For Those Guys In The Baby Namin' Window

I found out back in the day that baby namin' was a bit like weddings. Once the conversations were out in the open, I realized that My Love had already been planning things for quite some time, I just never knew about it. Also like wedding plans, my input was not exactly needed, followed, or generally appreciated, but I still had to give it. Books and books (and yet more books) of baby names and their various meanings started appearing all over the place. There were still a few lessons to be learned, though.



If there is a particular name passed down from generation to generation, hopefully, this is something that's already been covered with your significant other. Thankfully, we'd already covered this, and there was little debate about what any first-born male child would be named.

She reminded me of the history of twins in her family, and that it might be a good idea to have other boy names ready, in case and for eventually. Good point.

Proposing 'Sue' as an alternate boy's name was kind of funny because I didn't consider myself a country music fan, and I remembered the reference. She's much more the fan of the genre, and didn't.

Superhero names were out, not even up for consideration (she was a party pooper, that way).

When hounded by My Love as to what girl names I really liked, 'Candi', 'Bubbles', and 'Honey' weren't terribly popular suggestions. In my defense, we'd been talking baby names for a long time by then ('bout 10 minutes or so), and my brain was gettin' tuckered out at the time. Shoulda just quit while I was ahead, because 'real' girl names of Salma and Rosalyn got equally chilly responses... go figure.

More on Parties

So speaking of parties, I think the best part about house parties is the fact that you can show off your stuff. New grills, shotguns, cars, boats - heck, sometimes the house itself is the new item to show off / check out.

All of that, of course, has nothing on showin' off the babes at the party.

*wink*

Now, there's a progression of the quality of stuff that gets shown off, when movin' on through the years. A few years back, the 'new' stuff was just new to the owner, and usually showed up at the apartment at random intervals usually around when folks would drag stuff out to the corner or out to the dump. Some creative application of school money and / or food cash might lead to a relatively high-quality television entertainment center. Some years later, more & consistent pay and a bit of discipline in spending will inevitably lead to better and better stuff.

At about the time when the majority of my friends were getting married, a few things inevitably happened. They ran out of cash and didn't go to any more parties? No, silly, just the parties themselves changed a bit. When most of the guys have their significant others with them we tend to be a bit better behaved (shocker). The food got a bit better too, come to think of it. More folks kept most of their clothes on (usually), and the get togethers became more about, well, gettin' together and hanging out than what they were in the past.

Inevitably, some couple will announce that they're expecting. Soon after, big ole bellies become on the of the things gettin' showed off at parties. This, of course, leads to the babes mentioned earlier.

There's a few funny things, 'bout baby-attended parties.

First of all, when a baby's gotta eat, they eat, and momma's gonna feed 'em. Most of the ladies got their Hooter Hiders (no kiddin', that's what they call 'em), but I've learned that the covers aren't strictly needed to feed the kiddos, apparently. Now, I'm a fan of the boobies as much as the next guy (mebbe more), and I understand what they're alleged main purpose is really for, and while I'll admit to seeing some level of boobage at parties before, seeing a partially topless good friend can give one pause. Lot's of the guys adopted a practice of entering the house via the laundry room, making a bit more noise when entering a living or dining room, or plain announcing their entrance in a room with one or more feeding babies. Generally, whenever we could we'd just hang out in the garage or out on the driveway / porch with the grill, swappin' stories and/or lies with the rest of the guys.

This is where another thing started to happen, with a disturbing regularity.

More often than not, the new dad(s) would be tellin' horror stories about the delivery, and all the other guys would be listening like so many Pfc's gathered around their grizzled old Sergeant.


"So there we were, the doc in it about to his elbows, when he reaches back and grabs the biggest pair of scissors you ever seen..."

"Hey, Zeus", just about in unison from the rest of the guys.

'Bout this time one or two of the ladies would just happen to wander outside in search of their significant others, and ask them inside. The gathered guys would immediately tend to the grill, their beers, or whatever they could, in somewhat of a 'maybe if I don't see her, my neck will be spared' kind of thought. When the condem-er, said named guy has been called out, there'd be some claps of the back, and well wishes from the spared guys, and a few relieved sighs from those not picked.

What happens when you get called in is something of a practical application test for prospective dads, in a room full of ladies. Sweetness, huh.

First of all, there's holding a baby.

Now, I suppose it's a good idea to practice this sort of thing, but my life experiences weren't exactly geared to holding and caring for small children. Mebbe if they needed some disassembly, oiling, loading and whatnot, but basically a small wriggling infant would be thrust in my arms and a room full of ladies would start giving me / barking advice, all at once. 'Support the head', 'tuck the blanket', and possibly 'raise the bottle' would start flying around the room, all accompanied by the critical gaze of My Love, and the even more critical gaze of the new momma.

