gates when we get there.

Love,

Me

A Munchkin after my own heart

Last week Mr. Hot Pilot, Munchkin and I spent our spring break down in sunny Florida visiting Mr. HP's family and torturing ourselves with the blinding sunshine, happy times of Disney World and the God-awful white sandy beaches of Tampa Florida. While down there with my two favorite guys I got to know my little Munchkin on a whole new level : I realized that at least three-quarters of his brain is filled with jokes about butts, poop and farts. If it weren't for the fact that I have neither the stretch marks nor the petrified fear of enduring childbirth, I would most certainly be convinced that this is my biological child. (Doesn't really matter if he is or isn't, he is still my Munchkin)

He is never shy about releasing his piquant bodily odors and our being in Disney World made this fact no different. It didn't matter that we were crowded shoulder to shoulder with about 10,000 other Disney freaks to watch the evening parade. While sitting on the shoulders of the man I love, he let loose his deadly gases. I didn't know quite what was going on behind me when I heard Mr. HP begin yelling "Dude, what the heck?" until the warm fragrance of doom overtook me and the man next to me gave me an evil glare and shuffled away from me. After a moment of appropriate shaming, I noticed something new about my little Munchkin - embarrassment. It used to be that we could joke around with Munchkin about things but this time was different. Instead we heard the exasperated sigh of a 7 year old who couldn't take the chiding of his super immature parents. "Dad-day! Car-ray!" was all he said in a rather valley girl-esque manner and sulked back to the car with us. Coming from the boy who is proud of his accomplishments and adores the smell of skunk (I swear) we were a bit taken aback by this new emotional development.

The next day he was back to his normal gross little boy ways of attempting to rub dead bugs and nose goblins on us. Instead of scolding him, I knelt down and kindly reminded him that due to his shorter stature, he is at perfect butt level of all of the other adults in queue and that he would be the first to suffer the effects if a butt-splosion were to occur.

Munchkins face contorted into a half grin/half look of fear.

This parenting thing? Totally rocks.

One way to instill humility

Growing up, my parents instilled rather strict christian moral values in my brothers and I. I would like to think that I still hold most of these morals near and dear my heart, but look folks I am nearly 28. I have been married before. (Gasp! I know! Worse than my decision to buy a second blue Dodge Neon!) I had put a couple of not so great relationships under my belt before I met the more-awesome-than-he-lets-on Mr. Hot Pilot and my world was once again turned upright.

Now Mr. Hot Pilot and I share the same christian values and enjoy doing things the right way in order to ensure that we don't fall into the same craptacular rat hole that we both ended up in with our first marriages - i.e - he with the world's craziest blonde chick and I with the world's least self motivated guy. Let me tell you, he and I would forgo a rockin' honeymoon if it meant eternal peace, sunshine and not the slightest chance of a mental breakdown.

So I didn't think much of it the other day while I was at my annual chick appointment and my doc asked if it was ok for her to leave a message on my machine regarding my results. Of course I didn't care, and I went on my merry way.

Imagine my shock and surprise when I was sitting at the computer the other night and my mother went to play the messages in the voicemail, and I heard the cheery voice of my doc. "Hi there, just wanted to let you know everything is negative, and your pregnancy test was negative. Hope you have a great day!".

I began yelling "Oh my God! I know I'm not pregnant for crying out loud! It was just routine! Oh God! I already know I'm not because I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!!!".

Funny how even at 27 one phone call from the doc can entice such a feeling of utter humiliation.

She's craf-tay!

This past week I have decided to try and save some money by creating my own christmas ornaments. I ended up spending nearly $200 on supplies. I really don't believe that Dave Ramsey would be proud of my attempt at saving money as I pretty much failed miserably. Despite my money saving efforts, I have saddled myself with several daunting projects. I'd like to consider myself somewhat crafty, but I often get either distracted or disinterested very quickly.

I have taken to painting wooden ornaments, painting wooden christmasy decorations, gluing paper strips to styrofoam balls and I even decided to fold oragami birds. I am finding the oragami to make my brain feel somewhat like mashed jello and am hoping maybe it is a good brain exercise which will keep me from the grips of alzheimers for maybe one extra year.

Little did I realize what a literal pain in the neck ornament painting would truly be. I woke up the next day with such a massive stiff neck I thought for sure I had meningitis. Until I realized it was nothing more than terrible posture which I'm sure my grandmother would chastise me for.

For tonight I am taking time off of my crafty ways and have come up with a new project I hope you will all enjoy : Really bad christmas lights. Christmas decor wrecks if you will. I will be scouring my local area each day at dusk for the most heinous acts of electrical expression in order to make each one of you feel just a little bit better about your decorating tastes.

Tonight I took the lazy way and found a picture online (as I learned the hard way that I should be taking these pictures at dusk and not under the blackened night sky whilst wearing my robber uniform of black clothes and panty hose over the face).

