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I have a couch, it's a nice couch. We paid more than we should've for it.

I have a dog. He's a sweet dog. We paid more than we should've practically nothing for him.

You will see in this photo that Murphy likes to chew his rawhides on my lighter-than-neutral colored couch.

In my defense, we got the dog way after we bought the couch. And the couch has suffered. It does not look like it's just one year old. Murphy's bones (which he's been forbidden to eat on the couch for quite a while now) and his dirty fluffy feet have put some sort of gray residue on my couch cushions. I have purchased quality cleaning products and cooked a few homemade ones, one of which required whisking soap with a handmixer until it turns into foam, and the cushions have faded, but the gray remains.

And then I decided (or was I inspired in the aisles of Target), with the help of my visiting Mama, that what my husband really wanted to get me for Valentine's Day, which he celebrated with me in absentia, was this contraption right here.

I purchased, brought home, loaded up, plugged in, turned on and cleaned both sides of my sofa cushions. Let me say that I am not a dirty person. Anymore. I don't usually eat on my couch. I use coasters. It's hard for me to get the cat hair under control so you may find some dust on my cable box. I bathe daily, sometimes twice. I vaccum, wash dishes, take out garbage and share my father's devotion to the Swiffer. We have pest control and our own washer and dryer. We're clean people.

But when you spray a clear cleaning solution onto both sides of two couch cushions and come out with something that looks like this:

all is not right with the damn world. There is injustice somewhere people.

I am happy to report that my cushions, which are now-and-probably-permanently-protected by an unused curtain, are once again the color we desired upon purchase of the sofa, and are residue-free.

And the horse you rode in on, Saint Valentine. Chuck Norris, you're not welcome here either.

As a single girl, I was never caught up in the anti-Valentine’s Day movement. I just always scheduled to be somewhere not paying attention. In relationships, yesterday has almost always blown, hence the delayed post. Let’s recap, although the names may be changed in order to protect the assholes, who really do not deserve it.

• I had an alleged Valentine who went MIA that day. No visit. No phone call. No date. This was pre-text message and email. And get this: we lived together.
• I “dated,” and I use the term loosely, someone who dumped me two V-days in a row. I feel certain that this is the third worst day, behind Christmas and my birthday, to announce that you no longer wish to pursue a relationship with me in light of the meaningful relationship you began at the club/bar/college apartment/hospital the night before. I won’t diminish the seriousness of this offense by entertaining any questions about why I would pursue a second round with someone who had exhibited such abhorrent behavior the year before. Neveryoumind that.
• I once ruined my own V-day fighting about money, but that one got turned around.
• My first Valentine’s gift from Corey, when I was a sophomore in high school, was one dozen roses – half yellow for friendship and half red for love. I’m sorry my love, for I don’t remember what in the hell we did last year, but I feel certain that’s good because if I had not liked it, I would remember that.
• I don’t remember if it was Valentine’s Day, but I did have someone fly from Louisiana to DC to visit me, carting a cooler with the biggest jar of Cane’s sauce you’ve ever seen. Let’s just credit that one on V-day.

Yesterday, while my husband was mobilized at Camp Shelby, I went to dinner with my favorite single gal, Weezie. We had a romantic table by the fireplace at one of my favorite restaurants, Ruffino’s, ate some steaks, drank too much and laughed aplenty. It most certainly did not suck, because she’s wonderful company, the food was good and the drinks were strong. Wives don’t generally wish to spend Valentine’s Day away from the men they remain married to, however. I did get a lovely bouquet of roses, lilies and snapdragons today, but the lilies have not opened yet, so I will not post a picture until they do. I’ll give you a rose, though, which is baby pink on the outside and blood red in the middle.

