Your Name Here.

Jules writes her name with a big, solid period at the end. So sure of herself it seems. I've noticed other kids do this sometimes as they learn to write and learn punctuation. I like the idea of thinking of ourselves with a firm, confident period at the end of who we are.

Potty training a boy, at least my boy, makes me doubt putting a period at the end of my name.

Anyone else experience that rush of adrenaline, ripping your kid out of a swing or off the couch, or out of the bath, at the hint they're pooping while attempting to potty-train? Then trip getting to the portable potty you brought to the park? Then find you're too late and now that you've pulled their pants down, it's worse than you ever imagined?

You really learn what good friends are when your kid poops their pants at your friends' house and you came unprepared.

Cole taught us over the last year he cannot be trusted to stop having fun to hit the bathroom.

We taught Jules about crying wolf. Spoiler alert: A wolf will petrify any kid into avoiding that. We may have forgotten briefly it eats the sheep and had it eat the boy, our voices slowing down to a quiet trail as we realized what we were doing, her eyes wide in the dark before bedtime, us curled around her on top of the covers. Oops.

There are many immature ways I still feel young but I'm nonetheless getting older (and wiser at an eighth of the rate). Old move: I got a pap smear for my birthday last fall. Immature move: I think I might start doing that yearly because I got a few extra "happy birthday's," giving my birth date to check in and so on.

Let's see, I watched Enola and The Queen's Gambit and fell in love with women all over again.

Oh – I got a new, full-time job! It's been great. Rewarding. Uses my skillset. Makes me feel like a grown-up. It also takes about 30 minutes to explain so I'll spare you.

In other literal news, I got the cover of Crown City Magazine again. In honesty, the key is the photo someone more professional took. Also got a Coronavirus at Christmastime feature for the Coronado Times. You can read more about my island Times life here if you're really, really bored – so these are basically some of my favorite people ever and I wish we could have writer get-togethers which they did before COVID and I arrived.

The writing and income life is good for once. If only I could make time to finish that pesky 30-something coming-of-age novel instead of blogging therapeutically.

I still like how I saw this on Twitter and thought, yep.

Anyone else have an Apple Watch and not know what to do with it? If you have one and do know what to do with it, please tell me. I'm tempted to donate it to someone who needs it. I still love you for getting it for my birthday, Cary, don't get me wrong.

Yet it feels like the giant blue pleather planner I bought when I was 12 and pretty much just enjoyed rewriting my homework assignments in my best (still really bad) handwriting and seeing a five dollar bill in the clear plastic pouch inside.

I proceeded to leave it in every store – racing back in a panic – when I put it down to check out an item.

Cary was gone for some training for a couple weeks recently. The C.B. Strike series on HBO MAX and frozen burritos got me though. Also my amazing mom-in-law. Grandparents may not replace your spouse. They may spoil your kids or not know where everything goes, or not know how to communicate every drop-off, pick-up and chore or errand like your more intuitive spouse after nearly 15 years of marriage. But they sure damn do make it easier when you have to change one less diaper, discipline one less time, deal with one less load of dishes or laundry, make one less even simple meal; and they provide that much more love.

Plus I didn't have to clean the microwave that was laughing at and taunting me. I wanted to shed a tear.

Because when your kids are getting in their car seats, talking incessantly or fighting, and you close the car door on their high, penetrating voices. And you pause. Walk as slowly as possible around to your own car door. It's one break. Adding a grandparent is a whole other one.

Then we drive home, Jules asking me about our our poor dead dog, girls marrying girls, me dying, God, heaven, giving birth (seriously all one in day)... And I’m like, I want them to ask and learn and find their way but also I’m just so tired and can’t even explain these things when tip-top. I mess up these conversations so much. Like I don’t have the answers, kid. Just be a nice person. But like tough when you have to be. Ugghh, good luck.

For some wins – what I live for – we watched Earwig and the Witch (also on HBO), the whole weird thing in peace, both kids rapt, me with coffee I made it all the way through without heating up. And we watched Frozen 2 for the millionth time (still so good) one night while they licked clean bowls of popcorn, also peaceful and laughing together in the near darkness because Jules makes it that way for a "special night" and we were close to her birthday – and I realized how much Cole is absorbing these days, talking about the "ice boat" and the "dark sea." And it's all worth it all over again and again.

Us toward the beginning of the pandemic,
getting ice cream and eating it in the traffic median. 😳

Eff

"How ya doin'?"

Tonight Show Host Jimmy Fallon

"Ohh just treading water to keep from the sharks underneath," David says in his New Zealander's voice.

We laugh in the hallway at work because it's dramatic but kind of true. Even when our lives seem small in comparison to CFOs and soldiers, the sense that there are sharp teeth ready to snatch off your toes, or at least nibble at them uncomfortably, is still real.

When Cary's gone, this is just how I feel. But now that Jules and I are over our second illness that deserves a hurricane name ('cause again I'm hyperbolic like that), I think I can handle anything.

Cynically, I give this feeling five minutes.

Before he left, he got off the phone with the skipper, who had the news. "Whidbey?" I ask eagerly from the couch with Jules attached to me and my eyes no longer glued to Mr. Robot, knowing we've been lucky this far - not blessed, lucky - it must/could continue right? We're charmed and good deep down and work so hard...yes, I would like some stinky fatty cheese with my whine.

Tesla Motors (soon-to-be) gigafactory

"Fallon."

#$@&%*!
It's fine.
It's fine.
Teardrop.
What's wrong with you, woman, snap out of it!

Whidbey Island. Pax River. Fallon, Nevada... There was a string of decent options come February 2016. We were on the fence anyway about this one this time around, pop 8,600, shifting its Post-It note on the kitchen wall between top spots. The flying is supposed to be great, search and rescue (SAR), mountain experience, blah, blah, blah, WINK. I love small towns, went to school in one, enjoy driving through them to wherever we're skiing – looking through the diner windows and at the movie theater marquees, romanticizing tumbleweeds and solitary houses set back from the roads, yadda, yadda, yadda.

