3/25/2006 05:13:00 AM|W|P|Schnozz|W|P|Originally, Mr. S and I were going to go out dancing. But then we remembered that we don't know the first thing about dancing. So I suggested staying in and LEARNING to dance (thanks, Amazon DVD!) instead. To some, this may mean a boring night in on the couch. But, let me remind you ... we live in a nightclub.* You thought I was kidding. And yes, that's a real bomb.** So anyway, we decided to stay in. I hopped in the tub, got all my makeup on, and brought out the black heels and the sparkly scarf belt (L, you're going to see some familiar clothing in one of these pictures). I turned Napster to the Latin radio station, and the stage was set. All I needed was Mr. S, who was still getting ready. But Mr. S never showed. In his place arrived a man who introduced himself, with a flourish, as Raoul.*** Despite the uncanny resemblance, I had to believe him: Mr. S does not flourish. Who was this man? What secrets were behind those rosy shades? I was mysteriously drawn to him. I wanted to run my hands up and down his chest, feeling the texture of the scratchy, six-dollar Kohl's button-down under my palms. I wanted to look through the magenta plastic, deep into those soulful eyes. I knew it was wrong--almost as wrong as Raoul's odd fashion sense--but yet ... it was as if I had known him for years. After a few shots of whiskey, Raoul loosened up a bit and the party really got started. Raoul left me at the bar as I sipped my drink. I spun on my stool, my eyes searching for him in the vast black living room club. He was in front of the couch on the dance floor. He didn't move, but his eyes were already dancing ... and beckoning. I felt nearly weak with the crush I was forming on this man. I glanced down at my fingers, which absentmindedly stroked the cheap black vinyl of the $25 Target barstools, and noticed I had forgotten my wedding jewelry. Had something inside me told me of this night with Raoul? Had our souls known 'twas our destiny to meet here, in this very very (very) exclusive club? Perhaps the rhythm of our feet needed only to follow the rhythm of our hearts, which already beat together as one. I caught his gaze and held it. I hadn't finished my drink, but who was I to resist? It was time ... for the cha-cha. So we cut the music, hit the lights, and popped the DVD in, where we watched an odd, stuffy couple very slowly attempt to teach us the cha-cha. Did you feel the loss of romance just then? Yeah, so did we. Trust me. Poor Raoul. For all his initial smoothness, he turned out to be a bit ... inexperienced. (At the cha-cha, I mean.) There was a bit of cursing and much muttering of "cha-cha-cha" to himself as Raoul's feet, curiously encased in a pair of gym shoes that didn't really go with the pink shades, attempted to step to the cha-cha rhythm. But after a few breaks and a LOT of practice, Raoul and I were officially dancing the cha-cha together with a fair amount of ease. We were surprised at our own success. THIS? THIS IS THE CHA-CHA? Hah! No mystery here. Soon we shall be cha-cha masters! We practiced a bit more, and then we were ready for some music. Napster's Latin channel was flipped on once again ... but this time we knew what to do. Or at least supposedly we did. It turns out that Raoul is completely tone deaf. In addition, the rhythm of the music, which seemed obvious to me, was so lost on him that he had no idea at what pace to proceed. So I danced to the rhythm while Raoul stared down at my feet and copied me, thus dancing a beat behind as I dragged him around the living room. By this point, Raoul had a violent case of the hiccups, so his faltering steps were punctuated by full-body seizures that did nothing for his overall grace, which was already sadly lacking. Raoul had tried hard, but his eyes were glazing over behind those shades. Things were no longer looking quite so ... rosy. We had had our fun, but it was time to say ta-ta to the cha-cha. Raoul disappeared into the bedroom, and out came Mr. S. My heels were kicked off, my clothes got chucked into the closet, and we tumbled in a pile onto the floor to ... ... watch cartoons until Mr. S fell asleep. And then I watched a show about animals were most of them were "saved" and then euthanized anyway (no fewer than A HUNDRED cats and dogs were euthanized in ONE EPISODE, what are these people trying to DO to me), so I ended up crying by myself about the poor starved dog they found chained in a yard, then fed to full, glowing, rompy, adorable health, then tested for aggressiveness, then killed (after the dog's tester cried her eyes out--she and the dog had bonded for weeks prior to his failed evaluation) while Mr. S snored through the whole thing two feet away from me. Another evening