Pretendland

I'd like to pretend that I'm too busy partying and having fun celebrating New Year's Eve to blog, but that would be a total lie. I'd like to pretend that I'm hosting the most talked about party of the year at my mansion, but that would be a total misrepresentation. I'd like to pretend that my guestlist to my misrepresentation would be the most powerful and prestigious people in the world, but that would be a total hallucination.

So here it is, 11:39 p.m. on December 31st and I"m sitting in front of my computer, sharing my totally misrepresented hallucination of a life to anyone who feels like reading this blog.

The thing is, I'm the wife of cop. A cop who works nights, none the less. So, he isn't home for us to celebrate. He's out there making sure that other people don't celebrate and drive, and don't celebrate and beat their spouses and don't celebrate and hit each other over the heads with beer bottles. He's making sure that the drunk people who ride their bikes don't run into telephone poles (yep, it happens) and when parents leave their young children at home so they (the parents) can go out and get drunk, he's out making sure the kids go somewhere to be taken care of. He'll be a counselor, a taxi, a judge, a minister and a father.

It isn't easy being a cop's wife. Aside from the extreme cases of praying that he doesn't get killed, I worry about him being hurt. I worry if his equipment like bulletproof vests is enough. Is it new enough? Advanced enough? Good enough? I worry about car accidents and him getting hit while he's on a traffic stop. (The way most police officer injuries and deaths occur). I worry about him getting in the middle of the fights that seem to happen a lot where he's at. I really had to train myself to stop agonizing over his job every single day. That's no way to live. And, worry doesn't prevent or help anything. He's very careful, and even after 14 years, is not complacent and smug about "It could never happen to me." I'm lucky that he goes into every situation thinking that his safety and the safety of his charges is #1. That anything can happen at any time. He never turns his back, literally or figuratively.

But, there have been times that I've laid awake at night, wondering what he's doing. Wondering if he's safe or bored or scared or tired. I pray a lot for his safety. When an officer in a neighboring city was killed last year, I had a lot of anxiety. I quizzed my husband on his procedures and equipment and we talked about various scenarios that could involve shootouts. But, I have to accept the fact that there are always variables that a person can't account for. I pray for his safety, but I know that worrying until I'm sick isn't healthy for me, for him, or for our relationship. I've come to accept the life as a cop's wife. I'm no hero or martyr, by any stretch of the imagination. But, it does take a certain kind of person to be the wife or husband of someone who is or could be in danger at any turn in the road. Be it a cop or a fireman or a fisherman.

DOH! Hey! It's midnight!! Happy New Year!!

Be safe and give a little thought about all those who are out there making sure we're safe. Soldiers, cops, firefighters...And, don't bike drunk!!!

Dying for Tampons...

A while ago, I found a website called www.anysoldier.com. This website is a resource for people who want to send letters and/or care packages to our soldiers serving overseas. (Go ahead and read up on this site, but just a review...most requests from soldiers are geared towards those who don't get much mail or any packages. It gives people like me, who are feeling helpless, a way to feel like they're doing something for our brave men and women.) Of course, I am now obsessed with this site. I have been reading it for several days straight (not blinking, mind you) and last night I went and purchased some items to send to some female soldiers in Iraq.

**I had asked my 20 year old cousin Sarah, who is getting ready to go on her 2nd tour of duty in Iraq, if soldiers not getting mail was a problem and if soldiers really used most of the things they asked for. She said that they use baby wipes for everything from personal cleansing to weapons cleansing and truly need the things they're asking for either as a basic necessity, or just to make life a little easier in the war zone. I almost bawled (imagine) when she told me that during mail call, everyone gathers around and the faces of those who get nothing are so sad, she ends up giving a lot of her stuff away. Of course, she gets sent a care package about every other week, so she can be generous. Some are not so lucky. That damn near broke my heart.

Anyway, in memorizing this site, the thing that bothers me the most is that these wonderful people are lacking (or needing more of) some of the most basic necessities in life. One of the most asked for things by females is "please send tampons". Tampons! And panty liners. One soldier even posted that even though they can "sometimes" get these items at the PX, they have to convoy through a dangerous area to get there. Are you kidding?? First of all...can you imagine having to ask the general public for these things? It would be like me putting an ad in the Lincoln Journal Star..."Married white female seeking feminine hygiene products. Absorbency not an issue." Secondly, I'd bleed all over my camo before I'd get shot at trying to buy Kotex. These people are putting their lives on the line for my freedom and they are asking for such monumental things as Tampax and Chap Stick.

