Back in the saddle.

It's been a while. Again. I appear to be an inconstant blog presence.

But I took some time away from my laptop to hug my kid a lot. To go on pre-deployment leave with my family. To read a book. And to try to make a dent in this never ending pile of boy laundry. Your normal stuff. But forgive me -- I ought not have left without even a "by your leave."

It won't happen again.

Mother-in-law, your name is passive-aggressive.

"So I had lunch with L.S. today. You know her."

"Ummm, L.S.?"

"Yes, she's married to N.S. You know her. She wore a green sweater to your engagement party."

"Ummmm..."

"She was one of my bridesmaids. You know her, you do."

"Okay. Was it a nice lunch?"

"Well, we had to cut it short. She's having family problems."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Her daughter and grandson moved back home. The daughter is going through an ugly divorce. Had a great husband -- lawyer or some such -- but she's just one of these cold women. More interested in her career than anything else and then couldn't hack it when her son came along."

"Oh, that's too bad. I hope that things get better."

"Well, L. can't leave them alone too long. You'd think the problem would be with the boy, that he'd have trouble adjusting. But no, not at all, it's the daughter. She's addicted to the Internet."

"What?"

"Yes, she neglects her son. He's two and he's barely speaking. He's always in front of the television. And all so the daughter can chat with people on the Internet. It's just disgraceful. Thank God L. is there to help make sure that her grandson is taken care of."

Thank you.

Baby Kate took her last breath yesterday. A. and her family are, of course, devastated, but buoyed by the fact that so many people answered the call to prayer -- even us heathens. Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

Prayer.

I don't pray.

I dream, I hope, I wonder, I have conversations with small children who can't reply, books, animals, television commentators, pieces of furniture that get in my way, imaginary friends and, of course, wrestle with my conscience. Some of these things may be more analogous to praying than others might have you believe. I'd like to think so. But I don't know for certain.

But whether you do or do not pray yourself, I ask tonight that you please put one out there for Baby Kate, my friend A.'s daughter. Kate was born on 12/17/07. A few weeks later, she just stopped breathing. When she was admitted to the hospital, doctors discovered that she had suffered severe brain damage from a series of idiopathic seizures. As of yesterday, Kate was stable enough to leave the NICU. But the doctors believe that the brain damage is permanent and it has left Kate without any of her basic reflexes. Among other things, that means that she cannot swallow. Even with round the clock care, the prognosis for Kate is not good.

I can't even imagine what my friend is going through. I don't ever want to be able to imagine it either.

Now usually, after getting an email update as sad as this one, I might talk to friends over the unfairness of the situation. I might hug my kid a little extra hard. I almost always find some alcohol. And, you know, sometimes I might even tell the Universe that I am royally pissed off. I don't generally ask people to pray. It just ain't my bag.

But, A., a devout Christian, has asked for just that. She has asked not only for those of us who know her and Kate to pray but to ask everyone we know to do the same. She wants to, as she put it, overwhelm the heavens with good feeling for her daughter.

So tonight, I will get down on my knees, putting aside any feelings of hypocrisy or silliness because I have no idea what I'm doing, and talk to the God that A. believes in for a miracle for Kate. I will ask for Kate's recovery. And if that is too much, I will ask that she is comfortable, not in pain and knows how much she is loved. I will also ask that A. continue to receive the composure and grace that she has shown through this ordeal no matter what the outcome. And just this once, I am going to do my best to believe that my doing this will make a difference for my friend and her tiny daughter.

I ask that you please do the same.

No such thing as a small favor.

A couple of months ago, we got new neighbors. They are also American and they have a little boy about a year older than Munchkin. The Mom, C., and I don't have much in common but get together once a week or so to let the kids wear themselves out.

They didn't take block leave during the holidays because C.'s sister was getting married a few weeks after. So C. asked if I would mind watching their cat while they were gone. It wasn't a big deal, she said. "Just come in every 1-2 days, scoop out her litter and make sure she has fresh water and food."

Of course I said yes. It was perfect timing, actually. They were heading back to the states from January 6th until January 17th. We got back from the states ourselves on January 4th and I would be in town until the 18th, when I had to travel to London for an interview and then on to Spain for the long weekend. All of which I told her when I agreed to look after the cat. In fact, we laughed over how serendipitous it all was.