Actually reminded me of going in front of a board, somewhat...

The best part of baby-attended parties was the number of baby-oriented conversations that we'd have in the weeks following. My Love was strongly in favor of starting a family immediately after each baby-party, hearing of a co-worker having a baby, seeing a baby on the television, or even hearing one cry out somewhere in the neighborhood. She had the fever, in other words. Me, I was of the opinion that things were going much too well for her to get preggers. Money was coming in pretty good, we were still paying off the credit cards at the time, purchase of the house was then not too far away, we had a little left in the bank at the end of each month, etc. I figgured that I'd lose my job immediately after paying the down payment for the house and right before totaling the car, and then we'd find out that she was pregnant. With twins. Regardless of my thoughts, I was always the thoughtful husband and allowed how we might need to practice the sort of actions that brought about the babies in the first place. Purely selflessly, of course.

Is this thing still on...?

What the hell, am I made of money?

meh

Awhile back when My Love first pitched the idea of cutting back her hours at the office, she mentioned that she could always return to full-time hours, if needed. As I am the somewhat reluctant 'saver' in the relationship and she the buck-wild, former credit card melting, bane of savings accounts everywhere, patron saint of sales clerks' childrens college funds etc etc, I immediately told her she needed to stay full time. Heck, pick up some OT, while she was at it.

After further discussion, we decided that it would be a good idea for her to go part-time.

meh

She's now gone from part-time to no-time, at that job.

meh

Now that she's 'spending' (meh) alot more time at the house, making plans for future upgrades, paint-schemes, redecorating, future purchases and the like, I've been putting in quite a bit of time outside of the house, in the yard. Now, before I get to much further, I should mention that we're fortunate in that her quitting her job is not the end of the world, financially. (I just like to piss and moan). As it looks, we might have to tighten our belts a bit, but nothing that'll lead to me hanging out on the corner showin' a little leg... yet.


Back to the yard.


My yard is lookin' awesome.


Know what really helps out, yard maintenance-wise, besides a wife that's planning to paint the downstairs bathroom for the 12th time?

That's right, the recent run on ammo.


See, I haven't actually bought ammo for a quite a few months now, and while I'm not resigned to collecting rocks for slingshots or anything, I've started to keep an eye on my 'cache', with a mind to conservation. The question arose then of what to do with my ammo acquisition funds. I was mowing my rocks and weeds one day, thinking these deep thoughts, when the mowers started kicking up something totally unexpected. No, it wasn't forgotten lawn ornaments, my feet, feral cats, or small children, but grass. Lush, thick, green grass.


Yeah, 'WTH' was my thought, as well.


I remembered the fertilizer and composts that I was playing around with a couple years back. I had bought a few different type of compost, place some here, scattered some there, and in the end usually managed to sequester roughly half the bag in my pants cuffs for the trip inside the house. It worked pretty good, but after a buddy mentioned some types of fertilizer, I made a trip over to the local Home Depot. I bought a bag, brought it home, poured the stuff in the spreader, and started out. Of course something came up, as it usually does (if I remember correctly it was buying antique furniture), and the bag o' fertilizer spent a bit more time in the spreader than is probably recommended.


I believe it was about 3 or 4 months-ish.


Come spring time (of '08), I dragged the spreader out of the garage, and promptly dropped the ass-end of the spreader (and the solidified fertilizer it held) onto the driveway. I'm not a pro, but I figured that fertilizer on the driveway wouldn't help out too much, and the solid mass of of fertilizer should probably go in the yard. It wasn't all solid,though, there was some brownish liquid that spread out quite nicely with a healthy application of the hose. There was a strip of 'grass' between one side of my driveway and the neighbor's yard that was my lawn-products test strip, so that's where the fertilizer went. All of it (enough for most of the front and back yards) went in that strip.

So here we are, more than a year later, and I have some sort of mutant grass in that strip that grows roughly three inches by the time I've finished mowing it, isn't afraid to reach up and turn the spigot for itself when it gets thirsty, and, (coincidence?) the neighbor lady's cat Fluffy is still missing.


So yeah, I've been putting down compost and fertilizer all over the rest of the yard, in an effort to help it catch up to the mutant-strip.


That, putting in some plants and flowers, re-planting the flowers that died right after planting, replanting those flowers that somebody *innocent whistle* forgot (again?) to water, digging a garden we wanted, filling in the preliminary holes that we dug when we decided that we wanted our garden in a slightly different position, and well, that's what I've been doing for the past month or so.

Fire In The... Hole?