But I couldn't shake the notion I was moving backward in life, in work-career-job-whatever you wanna call it. Or is it really that our furniture resembles Lisbeth Salander's before she buys grown-up stuff with her hacker money? That seems dumb. Yet everyone else appears to be moving onward and upward with job security and a nearby Pieology and the fruit in the bowl in the fridge with the stuff.

But he did well. And I did too. And we're bright-siders anyway. And hey, don't you want to be us? Have my husband, my kid, my dog, my car, my house. Look we traveled to Seoul. Look we bought a leather couch. Post it, filter it, tweet. Blog about it. We done good, lookit! She sleeps through the night. Butters protects us against cockroaches. Bull. Shit. The truth is nothing is ever perfect and even outside Uncle Sam's Godlike plan and the gloss of social media, no one has control over much. It takes faith in yourself and selflessness, and the great white hope or Hogwarts or whatever you believe in.

And don't let anyone Stepford wife your ass, a friend said, hitting the nail on the head for how I was feeling; it's not only about them, including little people and pets. You'll be running on fumes before you know it because you're human not a robot. Take an interest in yourself and brush off the guilt every time you do what they do: talk about your work, eat til you're full, sleep in, let chores wait.

I will lose it between jobs. I will take a gig reading between bowlers or handing back movie ticket stubs. I will stalk the editor of the local paper until Tesla offers me something I can't refuse or Breaking Bad is filming a second spin-off and needs someone to hold microphones which may dip into the shots. "Jimmy Fallon," I'm coming for you. But in the interim, I'm gonna squeeze the shit out of Japan – from the friends to the trains to the trip that is baby modeling to the ski season to the shortest commute I'll ever have between work, daycare, coffee and store.

There it is, that high again, this time but again from a cathartic (tsk, tsk) blog post I can't resist putting on Facebook because I have nothing else witty to say on there let alone in the flesh in a timely manner. But now I have a bloody nose. Figures. It'd been five minutes. Is it dry in Fallon? Well at least I won't need a blow dryer.

Cary has passed me overseas screening paperwork for the second time in our lives. A friend told me about this; we're moving to a place so remote, it requires a health screening.

None of us can have it all, be the tallest or the bestest, in the ideal place or phase always. Have splendid timing. Still we can at least have our bananas in a hammock if we want, and trust for the best with the rest.

Terraplane

Ideas for a skater birthday cake

I stopped waiting for Cary to throw me a surprise birthday party.

He knows all my favorite people. Just get them in a room, and have them yell surprise, and feed me cake fit for a six-year-old. That's all I ask to celebrate 30 years of Aly on planet Earth. The thing is, I told myself it was time to grow up.

It was hard to not celebrate all month. And given the decade milestone, it was hard not to celebrate all year. But as I Googled "ways to celebrate your 30th", I realized I'd either done it or couldn't afford it (although, I'm still planning on sampling all 31 favors at Baskin-Robbins).

And then it dawned on me: Maybe I should just chill. Treat the big day like a proper 30-year-old and bashfully dip my head like, darn it, you found out it was my 3-0, saying no, no, no party, no presents, please.

Ha! Who am I kidding... I'm a childless female who married at 23 and still can't seem to let go of Friday evenings alone with my husband or hours spent burying my nose against the screen of a Kindle. I can discuss 30 Rock jokes any day of the week, and I still try to pull off the "skater" look. (Wow.)

So how did I think I could possibly pass up the chance to have an immature fete? ... Well, I sulked until November hit, then decided to go hunt down some cake to shove in Cary's face.

ergoLCD

At work we were on deadline the week of October 22. This means everyone was nose to the grindstone to get a glorified PennySaver to the printer on time. Then they finish and throw a party while I get passed the baton and have to push all those Groupon-wannabe offers online. Then pretend I'm excited about them while posting deals to Facebook and tweeting them to our 55 followers.

Love ya, MBA. OXO. But this is what happens when you relocate every couple years. And I'll take it.

Here's why:

• Having a job in this economy is like getting one of the last tickets before a movie sells out. Whew.
• We can squirrel away the extra cash and enjoy a social security-free retirement in Tampa - unless we have 15-year-olds living with us at that point.
• A space away from home, and a purpose away from your spouse, is like the endorphins from exercise; there's pain, but it's an oh-so-sweet experience overall, and your heart will thank you for it.
• Insta-friends who always seem to turn out to be the salt of the earth.
• Whether I'm copywriting a coupon or a story that will eventually be turned down, writing's writing. (Thanks, Vin Diesel in The Fast and the Furious.)



Rich Kids of Instagram

• The goal of where I work is to save people money. That's something you can believe in.

Cary's Uncle Greg drew us a diagram one time that illustrated how we all just wanna move up. Up in life. Up in income. Up in glory. But the key to going up is going down. Because in this drawing, there's a ceiling - just like there's a limit to almost every get rich quick scheme. So if you don't buckle down and swim down in this case, you won't find the path out - the one that's likely not the least resistant.

If you do this, you will surface on the other side of life's barriers, very likely contentedly bobbing around and sunning yourself, telling the rest of the world who so badly wanted change yet were afraid to change it themselves:

"let them eat cake."

*Terraplane was a car brand and model build by the Hudson Motor Car Company in Detroit between 1932 and 1938.  They were inexpensive yet powerful vehicles. Car enthusiast and 1934 Ford Falcon owner Uncle Greg did more than give me a cool blog post title, he gave me a metaphor for life.

I ♥ Mexicans

I barely tasted July. With a new gig, and a shoebox that doesn't discourage visitors. The maraschino (meaning bad) cherry on top was chopping off my hair. My head has never been so deliciously light and cool (as Jo/June Allyson from Little Woman would say), my shower drain so relieved, my toss and turn nights that much easier. But I did have to figure out how to make myself not look like a porcupine every morning. Then I embraced it and decided porcupines are okay.

(What other mammals can I channel to make covering up zits, tweezing, flossing, shaving and self-imposed mani-pedis obsolete...)

Screened

Besides, who cares what I look like in HD when I still stare at a computer all day and survive heady workloads with a diet of deliciously greasy and crack-infused SoCal burritos...Maybe grooming needs to take it down a notch.