I should have known it was going to be an issue when she couldn't even get organized before she left. We set up four different times for her to give me the key and show me where are the kitty stuff was. And three of those four times she "forgot" and wasn't at home when I stopped by. But I was heartened by the fact that after I got the key, she sent me an email giving me the name and number of her landlord in case I noticed something amiss with the house and the name and email of close friend of hers who also has a key. Kitty and I got along famously for the 10 days C. and family were gone.

So all is well that ends well, right?

Well, not so much. On the 18th, as I am stuck in Heathrow at 11pm, wondering if I am ever going to get out of that bleeping airport, I decide to check my email. I find this in my inbox:

We are having so much fun we decided to extend our trip. We will be back on the 23th.

And that was it. No, "Would you mind checking in on the cat for a few more days?" No, "I'm sorry to change plans on you but..." And no, "Thank you" either.

So I wrote back to say that, sorry to say, but as I told her before, I was in London and on my way to Spain and wouldn't be back until she was. Did she want me to call her landlord or email her friend to look in on the cat? Her reply:

I really don't want to bother either of them with this. I really wish that you could have let me know that you wouldn't be able to take care of Chelsea. Isn't there any way that you can get back once or twice before Wednesday?

Now I was confused. Did C. think I hadn't looked in on the cat at all? I just couldn't accomodate her changing her plans at the last minute. I replied that Chelsea was just fine and that I had seen her earlier that morning. And then, being a total goober, I apologized AGAIN that I wouldn't be able to look in on the cat again since I'd been planning for weeks to be away. I again reiterated my offer to call her landlord or friend. I waited for a while but got no reply. I figured she decided to take care of it herself.

I ran into C. today while I was out for a run. She was sitting outside with a friend and waved me over. I politely asked her about her trip and she talked about it for a moment and then stopped, realizing that she had not introduced her friend. "I'm sorry. Nee, this is A. A., this is Nee, she's the one who couldn't look after Chelsea."

And you know, I might have been able to let it go if she hadn't said it in such a snarky voice. I quickly said I had to get on with my run and then fumed about it for the next four miles.

*sigh*

People go on and on about how as a society we're isolated, that we don't help each other out anymore. The age of the barn raising is over and all that. But honestly, sometimes, I really can't blame most folks for wanting to keep to themselves. Doing favors for people, especially certain kinds of women, can take a lot out of you.

Knee deep in work.

Once again, I've taken on a bit more than I can chew. I know I've been fairly absent these last weeks without notice and I apologize. Chalk it up to deadlines, rewrites and having to travel on business to London the day after a plane crash. I'm trying to keep my head above water, but between Munchkin and CPT Dick's imminent departure and all of the FRG crazy that goes with it, I'm not doing such a great job.

Hope everyone else is finding balance a little easier in 2008.

What every young wife should know about military balls.

1. It is not prom.
2. Yes, your dress can be too short or too low cut.
3. No matter how many times you've taken the AFTB class, when it's time to go through the receiving line, neither you nor your husband will remember which side you are supposed to stand on while walking through.
4. There is never enough free hooch.
5. How good a time you have is directly proportional to how good your hair looks and how comfy your dress is.
6. You will spend over $100 for little more than a dried hockey puck of meat, mystery potato and a vegetable that has been overcooked in butter.
7. If no one mentions the "Guess the stripper" game to you during the course of the evening, chances are, someone decided that you might be her.
8. The Commander's wife may have had a few too many and had a really good time but you are never to mention that you saw it happen.
9. Always, always find a seat next to the couple that brings their own bottles.
10. No matter how good someone told you the guest speaker is, he will always talk for much longer than anyone really wants him to.
11. And -- this is important -- see #1.

Some clarification.

I've gotten a few hurt emails over my Kissing Hank's Ass post. I put it out there without any comment to see if it would stimulate discussion but found instead that I offended people.

So, let me explain why I posted it.

Have you seen that Tom Cruise video? His defending Scientology video has made the rounds of the Internet over the past week, as well as a few funny parodies (here and here). And the blogosphere has overwhelmingly responded with comments about how crazy he is and attacks on Scientology.