Way back in the day, probably similar nowadays, there were a number of ways to identify, off-base, if a guy was a devil-pup. An involuntary, momentary brain-lock upon being addressed in Marine-jargon was most likely a hold-over to recruit days, or those from the School of Infantry, when every Marine was in trouble at one point or another, would be a good sign. Likewise, a subtle shifting to the position of parade rest when addressed by a senior Marine was another. These signals were abandoned as soon as possible by the new Marine, so you couldn't always rely on those to ID who was in SOI or a recent grad.


Another, really easy way to spot an SOI libo Marine, besides the presence of the war-bag ((BOOOT!!!)), would of course be the moto-Ts. Motivational T-shirts were usually decorated with at least 17.5 symbols of the Marine Corps and/or nekkid ladies, death, big ta-tas, weapons, frisky females, other service disparagement, and finally & for a bit of variety, nekkid ladies.


Truly, high fashion it was.


Inevitably, moto-Ts were destined to fall out of favor with most Marines on libo, either due to the 'appropriate civilian attire' requirements that couldn't be wriggled out of, or just plain better fashion sense, as the Marine grew up a bit. This wasn't to imply that the Marine stopped getting moto Ts; oh no, we did, we just stopped wearing them so often on libo. Heh, one somewhat memorable pre-liberty soliloquy that I remember from one of my First Sergeants was the speech, shortly after threatening the well-being of any Marine that found himself in the local pokey at the end of liberty, was the part where he spoke of proper liberty attire. He always said something along the lines of, '... closed toed footwear, no exceptions. Trousers, and if it has loops, a belt, no exceptions. A collared shirt, no exceptions. NO motivational T-shirts, no exceptions. Now, I can't control what you wear out and about in town, but when you leave my area and exit my gate, you will most definitely not be wearing any t-shirt that says something along the lines of,

Eat the

and fuck the

I never actually saw any moto T that had this (or would that be a DE-motivational T?) on it, but then again every time the First Sergeant said it, I know there were a few Marines fantasizing about making one up, just for him...


One important exception to the moto-T rule was, of course, the company T. Every so often, usually during or after a float (deployment on ship), school, combat deployment, or as desired, a unit would come out with a T-shirt. Said shirt would have as its primary color camo green and would usually have a small unit logo on the front and a somewhat larger decoration regarding the units activities on the back. The T would often find its way into the rotation of wear under the cammies, where few would see it. The absence of nekkidness on the T would even make it ok for the odd boots and utes PT, depending on the command, of course.


I have found, now nearly 4 years (!?!) after getting out, that most of my old moto-Ts are getting back into my wear-rotation. Might be a shocker to hear, but I don't get out to the bars nearly as often (or at all, really) as I did before, so the Ts are nearly always worn during my puttering about the house, landscaping, during my 'runs', and whatnot. Some are so frayed and 'holy' that puttering about is about all they're fit for.


Moto-Ts have also become something of the 'easy gift' for My Love. One day she ran into this website, and it quickly became a go-to place for gifts, for me. It's a website devoted to not only the moto-T (and they have come a long way), but bumper-stickers, coins, flags, patches, rank items, and just about everything you could slap an Eagle, Globe, and Anchor on. As I am in danger of entering into 'crusty old bastard' Marine status, even the stuff that was in fashion, then not, and now again is good to go, for me. They send us a nice catalogue every month or so, and apparently the models they use are actual Marines, their wives, girlfriends, and kiddos.


Methinks the inclusion of the ladies cuts down quite a bit on the 'nekkidness' of some of the old stuff that I remember. Sure it's still out there, just not so much from this company.


Anyways, I got the most recent catalogue the other day, and pretty much as soon as I opened it, I saw something... interesting.


Now, I really hope that this is something for the ladies...


I really hope that this example is not in fact 'man-panties' that are now standard issue...


And mebbe it's just me, but 'fire in the hole' is not something that should be used on a pair of panties, man or otherwise. Seeing the phrase, 'fire in the hole' just makes me think that if a Marine were to take 'the li'l General' out for a little 'close order drill' with a 'training buddy' that had 'fire in the hole' on their panties, well, said Marine might have to later 'get his bore punched'.


Any Marine can tell you that 'getting ones bore punched' is never, ever, ever a good thing, probably because that big beefy Doc remembers every crack you ever made about his beloved Navy...


One slightly chuckle-worthy item aside, they are otherwise good-to-go and officially Murphy-approved, as dubious as a distinction as that is...

Bah. Hum. Bug.

A couple of years back My Love and I bought our first house. That is a number of stories in and of itself, but I'll skip forward a bit to the point of this post. What comes after purchasing a house?

You get to put stuff in it.

Now, I'm a guy [last time I checked] so, in typical guy fashion, I'm not really too big on interior decor.

Shocker, I know.