So I've always wanted to be at the epicenter of a news story. Not for pulling a Felicity (although it is pretty liberating), but for something like surviving a tsunami atop the Coronado Bridge, even being the one to catch KStew with someone who's not RPatz.

But of course come 4th of July, both Cary and I were out of town when the San Diego bay fireworks were accidentally set off all at once. I pretend I was there, perched on a lawn chair several blocks from home. I pretend it was some kind of crazed Brick Tamland character scurrying around barges via row boats, lighting all the fuses and giggling hysterically. But in reality, it was just a computer error, a glitch.

Check out this startling, colorful, smokey end to the world, seconds of something rare to behold that we totally missed.

Laos actually, but you get the point

If only it had happened in Tijuana, where fireworks like this are legal. ----->

But then karma stops being a bitch on the bay. Cary, Code Dude and I bike, boat and walk to the convention center, where Comicon is taking place. We have tix for the next day but can't resist patrolling the Gaslamp for nerds and stars alike. And whaddya know, we disembark the ferry, guiding our bikes along the dock, and a big chunk of the cast of True Blood strolls off a yacht and falls into line with us poor people meandering up the ramp to the Embarcadero.

At the site of Eric Northman, a woman in a maxi dress becomes scattered and abandons her baby, saying to a friend in rushed seriousness: "Watch the baby." The friend chuckles and stares in amazement as her friend takes off. I smile then wonder why I'm not doing the same thing to my bike, letting it hit the ground in exchange for some photo opp I'll Instagram to make myself look better next to one of those that makes us wonder if the Greeks had it right. Is it pride that stops me? Yep.

But that dissolves when we're pedaling down the boardwalk, and I see two characters from Teen Wolf. "Hey!" I exclaim. (Cary rolls his eyes while I watch this show sometimes, so I think maybe he might be interested - he does laugh at one character's jokes. Oh Stiles.) "Care, they're from Teen Wolf!" I realize I've said this too loudly, and the Teen Wolf hottie and ginger are probably now rolling their eyes at me. Oh the irony.

Comicon 2012

We watch nerds fight in the park. LARPing. Live action role-playing. Cody has to tell me twice. We watch a charismatic, olive-skinned Pikacho get people to jump-rope over his fake penis. There are more Finns than anything, and I vow to watch Adventuretime soon. We watch nerdy guys in masks have fun with abandon. We watch nerdy girls in capes be more confident than they are anywhere else in the world.

Before we leave, as we wait for the ferry, Code runs down the walkway to quickly see who's playing at the tented concert south of the convention center. And it's Kevin Bacon and his brother in the Bacon Brothers rock band! For a moment, he was one degree from Kevin Bacon.

Though I'm struck by stars, I'm more often melted by the people I love, work with, meet, and read about. One of the best things about doing freelance part-time now and hitting the workforce downtown, is I get coworkers back.

I'm particularly fond of Ernesto, a Mexican who commutes, wait for it...across the border. He's always friendly, always offering me a carrot stick or jalapeño chip, a coffee from across the street or something from the 7-Eleven up the block. He laughs easily. We walk over together to get coffee sometimes. He works hard, commutes far, and supports his wife and two little girls. Our conversations are hilarious and halted by Spanglish.

"Do you want to become a citizen?" I ask one day. (I'm hoping he does, since he's the kind of citizen a country would want.)

"Uhhh, no. We're okay," he says cheerfully in his thick, lilting accent. His wife and father-in-law run a store on the American side of the border, selling popular items from Mexico for Mexican-Americans who miss them, or perhaps Americans that fall in love with them. He carpools with his oldest girl, dropping her off at her U.S. school before finishing his commute to Little Italy on his work visa, his FastTrak-like border pass in tow.

As we wish each other well weekends on Friday and to drive safe, he mentions he has to get his water tank repaired on the way home.

"That thing," he says, "where the water comes out..." He makes an on/off motion. "...it's not working."

"Oh, you get those?" I ask, inquiring about his drinking water tank. "So you need a new stand or something? Doesn't just getting a new jug fix that problem?"

"Um. Huh?"

"Oh, I thought you were talking about one of those purified, drinking water tanks."

"Oh!" He laughs. "No. The uh...toilet tank." Oh! I raise my eyebrows, nod and smile. "But I've seen those sometimes," he continues. "We don't have them in Mexico really. You have them?"

"Yeahhh... Really? You don't have those? People seem to love their purified water. I think it's in their heads though; I think it's just the cold temperature that does it."

"Well I've seen one." Huh? "It used to be used for the town." Uh oh. "But it's not running anymore." Does he mean a water tower? I let it go, and we wrap up on what I think is the same page. But I don't mind this daily confusion for some reason. It only makes me more in awe of anyone who can communicate at all using a second language.

Rob, if you're still reading and not too swamped in jet fuel, this is for you.

While I've been slaving (okay, okay, it's only been a couple weeks of craziness for Aly and a couple years of craziness for Cary), my husband has been watching Olympiads rise to fame and fall from grace in ways we can't tear our eyes from or avoid tearing up over. Because now he's 'NATOPS* qualified in model.' This is the military's way of saying he's practically memorized his Seahawk instruction manual - which is the size of a witch's spellbook - and that he's out of the woods for this last sprint of training before joining the fleet late this winter.

It's a big feat. Now on to tactics. Landing on ships, performing vert-rep (vertical replenishment), jettisoning listening devices, shooting missels and torpedos into the San Diego skyline. You know. It's now a downward slope to Tokyo. Or not. [Insert hysterical laughter here.]

But congrats to you, Lieutenant JG Lawson. Where's a firework malfunction when you need one.

*Naval Air Training and Operating Procedures Standardization

They Can't Afford a Whole Reporter

There's too much unpaid writing going on. Those of you with real jobs might feel the same way sometimes, or most of the time. So get away before you slit your beautiful wrists. Beach over blog. TV over studying. A sickie. A babysitter. (Seriously, it will all be okay.)

