The final nail in the coffin

I have to apologize for not writing lately. When your husband comes homes after being gone for months you normally want to do other things besides write including but not limited to having sex, having him mow the lawn, have sex, have him take care care of the tree that fell during a storm, have sex, have him fix your headlight, and have sex. These chores needed to be attended to in a timely manner. Man, I'm surprised I didn't end up at the doctor with a UTI. I was mainlining cranberry juice there at the end of his leave period to be on the safe side.

The one thing that has consistently surprised me during this whole deployment is how I've connected with other women and become more domestic. I am cooking and cleaning; being a good little wife and mother. It is so creepy and scary that I almost looked in the phone book to see if there was a listing for Father Murphy. I could just give him a call and he could perform an exorcism on me. Picture the scene--I'm writhing on the bed with is made up in a beautiful sage duvet cover, projectile vomiting cake batter, and instead of the Devil spewing Latin invectives you would hear Martha Stewart's voice explaining how to make a delectable sweet potato pie for Thanksgiving. I might even be able to sell tickets.

Now I was already concerned about this mutability in my personality-kind of like a football player who starts to play soccer-it's just not right. Then the other shoe dropped. I started going to sleep at 9:30 -10:00 EVERY night. Every damn night. And...wait for it....because this is why I know I have officially turned into my mother or some other old person......and I am really scared.....I AM WAKING UP EVERY MORNING AT 5:30 AM. What am I, a farmer now? I don't have any fucking cows to milk or rows to hoe!! So I end up making coffee and cleaning out the dishwasher. All Stepford wife things. Coffee is supposed to be made for me damnit; not the other way around. Eric always got up and made me coffee. Now I wake up before him. This may be a sign of the Apocalype. I know a lot of you believe in that even though I don't. It may be time to wear my tinfoil hat-oh wait that was for aliens not rampaging angels. I wonder what kind of hats we wear for them? I will do some investigating. I have plenty of time at the butt crack of dawn.