That's not to say that I don't appreciate having stuff, I really do. Lemme put it this way; in my previous - [insert marriage-mandatory descriptions of; cold, lonely, miserable, solitary existence, without the benefit of the guiding light of my life, without whom I would continue to be a miserable excuse for a wretched human being] - bachelor life, for a short while I kept my clothes in a bag and slept on the floor of my apartment. So I appreciate having nice stuff, it's just that right now we already have stuff, it's the spending money on upgrades that I'm not exactly crazy about.

It was a battle, of sorts, and I appreciate her letting me think that I ultimately had any choice in the matter.

Said battle was on the spending of money. We'd already paid off everything but the mortgage, and had a bit of cash saved up. I was all for continuing to save, or perhaps spending it on truly worthwhile stuff like guns, ammo, big-screen tvs, fancy cigars, a bar, and perhaps a motorcycle or three. She wanted to buy nice furniture to replace the second hand stuff we'd used in our previous apartment/hovel.

So off we went, furniture shopping.

She did the research, I did the sulking and pining away for Daddy's oft-delayed toy collection, and eventually 'we' decided that 'we' had found exactly what 'we' always wanted for 'our' house and 'our' bedroom set. We walked into the local Furniture Store to pretty much get a last minute eyeball of the bedroom set and to start making the purchase.

Saleslady was good to go as far as they go, friendly and nice. My Love knew what 'we' wanted, but she had spared me on exactly what the price was. I had only just come-to after hearing the sticker price when some bastard explained to me that the number wasn't even for the whole set, just for the one fancy hoo-ya that you put a tv and blankets in. Some fancy-frenchy sounding name, and it didn't even come with a frisky-Frenchy, to ease (my) financial pain.

At the price, I thought it really should.

So we gave the lady our cash, she took down our info, and we were all set. She did kind of push hard for us to purchase the entire set (yeah, right!), but we explained to her that we'd be paying cash, not credit- no thanks, don't want to finance through the store, thanks - yeah, we understand that the set could go out of production (pleasepleaseplease, baby Jesus!) - just this one piece, for now, thanks. I didn't really begrudge her for the push, just her job, after all.

That whole process went ok. We got the delivery confirmation call a few days later, moving guys brought it in, dragged it upstairs, set it up and everything. It really does look good, and I'm sure we'll have it for the foreseeable future.

A few months later I decided to order the li'l tables you put on either side of the bed, for her birthday. I had scrounged up a bit more cash, took another long, depressed look at my various catalogues, and sulked my way back to the store. Same lady was there, and we did the dirty deed. Not as pricey as the first time, but it was still grimace-worthy.

Now, blame it on the mortars, IEDs, or what-have-you, but I hear (ha!) that the volume on my phone is a bit on the loud side. It works for me, so that the level I keep it at. I was having a grand old time tormenting My Love with false clues as to what she was going to get for her birthday one afternoon, sitting in the living room chatting, when my phone rang. Loud enough for apparently the entire neighborhood to hear, as she tells it, the lady from the furniture store yammered on about the delivery confirmation for our new bed-side tables. Mystery was kaput, after that, but she still loved the heck outta the things.


It was awhile back when I landed on the idea of what to get her for her Christmas gift. This was going to be the truly bend-right-over-and-take-it-in-the-wallet-pillaging item, so I knew that she didn't expect it at all. I had scrimped and saved like I usually do, mournfully drove right past the local gun store to the evil furniture nemesis shop of my doom. Quite surprisingly, they were again more than happy to take my money.

mumblegrumblemumble.

Well, I got the delivery-confirmation call yesterday afternoon from the store.


I was napping at the time.


Industrious lady / recent arrival to My List (and brand new top 10 member), after not getting ahold of me, looked into the store's records. Searching way back to the original purchase, she located another contact number for us.


It was My Love's cell phone number.


Bah!

An Age Old Question & Finding Perfection

Well, maybe not age old, but fairly well debated, nowadays.


Real vs Fake: what do you prefer?


Just about everyone has their preferences, of course, and most will let you know about 'em.


'Real ones tend to sag, droop, and look a bit lifeless after time, whereas falsies stay perky forever.'

'I want mine as nature intended / Fake ones just feel weird.'

'My man paid for it.'

'Real, fake, whatever.'

'It's not what's above, it's what's below that counts!'

Was that last one a bit much?


Interestingly enough, most women that I know have very strong opinions about sticking au natural- see, Christmas just wouldn't be the same, otherwise.


What?


I'm talking about Christmas trees, you pervs!


