I woke up this morning to a screen-shot of a conversation between Justin and the guys he works with.
“Why did [a student] tell me that he thinks [Justin] has nice breast!”
“[Another student] said that too.”
They aren’t wrong–my husband has great boobs. Or, pecs. This summer I had to explain this to Xander after he started asking, “what do I have to do to get boobs like Dad?” Oh gosh, pecs, my dear. Men call them pecs.
This also isn’t the first time that hilarity has ensued at Justin’s new(ish) job. While he tells me that most of them speak better English than he does, there are still plenty of awkward moments.
Last week, Justin shared a snippet of a review a student gave of the course. What could the instructor improve: “Makes me hard.” Hmm…
I am constantly left thinking of The Princess Bride: “I do not think it means what you think it means.”
There was also the student who wrote “I died on Friday,” which I can relate to, because it’s usually my statement after every Torture with Terry session. I. Died. I can picture at least 5 young ladies at the pool making that same statement, “OMG, I died on Friday.”
Justin, you might just have the most comical job ever.
Two weeks ago, I woke up with a pounding headache. Honestly, I rarely get headaches, and when I do, they’re usually dehydration related. I am terrible about drinking enough water, especially in the winter.
I drank water, I took an Aleve, and it got a little better. But if I moved my head too fast, it came screaming back.
For the next week, I suffered through. Lots of Aleve (that did a whole lot of nothing), and lots of water (by this point, I had accepted that it wasn’t dehydration, but it couldn’t hurt). I even cut back on my workouts, because the up/down movement of a lot of exercises (deadlifts, kettle bell swings, burpees). It was mainly a stabbing shooting pain above my right eye.
Then, it was a tormenting pressure in my eye–my eyeball felt bruised! I’m not a hypochondriac, but I sure do love google searching medical ailments. Four or five articles stated that if there’s eye pressure, you should get your butt to the doctor.
Very well. Even when I called and told them my symptoms, they told me to get there as fast as I could. So, maybe I should take this headache seriously? I opted not to put my contacts in–hey, if my eye socket is about to spit my eyeball out, at least my glasses could kind of catch it, or at least stop it from rolling around on the floor of my car.
My eye stayed put, and after a bunch of tests, and a good amount of that fun yellow dye, I was told it was sinus pressure.
Well, that was anticlimactic.
I added allergy meds to the mix. Still, there was not much change.
Bus driver, bus driver, open the door!
Fast forward to Sunday. When we were kids, my Mom taught my sisters and me all kinds of fun things: pull the skin back on your face and say, “Mommy! Mommy! My ponytail’s too tight!” Pull the skin out on either side of your neck and say, “who left the knife in the peanut butter!? And last of all, smoosh your face and say, “Bus driver, bus driver, open the door!”
I have spent these last too weeks with the combo. Mom, my ponytail’s too tight, and my head is caught in the bus doors!
Self-diagnosis: round 2. Tension headaches, caused by stress. And jaw clenching at night (hence the pounding headaches in the morning).
NNOOOO!!!!! It’s not that I wanted there to be something wrong with me. I just wanted there to be something wrong with me that had a quick and easy fix. Please explain how this temporarily single mom is supposed to reduce stress!?
Then, on our way home from the pool, Shea starts in: “Tell Mom what you did.”
Xander: “No, I don’t want to.”
Me (expecting the worst, by the way, because Xander, and his nickname is often “Mr Destructo): “What did you do??”
“He peed in the trash can!!!…in the gym!!!”
Now Xander is ready to chime back in: “No no! It was in the bathroom!”
Ah yes, because that makes it better.
As we drove back to the pool, so that my son could take the bag o’ pee out to the dumpster, I thought, “hmm. I can’t imagine why I’ve had a never-ending stress headache!”
My son is extremely inquisitive. He asks a lot of “man” questions that end up with me responding, “go ask your Father,” because they’re anatomy-related, and I don’t know about boy stuff. And I am way too awkward to answer questions at 6am, such as, “Mom, what’s with this up-ness,” while he’s peeing.
Last night, completely out of the blue, Xander asked, “Mom? Where do babies come out of?”
This could go terribly wrong. I instantly began picturing Xander telling his friends all about the mysteries of childbirth. I could say they pop out of your belly button, but that is not factual. Chickens poop out eggs, but again, this does not pertain to humans. “What do you mean?” I’m stalling.
“You know. When people have babies? Which way do they come out?”
This I can answer. “head first.”
I pause. I wait for the follow-up question, that I’m sure will leave me with no choice but to properly answer the original question.
“Oh…ok…Head first…ok.”
And just like that, crisis averted.
My 7-year-old is most likely picturing something along the lines of Athena emerging out of the head of Zeus.
Let’s get one thing straight: I have never, in my 35 1/2 years, shot a gun. I’ll give you a moment to gasp, or pass out, or shout, “wait, what?!” I know, I know, Infantry Husband, who shoots guns frequently, blah blah blah. Nope, no desire.
My disinclination to shoot a weapon has not stopped Captain SparklePaws from trying desperately to teach me, or anyone in this house, how to hunt.