Enjoy tonights little christmas treasure and I will be bringing some of Marylands finest tomorrow.



(photo via Ugly Christmas Lights)

Censorship for kids!

When we were kids growing up, there were many things our parents put the kibosh on and kept us sheltered from : rap music, rock music, any music found on mainstream radio, The Simpsons, horror movies, crack smoking, swearing, vodka shooters and any movie with a rating higher than PG. Looking back I can certainly understand the extreme measures they went to to ensure that my brothers never saw a set of boobies before the age of 21 and I never saw a mans 'danger zone' until at least 3 years after I married.

I still remember going through the annual 5lb JC Penney catalog as a teen trying to find my style, and realizing that my mother had ripped out the 'lingerie' section in order to keep my brothers from fulfilling their curiosity by viewing middle aged women modeling granny panties or maternity bras. Very enticing.

When it came to movies and television, my parents were very guarded about what we were and were not allowed to watch. These rules lightened up quite a bit by the time my youngest brother was a teenager, but I had to live my younger years without the likes of "Roseanne" or "The Simpsons". Not good for a kid trying to be cool in the 5th grade.

Any time we watched a movie, my mother would sit in her chair, poised with the remote control to scan forward in case a woman were to dance bare chested across the screen. There had been more than one occasion where we would be watching a movie as a family when a love scene would suddenly appear and out of the corner of our eyes a small figure clad in flannel kitten pajamas would move in slow motion from the side shouting "No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!!!!" and block everyones view with her nightshirt. It was quite a picture.

Now-a-days we are used to seeing every movie imaginable with my parents. And I believe that they have become used to having grown children whom they don't have to censor movies for. It is because of this new and more grown-up life that we got caught in a sticky situation on Thanksgiving day.

As usual we were looking for a movie to go and see after Thanksgiving dinner. My dad suggested "The Four Christmases" with Reece Witherspoon and that guy that Jennifer Aniston once shouldn't have dated. I thought it looked funny and we decided to all go, Mr. Hot Pilot and Munchkin included.

We should have known something was amiss when we didn't see any other elementary aged children in the audience. Then Mr. Hot Pilot whispered "are you sure this is rated only PG?" to me as the rather grown-up previews flashed across the screen.

I hadn't even thought about what rating this movie was. I'm not accustomed to even thinking about it.

Then the first scene of the movie flashes up and after the two characters begin ripping each others clothes off in a bathroom, I realize we have trouble.

Without a second thought, Mr. Hot Pilot had Munchkin in a football hold and was racing down the steps and out of the theater. Looking back it was rather funny, although I was quite embarassed that we even went to see the movie with Munchkin.

Luckily we got our money back and all was right with the world again.

Maybe, just maybe, I will become the mom who will wear flannel kitten pajamas and ensure Munchkin never sees any womans bits and pieces until he is at least 35.

The Death of a Christmas Tradition

My family is a family of many traditions. Traditions that my mother and my father put in place in order to create a deep rooted sense of family, security and lasting memories.

As of yesterday, tradition is dead in my family. Officially DOA when I walked in the door last night from a long and un-eventful day at work.

For as long as I can remember, we have always bought a real christmas tree for christmas. And not just any live christmas tree, mind you. A lush, gorgeously scented Frasier Fir christmas tree. Each year after thanksgiving, my family would pile into the minivan or SUV and drive to one of two primo christmas tree lots to pick out our tree for the year. We would often stand out in the freezing cold (with the exception of one wacked out year when it was actually around 70 degrees - and unicorns were dancing through the backyard whilst singing show tunes from 'The Wizard of Oz') and walk through row upon row of deeply scented christmas trees in order to find just the perfect one. Not too fat and not too skinny. Certainly not too sparse or too short. It must be the right height for our living room. It was acceptable however to buy one with a nasty patch, as long as it could be hidden discreetly in the corner.

My mother and I would then walk up to look at the wreaths and pay for the tree while my dad and brothers made sure the tree was packaged up and trimmed to our specifications. It would then be tied to the roof of the car and driven home where it would sit in a bucket of water for a day or two to ensure no needles were lost in the process. Of course being a family of five with many opinionated and stubborn individuals, there were a select few years when I remember tensions were running high, and I especially remember the year that my mother told my father he didn't know his arse from a hole in the ground.

Funniest. Phrase. EVER.

When decorating day would arrive, my mom would be sure to set up a mini family party complete with egg nog (of the non-spiked variety) cookies and other treats. She would then turn on the christmas CD and we would all decorate the tree from our boxes of ornaments. It was great to see the 'Baby's 1st Christmas' ornaments from both 1980 and 1981 for myself. You see, I was born at the butt end of December 1980 and my parents had been CERTAIN I would be born before christmas that year. I however had different plans and celebrated my first christmas 5 days shy of my first birthday. How many of you can say THAT?