Source

Okay, here are some Roger Sterling one-liners.




Here are some more:

Well, I gotta go learn a bunch of people's names before I fire them.

We know there's a black spot on the X-ray - you don't have to keep tapping your finger on it.

She died the way she lived: surrounded by the people she answered phones for.

Damn it, I don't want to die in this office. I almost have twice ... If it looks like I'm going, open a window. I'd rather flatten the top of a cab.

You don't know how to drink. Your whole generation, you drink for the wrong reasons. My generation we drink because it's good. Because it feels better than unbuttoning your collar. Because we deserve it. We drink because it's what men do.

A wooden leg ... They're so cheap they can't even afford a whole reporter.

Look, I want to tell you something because you're very dear to me. And I hope you understand that it comes from the bottom of my damaged, damaged heart. You are the finest piece of ass I ever had and I don't care who knows it. I am so glad I got to roam those hillsides.

You know what my father used to say? Being with a client is like being in a marriage. Sometimes you get into it for the wrong reasons, and eventually, they hit you in the face.

Lane: England won the world cup.
Roger: Cup of what?

I bet there were people walking around in the Bible complaining about kids today.

My mother always said, "Be careful what you wish for because you'll get it. And then people get jealous and try and take it away from you."


And here's a pretty song.



And a pretty picture.

Piccadilly Line

Feel any better? Now let's go get us some enjoyment.

For Lack of a Better Word

On TV, when someone is threatened to leave town, it sounds good to me.

Something is wrong with me. Don't really want to hang out. Don't want to do that black diamond that's narrower than a sidewalk. Can't reach low-hanging fruit. Can't do basic math in my head. Can't run fast. Can't cook well. Can't take a compliment. Can't say no and stick to it.

So these are the things I do at the bare minimum so I can call myself a decent lady, an average succes, and make mom halfway proud before heading out the door to friends, a dinner date, another shower, a wedding.

Run slow.
Eat fast.
Wash hair, body and face.
Tweeze brows. (But half the hairs break off and leave black dots that would heckle me if they could.)
Cover blemishes. (Apparently, I never stopped having 15-year-old chin pores. In the bad way.)
Brush teeth.
Chapstick.
Deodorant.
Lotion.
Lip stuff and whatever other makeup isn't empty, broken, or too hard to get out of the bag.
Dress and try to add at least one thing that appears on trend.
Grab something warm so I don't complain.
Grab bag despite wishing I was six again and could flee the coup without wallet, cell et cetera.
Pre-loaded in brain: Book, music, TV, and movie fodder. Maybe some Navy or anatomy questions.
Forgot to shave so run back in and don leggings ... Arms are also pale so slap on orange lotion. Oops, nails look like alligator teeth. No time!

Late the night before I find out that the day after whatever event I'm running to, there is another thing, a get-together at our place. So this already busy morning (to do the bare minimum!) starts very early and requires:

Dusting (I don't really need to move and wipe down every item, do I?)
Vacuuming (Too heavy. And canister full of pet hair. Caryyy...)
Making up the spare bed
Folding rest of laundry
Running the dishwasher again because there's food debris atop all the cereal bowls
Making bathroom not embarrassing
Making kitchen not embarrassing (this floor is dark; skip mopping)
Emptying all the trash cans that are too tiny, including the paper shredder that's irritating to have to use
Making that weird couch smell from former cat vomit dissipate again by soaking it in Febreeze
Cleaning cat box
Bathing sad-looking dog
Feeding and watering these two that don't help out at all
Paying credit card bill and addressing things like, Why is there a Best Buy charge in Pensacola a month after we left town?

Leaving town... SIGH

I make a wrong turn at least once when going wherever I'm going. And have to stop at least once to get [food, drink, gift that needs wrapping, card that needs heartfelt message, or hurried gas]. I usually opt for cash gifts. Wrinkled ATM money with torn bits and pen marks. Sorry, mom.

Half a day, half a tank of petrol, and half my energy battery later, I or we will arrive. Small talk and awkward hugs with beautiful tall people ensue. A girl's voice is sweet as syrup and shallow as a kiddie pool though tempting as one, her hair, makeup and outfit flawless. It's hot. As hot as my wedding day. (I'm so sorry, guests. Next round, I promise Vegas or a beach.) My thin layer of make-up melts off in minutes; my hair and clothes stick to me. I listen to the emoting and race to run helpful errands, ashamed for being a bit earnest. I sip on a Five-hour Energy drink to avoid devouring three pieces of red velvet cake and negating every single slow-ass snail run I did last week.

I look at Cary, and he's cool as a skinned cucumber. He's fully charged since he didn't already attend five baby showers this year. And he's fully changed since it's okay for boys to wander around in track pants; they might be lifting something at some point. He's stuffing his face with red velvet cake. I start toward him to steal a bite, but someone poses to me a punctuation question. I respond. They disagree. I bite my tongue.

Wouldn't this all be extra fun for moms with unavoidable water retention and a constant peanut gallery?

Cary wants to stay the night and head out early, so I dread remembering the thank you note I should probably write our last-minute hosts. I find a magazine to read and in it an article from a guy's perspective, detailing how darkly funny it is that women believe thank you notes, bridal gifts, and Facebook posts will get them past the pearly gate-keeper in the clouds. The rotten cherry is officially on top of the day. I roll over to fall asleep, concerned that I didn't make time to write anything beyond a greeting card greeting that day.

***

But nothing is really wrong with me. Because we all dislike this stuff. No one enjoys not having a maid, nanny, stylist, personal assistant, or endless airline miles for event travel. No one really enjoys absolutely constant responsibility, stimulation, and little time for your passion or the fun stuff. If it's not math, speed, height, cooking, and selfishness, it's spelling, speeches, height, current events, and self-sacrifice.

We should all leave town on our own terms now and then. (Or after a death threat.) But until then, is a thank you note or held tongue so bad? We all know that for lack of a better word, being female sucks. Most of the time. But grace comes with age. Usually. Remember when you first tried 2+2, or spelling Mississippi? It was sure a lot harder than it is now. Maybe one day gentler sex duty will feel less like duty and more like, well, nothing at all.