with the Schnozzes had concluded. So much happened that night with Raoul and Mr. S, the two loves of my life. Drinks were consumed ... but then the buzz wore off. Romance was had ... then lost. Some dances were learned ... then butchered. Passion was ignited ... but then not, er, consummated. Animals were saved ... but then they all died. But the bonds formed during those faltering, hiccupy steps would last a lifetime. ~The End~ Epilogue: For those who found Raoul a bit ... metrosexual, to say the least, I have this picture to prove that Mr. S is ALL MAN: Observe the manly beard. That sad stubble took him a week to grow. Alas, pilots are not allowed to have beards--if you could even call that a beard--so it had to come off. If you are wondering, this is because in the event of the plane going down, Mr. S, as the pilot, would need oxygen so he could operate the jet and hopefully, but probably not, save all from a fiery death that would smash them all to smithereens ... and the oxygen mask won't fit properly if facial hair is in the way. On that cheery note ... goodnight! --------- *This picture is highly inaccurate because of the photostitching; the table, the bar, and the TV actually form three points of a right angle. The barely visible audio rack to the left of the TV is in one corner of the room, and the bar is in another, and the table is in another. The fourth corner is the front door, not pictured. Notice that curvy rail the dining pendants hang from? That's MONORAIL, baby. About thirty feet of it curve down the length of the room (the part that I am standing under to take this picture, which is why you only see a little bit of it). At the other side of the room, opposite the table, four other lights are attached to light the entryway. Please ignore the ugly table. I don't want to talk about the ugly table. Please also take note of our big TV. Mr. S would never forgive you if you didn't notice the giant, glaring square in the back of the room. **Guess which one of us OWNS A BOMB. Hint: That person also owns a gun safe and several fighting knives. That person is not very tall. That person may possibly be overcompensating for something. ***No, really. I didn't make this up. I don't think I could have even if I tried. Those are MY sunglasses, by the way. He didn't even ask if he could borrow them.|W|P|114329239647581758|W|P|An evening with the Schnozzes|W|P|j.h.gilbert@gmail.com3/17/2006 05:12:00 AM|W|P|Schnozz|W|P|Moose told me she was sending me something tasty in the mail. I was so excited! I love food. I couldn't wait. And then it came. It was some sort of dense cake (what do you call those ... pound cakes? I'm not much of a cook) with my name on it. My name! How fun is that? That Moose. So creative. I dug in eagerly. I was so excited for the first bite that I made sure to immortalize the moment on camera. But ... well. Frankly, it wasn't that good overall. Then again, the chewy oatmeal-raisin center was TO DIE FOR. I'm so glad I stuck with it all the way through, even though parts of it seemed overcooked or something. Next time maybe you could use frosting? I don't know. Thanks, Moose!|W|P|114329236670995239|W|P|COOKIES!|W|P|j.h.gilbert@gmail.com3/16/2006 05:11:00 AM|W|P|Schnozz|W|P|Dear Carlos, I think it's time we discussed something. You know that you can talk to me about anything, right? That's what parents are for. You can trust us. We're only here to help you. We want the best for you. Lately you've been in a bit of funk. I tried to ignore it, hoping you would work things out on your own, but unfortunately that's not happening. In fact your moodiness deepens, and you are now playing the role of Tortured Misunderstood Hamster quite well. Is this some sort of hamster puberty? Why are you so angry with us? What have we ever done but love you and clean your cage reliably? You used to be so content. You would run awhile, rest awhile, eat awhile, all without much drama. You only got angry with us when we used the Dustbuster. And even then you forgave us quickly, without much coaxing. Now, when you are in your cage, you want out, out, out. You smash your pink little nose into every crevice. Is this the way out? Is this? Is this is this is this? But there is no way out. Those hamster-cage people are pretty good at their jobs. All the same, you stretch your little spine and toss your little body to and fro in an effort to escape. You shove your face into every vent hole. Oh please oh please let me out I can't take it a moment longer. Of course, as soon as we let you out, you want in, oh you want in, in in in in. You climb all over the cage seeking the way in and run about the bathtub in distress. You just want to go home, all you've ever wanted was home, you hate this