As we grew older, we grew less and less enthused about tree decorating. By the last couple of years my mom would have to guilt trip us into decorating the tree, or even make it a mandatory chore for my brothers and I. We would then balk at this and my mom would get mad and then someone would begrudgingly decorate the stupid tree. And then complain of how they were missing "The Office" or some silly crap like that.

So I suppose I shouldn't have been too surprised when I came home from work late last night to find an intruder sitting in a box on the family room floor.

An artificial, pre-lit, 7ft tall FAKE AS FAKE CAN BE Frasier Fir tree.

As soon as I saw it I looked accusingly at my dad and said "Christmas is dead. You both have just killed it."

My mom then went on to say that it is our turn (us kids that is) to be buying the christmas trees for our own homes and that she wants grandkids. Like, today. Or else. Because she isn't getting any younger. And my ovaries are going to fall out soon, so "Carrie Anne you had better use those suckers to the best of your ability".

I'm beginning to see that maybe this whole fake christmas tree thing was just a sick ruse to get one of us to use our God given talents to produce grandkids.

Maybe christmas isn't dead after all, but just in a vegetative state for the time being.

No Promises, I'm Feeling Lazy

Saturday is not a day off for me. My entire work week consists of hovering over trauma patients on Friday, Saturday and Sunday with Monday - Thursday either being travel days or days I park my ever expanding booty in front of a computer and work from home for an ungrateful little pharmacy that really should have been punished more as a child and sent to bed early with no dinner instead of only receiving the requisite time out.



In honor of my brain feeling like mush from the rather hectic day (you mean just because someone smashed up their car on the road due to their drinking too many Vodka tonics I ACTUALLY HAVE TO WORK??) I have decided to post a couple of pictures from my latest trip to the wasteland that is Del Rio, Texas. If it weren't for the fact that the hottest Puerto Rican man on the face of the planet lived there along with his cute little sidekick, Munchkin, I would never venture that far south. Ever.




Hope your weekend is fantabulous!

Birthday probe

Nearly one month ago was my mom's 2nd 26th birthday. As usual there was dining out, gifts and cards to be enjoyed by her. When you have had to raise three awesome and crazy kids and one husband who needs to be raised right along with them, you pretty much deserve an awesome birthday each year.

My mom's health insurance company thought so too.

I came downstairs this morning to find a "happy birthday" of sorts sitting on the kitchen counter from Kaiser Permanente. I saw the words "Happy birthday" and "birthday month" which of course made me think "wow, what a cool insurance company". Then I saw the true reason for the festive correspondence.

TIME TO SCHEDULE YOUR COLONOSCOPY.

Wow. What a way to poop on your birthday month. What a way to ruin all the joy and festivities you enjoyed.

I had toyed around with scanning the document in and posting it here since it really would have made your day, however there is this little federal law called HIPAA which tends to ruin fun things like leakage of personal protected health information. Whatever.

I then thought back to other fun things that have happened on peoples birthdays. Including my last birthday.

It was the first birthday I had spent with Mr. Hot Pilot and Munchkin. I was down in Texas enjoying what seemed to be a somewhat normal afternoon. Normal that is until Munchkin decided it was time for his daily constitutional, and by constitutional I mean losing half his body weight down a plumbing-challenged toilet. I heard the multiple flushes but didn't really think anything of it. It wasn't until I heard the little voice calling "Daddy? I need help..." that I thought maybe something might be up.

Then I heard Mr. Hot Pilot yell as though he saw a poop monster half eating our little Munchkin.

I stayed put. I'm no dummy.

Apparently my sitting perfectly still on the couch, not so much as BREATHING didn't do much for hiding myself. I should have jumped in the car and headed to Wal-Mart (no where else to run to really). Mr. Hot Pilot promptly sent Munchkin to his room and asked me if I might come and assist him in cleaning up a mess. A poop mess. (There seems to be a theme of poop going on here in my posts...I should look into that).

I walked into the main bathroom and there before me was a sea of toilet water flowing into the tub room, around the bend into the master bathroom and directly into the master bedroom. Sweet. Mr. Hot Pilot then proceeded to pull every towel, blanket and comforter out of rooms and closets to sop up the mess. I sort of stood there for a second and did the only thing I could possibly do.

I laughed my birthday booty off. Seriously, grow up in my family and anything having to do with a bodily function will elicit that exact reaction.

For the next hour or so we mopped and sopped while Munchkin was keeping watch of things from underneath his bedroom door. Every so often I'd see part of a Transformer or a little 6 year old finger poke out below as if to remind us he was still in captivity.

Finally we called maintenance to come in with an industrial poop sucker-upper (aka- a wet/dry vac) and pretty soon all was well. Munchkin was sprung from his prison and I was left with the question by Mr. Hot Pilot

"So what are you making us for dinner tonight?".

Happy birthday.

Really people....