If a (wo)man does not keep pace with her companions, perhaps it is because she hears a different drummer. Let her step to the music which she hears, however measured or far away ... Shall we with pains erect a heaven of blue glass over ourselves, though when it is done we shall be sure to gaze still at the true ethereal heaven far above, as if the former were not? 

Henry David Thoreau, Walden

It's gotta be amaze-balls when it's natural for us to skip washing our hair for a bike ride, when red velvet cake and black diamonds are a given in equal measure.

Odd Years

Dear Grams

Our phone conversations weren't like other grandparents and grandchildren. Or so I thought. We didn't waste much air time on chit-chat. But that might be because I was only 15 when you got sick. We dove right in to what color dress I should get for some upcoming event. What boy I liked. What mischief you and my aunt, your elder daughter, had been up to. It's time like these I wish you were still a phone call, or a family event, away, and I could fill you in, and you me, and then I might feel guiltless enough to vent like an air conditioner in Florida in the summertime.

Last week, probably very soon after we knew, I would have called to tell you that you'd be happy to hear: I'm not going overseas. At least any time right soon. I know you would have wanted me to - because I wanted to - just like my mom; but deep down (though not that deep), you would be tickled like she is. Dad, too.

You would have liked, just like my husband (I supercalifragilistically can't wait for you to meet him), the fact that I'm more than willing - desperately wanting these days - to receive an overseas post. And you would maybe be slightly proud that with frantic eyes I continue to watch for the opportunity, as well as continue to prompt the hus to use words like "we" and "Aly and I" instead of "I" and "my." Because outside the helicopter, it's both of us picking our way through this life we chose together.

I might put to you here how you really do need to get a hearing aid. (They're quite streamlined now!) And stop being so stubborn! We're already letting you live in your own home ... Because if we had had another 15 years together, we would be close like this, having formed one of those relationships that's busting with respect yet dotted with frankness and plenty o' hugs with a kiss. But we would quickly get back to me ticking off disquiets about moving to San Diego by the end of the month (for a few years), instead of a far off isle via San Diego.

And just like everyone else, I would reiterate (though maybe a little more patiently with you - maybe, so don't push your luck, WINK), about how it all works.

Cary will be flying the new (well while this one is fairly new, I'm realizing 'new' tends to mean there's just not one slotted to replace it) naval helicopter called the 60 numerically, the Romeo phonetically, and the Seahawk better-ly. (Because who doesn't love rooting for the underdogs of Pritchard male sports lore...)

In his new squadron, he'll be learning to fly this breed of hawk (a pimped out Navy version of the Army Blackhawk for those who like comparisons like myself) during the next 6-9 months at the North Island base, which is on Coronado Island - over that huge suicide bridge from San Diego and up the Silver Strand that connects near The Del.

But you know this.

(And I apologize for all the parenthetical statements and some banging on, but it seems a necessity when it comes to militaryspeak as that dog Orwell might say.)

Then he'll officially joint the fleet and be deployable on his squadron's time. They say to expect about 6 months of deployment every year and a half, give or take for war or peace time; it's strange to have a job revolve around anything but the fiscal year. But then again, it's strange to have one family job in the air and the other very willingly chained to a desk. You would laugh a little at this, because a lot of what I said struck you as funny, as if I had quick wit instead of moments of clarity.

And you wouldn't ask me how the writing was going at this note, because you'd know I never know what to say. But you'd ask me what I was reading and that would sneakily get me talking about literary devices and the elements of style and how a panda eats, shoots and leaves.

But Grams, you'd be distracting me - so back to my list of misgivings I would pose to you on this much-wished-for-phone-call-slash-letter-to-the-North-Pole ... And no, Cary's no help, because all he cares about is riding beach cruisers around an idyllic little island from Oz, ignoring inflated rent and learning the many capabilities of his new maritime strike ride ... Yes, yes, that's why I love him. Okay, ready now? Okay...

Via

Q: How is my writing life made more interesting when I'm stateside?

A: Who had to go to Japan or Guam or Timbuktu to write something good? Pulitzers are always won by someone covering a story in their own backyard.

Q: I was hoping it would gloss over the fact that nothing of significance has happened to me, but I guess I'll have to continue to seek them out. Okay, so how do I justify being a lonely wife, or a poor parent a long, long time from now, when I can throw a palm tree and hit someone I know or am related to, who's likely doing the same thing, likely in an even harder situation?

A: What do you think I was sometimes?

Q: Stop answering my questions with questions ... Well how do I put an ocean between myself and work and responsibility and the like when there's only a channel or a freeway or state lines?

A: Just take lunch. Or hold your tongue. Or just stay away. Nothing wrong with a scoop of ice cream in the middle of the afternoon, or a night watching Little House on the Prairie. Get away; take a trip to Tijuana.

Q: It's not really safe there anymore but okay, just don't tell mom ... But how do I afford trips to places like Tokyo and Kyoto and learn to surf with nobody watching when Tokyo is a fortune away and again the palm tree thing?

A: I know you think some people think all you do is write marketing fluff and silly blog posts and fulfill your wifely role, but you and I both know better. You're not a pilot's wife. He's a writer's husband. {She laughs at her joke.} You'll be supporting and indulging me one day, and I wouldn't put my faith in a lost cause - let alone go anywhere near doubting your ability to one-up us all. Listen to your mother. And stop flirting with the Joneses, as you say.

Q: But how do I---

A: Oh Aly, you'll be fine. Now go do your thing.

I guess that's all I needed to hear. Though I think I'd be happy with a one-down. I wish you could come to the winging this weekend. You'll miss everyone thinking killing is cool and drinking is [fill in the blank]. You'd love our friends here. And you'll miss him in his uniform, and I can just imagine keeping that picture close by. I miss you. A lot. It'll be even more when I'm back Out West and wishing you could make your fried chicken and chocolate cake for me and the girls who make California great.


Hazel Nena Thomas was my mom's mom. One of the best of the best.