So anyways, My Love and I a few years back had The Big Christmas Tree Debate. I didn't really have strong opinions either way, but my folks always had a fake tree, and we did all right. Fake trees might cost a bit more, tree for tree, but I was kind of keen on the reusability factor. No muss, no fuss, just toss that bad boy down from the attic, set it up, and voila! - time to decorate everything else risking life and limb on the rooftops..., and risking life and 'limb' when you find out that her treasured childhood stuffed animal collection is NOT to be staged in an erotic fashion.


Anywhere.


And especially not on top of the Christmas Tree, mantle, dining table, or guest beds when family is expected. (In my defense, I didn't know they'd be there that early, honest!)


Back to the story and quite naturally, my opinions were duly pondered (for about this ][ long) , and rejected. See, My Lovely had always had a Real Live (sort of) tree for Christmas, growing up (her, not the newly hewn sacrifice to the Christmas Spirit). She had visions of us searching pristine and well ordered fields for The Perfect Tree. As I came to understand it, due to our geographical location, the concept of snowy fields was negotiable. Excess Christmas Crack pulsing through her veins was not. Bah.


Interestingly enough, after much excruciating searching of the area, we found that in our area of the great state of Texas, these idyllic fields of Christmas Trees are all located at the local Home Depot, outdoor area.


I was only slightly enthused by the fact that there appeared to be an overeager young kid to assist us with our purchase. I'll give the guy credit, he was crawling all over the place, searching amongst the stacked and bound offerings to find 'that perfect one'. Finally, she was satisfied and I was only slightly homi/sui-cidal from the temps (low), time (long), and nearby shoppers (annoying).


He offered to help strap the tree down for us.


It was at this time that I remembered a few smaller items that I was meaning to get (read: stuff she told me to fix around the house but I just remembered about). So I tossed her the keys, reminded/mumbled to her about her previous marching orders, and off I went. I returned to the car just as the kid was slapping his hands of the roughly 20 lbs of needles produced/min that our tree gave off and tightening the last knots of the cords that held the tree strapped to the car's roof.


She was all smiles. I, for about the first time that evening, was also sporting a grin. Immediately noticing the change in my countenance, she was probably suspecting a psychotic break and asked me what was wrong. "Oh, nothing, my love. Let's just get in the car and go home, m'kay?"


I let her tug on the door handle a couple of times before I pointed out that the cords, while excellently tied, very effectively secured all four doors shut. I suggested that we enter the car Dukes style, but that idea got shot down as well.


Not that big of a deal, we got the tree tied down correctly (I was just happy to find that I wouldn't have to drive w/one hand out the window, holding that sucker down while cruising down the highway). Off we went.


Back at the house, I expeditiously removed the tree from the car's roof (cut the cord with my knife and heaved ho, ho, ho-ed), dumping another 50 lbs or so on the yard, quite conveniently covering up at least two of the dead-grass brown spots. I managed to drag that sucker up the short walkway, up the steps, and into the house, losing ever more needles (I figured I'd turn the naked half of the tree to the corner of the room). It only took about two tries before we realized that our tree was too tall for our living room, by the roughly 6 in skid-looking marks on the ceiling that faintly exist to this day. Awesome.

Finally, the tree was trimmed, somewhat still nettled, propped up and decorated. Yay, 'cause after you get the tree up, yer done preppin' for Christmas, right?


Riiiiight.


I did have fun positioning those stuffed animals, though... I always do.

Humps, Tender Tootsies, and Comfort Is King

I've tried to explain my love/hate/hate relationships with humps to some friends and family, with varying success.

'What's the big deal?', some think, 'it's just walking around with a pack... kinda like hiking, or something'.

Or something...

I try to explain it by suggesting they find someone roughly 1/2 of their own body weight. Have that person hop on your back, or boost them up so they can kneel on your shoulders. They are now your pack. Have them hang so that they inflict maximum pain and discontent on your lower back, upper back, baby got back, neck, everywhere else, and generally make life as miserable as possible. Go out and find some hills - now 'hike' for say, 10 miles. For added fun, break out into a run every once in a while. Bonus points for having your friend talk trash about how fat and nasty you are throughout the hump- er, sorry - 'hike'.

That's more-or-less the level of fun in boot camp. In your unit, it gets even more fun, due to the added weight from ammo (rifle and mortar), crew-served weapons components, bodily dragging the snivelers, etc.

Early on in my Corps life, humps weren't too bad. As I both aged and gained a bit of rank, I found that they sucked more, but I still didn't have any issues keeping up (physically, that is. Mentally, sometimes I felt like a whiny little turd). Even when I was away from the guys so as to attend a school/class (and therefore missing some of the shorter humps in the interim), when I would rejoin the unit, well, it sucked quite a bit but I still got through it. Getting notice that one memorable welcome back to the platoon involved SAPI plates and full combat load in addition to the regular gear was a bit of a gut check, I admit...