 

The rest of this post will be devoted to singing the praises of my Valentine, who worships me from afar. That’s his most redeeming quality: he adores me. This is a desirable thing in any companion, but to come from someone who fired missiles into your heart when you were desperately in love, an event which negatively impacted every relationship of your 20s. . . . to have that person reinvent himself as someone who thinks the sun shines from your every orifice and devote his life to serving you. . . .this is someone you hold on to. I mean, what if that person who would’ve been perfect “if only” went out and made himself a better man, AND CAME BACK?! ‘Tis the stuff of fairy tales!

 

So, Corey gets his own top ten list. That and the candy, movies, CD and card are his gifts from his Valentine.

1. He never lets me go to bed angry. 
2. He gives much more to me and the boys than he would ever try to collect for himself. 
3. He always says “no” and then says “yes.” 
4. He “camps out” on the pull-out couch with his boys every Saturday night. 
5. He rarely ever complains. About anything.
6. He regulates the noise level in movie theatres. 
7. He can finish my sentences, pick up a movie quote dropped into conversation, and apply the perfect catch phrase to any scenario. (“Bunny, ball ball.”) 
8. All parts are not sold separately. He comes with small, smart, funny accessories named Jake the Snake and the Landenator. 
9. He teaches himself to endure, if not enjoy, things just because I love them. 
10. He wears a uniform. Every day.

Actually, he gets ELEVEN: He can and will kill an intruder with his bare hands. (Chuck Norris ain’t got nuttin’ on my man!)

 

I miss you. I love you. Thank you for always pointing North.

 

...

Today I write a post devoted to my dog. Or my husband. Or both.

Kelly, Tit Tat, Cricket, Leia, Daisy, Buttercup and Lily. That's how many cats I've had in my life. Zero dogs. My dad always said you had to have a fence to get a dog, and you had to have a pool to need a fence, but damn if he ever prescribed with such certainty what necessitated a pool. We never got a pool, a fence or a dog. I think this qualifies me as canine-inexperienced. Then Cydney got Dixie Girl, and our family started to get ready for Corey to deploy. Anticipating my loneliness and too smart to try to have a baby all alone, I decided I wanted a dog of my own. While Corey was in Florida meeting his new niece, the boys and I took possession of what is now my schmoopy poopy puppy, Audie Murphy Allbritton.

It's really important when your husband is deployed to stay busy, stay connected to people and find hobbies. Apparently. But it doesn't matter how busy you are or how many wreaths or oven mitts you make or how many fondue dinners you have with the funniest people you know, nothing disguises the fact that when you go home, your husband is missing. Last night I went to dinner with a good friend I don't see nearly enough even though we're neighbors and I had a blast. When I got home, I wanted to put on my nightgown and wash my face and sit down on the couch next to Corey Daniel and tell him all about it. I come home at night and tell Corey what shenanigans Erin, Cami, Kia and I stirred up at work that day. Or that I got my feelings hurt and we need to go to the Olive Garden to drink that cheap red wine they have that is The Shit.

It's painfully apparent when that critical element of being married is missing. Sometimes it feels like staying busy and seeing friends and getting into hobbies only reminds you that you're involuntarily alone, because under normal circumstances, somebody would be at the house to listen to you talk about this stuff or to tell you that your new photo album is cute.

I have a weakness for VH1 reality shows focused on the trials and tribulations of struggling celebrities. I love me some Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew. This season has McKenzie Phillips (let me know if you want to borrow the book) and this week she had to make the decision to have her dog put under while in rehab. His name was Max and he appeared to be a very old, very sick pug. Dr. Drew took her to the vet to see her dog and she fed him ice cream, which he had not been able to eat because he's diabetic and she cried and kissed him and fed him ice cream and told him "bye" and while I started out thinking this was a little dramatic, I ended up holding Murphy and rocking and crying.

Sad, alone, rode-hard-and-put-up-wet McKenzie Phillips made me very grateful for my dog today. As I write this, he keeps bringing things to put in my lap so I can throw them and he can fetch and bring them back. Rinse and repeat. We do that all night. We love tennis balls, squeaky toys and plastic cups. When I started crying, he gets very upset and climbs in my lap. He has the confidence of a very large dog and does not appreciate noises in the vicinity of our door. He doesn't care what I bought at Hobby Lobby today, but his tail wags when I tell him about it. My dog thinks I'm as awesome as my husband does, and whatever the time of day and for whatever the length of time we have been apart, he can never contain his excitement to see me when I walk in the door.