W.I.C.K.E.D. (or nerdy) is good

After three days of puking out my source-of-strength kcals and then some, and many more days of Cary footslogging through the hardest section of flight school thus far, I can actually say facing a shopping mall at Christmastime would seem like a break. This is saying a lot, given that at some strange point in my life, shopping became irrelevant.

The neighbor's winter fantasyland, complete with softly beeping electronic carols, seems nice now.

The seasonal drinks at Starbucks not so stupid.

The Kmart commercial with the wannabe pop song and pseudo people--nope, still don't like it.

In a matter of days, Cary'll be done with Instruments if weather and brain cells deprived of sleep permit. In a matter of days, I'll be splitting from whatever the hell it is I do. And we'll leave flight manuals, Microsoft Office, and social media where they belong: The bookshelves labeled Dreams That Require Work and Overused, Overpaid Trends.

Taking a break from scolding a client for excessive capitalization and exclamation points in Facebook posts, the Code-Dude and I visited the local TBS Comics--where the powers of tightly packed creativity and nerd smell combine to create the quintessential comic book store experience.

Obviously, the real deal is still out there. Those who embraced who they were long before it was cool to. More than simple growing up, I'm sure many learned far before I did that people who hate you or dislike you for whatever reason is moot. Off center in the narrow store was a strip of workbench-like tables, surrounded by patrons propped up on stools. I stole glances at their trading? Playing? Yellow scaffolding for storage hung overhead.

We joined in letting our freak flags fly and began going rack by box, shelf by shelf, unabashed commentary running...

Scott Pilgrim books - 'Cool art' ... 'I feel like I'm six again.'

Japanese graphic novels - 'They go/read backwards!' ... 'Why is backwards so cool?'

Red Wing - 'This looks cool' ... Is he a pilot?' ... 'Why do white covers stand out so much?'

Twilight graphic novel, True Blood Comicon editions, Vampirella - 'Of course.'

The Punisher - 'I can't find The Crow' ... 'It seems like it'd be cool.'

Thor - (whispered) 'What's the difference between Marvel and DC?'

Bat Girl - 'A #1!' ... 'Would be cool to feel like it's a beginning.'

Star Wars graphic novel - 'Ooo' ... 'Ahhh...'

It's official, nerdy has become cool. The thinnest books have become more valuable. Understanding pictures over words means you're just as smart (if not more so). Throw in a malt shop and a Sheldon-esque T-shirt, and you're living a different kind of American Dream. Or is it just nice to talk about something you like with someone who likes it, too?

By the way, anyone a fan of The Maze Runner? (mentioned in last post) I'm tentatively starting book two of three, and... It's just... They always peter out! This is my series theory. (Exception: J.K. Rowling's SEVEN Harry Potters.)

The Hunger Games? Great, right? But the other two? They slowly slid into that chasm of entertainment OCD that makes you finish what you started. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo? Just too much complexity. Twilight? Too little, especially for an extra movie. Ender's Game? We'll see.

Whatever happened to one-hit-wonders? To Kill a Mockingbird. Black Beauty. Invisible Man. Wuthering Heights. Gone with the Wind. One wonderful hit shouldn't guarantee an author anything but an intern's thoughtful read.

This kind of publishing would be like making the entire basketball team try out each and every year.

But then there's the money. And if I was an author with a contract, I probably might feel differently. hehe

But I'm not. I'm not wondering at what bookstore I'll be doing a reading next week; I'm wondering where I'll be living in three months. And again in a year or so. And again three years after that. But since we don't have a lot of money, this is perfect. Because a sense of adventure is all we have.

I'm realizing it's all any of us have.


*World In Catastrophe: Killzone Experiment Department, from The Maze Runner

The Little Piggy with the Low IQ Goes to Market

Courtesy of The Movie Database

The other night, I lied (laid? eff!) awake, thoughts reeling and body edges restless. I was trying to save the final chapter of the book I was reading for the beach (the female protagonist had just died anyway), and when I went out to watch TV, nothing was on. 'Cept The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Which is great, but it wasn't in HD, so I pouted while watching.

I was still restless with a lack of writing inspiration, and I longed to just jump into the story with Arthur, Trillian, Ford Prefect, Zaphod Beeblebrox, and Marvin the depressed but oh-so-cute robot. Adventure...with a British accent ... This is what I needed.

"Any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with."

Courtesy of Sharp Pen/Dull Sword

I'd settle for a summer in Paris in a crap flat instead of a spaceship and alien worlds. Heck, I'd settle for weekly shopping trips to the higher-scale Florida grocery store Publix instead of Walmart. But since it was nearing 2 a.m., I instead started pondering if I was anywhere near smart or creative enough to come up with a plot like in 'Hitchhiker's.'

So, I leaned from the couch to precariously grab the laptop off the coffee table with one hand and its T-rex-weak arm and did a complimentary, online IQ test. Yup. 38 questions, distracted just barely once or twice by a comment like this:

"On the planet Earth, man had always assumed that he was more intelligent than dolphins, because he had achieved so much - the wheel, New York, wars and so on - whilst all the dolphins had ever done was muck about in the water having a good time. But conversely, the dolphins had always believed they were far more intelligent than man - for precisely the same reasons."

Or this:

"I refuse to answer that question, on the grounds that I don't know the answer," says Zaphod.

Or this:

Marvin: "I am at a rough estimate 30 billion times more intelligent than you. Let me give you an example. Think of a number, any number." Zem: "Er, five." Marvin: "Wrong. You see?"

Courtesy of Wikipedia

[Wait, maybe being smart isn't that big of a deal, I think. Cleverness seems to be. Aren't those related though? Why don't I know that?!]

I eventually clicked SUBMIT.

I checked my e-mail for my results. Things start to jump out at me from the screen. Credit card information? $9.99? That'll tell you my IQ right there. What was I thinking...Hadn't I done this before? Found a Web site, answered quizzy questions, opened my e-mail, checked, sighed, deleted. Oh just settle for the toothpick test, Al. (However, I don't think I can do that either.) Maybe just using toothpicks after meals means you have a decent IQ. Maybe just knowing that as you get older, you need to make sure your teeth are food free, lipstick isn't smeared on them, and that you don't clear your throat a zillion times after a meal if you're around people. Maybe just operating like a decent human being means your brain is decent enough. Just not for novel writing. Shiat.

