I have been alone for somewhere around 125 days now. That’s 125 evenings without someone to talk to while making dinner, without someone to boss around during bath time, without someone to watch The Office with, without someone. 

Most of the time, I’m pretty okay with that. I fill my life with mundane tasks interspersed with moments of public embarrassment and hilarity. But now and then I get pretty sick and tired of the same stupid conversation, night after night, over the telephone. Especially when I’ve waited 12 hours to talk to him. 

“So how was your day?” says I.

“Good.” Silence.

“Good? Not fun or boring or interesting or busy?”

“All of the above.” Silence.

I’m sorry, but is it too much to ask for some genuine feedback here? This sounds suspiciously like a conversation between a mother and her fourteen year old son. 

I guess sometimes we need to remind the men in our lives that even though we’re tired and they’re tired and it’s been a long good fun boring interesting busy day, communicating the stupid details matters to us. If they think it’s insignificant, we probably think it’s priceless information. 

Two weeks from tomorrow this will all be over. I feel like I’ve exhausted all my resources here, like if I ask for one more favor I’ll be so indebted to the family/neighborhood/world that I’ll never be able to dig my way out. How much homemade bread can a girl crank out in a month? I’m actually out of thank you cards and sick of writing them. That’s a terrible thing to say, I know, but I don’t want to do this anymore. 

In other news, my Lean Cuisine was fabulous tonight. I think I’ll go lick the last 12 calories out of the tray.

The biggest loser almost convinced me to OD on salami and sugar free candies tonight, I was so upset with the results. 

Did any of you see Nasty Vicki and her nasty nasty nastiness? I missed the first half of the show and still saw enough to send me to my feet, howling and pacing around the television like some kind of crazed wolf as they read the results.

In case you haven’t heard, Amy C. actually voted the nice girl off and chose to keep the horrible fat heifer (technically, she’s a cow) who verbally and emotionally abused her all week. 

How do mean people get so powerful? This woman is insanely horrible, probably the biggest villain to ever grace the reels of Reality TV. All Amy had to do was vote her out and the game was hers, in the bag. But because she wants people to like her, because she can’t live with the knowledge that a truly awful, spiteful person spites her, she sent home someone nice and deserving in order to win back her spot with the idiot Blue Team.

Please, if you’re passive, take a lesson from this girl (who will very likely be heading home next week when her very own “team” votes her off). The only opinion that matter’s is Jesus’ opinion, you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone else.

I think the crowds up in Heaven probably wanted her to vote off Vicky as well. I highly doubt Vicky will ever meet any of them though, so no biggie if she hasn’t got many fans up there. 

I don’t think I can watch this show anymore. If that horrible Vicky girl wins the Grand Jello cash prize at the end, I think I’ll stop watching NBC for good (with the exception of The Office). I definitely won’t be able to touch a dish of Jello ever again.

Today I visited a new lady doctor. It was a guy.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but we move every few years. I also have a child every few years. This means that as far as OBGYN’s go, I’ve kind of been around. I counted today, and this is the eighth OBGYN I’ve had in the past nine years. I might be pure as the driven snow, but when I stop and think about it I realize that eight too many men “know” me. 

It was my annual girlie physical, a time well known for it’s awkward moments of silence, and cool, uncomfortable breezes. For those of you who don’t know, I have Polycystic Ovaries so my annual physicals always include an ultrasound to check out the egg cartons. 

My new OB is a great doc, I was comfortable with him (but not too comfortable), he was casual in his manner (but not too casual), and I felt like he was warm and friendly (but not too friendly–Heaven forbid).

When he got to the part where we were watching my uterus on the monitor to inspect my C-section scar (man this post has a lot of personal information, doesn’t it?), he said everything looked great. Then he said, “You have a lovely pelvis.”

How do you respond to something like that? A lovely pelvis? As opposed to an average pelvis? He was referring to the monitor, not my you-know-what, but still. And don’t misunderstand, it was a very medical compliment, like he was referring to me as a cadaver and not an actual person with a soul. 

I thanked him in a totally startled way, and shortly thereafter left the exam room. 

I have to say, of all the compliments I’ve ever received, I didn’t see that one coming. But next time I have a bad hair day, at least I’ll have a lovely pelvis to fall back on.

Okay, you got me. I am guilty of wanting my man to PAY ATTENTION. 

The first night I got to Georgia, we went out for dinner and dancing with a group of Jason’s buddies. These are high caliber guys, possibly some of the most impressive, well-rounded individuals I’ve ever met. Most of them are married–nice settled men with wives, and in some cases, children. A few of them are single and dashingly secret agent cute (let me know if you’re single and smart and living on the East Coast–I have single secret agent connections).