Today, I am very happy for my dog and my husband, who came out of his savings and let me buy a purebred, because he needed no convincing that I was going to need something to listen to me for an entire year. I know he's a dog, not a husband named Corey or a son named Jake or Landen. I know he understands limited English. I know he can't drink wine or eat pizza. And unlike Corey, the only show he shows any affection for is "The Golden Girls." And even though he refuses to take a shadoobie in the designated areas when it's raining outside and Corey always goes where he's supposed to, I am thankful to have him.

Now I owe a post to Lily the Doodlebug.

Oh! The places you will go!

Here are some pictures from my First Single Stepmother weekend with the boys, captioned by the incomparable Dr. Seuss.

Congratulations!

Today is your day.

You’re off to Great Places!

You’re off and away!

You have brains in your head.

You have feet in your shoes.

You can steer yourself any direction you choose.

Oh! The Places You’ll Go!

You’ll be on your way up!

You’ll be seeing great sights!

You’ll join the high fliers who soar to high heights.

You won’t lag behind, because you’ll have the speed.

You’ll pass the whole gang and you’ll soon take the lead.

Wherever you fly, you’ll be best of the best.

Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

And if you go in, should you turn left or right

…or right-and-three-quarters?

Or, maybe, not quite?

Or go around back and sneak in from behind?

Simple it’s not, I’m afraid you will find,

for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.

Somehow you’ll escape all that waiting and staying.

You’ll find the bright places where Boom Bands are playing.

With banner flip-flapping, once more you’ll ride high!

Ready for anything under the sky.

Ready because you’re that kind of a guy!

 

Corey Update: They started eight days of convoy missions on Saturday. It's not eight days straight for him, but the exercise is eight days. So he did stuff this morning, rested this afternoon and leaves at 9 PM for a night convoy exercise. Or something like that. Today I packaged up two big tubs of granola from Whole Foods, some facewash (he ran out), his Xbox magazine for the month and two t-shirts from http://www.tshirthell.com/ that are either sacreligious or blasphemous, but funny as shit. He picked them out and I'm the World's Best Wife at remembering things he says he wants.

Here's a little picture to warm your fricking heart!

Two Outta Three Ain't Bad

I miss Corey so much. I wake up in the morning with a lump in my throat. I can’t sleep on my side of the bed anymore. I cook for two and throw the other half away to make a statement. I refuse to pick up the dirty socks he left by the bed three weeks ago. There’s a hamper full of his dirty clothes that I will only wash one garment at a time when it no longer smells like him. The emptiness in this house is so bad that the dog briefly forgot his potty training.

But every other Friday, I get to pick up Jake and Landen, and I am refilled with so much Corey Daniel Allbritton that I resemble myself. I’m told, and I’ve seen the photographic evidence, that Jake is just what Corey was at his age: skinny, fidgety, curious, smart. Landen is the miniaturized version of the current Corey. Jake can launch into these detailed conversations about what things mean and Landen will jump in at the end, maybe when he thinks it’s too heavy, with a witty observation that is mature, cheeky and true.

Tonight when I picked them up they both ran to greet me at the same time, which was amazing because one of them is usually too involved in something to make arriving and leaving easy. I told them I needed dinner dates and thought they may like to take me out, so we went to the Mexican restaurant where Jakes likes the burrito and we mix the queso and salsa on our chips. On the weekends, there’s a band and I learned tonight that Landen knows The Chicken Dance, and when he heard the music, he was ready to hit the floor. So they did some “wedding dancing” while I waited for the check. We came home and they played upstairs for a while and came down to talk to their Dad and then Great Clare when they each called. Jake wrote an email to his Daddy and Landen got his ass kicked by Murphy, who is no gentle giant. I told them they could sleep anywhere they wanted, and the picked the “unfolded out couch.” (A Saturday ritual with their dad is to sleep on the pull-out sofa in the den. It’s their campout.) Tonight they wanted to sleep on the couch, but just without the back cushions. Since it’s Friday, and I like the idea of having them downstairs with me, I agreed. Hopefully they’ve fallen asleep watching Ben 10.