Courtesy of Smart Couponing

So, I went on a Publix adventure the next day.

Justification: It was on our way home more than Walmart. And we thought it would be fun. We climb out of the car and see slender, stylish people moving through the parking lot as we grab a cart and make our way, too. I pull on my sweatshirt, because while it's hot though stormy here lately, insides are pumped full of AC.

"Warm enough there, girl?" a man asks me as we enter.

"No."

We meander through the bakery, deli and produce as well as each and every soothingly-lit aisle. I use the excuse that I don't know where anything is, but really, I just wanna see what yummy foods, fun packaging, and organics await my careful plucking.

Courtesy of the blog True Wild Life

Eventually, our basket is full of prettier generic boxes and bags, and new (to us) kinds of fresh fruit (despite our fridge being broken and living out of ice chests for 6 days - I must say, my hands begged to fall off after digging around for 15 seconds at a time for a single stick of string cheese or cup o' yogurt - how do penguins and the like do it? But the new fridge is here. The ice chests gone. The trips to super-cheap Twice-the-Ice dispensers over. Sniff? Nah.)

We now manually motor up to one of the several minimally-lined check-outs. We're rung up, bagged, and rolling out to the car in such a short amount of time, and by seemingly truly happy people - healthier and almost overly helpful - that we don't know what to do with all the extra time in our evening.

Courtesy of the blog hitchhikers guide to jms

The receipt is substantially larger ($160 for a volume that usually costs us around $120). But I just wanna be more like the couple that had been leaving the store as we entered. The grown up skater boy and girl with the hipster outfit and salon hair, packing groceries into a Subaru. Hm. Enough saving for these things it is. I'll save Publix for when I need to avoid thinking about my IQ.

Wanted: User-Friendly Best Friend

On a good day, I'm a glass half full girl.

So, I'll begin with what I have.

I have childhood best friends. The people who know your 11-year-old self as much as your 28-year-old one. They sat by you at lunch and slept over on weekends. They made you laugh so hard you peed. They stuck up for you. You fought, you made up, you leaned on each other when you got dumped, or were worried about something especially big. You stay in touch in any way you can, because you can't imagine not.

I have college roommates. Friends from a year abroad, or who was just as excited as you about going from dorm to off-campus living. You may not stay in touch as much, but if you do, or see each other, you don't miss a beat.

I have siblings. Sweet, brilliant ones. Ones who give sincere hugs and ask sincere questions. Who are doing amazing, impressive things across the country.
Sigh, (Can you see what I'm getting at?).

I have a good mom. And dad. And like good moms and dads, they are my parents before my friends.

I have former co-workers. Who do a fairly spiffy job of keeping the conversations alive. Random text messages about good books and movies. Now and then birthday presents of jelly beans and funny cards. Even willing to meet up for sushi when I pass through their sunny parts of California.

I have two consistent e-mail buddies, another introvert and another writer. Some days, this is perfect. Being content to be a freelance writer means I usually adore being left alone all day. But not all the time. And when I'm somewhere in-between, rehashing the best quips from the previous night's 30 Rock, or encouraging words about zany novel-ing, is just what I need.

I'm a military wife. And just a wife. So, there's always a nice, little conduit to female companionship there. Be it Cary's best friend's wife. Be it the wives, girlfriends, or fiances of aviators. Be it a kick-ass aviatrix herself. And of course, there's always the mass e-mail about "lunch bunches" and "game nights," invitations to baby showers and teas. And while everyone understands we're all in need of local pals, we're all just passing through. Especially during training.

I have a husband who is my best friend. This zaps all feelings of isolation 99.9% of the time. But even a gay guy ... There are some things male buddies just don't get. Never mind, I would gladly accept applications for a GBF TODAY.

And I have a dog who's my best friend when my husband is in the dog house.
(The cat doesn't count since she bites.)

Courtesy of eMovingStorage

What I don't have is what I've come to title as a

'user-friendly best friend, will travel, clone-like.'

Sadly, I realized advertising for one on Craigslist might lead to my grissly murder by an Apple computer/Vanilla Sky lover. Best friends only come in the form of friendship bracelets and other jewelry via Ebay. And 222 Facebook acquaintances, and Twitter followers who un-follow me as quickly as they follow me, don't count.

Maybe it's all the friendship-themed books I've read lately. I want Ron, Hermione and Harry always nearby and ready to make me laugh or help me with something. I want Minny, Skeeter and Aibileen. I want a bond like Princess Lissa and Rose Hathaway have. (Well, maybe without the ghosts and insanity.) But I'll be moving every few years of most of my life now. So, in every place, I'm holding open auditions internally for a BF. Because my childhood friends, family, and even latest and greatest buds, no matter how tiny or flexible, won't fit in my suitcase. (And they have lives in case you were like, hey, just throw them in the moving truck; they're not bigger than a couch.) Thus, I have to resort to this:

The Internal Examiner
Classifieds section

Naval aviator wife seeks user-friendly best friend 

Courtesy of Sony Pictures

Military knowledge not necessary, just super easy-going personality. In fact, zero aircraft talk a plus. No babies yet. Likes animals. Would love to travel to places like Japan, Guam, Hawaii, San Diego, Virginia, Florida, Washington D.C., Europe, and other places including the Eastern seaboard. Always writes and calls back or explains why not. Book and movie buff to no end. Chocolate and wine fan. Comic book fan. A nice blend of agreeable and opinionated. Can talk sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll. Or pop. Someone I don't have to pretend around that I don't know the names of almost every movie or TV star you'll ever try to think of, and that I haven't actually finished a show's entire season in one workday. Knows laughter is the best medicine.

Thinking more long-term? Consider baby back-packing. Where we stuff our little ones into Baby Bjorns and do things like walk on the Great Wall of China and tour volcanos.

It's a tall order, I know. But I'll make it worth your while. 