It is certainly one of those days here in gloomy Baltimore. I have the next few days off and to be perfectly honest, I don't really know what to do with all of that free time. I know half of people out there would give their left kidney to have four days off in a row, but REALLY PEOPLE. When I don't go to Texas where I have plenty to do (clean, go to soccer with Munchkin and Mr. Hot Pilot, cook, chase the useless cat around the house in hopes she will run away..) I am often left bored out of my gourd.

I came downstairs this afternoon after doing a whole lot of nothing upstairs and found my dog Lucy staring rather listlessly out the front window. The picture above illustrates just how I feel.

Come back spring/summer...this fall crap is for the birds.

Listen all y'all, its a sabotage!

As I have mentioned in the past, I am part of a long distance relationship. Mr. Hot Pilot is a military officer who lives far, far away in (what seems like) a third world country complete with border jumpers, questionable water and absolutely no Target store within a 150 mile radius. Because of this long distance, I frequently (as in every other week) fly the friendly skies to spend time with him and Munchkin. I am lucky enough to work a job where I only have to work 3 days per week, and then have the remaning four days to do with as I please - lounge in bed until all hours of the afternoon, workout (HA!), work from home for my old job, shuttle drugs back and forth across the mexican border and spend time with my boys. On the weeks that I shuttle drugs back and forth go to visit my boys, I try to maximize my time with them by flying out of BWI as early as humanly possible on Monday and flying back in as late as possible on Thursday in order to drag my butt back into work on Friday morning.

In addition to my maximization of time, I must also note that I am a master procrastinator. Because of my earning a higher education in procrastination, I tend to leave my packing to the night before or the morning of my flight.

On my most recent trip to the little border town Mr. Hot Pilot affectionately calls home, I woke up before the butt crack of dawn could even be seen, and began getting myself ready. Now I don't live in an old house by any measure, but sometimes even in the most well maintained houses, you run into plumbing issues.

My plumbing issue was with my toilet.

I'm sure you would love to hear a story about how I clogged the toilet and caused serious carnage, however this is not the case. Instead I just gave the toilet a slight sideways glance complete with an early morning yawn and the darn thing overflowed.

Spontaneously.

Being that it was too freaking early in the morning for me to drag out a mop and clean the mess, I decided to do the next best thing and throw my used towel onto the toilet water that had collected on the bathroom floor and call it a day. I then shoved the towel behind the toilet to collect any straggling water and left for my flight.

I had a fab four days in Texas with my guys complete with high-larious moments with Munchkin and lots of smooching with Mr. Hot Pilot. I then returned home late Thursday and crashed in bed.

The next morning I awoke to get ready for my weekend at work and noticed my fresh and clean towel that is normally hanging on my bedpost was missing. I walked into the bathroom to see if I had left it there prior to my trip and found a similar towel hanging neatly on the towel rack. "Ok" I thought, "someone must've hung my towel up for me, sweet!" When I got out of the shower, I took that towel off of the rack and began drying off my face and body. And then it hit me like a homeless redneck hits their crack pipe.

The Funk.

This was no ordinary neatly hung towel. The funk eminating from the towel told me as much. This was the towel I had used just four days earlier to mop up TOILET WATER. I had been drying my face with TOILET WATER. And I don't care what state of clean the toilet that that water originated from is...all toilet water to me means one thing.

Poop water.

And I knew the culprit to my poopy facial. My dear old dad.

I quickly jumped back into the shower for a scalding, soapy, de-contamination and then ran like a fool downstairs to confront the evildoer. I discussed the present situation with my mother who found it to be all sorts of insanely funny.

She then passed the word on to my dad who told me that he just thought that I must like to RANDOMLY LEAVE CLEAN TOWELS ON THE FLOOR and hung it up for me. (Turns out my mom had taken my previously fresh towel and thrown it into the wash while I was away.) I was sure I had been set up.

When I pressed for a bended knee promise to pay wads of cash for pain and suffering an apology, this is what I got:

Dad : "Sorry, but if its any consolation, I read somewhere that people are paying big bucks for bird poop facials".

Awesome Christmas Cause

With the holidays just around the corner I am always reminded about those who are less fortunate that we are. Because of this, I decided the other day to put together a little Christmas Box for "Operation Christmas Child" by Samaritan's Purse. It is a fun activity for anyone with children (or heck, even those without!) who may want to help in finding things to pack into a shoebox to send to a girl or boy in need.

I actually found alot of great items at my local Target, some items that I might just go back for later to use as little stocking stuffers for Munchkin for later in the christmas season. I decided to fill a box for a boy between the ages of 4 and 7and found a great deal of cool stuff for about $20 bucks.

1 - Find an old shoebox and wrap the lid and box separately in festive paper.




2 - Let the paper fold in its own way, and it will be alot easier to wrap.




3 - Here is your rockin' snazzy finished product :



4 - Now fill it! (This is by far the fun part!)