I see Corey’s best parts in both boys, and they are so different. Corey has his Drummer Face, very intent with furrowed brows and eyes you can barely see the whites of and a specific way he holds his mouth. I see it most when he’s drumming and playing video games. I watched Jake’s Drummer Face tonight when he was typing his email to his dad and when he was playing UNO on the iPhone. Same eyes, same forehead, same mouth. Jake has Corey’s hair and he rubs the top of his head when he’s talking to you, just like Corey. Jake also absentmindedly repeats funny things he hears. If he’s watching something on TV that makes him laugh and he’s not paying attention to anything else, he’ll repeat the funny line to himself. He’ll also say things to himself to make him laugh.

Corey has this quirk that I may be the only one who identified, but my mom and sister are familiar with it. Corey’s hands, in their relaxed position, look like the middle two fingers have been taped together. When he waves hello, those two fingers stick together. I can pick up his hand and set it down on a flat surface and those two fingers are sticking together. After not seeing him for six years, one of the first things I did was see if those two fingers were still best friends. Jake’s are the same way. Tonight when I would see him making a face or rubbing his head or repeating a funny line to himself during his Uno game, I would reach over and pick up his hand and set it down on a flat surface so I could see those two middle fingers stick together.

I was inspired to write this post by something Landen said when I was about to cut his toenails. When I pointed to the growth on his big toenail, he said “I was going to pick that one today.” That’s right. Corey’s six-year-old doppelganger has his father’s penchant for picking his nails. Corey chews the shit out of his fingernails. He peels them with his fingers and then when they can’t be peeled anymore, he bites the layers off. And then, instead of cutting his toenails with clippers, he just peels the excess off. I hate this. But hearing today that Landen has the same exact regimen for keeping his nails short endeared this nasty habit to me.

We then discovered while Landen was playing on Microsoft Paint, that I know how to draw a hiney using the spraypaint tool. Landen and I got so tickled, as Corey and I often let a joke between the two of us turn into guffawing laughter, and when we tried to pull Jake into our joke, he couldn’t be bothered to get funny with us. He was into his UNO game. Which is exactly what Corey does if you’re trying to pull him in on something he’s not interested in. He acts annoyed. So I was sitting on the couch with Landen to my left, drawing butts with me in different colors, which evolved into polka dots and chicken pocks, killing ourselves laughing at the different sizes we could draw butts. We were trying to pull Jake, to my right, on our good time, but he was too into his Drummer Face and UNO game to be anything annoyed that we were trying to interrupt him.

I feel so much love for all three of them when I’m with any of them. I’m not sure if I love Jake and Landen so much because they are so Corey or if I love Corey so much because he (and their mom) made Jake and Landen. Being with those boys by myself adds another dimension of longing for Corey that I cannot describe, not because they require the supervision of two parents, but because they have each captured little pieces of him and I want more than the sample. But at the same time, being sandwiched between them on the couch was like someone giving my heartache a hug, or like the way you can feel hot chocolate soothe you from your lips to your stomach when you’re cold.

Don’t worry baby. We got this.

What are little boys made of?

Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails....

That's the rhyme, right?

So here's Corey with nodamnhaircauseheshaveditalloff on a bunk listening to some of that metal music he loves. I don't know who that poor boy with the BC glasses is.

Here he is in some bonafide equipment. His hand gestures indicate that we should rock on. Anybody seen that movie My Bloody Valentine? That crazy bastard that kills everyone in the mine wears a mask just. like. this! (Dave Cabral, please note Red Sox towel.)