The few women around are really nice girls, but given the current situation (mostly men) I think that as a whole, those men are seriosuly starved for female attention.

As a female who is suffering from a lack of male attention, being on the base with Jason was the biggest perk ever. I swear I could have weighed 400 pounds with moles on my face and I would have turned heads.

Walking on the compound kind of made my day. Jason actually apologized in advance for the fact that men might stare at me, because we all know how much I would hate that. Hello? Have you met me? Oh no, please don’t whistle, I just can’t take it. Well okay, if you must. 

Come on, I would probably pay to have some random pervert make eyes at me. We all know I’m an attention whore. 

But life is funny. I’ve found that most men (if you do not fall into this category, try very hard not to rub it in) aren’t very good at giving the women closest to them sincere compliments. They either say, “Honey, you’re always beautiful to me,” which we all know is a cop out I’m-not-really-paying-attention-to-you-and-don’t-care-how-you-look response, or they don’t say anything.

We can knock ourselves out to wow and woo them, and they’ll stand there oblivious to our cleavage and ask if we remembered to pick up the dry cleaning. We’re women, our lives are whacko. If we actually take the time to get dolled up and manage to smell like something other than stinky diapers, hand sanitizer, or laundry detergent, we expect a little attention for it. 

Sometimes I think guys need to be reminded that we may look 28, 37, 44 or 61 on the outside, but on the inside we still feel about 18. We’re still hoping someone will want to dance with us at the prom, still wishing our hair was straight not curly, or red not brown, and still worrying about our bra size. 

If the men in our lives don’t take us out for a little salsa dancing now and then, who will? Whether you’re in the sacrifice my body for babies stage, the sacrifice my car for soccer stage, or the sacrifice my wallet for college tuition stage, life seems bent on stifling us. 

So if you haven’t been treated to a little attention, I say ask for it. Go to a play, get some sushi, buy new perfume. Take a class together, go hunting, or play frisbee.

Remember the movie Phenomenon, with John Travolta? Remember how he bought The Closer lady’s rocking chairs? We’ve all got rocking chairs, and most men would be happy to purchase them if they only knew how. Tell him what you need, you’re worth it.

And don’t hint.

I took the baby with me to buy skinny jeans last week. I just keep getting stupider and stupider, don’t I?

Click on my face (over there, to your right) to read this week’s column.

Ack! 

In case you don’t know, I have an amazing squad of angels that follow me everywhere and regularly kick down doors for me. They were in top form today, I tell you. Listen to this.

I’ve been thinking this week about trying to get my Stupid Twilight T-shirts on the Good Things Utah morning show, since all the girls there are big Twilight fans. As I was mulling this thought over a few days ago, my cute SIL Tiffany magically called me up and said, “Hey, do you want to go sit in the audience of Good Thing Utah with me on Friday?” Seriously, it doesn’t get more magical than that. Presto. 

I decided a few freebies might pay off and took a handful of shirts down for the talent. They LOVED them! Not only did they love them, THEY PLUGGED THEM!!!! Every T-shirt got a close up, and they even talked about my cute husband in Georgia. 

The best part? My website shopping cart got so many hits it actually crashed. That’s right, kaboom. I should be sad about this, but since that means people like my shirts (and by proxy I’ll assume they like me because this is how I look at things), I’ll probably sell enough T’s to pay off my Stupid Credit Card Bill from my trip to Georgia. So YAY! 

To top it off, this morning the scale said that I’m down three of the five pounds I gained while in Georgia. It just keeps getting better.

I must comment on Tuesday’s The Biggest Loser. Forgive me, it’s not going to be pretty.

That Vicky girl makes me so mad I could spit. Seriously, have you ever seen such nastiness all rolled up into one overweight southern girl? I was practically peeing my pants last night when they got to Amy’s vote, hoping that she’d figure out already that the blue team in general was using her like a paper towel on a camping trip. 

When Amy’s feet hit solid ground and she sent Cat Woman’s husband home I practically cackled at the television, oh the joy of retribution in general. What goes around, sister.  

What is it about karma that is so delightful? It’s rare that bad people get away with their rottenness forever. I’m just hoping that Vicky binges on cupcakes this week and eats herself right off the ranch, leaving all the nice fat people to do their business and get skinny in peace. 

If I were there, I’d secretly sneak things like butter onto all her sandwiches and sugar into her crystal light. But then I guess I’d be as rotten as she is. Too bad.

From the moment I pulled out of our driveway last Friday morning things were different. It actually felt like every mile took me further from mommyhood and closer to attractive girlfriendhood. I had completely forgotten what it felt like to be someone’s girlfriend. Too much puke and stinky diapers can seriously hamper a woman’s view on life in general. 