I filled mine with crayons, Star Wars markers, Star Wars socks, a stuffed dragon, a kaleidascope, a mini chutes and ladders game, a kids toothbrush/toothpaste combo and a Hot Wheels car. Nothing cost over a dollar, and most are pretty cool if you ask me.

5 - Label box with labels you can get off of the Operation Christmas Child website.




Now go to "Operation Christmas Child" website for instructions on where to drop off your finished boxes. You might also want to gather a group of friends or family to put together several boxes for kids.


If anyone else decides to do this project, I would love to hear from you and maybe see some pictures or hear about what sort of items you sent in your christmas package. Have fun putting your boxes together!

Superhero dreams

Growing up in my home as a kid, the most significant piece of pop culture we were ever introduced to was Superman. My dad was (and is) a huge sci-fi fanatic, collected GI Joes starting from back when they were first produced, and harbored a secret love for Superman, Batman, and anything else of the superhero genre. When I was younger, my dad would take my brother Matt and I up to Woodlawn to go to the DC Comic book shop, where he had a standing order and his own cubby with all of the latest comic book issues. This is the man who hung movie posters of the Batman, Superman and Star Wars movies in our family room. And yes. My mother let him. Rumor even has it that I was named after Carrie Fischer, the actress who played "Princess Leia". (However my mother tells me that it was actually after his great aunt)
A long while back, my dad suggested that we go and see "Superman Returns". As long as he was paying, I was totally game. This was the third time my dad was going to go and see the movie. For him it is more than a comic book made into a feature length movie. It was the perfect metaphor for good against evil, for the complicated relationship between a father and son, for the emotional and spiritual quest every human experiences when trying to figure out why we are here. For him it was the meaning of life.
The first note of the theme song in opening credits gave me chills. I was on the edge of my seat for nearly the entire movie. I guess watching this movie with my dad was a way for us to bond. This was something that I grew up on, and something he was passionate about. I was glad to be able to share that passion with him, if for just one afternoon.
My only question is this. How in the holy heck, after zooming to outer space to save an aircraft full of people, come back through the atmosphere, and carrying that plane to a safe landing, does he keep that freaking curl so freaking perfect? Huh? I would love to know what hair gel "the man of steel" uses. No more bad hair days!

A six year old and his boogers

Joel [as Space Girl]: "Kids' brains always taste better when they've been thinking about donuts."


I'm back down in Del Rio this week spending time with my boys. Today was Mr. Hot Pilot's birthday (I'll be sure to post pictures soon!) so I decided to pick up Munchkin from school and take him out to pick out cool stuff for dad. On the way there of course I forgot my wallet and cell phone, so we had to drive all the way back home and then back out to town again, killing some rather precious time. Munchkin is an awesome little guy if I do say so myself. As we were driving, I mentioned that on my way there I had smelled a skunk and it made me think of him.

Now before you go all ape on me, let me fill you in on Munchkin. For some reason, he really likes the smell of skunk. At first Mr. Hot Pilot and I thought he was just being silly but as time went on we realized he just might indeed enjoy the pungent burnt tire smell of a skunk. So of course we got to talking about skunks and other gross things (as he IS a 6 year old boy, come on!). I don't know how many moms and step-moms out there have had the joy of discovering boogers attached to random places throughout your home, but I get the feeling I am not alone.

I gave Munchkin a heads up that his dad had found a yucky booger stuck to the side of the tub and that Munchkin was going to have to clean it when we got home. I look back in the rear-view mirror and I saw a smile spread widely over his lips.

Munchkin : "That wasn't me, that was daddy!"
Me : "Oh yeah? You sure? I seem to think otherwise"
Munchkin : "Haha! It was Daddy!"

So later on as we were driving to dinner the subject came back up about the mysterious appearing booger.

Mr. HP : "Hey Munchkin, you are going to have to clean your booger off the side of the tub tonight, that is just sick dude".

Munchkin : "Haha, no! I don't want to touch that!"

Me : "Oh yeah? You don't seem to mind all of the boogers you have stuck to your wall above your head in your bedroom do you? They are just sitting there ready to fall on you!"

Munchkin : "I know...it's heaven!"...."It's booger heaven!"

Me : "Oh, so they kind of sit there and watch over you while you sleep?"

Mr. Hot Pilot : "Like stars in the sky?"

Munchkin : "Oh yeah! I want to buy that paint stuff and make them glow in the dark!"

He then proceeded to tell us that his tool of choice was his right hand pointer finger, but "he only used that when he was a little kid".

Me : "Oh so are your boogers coming back through a worm hole back in time and attaching itself in Munchkin places all over the house?"

Munchkin : "I don't know..."

Mr. Hot Pilot : "Sick dude."