strange new bathtub world you are in, despite the presence of food and water and even a fresh carrot. O disaster. You are lost in a pink ceramic wasteland. You are terrified. You fling yourself about until the faucet drips on you, and then you have a hamster seizure of rage. You hate water! Unless you love water. It all depends on how you're feeling right then. When I open the cage door for you again, you climb in eagerly, with delicious relief. Five minutes later, your frenzied efforts to escape commence. Oh please let me out, I want out, I'll DIE if I don't get out, oh I'm so stifled, I hate my food dish, it's the same old food dish, and here is the same old house, and here is the same old wheel, and none of it is good enough I want to die. You used to love your wheel. You ran and ran and ran! You were an Olympic hamster! Now you climb in it and run a few steps on it, then give us a Look. Clearly this is not the same wheel you had yesterday. Obviously we've changed something, because this wheel is no longer fun. This wheel is totally lame. As is the chewy square and the Hamster Lookout Tower. Stupid chewy square. It's blue and you HATE blue and no one understands you. Finally you will run on the wheel for a while, but without your former gusto, as if you are swallowing a bitter, bitter pill in your acceptance of this clearly inferior recreational device we've given you. Even when we find something that works for you, that is no guarantee it will work the next day. Case in point: Recently I gave you some toilet paper. You had so much fun with the toilet paper. You ran around with it and dragged it everywhere and chewed it into pieces and wrapped yourself in it and oh fun fun fun. Toilet paper is joy! You slept in it and walked on it and shunned your ordinary bedding, refusing to even set foot on it. Toilet paper was in, bedding was out. You made big piles of it and snuggled down, passing out right in the open, which is so unlike our little owl appetizer, who used to enjoy hiding in his wooden house instead, lest he be eaten by winged beasts in the night. So you loved the toilet paper. Couldn't get enough. Right? Right? Well, last night, I went to clean your cage, then realized we were out of bedding. To tide you over until I could get to the store today, I loaded your cage with luscious piles of toilet paper. You love toilet paper! You were going to be so happy. I couldn't wait for you to stop flinging yourself under the faucet long enough to realize the door was open so you could climb back in. You climbed back in. You stood in the doorway and surveyed the situation. You then gazed at me. With palpable disdain. To humor me, you climbed into it. And stood frozen, unable to move in the toilet paper, which was apparently burning your skin on contact. O TORTURE! You sought refuge in your food dish. Then you hid from the cold, abusive toilet paper in your Lookout tubing. You begged me to remove the horribly offensive toilet paper because EVERYONE KNOWS HAMSTERS DO NOT LIKE TOILET PAPER, AT LEAST NOT ON WEDNESDAYS. Finally no one answered your pleas, and you got tired, so you investigated your house. You found it to be far too toilet papery. There's no way you could sleep in that. Even though you purposely slept in that for a week, actually DRAGGING the toilet paper into your house so you could sleep in it. But all of that is forgotten now. Toilet paper is so last season. Eventually, you climbed onto the roof and stayed there, safe from the rolling waves of Scott Tissue that threatened your very sanity. Let's not forget that whenever our hands are outside your cage, you greet us cheerfully, putting your nose right where our fingers are touching the glass. Oh, come visit, come play, come visit, I love you. Then we put our hands in the cage and you run away so fast that you nearly bash yourself unconscious against the plastic. Hey, you don't want us to touch you. We get it. We respect that. We NEVER touch you. We have never even tried to pick you up, in fact. Yet you beg for it, pushing yourself as close as possible to our hands. Oh please, oh please, come pet m- OH MY GOD WHAT ARE YOU DOING GET OUT OF MY CAGE AGGGGGH SPLAT. I have to ask: What is wrong with you, Carlos? For a while I thought you might be sick or something. But weeks and weeks have gone by, so if you were really sick, you should be dead by now. Plus, not to get all up in your business, but your poop looks perfectly fine. If you were really sick, you certainly shouldn't be capable of throwing these energetic hamster tantrums. Is it hormones? Do you need us to get you a girl hamster? What can we do? We would get you a lady friend, but the pet store says you would try to eat her. I hate to play dirty, but I just wanted