One thing that always helped me out was foot care.

This is a pretty big deal in training, and even more so deployed. As a Pfc, I would take note of boot brands that worked, and those that didn't. Foot powder always. I would always pack additional pairs of clean socks and change socks every time that an opportunity presented itself. I would roll the tops of my boot socks, as to avoid them slipping down and bunching up in the boots (don't care how it looks, if it's comfy and works, I'll do it).

Might want to make a note of that last sentence...

Another thing about picking up rank, is the fact that it's just a given that you take care of your Marines. Like I've mentioned before, while mission accomplishment is always first, troop welfare is always a close second. During breaks (both for rest and of bodies), the Corpsmen, many of the Staff NCOs, and Officers are all constantly on their feet, checking on their Marines. This pretty much mandated to me that as a Sergeant, I would also be on my feet, from start to finish of the hump. Every hump. There was always canteens to fill, feet to inspect, and stragglers to be threatened (with the infamous 'silver-bullet') during the breaks, so there was progressively less and less time to take care of my own footsies. Take a wild guess as to what started next...

I started getting some nasty foot issues.

Never really had any problems with blisters before I picked up Corporal, but afterwards -man!- I started getting some doozies. We're talking blisters that leaked (not dripped) when I couldn't take it anymore and popped 'em, blood-filled blisters that covered a fist-sized space on the bottoms of (both) my feet, and boots that eventually conformed to the shape of my blistered feet to the point where I couldn't even wear flip-flops to the shower, I had to put back on those stanky-assed boots.

Good training, huh.

After one particularly hellacious hump, I had some extra time to spend with Lovely. Upon seeing me hobble through the front door, she suggested some treatment for my tender tootsies. I gingerly took off my boots, peeled off my what-was-shortly-before-new, clean-socks, and whistled. My feet were... grody.

A brief word, re: my Lovely.

Lovely Love has a foot fetish like you wouldn't believe.

Hold on, that didn't sound right...

My Love looooves her some foot massages. Loves 'em. If you offered her a choice between a foot rub and chocolate-covered strawberries dipped in wine, sprinkled with crack and served on a tight-bodied cabana boy named Raul (¡Ole!), -let's be honest, here- she might think about it, but she'd choose the foot rub, every time.

If 'Raul' ever figured out how to do foot rubs, I'm totally screwed...

Lovely has all kinds of foot-oriented stuff. Lotions, oils, comfy footwear, foot-care tools, nail paints, the list o' crap goes on about as long as everything else does re: the ladies. Allow me a moment to grab some sack and thank every deity known and imagined for making me a dude... Ok, good.

One look at what passed for my feet convinced her that this was a moment for her portable Orgasmo-Ped 3000. This contraption was a sort of small tub that you filled with water, plugged in and apparently were immediately whisked off to the heights of... somewhere. The fact that she allowed me to use her nearly-most prized possession should indicate either that she really loved me or that she still had her uses for me - possibly even both.

So I sat down on the couch and stuck my feet in the thing. She filled it with hot water, flipped the switch, and I watched as the water started... buzzing(?) bubbling (?). The ridges on the bottom felt ok, I guess. It was relaxing, but I couldn't help but feel kind of guilty at the fact that apparently it didn't do nearly as much for me as it did for her.

Eventually, she got up and went to go grab some towels for when my feet were done. When she placed the towels on the armrests, she asked if perhaps I wanted a sandwich or something.

I love this woman.

We continued our conversation while she made herself busy in the kitchen and I dried and inspected my feet. Looked kinda shriveled, felt a bit better than before, probably just needed some additional airing out and they'd be fine. I shuffled over to the kitchen to wash my hands and for some strange reason she started to laugh at me!

See, as I was sitting on the couch, just after I finished drying off my feet, I noticed a pair of old slippers.

They were comfy. I wore them. The thought process was completely natural to me.

The fact that they were a pretty yellow color and had little duckies on them had no significance to me.

They were comfy.

Care Packages & Retail Therapy

I've gotten alot of care packages in my day, and plenty of interesting stuff in 'em.

No this is not one of those stories...

Now, there were a few times in Iraq when one of the guys would get a care package containing a DVD. In a scene somewhat reminiscent of Jarhead, the squad would all gather around the screen, pop in the disc, and wait for it to start up. One knucklehead would invariably make a comment about the the movie and girlfriend who sent the home video, and all hands would have a chuckle... followed by a few quiet moments and perhaps a cricket chirping. The Marine who got the video was generally most relieved to prove the guys wrong. To tell the truth, I was kind of relieved for the guys, as well.

We did have a few guys that got 'Dear Johns', but they were just letters, or more often, correspondence from buddies back home and family, describing the actions of the now 'ex'.