Then of course Munchkin thought it to be great fun to try and wipe the imaginary booger on Mr. Hot Pilot. Funny thing happened though. As soon as we stepped through the doors of the restaurant, Munchkin waves us off and hushes us by saying "Ok guys, we are in a restaurant. I don't want to hear any more talk about my boogers."

Well at least the kid's got manners.

Going to the dogs

"Tom [As dog, with Japanese accent]: Rufforu! Bow-a-wow!"

Dogs by nature are really rather disgusting. Now don't get me wrong, I love dogs. Not so fond of cats, but dogs are definitely where its at.
Tonight I came home after my dog had done one of her disgusting dog things. As I walked through the door and saw her sitting patiently in the hall awaiting my arrival, I noticed the new hairstyle she was sporting. Grandpa Munster is all that comes to mind. The top of her head was slicked back in a way reminiscent of this picture:
I swear she was smiling like this too. And I'll tell you why.
My parents decided to grill steaks this evening. Now on most gas grills, there is a can that catches any grease drippings. This very important can is missing off of my parents grill. So instead, there is a cloth underneath of the grill, where grease drippings gather. My dog, being like most any dog, finds this little patch of deck to be complete nirvana. To her, licking at this spot is nothing short of sublime. And while she was under the grill licking at old grease, new grease was dripping upon her sweet little doggy head. And she was in heaven.
Well, my mom tried to clean her up the best she could, which left me with Grandpa Munster for a dog. Only she smelled. BAD. She smelled like a minimum wage fry cook after a long hot day in the un airconditioned back of a cheap, greasy diner. And she thought she was the shizzle.
Well, I thought she smelled like poop, so she and I headed up to the dreaded bathtub. She hates baths. I stuck her in the bathroom while I dug up a towel, and changed into some ratty clothes. I came back, and could hear her growls of displeasure from the bottom of the stairs. I picked her up, legs splayed, and tossed her in. After three go arounds with various shampoos, and a dose of Dawn (cuts grease out of your way you know) she is about 75% better. Still smells a bit like a fry cook, but also has essence of papaya, with beautiful, shiny, voluminous locks. (According to the bottle, her style should hold up to humidity for up to 48hrs!)
After the final rinse, she took off running like a wild untamed beast, downstairs to pick fights with the other two dogs, and rub her wet, furry body all over my moms furniture.
Sweet. There is justice.

Suddenly domestic-ish

"Spacemen just don't look at home in a breakfast nook." -Crow.


I'm not exactly 'well known' around town as being a particularly neat and tidy person. For some reason or another I have had no problem keeping the main areas of my various abodes nice and sweet, while rendering my bedroom and the interior of my car un-inhabitable. I'm not too sure what this might mean about me from a psychological perspective, but I don't really give a rats arse.

Because of this, it was quite a surprise to myself and all that know me, that I took on such a fervent domestic role at Mr. Hot Pilots house.

As a bit of a background, my better half is a single papa who also has a super awesome job flying. He devotes himself 110% to being the best daddy possible (he is by far the most awesome dad I've ever seen in action) and devotes the same to being the best pilot and officer he can be. This dedication to Munchkin and his job tends to take away from his time to really clean house. Don't get me wrong, he is always on top of doing the laundry (the one job I LOVE-go figure!) and cooking a hot breakfast and healthy dinner EVERY SINGLE DAY. Yep. Hot breakfast as in eggs, bacon, pancakes, you name it. Every. Day. (Did I mention how awesome he is?) In the realm of cleaning house though...he leaves much to be desired. And that is where I come in.

I've grown accustomed to putting back together a house that my two tornadoes mess apart. But I love to do it because I love my boys. I do find myself frustrated sometimes by the mess however. But many times I just have to laugh. These are MEN (and boys!) we are talking about here! For instance, I went down to Texas to stay with Munchkin during the 2 weeks Mr. Hot Pilot was away at a training. There were about 4 days of overlap between when Mr. Hot Pilot left (Munchkin stayed at our friends home) and when I arrived. Mr. Hot Pilot decided to leave the cat at the house with enough food and water to hold her over until I got there. When I walked into the house, I found 3 mountains of cat food in three separate bowls on the kitchen floor but no water in sight. I looked at the cat and thought "well, she seems healthy enough and not on the brink of death, so what in the name of all that is holy is she drinking?". I looked high and low for a water bowl. And then I found it. The lid of the toilet in the main bathroom was left up. Yep. Mr. Hot Pilot figured that there was an unlimited supply of water in there and "she drinks out of there if I don't watch her anyway!".

Sick dude. Cat drank poop water and then came over to give me love and licks before I knew any better. (Mind you, when I inquired about having her learn to go to the bathroom on a toilet like some cats do, he wouldn't have anything to do with it since the thought of having to wait for the cat to finish business before he could use it just was too much for him.)

Over the course of those two weeks I scrubbed and washed and de-cluttered and re-vamped the entire household.

I totally nested.

