Ma petite Cezanne

Ro asked me what I wanted for Christmas this year and I said a 26-inch waistline and a private, nekkid reading of "To A Mouse" from Gerard Butler. She gave me a look that could wither a marble statue and asked what I might like from her for Christmas. I asked for some of her artwork to put in a little frame and went to sulk about my waistline.

I'm not embarrassed to tell you that I totally cried when I opened this. Big, fat, drippy tears that dumbfounded Ro and that she will no doubt remind me of when next I tell her to stop being so dramatic.

Saucy

I wanted to have the thank you note in my in-laws' hands before I posted this picture, but since their note is still sitting on my desk waiting to be mailed, I guess that's not going to happen.

This is one of three (three!!) awesome, awesome cookbooks they sent me for Christmas. This one is 612 pages and in addition to giving a brief history of sauce making (ancient Greeks used fermented fish guts - blech), includes the hows and whys and what-with's of basically every kind of classic and modern sauce-making concoction you can think of! I'm so excited I don't even care that I ended that sentence with a preposition!

Anyway, I'm anxious to start my self-appointed lesson plan. The first class is on... lemme see here... [flipping pages] - ah, Liaisons! Oooh, sounds so illicit, doesn't it? Leave it to the French to make "thickening agent" sound dirty.

Okay, I'm off to liaison with something butter based. See you after my heart attack!

Keeping up with the genies.

The meaning of Christmas

She's just mad because her nose isn't red.

I got yer Christmas cheer right here, pal!

Sniff this.

I'm REALLY, SUPER picky about scented candles. Ever notice how the more specific they try to get with their scent, the more they smell like Play-Doh? Christmas smells are sacred, y'all, I'm totally not willing to screw with that.

But this candle is the real deal! No, I don't know what ACTUAL mistletoe smells like, but this little glass full of wax smells like Christmas, and that's good enough for me!

Gloomy dog is gloomy.

It's the weather. She'll get over it.

More memories to make merry!

I lick you. I mean like you. Okay, both.

This morning I received a request for help from one of gals in our FRG. I don't want to say she sounded desperate, but the subject line in her email was in all caps with exclamation points. It concerned an adorable li'l puppy - okay, not so "li'l" but definitely adorable - that she was taking care of on short notice because his owners had a family emergency. It was a totally thoughtful and generous thing to do, considering the family in question had only 24 hours to high-tail it to the States.

When faced with predicaments like that, one doesn't take time to consider that the dog isn't yet housebroken, or that he's only about 6 months old, or that he might not get along with one's cat yet be absolutely addicted to the leavings in said cat's litterbox. Or the fact that the bundle of cat-crunchy-munchin' energy is deaf. Or that one isn't necessarily a dog person.

Are you beginning to see the need for the caps lock key and a few exclamation points?

To save my friend's sanity (rapidly depleting after two sleepless nights), I jumped right in there and offered to take the pup off her hands for a few hours, days or weeks, depending on her recovery time. As it happens, the owners had a back up plan that would be implemented later in the evening, but when I brought him home, I thought it was for at least an overnight stay.

First, we introduced Heidi and Skylar in neutral territory, where they got on famously and played like dogs are supposed to. This reassured me, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't have reservations about how they'd get along in the house. It's Heidi's territory after all, and she isn't known for her level of restraint when it comes to demanding attention from any and all warm bodies in residence.

What followed is a five hour blur of madly thrashing tails, flying dog drool, joyously wriggling dog bodies and a few bruised human kneecaps. After 19 months with Heidi, I thought no carbon based life form could match her energy level. Today, ladies and gentlemen, I was proven SO WRONG.

Although I was prepared to hold to my offer of unlimited emergency dog sitting, I can't say I'm overly disappointed that another family has stepped in. For starters, Skylar's owners will feel much more comfortable knowing personally the hands their dog is in. But no less important than that is the fact that Skylar also exceeds Heidi's capacity to fill the room with noxious gases that a Bond villain wouldn't touch. Seriously. I'm going to have to repaint.

Happy (slightly belated) Birthday to me!

OMG, YUM!

Would it be wrong to just pop the tops on these babies and pour 'em into my mouth at the same time?

Thanks, Chris!!