In another case of stolen valor, you’re about to learn that Captain SparklePaws has not served a day in the military. He is an awesome, polydactyl cat (which, by the way, is a real thing and not a deformity).
I’ve lost count of the number of dead mice gifts this year, let alone ever. Thanks, Captain.
After Emma came along, Captain gave up on the pathetic humans in the house, and worked on teaching her.
Step 1: Introduce dead mouse; observe new cat’s reaction.
– New cat swallowed mouse whole. Success.
Step 2: Bring home mostly dead mouse and see what new cat does with it.
– New cat chased, caught, and ate mostly dead mouse, while human chased her shouting, “Emma, NO!” Success.
Step 3: Bring home live mouse and watch new cat hunt, catch, and kill it.
– Human keeps saving mice, but on the rare occasion she doesn’t get to them, the new cat has been 100% successful with mouse hunting. My work here is done.
Also, I’m not crazy (says everyone who is crazy, but isn’t willing to admit it)–Captain really is entirely unaware that Emma is a 50lb boxer. We probably should’ve had the older sibling talk with Captain: Yes, she’s smaller than you, and you can beat up on her now, but someday she’ll be bigger than you, and she’ll be winning these little wrestling matches. That talk should’ve happened a year ago–now it’s too late and it goes more like, “Emma, get Captain’s head out of your mouth.” Siblings.
Back to hunting–now that Captain has had so much success with teaching Emma how to hunt, he’s back to teaching the humans, because we’re still just the worst.
He also stares at me like I’m a total jerk when I throw the mouse pieces (yeah. I said pieces) over our fence. All while Emma bounces around, basically saying, “no wait, Mom, what are you doing! He brought that mouse butt for ME!!!” Then she stares at me like I am the meanest human on the face of this earth.
Last week, I threw a head-on-backwards mouse, left handed, in the dark, without my glasses on…the next morning I realized it was not only hanging from our fence (like some Vlad the Impaler-style warning to the mouse community: STAY AWAY), but it had frozen to the fence. Which took a bit of kicking, and a bit of apologizing (to the mouse).
Just a sampling of the delicacies brought to our patio.
Thank you for all of this, Captain, but I think it’s time you accept that I will not ever be impressed with your gifts.
Tonight, I found a head. I’m not sure if he thought, “maybe she’d like to try a different piece of mouse,” or perhaps he got carried away snacking and forgot that he promised Emma the whole mouse.
Or maybe it was a guilt thing: “you didn’t check to make sure I was in the house before you left for work, and I had to eat the entire mouse!”
Honestly though, is anyone else wondering what happened to the other mice heads?? Do you think he has some creepy mouse head trophy room? Do cats keep trophies? I’m putting way too much thought into this.
I’m going to tell you a secret: every military couple has sent each other something risqué at some point in their relationship. During WWII, it was probably something along the lines of a sexy photo, and a saucy letter to go along with it. In 2018, we have smartphones!
This isn’t for the faint-of-heart–or my mother. Sorry Mom.
The downside of today’s ability to sext, is the ability to accidentally sext the wrong person. Up until yesterday, it had only been my biggest fear. Send something scandalous to Justin; check 47 times to make sure I actually sent it to Justin, and not my Mom (sorry Mom)!
Nearly 13 years of inappropriate, NC-17 text messages being sent to my husband while he’s been in war zones, or TDY, or now stationed in Korea. And then, while multi-tasking yesterday morning, I texted a co-worker to let him know I couldn’t teach Water Aerobics, because Shea had a doctor’s appointment at that time.
Two minutes later, I texted Justin, telling him I looked fat.
Then I sent a couple of wildly inappropriate texts, that shall not be repeated at this time (or at any time–sorry Mom).
Then another few minutes went by and I wondered why Justin hadn’t responded.
Then, the “oh shit” moment, where I whisper, “please tell me I didn’t send that to….oh my gosh, I did.”
After telling my co-worker I was looking fat yesterday, I proceeded to send him dirty, dirty text messages!!!
Where’s the undo button when you need one!?
Then, out come the outpouring of apologies, as I try to explain to him what happened. Yes, him. Ending with, “I can’t come to work today. There’s a hole I have to crawl into and die.”
I told Justin, all while freaking out. Because, who does that!?!? His response: “no way,” and then he told me he thought it was funny.
Funny?! He obviously didn’t have to spend a day at work with a guy he’d just awkwardly sexted, and then apologized to!!!
15 minutes later when I got to work, we laughed about it. And in my state of total embarrassment, I offered to teach Water Aerobics for him for the rest of eternity.
“Justin said, ‘it could’ve been worse.'”
“I don’t know Sam, that was pretty bad.”
I bet no Army Wife in 1945 thought, “gosh, I hope I didn’t send that to the wrong guy.”
They aren’t wrong–my husband has great boobs. Or, pecs. This summer I had to explain this to Xander after he started asking, “what do I have to do to get boobs like Dad?” Oh gosh, pecs, my dear. Men call them pecs.
Last week, Justin shared a snippet of a review a student gave of the course. What could the instructor improve: “Makes me hard.” Hmm…