Munchkin helped me pick out yummy scented candles and which pictures to hang on the walls in their new frames. He even hugged me while I was mopping the floor and thanked me. (And yes, my heart did melt!) I even got Munchkin to clean his room, since that was what Mr. Hot Pilot wanted help with the most.

When Mr. Hot Pilot returned home to us, I had a Tres Leches cake waiting in celebration. It was gross. (I never said I was the best baker did I?) I must have mentioned in passing that I would just throw the cake out before I left. It was in the refrigerator, so it was easy to forget that early morning at 4am when I had to leave for the airport. I returned two weeks later to find the cake still sitting in the fridge.

Mr. Hot Pilot's response?

"You said YOU were going to throw it out!"

My, oh my.

Kung-Fu time

Narrator: Here is a good time to point out a few facts about eggs.
Mike: Stop throwing them at my car.

I left you yesterday with feelings of disillusionment about how my brother was falsely accused of an act that never occurred and was never even investigated. I also left you with a feeling of redemption and pride when I told you about how our state senator was going to take care of things for dear young Cesaro.

I don't want you to think that the entire military is this way. The military as a whole is great, honorable and mighty. But we have to remember that we are still dealing with people here - and at a very basic level people can be jerks. And sometimes you need to go above the heads of those jerks and have someone put them in line.

You must also remember that I am a sister who is fiercely protective of her brother, and not really one who likes to sit back and watch injustice of any kind being tossed around. So I am happy to inform you that wheels are in motion and things are being done to investigate and exonerate Cesaro. Pretty freaking amazing eh? It also feels good to know that he has someone as powerful as a state senator in his corner fighting for him. I could maybe understand everything if the AF had actually taken the time to investigate and accept all of the proof Cesaro had offered up to them to prove his innocence. But they didn't. I'm not quite sure what they were hoping to accomplish, or how long they would have taken had Sen. Mikulski not stepped in.

I may not have voted for her in the election, but I am very grateful to her for all of her help.

You gotta fight. For your right. To serve this country?

"Crow: I thought it was deep...
Joel: What did you think, Servo?
Servo: I thought it was pathetic.
Crow: So deep, we should've been wearing boots"

Although I am not military myself (I have neither the guts nor the glory) I have strangely found myself surrounded by military men both in my immediate family, extended family and the man I plan to start a family with. My grandfather, two uncles and an aunt were all enlisted Air Force when I was a kid, although this didn't really mean much to me.

It wasn't until my younger brother (we will call him "Fush") joined the Air Force ROTC in college that it began to mean something to me. Fush went to an expensive private engineering college up in Hoboken, N.J and found ROTC to be a great way to help him pay some of his college loans. So he commissioned into the Air Force as a 2nd Lieutenant and went on his merry way. I then met Mr. Hot Pilot who just so happened to be an Air Force Major who graduated from the Air Force Academy. The idea of a military-ish lifestyle began to move itself to the forefront of my mind when I realized that I will someday soon marry this man and be a military wife. However I also knew that his being an officer would make our lifes much more "cushy" than the ordinary enlisted man's life.

Now enter my youngest brother (we shall call him Cesaro). He is was a fresh-faced 17 year old with the world at his feet when he graduated high school. I begged and pleaded that he go to college. It took me 10 years to earn a bachelor of science and by gosh he was going to do it quicker than I did! But he was bored with the whole collegiate scene. And he was proud of his older brother, Fush. I could see it coming from a mile away.

You see Cesaro is alot like me in many ways. I like to force life to happen at breakneck speed - hence a disastrous marriage at the seriously young age of 20. I also changed my mind (and my college major) so many times that I didn't graduate college/find my career of choice/meet the man of my dreams until I was much older. I don't necessarily regret my choices as I realize that there were things in my life and in Mr. Hot Pilots life that had to happen. And when he graduated college I was only 16 and it would have been VERY ILLEGAL. (I LOVE bringing that up to him from time to time, hehe!) But I digress. Cesaro wanted to be a missionary for a while. Then he wanted to be a police officer. All the while he was flirting with the idea of a career in the military. So he decided to enlist in the Air Force. Fush warned him that it was a bad decision. Mr. Hot Pilot (a big guy on campus with AF) warned him against it. Everyone told him to get a degree and THEN go ahead and go in as an officer. Better pay. More respect. A better life. But I knew he wouldn't listen. And so off to basic training (at 17 mind you) he went. To make matters worse, he decided to join Security Forces in order to hopefully further a law enforcement job in the future.

