Going for a serious trip in the way back machine.

I *heart* Gang of Four. Oh, to be young and punk rock!

Dirty confessions.

Do you know Post Secret? I love it. I've always been tempted to send in a postcard. But one, I can never think of anything all that good to confess and, two, I'm not at all crafty and I'm afraid I'd just embarrass myself next to all of these wonderful little creations.

But I should think of some confessions to post here, given that it's good for the soul and all..soon, maybe...

Just one of those weeks.

Thank goodness it's Friday. I plan to take advantage. I don't know what kind of crazy has been going around here but it's apparently catching.

I need a drink. A stiff one. And I will have it.

Anyone care to join me?

The first cut is the deepest.

Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, my husband and I were looking at some old photos of him in high school.

And I was laughing. Hard. He was sporting a hairstyle that can only be described as "mushroom-head." He was not brave or patient enough to let his hair grow truly long so instead he stuck with a very ill-conceived middle length 'do that was seriously poufy on the sides. Men with thick, wavy hair should seriously consider the time involved looking like a total dork when deciding to grow their hair out.

At that moment, drunk with laughter and fearful that he would one day try to recreate said look, I made a pact with him that if he kept his hair short, the way Uncle Sam intended it, I would keep my hair long.

Of course, there was no need to barter. I totally forgot about the fact that military regulations make him keep it short. Because I'm a dumb-ass.

So my hair has been longer than my shoulders for as long as we've been together. And now I'm itching to bob it.

It's something I'd always done before I got married. Grow my hair down past by butt, cut it to my ears and donate the hair (if they'd take my baby-fine hair) to Locks of Love. There's something very liberating about cutting all one's hair off. I want to do it so bad that I can taste it. And I would.

Except for that dang promise I made.

But CPT Dick is in the field. And I'm thinking that if I bob my hair at my style appointment next week, it won't be severely short once he returns. I mean, that wouldn't be invalidating the agreement. Right? Maybe?

Bummer.

Trip to Munich canceled. I will have to make do with drinking beer and singing oom-pah-pah at home.

I wonder if I can teach Munchkin to play quarters...

TMI.

I know I've gone on about how I don't appreciate people starting business or volunteer meetings by stating their religious preferences. But today, I was hit with something even more interesting.

I have a potential client in the next city over. We've talked a lot over email but she wanted to meet in person, understandably, to make sure that I could handle the rather large and expensive assignment that she was looking to staff. We set up the meeting for today.

This morning, she rings me about 5 minutes before I'm due to leave the house. She says that she needs to cancel our meeting because she's manic-depressive and is having an episode. She is planning to check herself into the hospital but wanted to make sure I knew she wouldn't be available before going to the trouble and expense of taking the train over. She'd call to reschedule once she was more settled.

On one hand, I'm grateful that she called before I left. But on the other hand, how the heck am I supposed to respond to that? I said something resembling "good luck and feel better soon," but I couldn't help but feel put on the spot.

Not to mention, thinking twice about signing a contract with her for a months-long project.

So, I ask you, readers, to tell or not to tell? Was this a case of too much information? Is this the way that we should do business these days -- with no holds barred? Or is this something I should be grateful to know, either as a consideration before taking the work or as a way of handling her if I do take it?

I do not know. Really, I don't.

Open mouth. Insert feet.

WOMAN 1: "She's the COL's third wife."

WOMAN 2: "Seriously?"

WOMAN 1: "Yeah, I think it's hard on some of the field grades because they knew him back in the states when he was married to number two."

WOMAN 3: "That's right. J. accidentally called her the last one's name and, whoa Nelly!, the COL came down hard on him. He asked J. how hard it is to remember a goddamn name. Well, I'd like to know how hard it is to keep a goddamn wife."

WOMAN 1: "You said it."

WOMAN 4: "Y'all are being too hard on the COL. You don't know what is happening behind closed doors. I'm sure there is a good reason that his marriage ended."

WOMAN 2: "Yeah, like Mrs. 2 caught him in bed with the future Mrs. 3."

WOMAN 1: "You can't be defending him."

WOMAN 4: "Sure, I can. Three wives is nothing. I'm my husband's fifth wife."

Just call me "Mother of the Year."

The storage room in our house connects the laundry room to the garage. Usually, the door from the laundry room to the storage room is locked. You know, because nothing is more exciting to a two-year-old than lots of camoflauge-colored junk. And given that it is never actually organized or tidied up, nothing is more dangerous.

But I digress. The door is usually locked. But even when that door is open, it's okay because the door to the garage is usually also locked. And seriously, even if they weren't, my son isn't tall enough to reach the door handle anyway.

Until today.

In fighting our moth problem (thanks, CaliValleyGirl for the trap suggestion -- they seem to be working!), I was in the kitchen setting up more traps. All of a sudden, when I look out the window, I see a small white blur moving past at mach 10. Looking more closely, I see it is my son. Wearing only one sock. And no pants (and when I say no pants, I mean he's blowing free in the damn wind). And running towards the street.

Last I saw him, he was in his bedroom for naptime.

CPT Dick, in packing up for the field last week, must have left the door to the storage room unlocked. Munchkin, apparently, is now tall enough to not only open that door but the one leading outside as well. Not to mention tall enough to scale the gate that keeps him in his room.

The boy has tasted freedom and it would seem that he is reluctant to give it up. As soon as I saw him, I opened the window and yelled, "Freeze!" But he just looked up at me, smiled a big ol' shit-eating-grin and said, "Bye-bye" and kept on running. I finally caught up to him about a block and a half away.

Given that every old lady on my street is always telling me that Munchkin needs a hat or a thicker jacket, I can only imagine what they thought as I carried him home, kicking and screaming, with his bare bottom displayed for the world to see.

Call me SuperMom. I'm off to the hardware store to buy a few extra locks. And maybe some duct tape.