to point out that you sort of need us. For food, I mean. And water. I'm not sure if you've noticed, but we pick up the check. Your only job around here is being cute and charming. You've got the first one covered, but you're really not pulling off the charming aspect. Hint: Norman Bates is not charming. Sigh. You have my nose, but otherwise you've turned out just like your father. Sincerely, Mama|W|P|114329231810268298|W|P|To: Carlos the Hamster|W|P|j.h.gilbert@gmail.com5/07/2006 12:30:00 AM|W|P| Anonymous|W|P|I love Carlos. I just know he is a deep thinker. I suspect he is an Existentialist.3/14/2006 05:10:00 AM|W|P|Schnozz|W|P|I've had my first blog discoverer! And it's L. Congratulations! You win ... well, I don't know what. A round of DDR? Everyone wave to L. And everyone e-mail me about all the places I said bad things about her so I can change them really fast.* In other news, I am not nearly so sore today and feeling much better. Though I have a colorful ass. I appreciate the concern! And the offers to murder the stairwell guy. Honestly I think he just thought I was on drugs or something. He looked more afraid than uncaring. That's not to say he was RIGHT ... but I understand. Maybe. Some of you have wondered why I'm not in Seattle yet. I should clarify--Seattle and Dooce did not oppose one another directly. It's just that with my projects, there's no way I had time to do both. I have to get a lot of work done tonight just to go to Seattle. I have a lot of work that must be done (and the masthead that is going to get designed tonight, so help me God), but I can't resist what I am about to do. Last night I was looking for a specific picture, and instead I found some really. hilarious. pictures. So here you go. Is it me, or does this just SCREAM masthead? I am so using this one next time. Mr. S is modeling his military glasses, and I am reacting quite appropriately to his new look. We are dressed in fun props because we were hosting a Valentine's Day party (2004) and part of the fun was a photo area with different accessories. The adults were a little weirded out, but the kids loved it. If you do not think this is cute, you have NO SOUL. I'm actually sorry I found these, because I like my hair, but my hair actually sucked then and it was all a trick and probably took me six hours to get it straight and calm like that, but sometimes when I see pictures like this I freak out and cut all my hair off and dye it platinum. And then I complain to anyone who will listen that my hair is impossible to control when it's short. And say I can't wait until it grows out. Some of my long-suffering friends have witnessed this cycle several times. And then the urge increases when I see cute pictures like this ... NOOOOO! Do not be tempted! That hair was hell to maintain! These aren't that funny, you're thinking. Relax. They get better. Behold the hotness: That's right. Paris Hilton had NOTHING on me. Let's see you get bigger glasses than this! That shirt was generic Hypercolor, by the way. It was so cool. We'll let you wash that out of your eyeballs with a few doses of sweetness: I wore that little pink outfit constantly. I think they finally took it away when it started looking more like a pink fluffy belt than an outfit. The "northern exposure" was getting awkward after I grew about a foot. Proof that I CAN tan. When I want to. I am pale on purpose. Most people don't realize that, but it's really just as well--they're like "poor girl just can't get a tan," rather than "poor girl suffers from extreme cancer paranoia." I actually tan quite nicely. I should know. I spent a lot of time doing it in high school. Because I was an idiot. That photo is also proof that I can pull off Amish fashion without a HITCH. This is probably the last time I baked a cake. It was my sixth or seventh birthday, if I remember right, and I was stirring the batter for my own cake. Can you believe that? Now they try to spin it, like "Oh, you WANTED to help," but really no one cared about my birthday and I was forced to do it myself. I ate the cake, but my tears made every bite taste salty. P.S. Bed head was so hot right then. All the rage. My first toga party. I am so totally wasted in that picture. Later my parents called and were like "We called your dorm all night" and "Where were you" and "Oh we were so worried" and I was all, "I was studying all night at the library, silly-billys!" Even then I knew just what to say. These aren't that hilarious, you're thinking. She said they were hilarious. I want my money back. Well, first of all, you didn't pay me anything. Second ... it's coming. I promise. But first: I have strong evidence for the nature side of the nature vs. nurture argument. My personality is so evident