Shortly before my last deployment, Lovely and I were going through our finances.

We figured out that she could live of her paychecks and we could use mine to pay off some bills. We hadn't gotten into our vehement anti-credit card mentality, but it was most definitely on the horizon. We were planning to save up for a house and start with the kiddos sometime in the future, so my checks would be a nice way to attack some of our debts and even save some at the time. Attack, heck, the math said that our card balances would all be paid off by the middle of the deployment.

Good plan, right?

Riiiight.

See, this was where I got introduced to the phrase of, 'Retail Therapy'.

I do have to admit that she is a 'good' shopper, usually going out of her way to find some neat stuff at good prices. There were even a number of times when she would stumble onto something that friends or co-workers were just gonna toss out, so she picked it up for a song.

I would normally open up the care package and fingerfu- er - poke around all the assorted books, candies, cds, singing hamster dolls (why were those things so popular in care packages, again?), until I got to the photos and letters. First came letters, then pics, then came sorting out which stuff I'd use and which I'd donate to squad buddies.

Usually toward the very end of her letter would be when she would explain why the schedule of paying off our bill were starting to lag, 'just a wee bit'. They usually involved complex descriptions of family coming over to visit, car issues, and whatnot, all legit sounding and somewhat reasonable. Reassurances were made that, despite lagging, she was determined to put my checks, almost all... the overwhelming majority... probably most of... about half... whatever she could, anyways... next paycheck, to the bills.

She'd put photos in with her letters.

After many long, long months, photos of Lovely were much appreciated, but I did notice a theme to said photos, after a while.

When I'd look at the photos - and no, they were never that kind... dangit - I'd think to myself, 'self, she sure is looking good... in that new outfit... in front of that unfamiliar but nice coffee table... that's in the foreground of the new entertainment center.'

*sigh*

I kind of knew where it was going, from about then on...

To her credit, she'd normally put little notes on the backs of the photos (probably 'cause she figured I'd freak out) like, 'got this one from one of the girls at work, or, bought these shoes on sale, and for a really great price!' (notice the lack of actual, you know, price.)

One photo she put into a package she did purely because she thought she knew the reaction that I'd have. She was wearing a pair of trousers that I'd commented several times made her uh, 'assets' look particularly nice. She went over to some function at a friend's house, and said friend's hubby agreed to let her pose, seated on the motorcycle. Brave, brave man...



I damn near had a heart attack when I saw her on the Harley, because I knew there was no way in hell we could afford that.

So, getting to know My Love was an interesting experience. There was, of course, the initial gettin' to know ya / lying offa my-er- enhancing my good qualities while buri- uh... minimizing the lesser ones.

There's good and bad to just about everybody, but I never figgured that she'd have some of that too.

One of the things that landed quite solidly in the gray area was her drinking ability.

See, if a girl could drink me under the table (then, not now- heck now, I'm a friggin' lightweight), it would beg the question of how much of a party girl she was. Having a personal party girl can be great - if that's what you're looking for, but sharing her with all yer buddies, the neighbors, and pretty much anything with a pee-pee can be... Not Good.

Of course, my life being what it was, My Love had about a negative drinking ability. Good right?


Riiiiiight.


Now, this wasn't an all out terrible thing, but when you find out about one's lack of alcoholic tolerance in a memorable way, well, it makes for an interesting blog story.

After a little while of dating, and her eventually making up her mind that I was Mr. Right....now, she set into her method of testing me out. Besides seeing how I interacted with her family n' friends (and vice/versa), holding babies, and whatnot, she invited me to a wedding.

I don't recall who's wedding it was for... it wasn't for a family member, I'm pretty sure, it was probably for a friend or co-worker of hers. It was the standard stuff with a whole bunch of folks I didn't know, long service, weepy chicks, tons of family, some more friends of hers who's name I would probably be tested on later etc.

One of the more memorable things about the reception afterwards was the band.

They suuuuucked.

Now, I'll give 'em credit for showing up and actually going out on stage, of course. Until you've actually performed in front of a crowd of people, paying or no, there's no true understanding of stage fright.

But when it comes to fright, I was afraid of the noise they were making.

Heck, I wanted my money back, and I didn't really pay for anything.

Seeking safe territory, I relied on my Marine training and escaped and evaded my way over to the bar, in the next room. Ah, safety. The wedding party had arranged for free champagne, but drinks were not taken care of. That's why there's the saying, 'always be prepared', I guess. Well fortified with the best drinks that they had there, I returned to my chair - draggin' my feet, but I couldn't leave a lovely behind - er, I mean I could leave my Love, behind. Heh... kind of bad form, you know (damn, not her form, my... *sigh*).