A ghost of Christmas past.

When R and I got married, we started a tradition of buying a Christmas tree ornament from each place we visited as a family. I don't know if when he suggested it, R knew how perfectly it meld our separate traditions into something uniquely suited to the three of us, but that's what happened. Our tree is like this perfect representation of our lives - what we came with, and what we added together.

We don't really have room for a tree here and I didn't think I minded it last year when we just skipped that part. But this year (I think for obvious reasons), I was really longing to unwrap those memory-laden ornaments and hold them in my hand.

White bday.

Hey! What the heck, man?! I did not. Order. Snow. ON MY BIRTHDAY!

Sweets for my sweet.

I have a hard time with care packages. First of all, after nearly nine years at war, military infrastructure is such that R has better access to some American items down range than I do living on post in Germany! Also, I'm not a big fan of sending "stuff" for stuff's sake. After watching him pack and repack his rucksack to accommodate a command-issued list full of redundancies, it doesn't seem sporting to send boxes of items that he'll have to store. Or eat, and frankly, that just gets stored around his middle, right?

But it's Christmas. And maybe it's not about the "stuff" but when you're 2,500 miles away, it's pretty hard to whisper "Merry Christmas" into a cardboard box and hope that the holiday spirit makes it to the middle of the desert intact. Here's where tradition comes in to save the day, because homemade treats, brightly wrapped packages, colorful cards and shiny ornaments all sing out"Merry Christmas!" and will make it to the desert (mostly) intact.

I didn't think it was possible, but I'm finding that my inherent practicality and infrequent sentimentality intersect at Christmas.

Feeling a little dark today.

First Snow

Happy early birthday to me!

Thanks, Mom!

A Silver Lining

So yesterday was kind of a heavy topic, and my usual blogging habit would be to step away for a few days and let that settle before I put anything else up. But the nature of this project doesn't really allow that, and I'm afraid my true, schizophrenic nature is really going to come out over the course of this year! Because today is a new day, and a new picture and attitude prevails.

Silver Lining #4 to the Deployment: A full year of PROPERLY SQUEEZED TOOTHPASTE TUBES.

My husband is a tube-masher, with little regard for the uniform thriftiness and order of squeezing from the bottom up. Now, I'm not so OCD that I will re-shape the tube every time he uses it (anymore...), but I will admit to getting some measure of satisfaction out of seeing this perfectly squeezed, flat-fin tail of a tube every time I brush my teeth. As silver linings go, it's reaching, but not insignificant!

Veteran's Day

I don't have any sort of meaningful insight about Veteran's Day.

I can't; my husband is deployed.

My job is to keep myself at an even emotional keel so that I can function alone twice as well as I do when he's home. In addition to that, other people are depending on me to set an example of "dealing with it" and not least among those people is my thirteen year old daughter.

I can't shout at media outlets that insist on focusing on fallen veterans that a dead soldier is dead every day of the year, not just Veteran's Day.

I can't scream at well meaning acquaintances that I don't need the pity that always saturates their "Thank you for your husband's service," as though my only choice is to endure it.

I can't give the military and government a giant middle finger for cutting support funding for family programs at the same time they get on TV and profess to be "so proud and grateful" for what we do.

I can't watch tribute programs or documentaries that talk about soldiers who come home in pieces - both physical and psychological - because letting myself dwell on those horrors means spending the next 11 months in constant terror.

Look, I'm not against Veteran's Day. I think it's an important national and cultural ceremonial marker. Necessary, even, for those who don't live close to the military. But it's not my holiday. It's not a freaking holiday. It's my life, my reality, my day-to-day existence. I won't wave my flag harder or sing louder or do anything else just because it makes the rest of the nation feel better.

I can't; my husband is deployed.

Maybe someday after his retirement I'll pin a little flag to my lapel and be glad for the extra day off from work. But for now I'll just do what I've been doing - functioning twice as well alone as when he's home, avoiding the news, struggling to live the Serenity Prayer - living through a war.

This is so meta!

Taking a picture of the new computer on which I'm viewing my pictures! Great googaly moogaly, how I love new toys!

This moment of meta joy was 2 months in the making, but it did turn my craptacular day around, so I pronounce its worthiness to be adequate.