even from the beginning that I'm surprised my parents didn't "lose me in the woods" or "send me to live with some nice people on the farm." Look at me. I was so ahead of my time. Did you have that kind of material when you were two (or younger, I have no idea)? All jokes aside, it amazes me that I grasped, even at that young age, that nearly yanking your ears off is SO WORTH IT when it comes to funny pictures. I am really going to town on that thing. That's me enjoying my smack. Quitting the thumb was so difficult (I didn't manage it until the age of six or seven, despite the general ridicule, and even then it was just because my grandpa paid me fifty bucks to stop, which seemed like an enormous sum at the time) that I will never, ever smoke a cigarette. Never have, never will. Know thyself. "Dudes. Sorry I'm late. What time is it? 1980? Seriously? What did I miss? WHAT?? I MISSED HOW MANY CENTURIES??? There were pantaloons? I missed those? SOMEBODY WENT TO THE MOON? Man. We need a new system. Anyway, do I look OK? All done forming limbs and such? OH MY GOD, I AM MISSING MY THUMBS! Made you look. Ha! Little gestation joke, there. What do you mean, I'm going to live with a nice family on a farm? Oh, you kidders. Hey, my nose feels weird. It feels ... sort of large. Can somebody get me a mirror? How soon will I be able to focus?"** All right. Are you ready for the real hilarity? Before you see what you are about to see, I ask that you focus on this image. Look at me, all grown up and graduating high school. I turned out OK. There was no tragedy. I turned out OK. Keep reminding yourself of that, less you be panicstricken when you view the poor woebegone child that is featured in the next few images: Are you ready? OK. Take a deep breath. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you ... ... the toothless mullet. Of course, the only thing better than a toothless mullet is a toothless mullet with a TRAPPER KEEPER. Work it, baby. OK, you've done the shot. Now chase it! Chase it! This was the most soothing image I could find. But it still burns, doesn't it? EVEN AFTER ALL THESE YEARS. The lesson is, when you feel that your life is not going well, just say "At least I'm not toothless with a mullet. At least I'm not toothless with a mullet." Unless you are, of course. If so, I hope you pull it off better than I did. -------- *Ha! I kid. I do admit to changing ONE entry. But only because I had said my new friends probably wouldn't be willing to go eat cheap food if I asked, but then the next day I screwed up my courage and told L tentatively that I was kind of getting weary of the more expensive fare, and she took me to Pasta House and suggested lots of other cheap places, so I was totally wrong about that ... but never updated. So now history has been changed. In fact I added their willingness to go other places to that post like six times just to make sure. My God, I AM James Frey. And I probably changed it too late anyway. So, um, I was wrong. Sorry. Durr. And now I have a hastily revised post in which I appear to be arguing with myself. **Actually, I look kind of freaked out. I can't help but feel sorry for my little baby self. I look like maybe I would rather be doing something else. Perhaps I was psychic. Perhaps we are all shown our entire lives at birth, only to forget. Then my fear makes a lot of sense. On account of the mullet, I mean.|W|P|114329226208128178|W|P|Hello, L!|W|P|j.h.gilbert@gmail.com3/06/2006 05:08:00 AM|W|P|Schnozz|W|P| Mr. S's homecoming from Iraq. March 4, 2005. I just realized today that Mr. S had been home a year. A year!* It's hard to believe. So it seems as good a time as any to center a post around my relationship with Mr. S. A good, juicy post. A good, juicy, procrastinating post. First: I have a wonderful love with Mr. S (which I will henceforth refer to as our marriage, though I am referring more to that nice sweet thing that exists at the core of it). It's a beautiful marriage, something so good and right, like an ee cummings poem or ... I don't know, uh, a bunch of high notes on a harp. Second: Being average folks just like everyone else, Mr. S and I have done our damnedest to run that beautiful marriage right into the ground. We've thrown things at it, chipped at it, taken chunks out of it, and generally behaved the way most married people do: like ungrateful asses. You know the type. You may have even seen the type in the mirror. Go ahead, self! you say. Burden that perfect marriage a little more! Take advantage of its good nature! It can take it! Perhaps we should rack up a little credit-card debt, or purchase a house and car we can't really afford! Maybe have a baby or six! Or perhaps gain fifty pounds! Or develop some kind of raging