Fast forward 6 months. Cesaro has had his main graduation and has now graduated from tech school. He graduated top 10% of his class and received the coveted distinguished graduate (DG) award. (Awards are a big deal in the military I am finding) But see, there was one little problem. Cesaro was in a squadron of a few losers and jerks. Losers and jerks who liked to drink underage, and mess around with other mens wives and go AWOL at liberty. Cesaro kept his nose clean and didn't associate with this handful of losers. But the losers decided to try and clear their name a bit by dragging Cesaro into the fray. Why lets get the DG in on our lunacy! Fabulous idea! So the week before he is to return home and then proceed to his first assignment, he is brought up and told he is going NOWHERE. They are investigating a report that he went AWOL as well. Only no one is investigating. And no higher ups are willing to take Cesaro's physical proof that he did not go AWOL. They are just expecting to get Cesaro to sign a form admitting guilt so they don't have to do a darn thing and can just sweep it under the rug. Cesaro fights back. Mr. Hot Pilot and Fush offer advice to fight back. Mr. Hot Pilot is pissed. My dad decides enough is enough when his phone calls go unanswered and we find that Cesaro's file has been lying in a pile on some Captain's floor for THREE WEEKS. So what is a father to do? He goes above the Air Force's head and goes right to our Senator, Barbara Mikulski. Believe me when I say HEADS ARE ROLLING. People are getting in trouble left and right. And it screams of victory.

You see, here you have a kid who was determined to serve his country the best way he knew how. He worked hard and did all he was supposed to AND THEN SOME. And he gets pooped on by the people he is so determined to fight with for our freedom. It is true there is a lack of respect for the enlisted folks of our military. I'm not sure how many people realize that. Now they are trying to kill my brother's career before it even has started. But Cesaro is fighting back. Fighting for his right to serve our country. And it should never be that way. It isn't the entire military that is this way, just a select few people that want to be lazy and brush over the injustice that has been done. Senator Mikulski has just begun their investigation into this mess, but suddenly wheels are moving.

Amazing isn't it? I will be sure to post updates on the progress.

The way to his heart....

"I think I'll have a screwdriver without that nasty, bitter orange juice." -Tom



Whenever I am in Texas with Mr. Hot Pilot and Munchkin, it is important for me to flex my domestic-woman muscles and take care of my boys the best way I know how : good food. My boyfriend is an extremely health conscious person, and I try to adopt his healthy ways when I feed them. Of course I enjoy presenting them with yummy foods that my mother has served us in the past (and hopefully will knock his socks off and have him see what great wife material I am). So far I have been pretty successful with them liking what I make for dinner. The roast chicken and garlic green beans were an instant favorite, and Munchkin gave me kisses for that dinner. But of course there are those times when you bomb. And for some reason I have been bombing quite a bit lately.

It all started with the chicken pasta salad I made them. And this isn't necessarily an easy recipe. I had vegetables to chop. Dressings to be made. Chicken to be sauteed. And then there were the artichokes. Yep. Should have known the artichokes would crash and burn before takeoff. Munckin is very blunt when he tells you he doesn't like something - and you had better have thick skin or he will eat you alive. We all sat around what I considered a super success of a dinner. Munchkin takes a forkful, chews thoughtfully and then points his fork in the air and goes "yeah, this is yuck salad". And there you have it folks. The connoisseur of food himself gave you the big, fat, forks down. And then of course I while talking to Mr. Hot Pilot the next evening after I'd flown home, he tells me "Man, those artichokes did a number on my stomach! I spent half the night in the bathroom!". Sure. Blame it on the artichokes.

You know what I blame it on? The chicken that he cooked the night before and let sit on the stove for 4 hours before refrigerating and THEN EATING IT the next night (the night of bowel mayhem) for dinner.

So I tried again a few weeks later. With a very benign, normal, everyone eats it fish called Tilapia. I had Munchkin come to Walmart with me to pick out the seasoning, and home we went to steam it. Healthy food? Check. Easy to prepare? Absolutely. And then came the first bite from Munchkin later that evening. There was the first forkful, then the thoughtful pondering as he chewed. And then there was that ever recognizable fork point....and then..."Sick! This fish tastes SICK DUDE." (Yes, Munchkin says dude almost as much as his dad and I do. What can I say, the kid is awesome.) What the heck? EVERYONE eats Tilapia for crying out christmas! Well everyone except Mr. Hot Pilot and Munchkin apparently. Mr. Hot Pilot asked "So what is this fish anyway?". When I told him Tilapia he cups his hands around his mouth and whispers to me "Oh, we don't eat Tilapia." WHAT?!?! You don't EAT Tilapia? Oh, how sorry I am my dear, I should have fixed you smoked Salmon in a lobster bisque sauce with a side of our most expensive caviar. My mistake. So now, I have decided to forfeit my culinary awesomeness, throw in the towel and take his mother up on learning the fine art of preparing the Puerto Rican food my man and his boy love.

On a side note, I work in a Trauma Center here in Baltimore. Last weekend a man came in after having been stabbed by his wife for complaining about what she served him for breakfast. Men, I suggest you love your women no matter what they set in front of you for dinner. Unless of course you would like to take over the task? I'm just sayin'!