In addition, in an attempt to at least fake the par- er, to be a gentleman, I brought her another glass of champagne. This would make her, hold on, lemme count this up here, second glass.

That horrid band was still making that noise that passed for music. When were the friggin' toasts gonna be made, anyways?

So we ate the food, drank our drink, listened to the noise, made some small talk, suffered through the occasion (me), and eagerly ate up every moment for future plans (her). (Parenthesis for those who might need some indication that weddings are not... traditionally *ha!* my favorite of things.)

The band would mercifully stop every once in awhile, between songs, they claimed. I just thought that they needed a moment to staunch the blood flow from their ears. The audience would dutifully clap between most of the songs, probably for the brief respite to their ears, and to hopefully look around for that damned best man, so he could get this show on the road, or something.

It was during one of those song-endings / applause, actually right in between the two, the split second of silence when everybody realized that they still maintained some semblance of hearing, that Lovely blurted/shrieked out, loud enough for the priest back in the church 15 miles away to hear,

"I... LIKE CAKE!!!"

Wow, howdy.

Ever had a reception hall fulla folks you don't know crank their necks around to stare at you and your date?

Well, I have.

Apparently determined to demonstrate her near-perfect timing, she would proclaim in the pin-drop silence of between songs, breath-pauses during speeches, and general lulls during conversations,


"HEYYY!!!!" , "I LUUUUVDE...D THAT SHONG!", and " THISSSSH... ISS DELISSHSI....US!!!"


Enter room full of evil-eyes, stage left.


And my personal favorite of the night,


"I'M DRRRRrrrrUNK!!!"


No shi- er- kidding, sweetheart.


That's when I learned that the typical wedding-rental folding chair and table, while not offering much in the way of cover (not that it was needed... that night), actually can give something in the way of concealment, should the Marine in question kinda hunker down, real low-like...

My Lovely Love, Pt 1 of... many

Back in the day, I was an unrepentant bachelor.

I was living the good life, hardly any cash to my name, but I could always scrape up a few bucks to go out carousing with the guys. I didn't have much stuff, but folks were always tossing out perfectly good couches, tables, and whatnot. Life was good.

It was in those days that I started to notice a disturbing trend.

The group of guys that I hung out with could usually be found at the local bar, shooting pool, hanging out, and trying to stay out of too much trouble. Ok, shooting pool and hanging out, at least. It would seem like all of a sudden, one of the guys suddenly couldn't make it out nearly as often as before. He would show up and have even less money than normal. He would inevitably break the news to us...

Women... sheesh.

Cue the memories of my childhood, when, stopping by his place and knocking on his door, I was greeted by... the woman.

"Can Johnny come out and play?"

"No!" *slam*

...and another one gone
and another one gone
another one bites the dust!

I would return to the bar, makes a few toasts to yet another fallen comrade, and have visions of myself, waving the flag of bachelorhood atop the growing pile of my fallen bachelor bretheren. We would all swear up and down that it would never happen to us.


Naturally, about then was when I met a certain young Lovely.


I'll glaze over some of the introductory details right now, but a few things became very apparent, like that I must have been a Pope or something in a past life, and a good one, at that.

I remember coming back to the apartment one afternoon after screwing the pooch on some final exam or the other. It was probably my Intro to Pre-Business Math Basics 101 for Hopeless Dummies: The Study of Addition. Take two. I entered into my apartment moaning and groaning about everything except (of course), my lack of study time.

mumblegrumblemubmle... "Stupid Math classes" mumblegrumblemumble... "Stupid caca-laters" grumblemumblegrumble... "Stupid Sun shining"...

I slammed the door shut, kicked off my shoes, and prepared to sulk. Tossing myself onto the couch, I contemplated the disaster this grade would wreak on my already notable (and not in the good way) GPA. Staring off into space, my gaze was more or less strait at the ceiling fan... which was suspiciously clean. No dust, burnt out lightbulbs, or 'Scooter', my resident spider.

Suspicious.

Utilizing my super keen powers of observation, I noted that the carpet was unusually clean and there appeared to be something baking in the oven.

Holy shit, I have an oven?

Starting to think that I had wandered into the wrong apartment or something, I looked towards the back of the livingroom / dining room / computer room, only to see Lovely, hair done up in a pony-tail, gloved up, with a cleaning brush in one hand, and a smile just for li'l ole me. Seems she figgured that she'd come over, toss a delicious meal in the oven, tidy up a bit, and wait for me to celebrate and / or commiserate the end of finals.

I haven't ever figgured out what kind of monstrous deeds she might have done to be making it up with the likes of me, but if I do, I'll let y'all know. Expect more posts to come about my Lovely Love.