Now, I'm no saint. But I find some of these attacks a little below the belt. If you are going to go after Scientology, go after it because of its desire to cut people off from friends and family that are not Scientologists or because it charges you to join. I'm with most folks that it is little more than a cult. But is it really fair to condemn because these folks believe that an alien lives inside them? This is their faith. Why is it any more unbelievable than a guy who can turn water into wine? Or that morality is an instinct? Or that if you kiss Hank's ass, you can win a million dollars?

I think that it is something to think about. All of these belief systems, when taken out of context, have an element of the unbelievable. And that's where faith comes in. Whether it be in God, man's capacity for suffering, science, Thetans or the rules written on Karl's letterhead.

That's why I posted it.

Putting the drugs before the tragedy.

As I'm sure you know, Heath Ledger died. And you probably know this because it's a top headline. Which, with everything else going on in the world, should not be. And worse, that headline leads to an ongoing, frequently updated story full of shoddy reporting, speculation and all around bullshit.

For the record, I liked Ledger's work. I thought he was great in both "Monster's Ball," and "Brokeback Mountain." And when I heard stories about him skipping around Brooklyn with his young daughter, I found myself crushing a little.

But instead of focusing on his work and the tragedy that a little girl woke up today to learn her father was gone, everyone is focusing on three things. Naked. Drugs. Mary Kate Olsen's apartment.

I don't know if Ledger died of a drug overdose. And it may turn out that he did. But why is the AP obsessed that he was found naked? He was in his bedroom, for God's sake. If I was found in my bedroom, I'm sure the press would have a field day commenting on my stretched out bra, Cookie Monster jammies and furry mules.

And the apartment? They got that bit dead wrong. His apartment was not owned by Mary Kate or Ashley either. And what if it was? How, exactly, would it matter? If landlords are famous, are they automatically complicit in crimes now?

And as for the drugs, well, having a bottle of sleeping pills by the bed, where, shocker, you may want them if you are suffering from insomnia, apparently means you are on your way to a bad end.

It just makes me sad. Not just for the loss of Ledger but for the direction that professional journalism is heading.

Rest in peace, Heath.

And to think, usually I just delete forwards.

This morning there was a knock at my door. When I answered the door I found a well groomed, nicely dressed couple. The man spoke first.

John: "Hi! I'm John, and this is Mary."

Mary: "Hi! We're here to invite you to come kiss Hank's ass with us."

Me: "Pardon me?! What are you talking about? Who's Hank, and why would I want to kiss his ass?"

John: "If you kiss Hank's ass, he'll give you a million dollars; and if you don't, he'll kick the shit out of you."

Me: "What? Is this some sort of bizarre mob shake-down?"

John: "Hank is a billionaire philanthropist. Hank built this town. Hank owns this town. He can do whatever he wants, and what he wants is to give you a million dollars, but he can't until you kiss his ass."

Me: "That doesn't make any sense. Why..."

Mary: "Who are you to question Hank's gift? Don't you want a million dollars? Isn't it worth a little kiss on the ass?"

Me: "Well maybe, if it's legit, but..."

John: "Then come kiss Hank's ass with us."

Me: "Do you kiss Hank's ass often?"

Mary: "Oh yes, all the time..."

Me: "And has he given you a million dollars?"

John: "Well no. You don't actually get the money until you leave town."

Me: "So why don't you just leave town now?"

Mary: "You can't leave until Hank tells you to, or you don't get the money, and he kicks the shit out of you."

Me: "Do you know anyone who kissed Hank's ass, left town, and got the million dollars?"

John: "My mother kissed Hank's ass for years. She left town last year, and I'm sure she got the money."

Me: "Haven't you talked to her since then?"

John: "Of course not, Hank doesn't allow it."

Me: "So what makes you think he'll actually give you the money if you've never talked to anyone who got the money?"

Mary: "Well, he gives you a little bit before you leave. Maybe you'll get a raise, maybe you'll win a small lotto, maybe you'll just find a twenty-dollar bill on the street."

Me: "What's that got to do with Hank?"

John: "Hank has certain 'connections.'"

Me: "I'm sorry, but this sounds like some sort of bizarre con game."

John: "But it's a million dollars, can you really take the chance? And remember, if you don't kiss Hank's ass he'll kick the shit of you."