Upon arrival, I found myself as skittish as a schoolgirl, checking my hair and tripling up on my lipstick as I waited for Jason to pick me up from the airport. When he finally pulled in I think my knees actually shook a little at seeing him. Call it low blood sugar or call it love, they actually shook. 

Let me quickly sum up the weekend events (minus a few details). Dinner with a group of his classmates (lovely fellows to be sure) then salsa dancing. That’s right, my super hot special agent husband took me salsa dancing.

In case you don’t know me in human form, this girl loves to dance–any kind of dance. When I hear the opening lines to “Ce—le–brate good times, come on!” I just can’t make my feet behave. Dancing was fun, Jason is hot. 

Saturday morning we headed to Savannah, GA, officially my new favorite city on the east coast. A little secret about my man: he loves to shop. We window shopped and in-store shopped and browsed and tried on vintage clothing and took trolly tours and went to jazz bars at eleven o’clock at night–amazing.

The trip was magical, perfect, exactly what I needed. I seriously love Savannah. Go. Take your mother, your lover, your sisters or your friends and go shop Savannah. We ate up two full days walking around in the warm East Coast sunshine.

Sunday night we headed back to Brunswick. Jason had class all day Monday and I laid around reading The Time Traveler’s Wife (fantastic book, go find it). Between chapters I casually blew a small sum of money at the local TJMAX which unfortunately was located within walking distance of the hotel (I’ve discovered that I love trendy little hats and scarves, bad, bad addiction). 

Then Monday night arrived. 

I have this little problem. You know how some people wear their emotions on their sleeves? Mine are more like a bright pink hooded cloak. 

Monday evening I was kind of a wreck. It had been such a wonderful trip, and Jason kept saying things like, “Only three and a half more weeks!” which to me sounded like, “This is never going to end!” The sinking realization that I had to return home to house and kids without him seriously put a damper on my mood.

The entire evening I was like a bobble head Annie who’s head wasn’t secured on right so it kept flying off and landing on the floor of the car. Poor Jason kept retrieving it and carefully attempting to right the situation with phrases like, “You’re so pretty,” and “Have I told you that you’re cute today?” and “Are those jeans a size seven? You’re just so skinny!”

None of these worked (except the size seven comment, that was good). 

Because when push comes to shove, I wanted to be upset and sad. I didn’t want to be reminded that we ONLY have three eternal, lonely, cold, long-distance weeks apart. Yes, I’ve been great. Yes, the weekend rocked. But sometimes a girl just needs a good pout, you get me? 

The sushi was good for my soul. We spent dinner once again with his comrades and the next morning (this morning) I was back to my chipper self, blowing kisses to him as I traipsed through the metal detector at the airport. 

So, I’m home. My babies are sleeping soundly in their beds and Tivo is loaded with shows to distract me from missing him. In some ways seeing him makes this so much worse, but it’s like a drug that can’t be denied. I PDA’d him up one street and down the next this weekend, holding his hand, kissing his cheek. I was a walking declaration to the world that he’s mine and I’m keeping him. 

And hey, remind me to tell you about my girdle incident. One for the books (or the paper).

I think I’m a bad person.

I have been in Georgia with hot secret agent husband for three days now and can’t seem to recall my children’s names. My head must be fuzzy from all this thick Georgian air, hopefully when I see them tomorrow something will click and I’ll feel like a mother again.

In the meantime, I have a book to read while Jason finishes class.

Then he’s all mine.

So a week before I weaned the baby I went out and bought a cartload of new bras. My old nursing bras were so stretched and worn that the only support they offered was a comfortable shoulder strap for my children to cry on.

This is my third child. I know what happens to the girls when we’re done nursing. The deflation process is swift and sure, it’s like trading in water balloons for socks with golf balls. And yet, I went out and bought bras BEFORE letting all the air out of the tires. 

In hindsight, I guess that maybe it was a subconscious attempt at using The Secret. It was me hoping that if I believed hard enough, actually had enough faith to invest in a truck load of lovely big cupped bras, my bosom would step up to the plate and hold it’s stance. It’s the old “if you build it they will come” mentality.

We all do this in one way or another. If I buy an elliptical, I’ll get skinny. If I buy a minivan, I’ll get pregnant. If I buy a 34D…you get the point. 

And so, four weeks later I am sitting here in my bra, wondering what to do with this inch of space between my poor teensy bosom and that hard candy shell of a brazier I present to the public. It’s like having two new pockets, perfect for cash, kleenex, or hey, I could even carry treats with me! Who needs perfume? Stuff a little homemade bread down there and I’ll have men literally drooling all over the place to get to my chest. 

I wonder how well Salami stores…