drug addiction! Or suddenly buy a motorcycle and start wearing leather pants! And then the day comes when all the harp strings snap, and you have no one to blame but yourself. Well, yourself, and that despicable hussy. But I digress. Single people who don't get what I'm saying will know later. Married people who "don't get what I'm saying" should stop reading this blog, because I don't like dirty liars. Because I am NOT a dirty liar, I present you with ... THE MR. AND MS. SCHNOZZ TIMELINE OF PAIN May 1999: Mr. S and I meet. We have the worst first date ever. All Mr. S talks about is his ex-girlfriend, whom he dated for five years and broke up with in an engagement ultimatum from her, and how he wants to marry her ... but he's just not ready. At nineteen, I am apparently too stupid to write him off entirely, so we become nonromantic jogging partners. He is very lucky he got me when I was dumb. June 1999: Nonromantic jogging partners who make out a lot and kind of go on dates and stuff. Kind of. Whatever. July 1999: We are officially girlfriend and boyfriend! For all of five minutes. August 1999: I tire of Mr. S drinking constantly and not being over his ex (what took me so long? I clearly had no self-esteem) and break up with him. He is drinking heavily these days, enjoying all the party days his ex forbade him from, so he doesn't even notice I'm gone for about three weeks. Mr. S has some growing up to do. Spring Break 2000: Mr. S and I go to Florida together. We also go on dates here and there, but I am cautious and so is he. Plus he is also still not over his ex. Believe it or not. What a lame-o. She wasn't even that nice or anything. She was pretty hot, though. OK, like REALLY hot. I'll give him that. But hotness isn't everything. As he should have realized SOONER. Christmas 2000: Someone calls me Mr. S's girlfriend at Christmas. He corrects them, saying, "She's not my girlfriend." Lots of family members laugh simultaneously. The situation is getting a little ridiculous. Spring Break 2001: Mr. S and I go to Florida AGAIN. We have also seen each other on Christmases and other occasions. We are still sort-of seeing each other, sort-of not, with no real commitment, and occasional dates with other people, but very slowly, like stalagmite-formation slowly, our relationship has deepened, almost without us being aware of it. Miraculously, Mr. S has managed to finally get over his ex, setting no speed records whatsoever. He has also managed to grow up quite a bit, and no longer drinks as if he has a death wish. His better qualities, mainly his hilariousness and his additional hilariousness, are surfacing nicely. He mentions that he would kind of maybe like to be my boyfriend. Seeing as we have been casually dating for almost two years, this seems like an OK idea to me, but I make him wait until May anyway, just to punish him. May 15, 2001: We're officially girlfriend and boyfriend again! Woo! Our families do not seem very impressed. Probably because we have been going on vacations together for years now. And because I was always at the family Christmas. But it is exciting to us, anyway, that we are finally ready to commit again. We are instantly very serious, as we have gotten our years of dating pretty much out of the way already. We only date for a short time before ... August 2001: Mr. S publicly proposes on top of the Hoover Dam. (His logic was that restaurants and other venues change frequently, but the dam, baby ... the dam is forever. Thus we can visit it whenever we like.) He impresses the crap out of me by proposing in verse. ORIGINAL verse. That he has typed up on pretty butterfly paper and FRAMED. That would be nothing coming from me, but Mr. S struggles with everyday English. Up until this point, I have had no idea that he can even rhyme words. Everything is awesome! We're going to have lots of money, and I don't even have to work, and we can get a house. Man, this whole "life" thing is EASY. Marrying a pilot who works for a major airline is fun! September 2001: Holy effing crap. Those towers just FELL DOWN. Along with Mr. S's excellent, would-have-been-high-paying airline job. Every plan we had ... poof. Gone. Suddenly everything is a mess. Panic ensues. I spent a lot of time chanting to myself that some people DIED and I should just shut up and be GRATEFUL already. Then panicking. Then more chanting. Mr. S takes it much, much harder, leading to a very long depression ... and later, a military enlistment. But quit skipping ahead. We're not there yet. October 2001-December 2001: Mr. S, honey, I still love you. I mean, I don't love you as much as I did when you were rich, and I'm a little put out about having to get a job and stuff, but whatever, I guess I could use my