Note: Will give rides to airport but complain about it, so I don't feel guilty when I do. 

*     *     *     *     *

"So," Cary says, "You basically want an Aly clone."

"Yeah. Basically ... But better. The 2.0 version."

Courtesy of Sony Pictures

A Highlight Waiting to Happen

In the weeks leading up to Selection, when the hus and I will know what naval aircraft platform he will be embarking upon - and where we'll be for the next year or so - these are things most worth discussing of course...

(If you find yourself asking us the same questions over and over, review the chart at the end of this post and commit it to memory, or suffer the wrath of shortness.)

Cookie Cake

No real occasion necessary to consume

This is the most wonderful mall treat of late. Marine wife Leslie introduced me to this fantastic dessert many deserve after a day of shopping and traipsing - and then more traipsing, which is needed in order to burn off the sugar content that must amount to a week's worth. But don't think about that when granting yourself this slice of soft chocolate chip cookie decorated with sickening (you know, but in a good way) sugary icing.

Tip: If your bank account can't handle walking miles around a mall all day, run the McGuire's 5K (or a 5K near you, including your neighborhood) - then indulge.

WordGirl

I know only some of you actually care about words, and most of you only read this out of pity for a struggling novelist, but if you happen to be a fellow starving (er, minus the cookie cake) wordsmith, check out this awesome possum cartoon on PBS Kids, whether you have kids or not. And yup, I watch PBS Kids. And the Disney channels. And ABC Family. These are my main reasons to have children - so I can watch these unabashed and in good company.

WordGirl teaches as well as follows the adventures of 10 year-old 5th grader Becky Botsford, originally from the planet Lexicon. Her sidekick is Captain Huggy Face, a monkey who was a pilot in the Lexicon Air Force, (this would be a good 'call sign' for the hus, yeah?). On Lexicon, Becky stowed away on Huggy Face's spaceship; Huggy was startled by Becky and crash landed on Earth, where they were both taken in by a kind family (whew).

Captain Huggy Face becomes their pet, and they name him Bob.

Becky finds she has superpowers now - flight and super strength. Becky and Captain Bob use the broken spaceship as headquarters to fight the crimes of creative enemies including one who inserts the word "Wham" into sentences at the most inopportune time. Okay, okay, words don't play a huge part except for the introductory and concluding lessons and searching for a couple certain words during the episode. But Becky has cute bangs, and Captain Huggy Face? I mean, come on, you gotta love that chunky monkey.

Friday the 13th and the Impending Year 2012

Yup, from the movie

I typically celebrate Friday the 13th with a scary movie. So Scream 4 was an obvious choice. But I couldn't bring myself to put pants on and drive through a downpour-ing thunderstorm to see it. So I stayed in. I encourage you to not be like me and brave hydroplaning in order to be a true horror flick fan.

I also encourage you to research the Mayan prophecy of 2012, because who doesn't want to? Don't answer that. I'm voting for an intelligence transformation on Earth, instead of a physical or spiritual, that will let us figure out terrorism, economy, gas prices, processes, paperwork and pollution solutions - or that we collide with a black hole so I can finally understand those things despite having taken astronomy freshman year of college. If you don't read the Wikipedia article, at least watch the movie 2012, or the somewhat related Apocolypto (in spite of Mel Gibson), on the eve of December 21.

And party like it's 1999!

"I was gonna wink at them, and then they would know - WINK."

This is an example of what the hus does to me in social situations. I warn you, it may seem cute, and it does to me now, and often during the situation, which only makes it worse, because I can't prove my point while laughing and smiling. So I'm at least recording it for posterity.

We're late to an event. And it's not my fault. It rarely is. Seriously! And the hus admits this and says we can blame him. Which is true anyway, I point out. And he's on the phone with some of our friends from the event. And he blames me! I freak out as he hangs up. "What are you doing?" I say, "You were supposed to take the blame." "I was gonna wink at them, and then they would know," he says and winks at me. "But you were on the phone; they can't see you!" "Oh." "Fuck me." "Okay."

The last few weeks have continued to involve social tardiness, seeming nagging when I'm really just trying to usher the boy to our next so-called event, and almost getting arrested for "staying too late" at our friends' apartment complex pool - a situation that could have been avoided if he just answered the officer with "I'll be right out," instead of "we'll be right out." SIGH

Whizzing and Shitting, AKA the Facebook for Dogs

We were walking the dog one cool, dry evening after a cold front (which the hus explained to me), amused at how our three-legged, yellow lab wanted to sniff, pee and poo at different sites. "Is she really marking that as her territory?" I had asked, adding to my many questions to the hus that should be rhetorical since it's not like he knows everything. Yet. "Just sayin' she was there, what she was doin'...

It's like Facebook for dogs."

Star Freebies 

During an evening of rainbow chip cupcakes, rum and disorganized Cranium and Apples to Apples, several ladies and I discussed the topic of freebie affairs with celebrities. Most agreed you and your spouse can pick one each; the subject can change but should be announced prior to the astronomical chances of meeting that person. But some still felt, no matter if it was one of the Jessica's, Angie herself, Pitt, or Pattinson, that no such freebie should ever exist. This made me wonder if an Indecent Proposal and that one Entourage episode could be mashed up into a catastrophic version of Notting Hill. These are the kind of ideas I come up with people! So if you have a better book or script idea, please, please, help me.

Credit not guaranteed.

The New Beetle

Like this. Save for it. Buy it. Cheer the world.

The new Beetle/Porsche mashup in image mode.

Courtesy of Volkswagen

The Office of Letters and Light

This office organized NaNoWriMo, the national novel writing month (November) writing marathon and April's Script Frenzy for aspiring screenwriters. They also promote young writers and photography. So snaps to The Office of Letters and Light. Also for mashing up photos and words; nice job photog and subject for portraying how to literally write where you are.

Wulp...

The aforementioned have been the highlights (inspired by an ESPN anchor during a highlights segment) of my life since my far off last post due to a substantial boost in beach time. And, er, work and novelizing - sure, yeah. At least I just learned novelizing is a real, live word.


Click on the chart below to enlarge.