I chose four soldiers to send care packages to. Four females. I chose women because, well, I am one, and I thought about how amid all the dirt and grime and sand and crap and bullets and fear and pride and battles and bombs, I would still want to feel like a woman. So I'm sending chap stick, body wash, lotion, shampoo and hot chocolate and yes, tampons and panty liners. Some soldiers request cigarettes and CDs and things of that nature, which is great. I'll send them some of those things later. But first, I want to be sure that the women soldiers have the Tampax and panty liners they are requesting. And, I'll never take a Playtex Gentle Glide for granted again.

New song--"If I were a Bobblehead"

So, I came up with a new song. It's called "If I Were a Bobblehead." It goes like this:

If I were a bobble head
and my neck was just a spring.

And my body was so much smaller...
Oh what joy that would surely bring!

I'd fling my head to the left and right
and bend it towards my toes.

And snap it back and forward
And poke my knees with my nose.

That's all I have for now. Pretty good, huh?

*I haven't even had any alcoholic beverages tonight. I think of these things sober. Can you believe?

Because I've had 5 beers...HUSKERS!!!

Okay, let's talk about the Husker football team, shall we? I'm not gonna get into this big, long, history lesson on how long I've been a Husker (33 years) , how many games I've been too personally (not a lot, probably 7) etc. etc, but I do want to talk about the football team this year. Let's talk about that, shall we? Okay. We shall.

(If you would like to close out of my blog out of sheer boredom, go right ahead and hit that leeeeetttlllle X on the upper right hand side of your screen. I don't mind.) If not, let me start off by saying, I love Coach Callahan. I mean, I really love the guy. Of course, I didn't care if we hired Howdy freakin' Doody as long as Solich was gone, but I think we lucked out with Callahan. ( I'll get to that later.) We needed fresh blood. Know what else bothers me? (This is MY blog, so I can say what I want.) What bothers me is that although I really loved Coach Osbourne, there is NO NEED to find out what he thinks about the state of Nebraska football at this time. The Guy (and I say that like, "The God") hasn't been a coach for what, six years? And we STILL care about what he says about the team? Ask ME how I feel about things and what I think about things. I can tell ya! First of all...I'm a GIRL. And, girls aren't "supposed" to know that much about football. We're supposed to pretend that we like it, or pretend we understand it, and we're supposed to smile and wave absentmindedly when our husbands/boyfriends/brothers/uncles, etc talk about football. Not me. I've been a Husker fan for 30 years and a CHICAGO BEARS fan since 1978, so I know about football. I know the calls and the positions and the penalties and even who played where in college. I know these things not to impress my husband, but because I LOVE FOOTBALL. I love everything about it and always have. So I feel qualified to say what I"m gonna say.

We needed someone new. Not a Devaney-in-training. Not an Osbourne-in-training. We needed someone new. My husband and I can argue for days about how solich was fired, but I don't feel like going into that right now. Namely, because I've had about a six pack, and also because that doesn't matter to me. What matters is that we have a new coach.

The problem I have with the new coach is this: The excuse of "Oh, I didn't recruit these players. These are Frank Solich's recruits..." is wearing thin. Yes. They ARE solich's recruits, but as the book says, MAKE DUE WITH ROSE THORNS AND GLUE. Don't adapt them to your coaching style, which we can so obviously tell didn't work! Adapt your coaching style to them, at least for this year!!! I know this is a moot point, since the season is over, but even I got tired of the "These aren't Callahan's recruits" excuse. So what! Do what you can with them, sigh, and do better next year. Don't just give up because they're not yours! FIGHT!!! Work those guys like a red-headed step child, but also work yourself! Be someone you weren't "trained" to be just for the sake of maybe, just maybe being better than a .500 this year!

Okay, I feel better now. And, I actually don't want to "get to that later" about lucking out with Callahan. Lets just say that as I go to get my 6th beer, I want to wish only the best for Coach Solich (University of Ohio?). I never felt ill will towards him, only a will to finally be different. Let me also say, that being a Bears fan since 1978, I'm used to losing, but I really don't want it out of the Huskers. Maybe by the 7th beer, I'll think Callhan is the 2nd coming....tune in later to find out.

It's Christmas and my Dad is THERE.

Dad? Hey. It's me. I wish I could pretty this up, but since I can't, I just need to tell you. God, I miss you. I know you're in heaven and all, celebrating Jesus' birthday WITH Him, but know what? I'd rather have you down here, celebrating Christmas with ME. I miss your smile. I miss your laugh. I miss the way you smelled. Like aftershave and work and diabetes. I miss the way you knew me. I miss the way I knew you. I miss making you laugh and making you say, "That's my girl." even sarcastically.

I haven't dreamed of you lately. Have you forgotten me? I know you haven't, but saying you might have makes my depression seem more valid. Sometimes I picture you just a whisper away, wanting to reach out, but knowing that this world's physics are different enough to not allow it. I feel you here, Dad. I know you're near. But sometimes it ain't good enough. I hope you understand.