college degree or something. Should we still get married? All of our plans are ruined. But we should still get married. I love you! Summer or Fall 2002, I Really Can't Remember: Mr. S and I move in together. I design and edit pages at the local newspaper; poor Mr. S works a series of horrible jobs, including a stint at Wal-Mart. He is miserable. Mr. S is hired by a smaller airline. It ain't the big bucks, but it's something. Mr. S is then furloughed by that same airline before he even finishes training. Mr. S's depression on the employment front deepens. Discussions on his joining the military escalate. I of course do not want him to join. He is still so angry about Sept. 11 that he feels compelled to join. I feel that blowing up some poor schmuck in Afghanistan is probably not the best way to get revenge on a bunch of terrorists who are already dead. Ultimately I agree that he can enlist after our wedding. This is hard for me; I am a huge snob who never realized I could become a military wife. Being a military wife is for other people. Or so I think at the time. Because I am a dumb snob. November 2002: We get married in the wedding to beat all weddings. We choose to wed at our own reception, so plenty of food is served and big-band music is played before anyone even gets hitched. The ushers dress as members of the Mafia. Hilarity ensues, including but not limited to a very very drunk bridesmaid with two broken dress straps (and the consequent flashing), the rolling-down-the-street of a certain giant concrete planter (and the consequent threats to call the police), and a striptease to Nelly's "Hot in Herre" by a believe-it-or-not-he's-dead-sober Mr. S (and the consequent crowd of women stuffing money in his underwear, including MY OWN GRANDMOTHER). Mr. S makes $400, and I am both out-of-my-mind amused and stunned at the overwhelming horniness of all of my fifty-year-old aunts. Who knew? November 2002-October 2003: We enjoy a year of wedded bliss ... sort of. While we're happy with one another, Mr. S is not at all happy with his continually bad employment situation, and I can't say I blame him. For a while, he is so desperate for flight hours that he flies skydivers for less money than it costs him to drive down to the jumping area ... and at night, he sleeps in a tent on the airport lawn, because he can't afford a hotel room. During this time, Mr. S joins the Marines. He also gains back his job at the smallish airline (not the huge airline he worked for pre 9-11). I am already so tired of 9-11 overshadowing our lives at this point, but the repercussions are far from over. November 2003: Mr. S leaves for boot camp just a few days after our first anniversary. We only speak to each other twice over the next three months. The rest is communicated in letters. Mr. S's mom delivers a present to my house every week, along with a prewritten note from Mr. S. He bought them all before he left, one for every seven days that he is gone. When Mr. S calls at Christmas, I don't recognize his voice; it is too wrecked from all the yelling at boot camp. He sounds as awful as I feel. Boot camp is not a good time. I'm not sure even deployment was that miserable. February 2004: Mr. S returns from boot camp. I had mailed him his cell phone so he could call me; we spend the three hours he spends delayed in the Chicago airport on the phone, just catching up. I pick him up at the airport, trembling with nerves, and it is wonderful to see him again. He is different--skinnier, harder--but still him, much to my relief. I shock the crap out of him with our remodeled kitchen (the project that kept me sane in his absence). We get a pizza and watch the Simpsons, and it's pretty much like old times. But it isn't long before ... Easter 2004: Mr. S announces to his family that he's being deployed to Iraq already, completely ruining Easter brunch in a very bad judgment call on his part. In a side note, we also get our picture taken with the Easter Bunny. Which seems like a fun idea, until I actually sit on the Easter Bunny's hard knee and remember that there's a man behind those mesh eyes, and get really really creeped out. June-ish? 2004: Mr. S leaves for deployment training in Wisconsin. I drive up to see him often. He drives down to see me often. But we've already started the separation process. Later, we count and realize we only saw each other on about fifty separate days in 2004. August 2004-March 2005: Mr. S leaves for Iraq. We choose to say goodbye at home, in private, making me one of the only (if not THE only) wives not in attendance at the farewell. Once we've said everything that needed to be said, I literally shove him away and out the door, in a hurry to just get this over with. I cry for all of five