Me: "Maybe if I could see Hank, talk to him, get the details straight from him..."

Mary: "No one sees Hank. No one talks to Hank."

Me: "Then how do you kiss his ass?"

John: "Sometimes we just blow him a kiss, and think of his ass. Other times we kiss Karl's ass, and he passes it on."

Me: "Who's Karl?"

Mary: "A friend of ours. He's the one who taught us all about kissing Hank's ass. All we had to do was take him out to dinner a few times."

Me: "And you just took his word for it when he said there was a Hank, that Hank wanted you to kiss his ass, and that Hank would reward you?"

John: "Oh no! Karl has a letter he got from Hank years ago explaining the whole thing. Here's a copy; see for yourself."

From the desk of Karl
Kiss Hank's ass and he'll give you a million dollars when you leave town
Use alcohol in moderation
Kick the shit out of people who aren't like you
Eat right
Hank dictated this list himself
The moon is made of green cheese
Everything Hank says is right
Wash your hands after going to the bathroom
Don't use alcohol
Eat your wieners on buns, no condiments
Kiss Hank's ass or he'll kick the shit out of you

Me: "This appears to be written on Karl's letterhead."

Mary: "Hank didn't have any paper."

Me: "I have a hunch that if we checked we'd find this is Karl's handwriting."

John: "Of course, Hank dictated it."

Me: "I thought you said no one gets to see Hank?"

Mary: "Not now, but years ago he would talk to some people."

Me: "I thought you said he was a philanthropist. What sort of philanthropist kicks the shit out of people just because they're different?"

Mary: "It's what Hank wants, and Hank's always right."

Me: "How do you figure that?"

Mary: "Item 7 says 'Everything Hank says is right.' That's good enough for me!"

Me: "Maybe your friend Karl just made the whole thing up."

John: "No way! Item 5 says 'Hank dictated this list himself.' Besides, item 2 says 'Use alcohol in moderation,' Item 4 says 'Eat right,' and item 8 says 'Wash your hands after going to the bathroom.' Everyone knows those things are right, so the rest must be true, too."

Me: "But 9 says 'Don't use alcohol.' which doesn't quite go with item 2, and 6 says 'The moon is made of green cheese,' which is just plain wrong."

John: "There's no contradiction between 9 and 2, 9 just clarifies 2. As far as 6 goes, you've never been to the moon, so you can't say for sure."

Me: "Scientists have pretty firmly established that the moon is made of rock."

Mary: "But they don't know if the rock came from the Earth, or from out of space, so it could just as easily be green cheese."

Me: "I'm not really an expert, but I think the theory that the Moon was somehow 'captured' by the Earth has been discounted. Besides, not knowing where the rock came from doesn't make it cheese."

John: "Ha! You just admitted that scientists make mistakes, but we know Hank is always right!"

Me: "We do?"

Mary: "Of course we do, Item 7 says so."

Me: "You're saying Hank's always right because the list says so, the list is right because Hank dictated it, and we know that Hank dictated it because the list says so. That's circular logic, no different than saying 'Hank's right because he says he's right.'"

John: "Now you're getting it! It's so rewarding to see someone come around to Hank's way of thinking."

Me: "But...oh, never mind. What's the deal with wieners?"

Mary: She blushes.

John: "Wieners, in buns, no condiments. It's Hank's way. Anything else is wrong."

Me: "What if I don't have a bun?"

John: "No bun, no wiener. A wiener without a bun is wrong."

Me: "No relish? No Mustard?"

Mary: She looks positively stricken.

John: He's shouting. "There's no need for such language! Condiments of any kind are wrong!"

Me: "So a big pile of sauerkraut with some wieners chopped up in it would be out of the question?"

Mary: Sticks her fingers in her ears. "I am not listening to this. La la la, la la, la la la."

John: "That's disgusting. Only some sort of evil deviant would eat that."

Me: "It's good! I eat it all the time."

Mary: She faints.

John: He catches Mary. "Well, if I'd known you were one of those I wouldn't have wasted my time. When Hank kicks the shit out of you I'll be there, counting my money and laughing. I'll kiss Hank's ass for you, you bunless cut-wienered kraut-eater."

With this, John dragged Mary to their waiting car, and sped off.