I'm so nervous about Sarah going to Iraq. I'm missing Dan. I wonder if it will kill Jeff to call once in a few years. I wonder if Michelle is even TRYING to get her kids back. I worry about the hard future Ashley faces, being 16 and pregnant. I worry about Jessi at college. I've got this damn mother hen instinct towards my cousins that won't go away. I want to take over, but I want to step back, and those two cannot go hand in hand. I want to let people live, but I want to say, "Hey! I've done some of these things, and I can tell you about them!" But, I don't. All this angst inside of me has GOT to come out sometime and when it does, run for cover.

Where I got my title...

In case you were on the edge of your seat wondering where I came up with the blog name of "What the hell..." I want to let you know why. It's my trademark phrase. Ever since I understood the magic of words, "What the hell" has been one of my favorite statements. It can be used in a multitude of ways. For example: "What the hell is that?" "Where the hell is she going?" "What the hell is on TV tonight?" "What the hell was that noise?" "Who the hell farted?" "What the hell time is it? 10:00? What the hell?" And, not only can it be used as a question, but also a statement. "I don't know what the hell he thought he was doing, but he's stupid." "I figured, 'what the hell' and did it anyway." See? Many uses, that. It can be interjected into every day conversation. "What the hell was the low temperature last night?" "Where in hell are you going after work?" "What the hell were the Huskers DOING this year?" It can be used to express anger. "What the hell were you THINKING?" It can be used to express disdain "I don't know WHAT THE HELL you were THINKING." It can be used to express friendliness. "Bob? What the hell have you been up to?" It can even be used to express love. "Ron...I just wanted to let you know that no matter what the hell happens, I will always love you."

Try to use it in your next conversation and see how popular you will quickly become.

New song--"My husband's underwear are smaller than mine."

Okay, I wrote a new song a few minutes ago. It's not done yet, but here's a rough draft:

I was downstairs folding laundry
And much to my surprise.

I realized my husband's underwear
wouldn't fit over my thighs.

A tiny little wasteband
And skinny little legs.

No hips for them to rest on
Just a place to hold his....um....eggs.

That's all I have for now.

What do YOU think?

Today I had a dental appointment. Now, before you get all excited thinking how lucky I truly am, I want to tell you exactly how the appointment went. New dentist, mind you, so I was expecting a whirlwind of paperwork, small talk, chit chat, "how many kids do you have" and things of that nature. Here's what happened...I went in and started filling out paperwork. Before I could even start the privacy act stuff, they call my name to go back to the dental chair. They want to get started. The hygenist comes in and takes x-rays of my head and other dental-related things like that. (Here's where the funny stuff starts. Funny to me, at least.)

She checks my chart and sees that I have written that I had gastric bypass surgery in January of 2003. She says, "How did that gastric bypass work?" I look at her...Now, mind you, I'm topping off at over 280 pounds. No, that's not a mis-type. Over 280 pounds. Gastric bypass didn't work for me. Now, before all the bypass Nazis come after me, I want to mention this leeeeeettttlllleee fact: My gastric bypass didn't work. I didn't fail. I didn't eat it out of working. I didn't "stretch my pouch". I didn't do ANYTHING. See...mine is what they call a mechanical failure. At my nine month check up, after surgery, my doctor casually mentioned that he "found" in my records that he had to make the pouch considerably bigger because I had mysterious existing scar tissue. Fine. $40,000 down the drain. I lost (brace yourself) 17 pounds in a year. SHOUT IT AT THE ROOFTOPS! 17 freakin' pounds!!! So, I'm a little sensitive about the gastric bypass questions. I told her, a complete stranger, what I've just told you, a complete stranger. It kinda made me laugh. She was a bigger girl herself, and I think she was hoping for a better story. I know I was.

Anyway, here's the BEST part. The dentist (whom I love) gets done with what she needs to do and they want to clean my teeth next. Fine. The problem? It's 10:30 a.m. and the "cleaning lady" doesnt' come in until....11:30!!! That's right, an hour! So, they tell me to go ahead and watch TV until she comes in. I turn on the TV. {insert crickets chirping here} I stare out the window. {insert picture of a tumbleweed flopping by}. I clean my fingernails with my other fingernails. {insert low, howling wind sound here.} I sing, in my head, every Christmas Carol I know. {insert Christmas Carol of your choice here.} I watch the end of the Price is Right. {Insert echoing sound here.} You get the picture. I SAT THERE FOR AN HOUR WITH NOTHING TO DO. I couldn't even pry myself out of that torture chair to get the friggin' people magazine off the wall.

I think I'm going to submit 1 hour of my precious, precious time to the insurance company. See how they cover that, the bastards.