minutes before entering the Magical Land of Coping Mechanism Numbness. I spend the deployment months in a weird, numb, don't-look-down haze. I struggle with paying bills on time and shoveling snow and all the things Mr. S used to do, and my heart enters my mouth anytime there is a knock on the door, which fortunately isn't often. I manage to stay decently busy, and I actually even have some fun with friends and family, and I try to keep my anger in check when people ask idiot questions like, "Do you worry that he'll get hurt?" Mostly I just put one foot in front of the other, over and over again, day after day, knowing that it won't last forever, no matter what the bad feeling in my stomach says. Mr. S and I talk a lot on the phone, and even use webcams on a few occasions.** I spend our second anniversary alone, and once again Mr. S is gone for the holidays (last year it was boot camp). By the end of the deployment, I am institutionalized--so used to the deployment that Mr. S's homecoming makes me half joyous and half afraid of the shock his presence will bring. No one would understand this fear if I say anything, so I keep my mouth shut and try to act 100% happy that I am going to suddenly be living with someone again. I wonder whether Mr. S will come back different. I worry about whether he'll be the same person. But I am reassured by photographic evidence that he has not changed a bit. March 2005: Mr. S returns. I shock the crap out of him with a completely remodeled basement that includes a 92" movie theater, forever trapping us in movie theater dependency (there is just no going back). Mr. S and I go through a few months of readjustment, but nothing major, nothing as scary as what I expected. We are mostly just happy to be alive and together. Fall 2005: Never content to just be happy married people who aren't kicking the crap out of our sweet, high-notes-on-a-harp marriage, Mr. S and I decide to move to STL. We commence selling our house, which is absolute hell. We also commence fighting, because Mr. S is the detail-oriented anal one, and I'm the one who is actually home day to day, not out flying planes. So I do the houseselling tasks, badly, because I'm disorganized, and Mr. S criticizes me, badly, because he could have done it better, had he been available to do so in the first place. We manage to sell our house without getting divorced. December 2005-January 2006: We move to STL. Our relationship does not improve right away; we are too busy remodeling, which puts Mr. S in a very foul mood indeed. I am overwhelmed with living in a new place, to the point that I cannot concentrate on my editing at all, and get very little work done; we fight about this as well. I spend half my time getting used to my new city and half my time wishing we had never taken the risk of moving--and wondering if we will ever get along happily here, the way we did in our old house. February 2006: I still feel stressed sometimes and am capable of crying a lot over really stupid things, but the light at the end of the tunnel has appeared. One day I wake up and realize that Mr. S and I are almost back to normal. He makes me laugh again, and I make him laugh again, and there are no angry silences, and no one is slamming dishes or arguing over shelving units--well, at least not most of the time. He is cooking me food and I am cleaning the house for him and suddenly everyone is working together, and grinning at each other, and teaching one another to butt-dance like the girls in the video. (Well, that was me teaching HIM, and he is HORRIBLE at it. But it's really funny to watch.) The focus on romance returns with a vengeance, and there are candles and learn-to-dance-salsa DVDs and provolone cheese, which is pretty romantic in my opinion. March 2006: Everything dies down almost completely, and that harp o' love can be heard clearly once again. Mr. S and I look at each other and for once in our idiot lives, appreciate each other for all the hard work we've put into this life together. Goofy smiles appear. Midsections are squeezed. I am so glad we are home again. Let there now be a giant gap in this timeline. I am tired of timeline-worthy events. If you look the timeline over, perhaps you can see why. ------------ *This means the masthead version of me blew out her first birthday candles on Friday. Ah, masthead Schnozz. You're a year older and you haven't changed a bit. Not one new wrinkle! Which is why I like you so much. **I will never think of webcams as silly stupid accessories again. It was so wonderful to see his face. On the days we got to use webcams to talk, I would positively be floating on air the rest of the day.|W|P|114329215536628982|W|P|A little over a year ago ...|W|P|j.h.gilbert@gmail.com