Take my picture by the pool, 'cause I'm the next big thing.*

It's been four days since I've updated and I feel a little guilty. I guess I'm still figuring out how I want to approach this little self-expression corner I've created for myself. Do I want it to be a daily update on my life, even if it's a boring day of just working and watching television? Or do I want it to be a place to write out my thoughts on various subjects? Maybe a blog of daily (and, obviously, not so daily) essays? Or maybe a nice combination of both? My plan is to write a book. On what, I'm not sure. (Although, a children's book on Mateo the Military Cat has been mentioned more than once.) And when, I'm not sure about that either. (But having an entire year without a husband vying for my attention is probably a good time to start.) My thought is that writing of any kind is always necessary to get the creative juices flowing, whether it's enthralling or yawning. Yet there's probably only so many posts I can write about being a bookseller or missing my husband. "Okay, we get it. You sell books, customers are annoying, you're a Single Wife (sallyannemcbride trademark. Also, I'm not sure typing that every time actually means anything. I should look into trademarking.), and you miss your husband. What else ya got?" And to be honest? Maybe not much more than that for right now. But I'm writing again and putting my thoughts out there for all the world to see. (Or for at least the part of  the world that knows this little blog exists, now including the random bookseller in Pennsylvania my mom met today and told about my blog. True story. Speaking of which: Hi, random bookseller!)

So for today's enthralling (or yawning, you decide) entry, you get a glimpse into my day off. It was sunny and warm this morning (In Southern California? What a surprise!) and I wanted to get my tan on (or as much of a tan as I can get, slathered in SPF). Our complex has three pools and I went to the one closest to our apartment. There's a bigger, heated pool behind the main office/clubhouse, but I always feel like I'm on display when I go there. There's nothing like laying out and having a tour of prospective renters parade past you while they get a tour of the "heated pool where residents can swim and enjoy the lovely, palm tree-lined surroundings year-round". I never know if I should wave or hide my face behind my NOOK. Turns out, I was on display either way. When I got to the pool, no one was there which is not always the case when it's summertime and every kid in the complex is splashing and yelling poolside. Yet, not fifteen minutes later, a couple of maintenance workers showed up and started planting flowers. They were on the other side of the pool so I still felt like I had a smidge of privacy. Until a couple more showed up. And then...a couple more, now planting flowers about five feet to my left. Needless to say, it got a little awkward. I didn't want to flip over and call attention to myself (although, I'm sure my hot pink bikini was probably doing that for me) and I didn't want to leave because that would seem...rude? Plus, I had just downloaded a new book on my NOOK that takes place in NYC in the Roaring Twenties and I was really getting into the whole flapper lifestyle. (Well, not me exactly. The character. Although, those girls did wear some cute, fringe-y dresses.) I stayed until they started pouring mulch right.behind.my.head and figured I had reached my sunshine limit.

But, hey, at least I live somewhere where I can actually lay out in almost-October.

Proof that clouds DO exist in SoCal.     

*Except not really...I mean, probably not. One never knows when one might be discovered. (By the way, that's a line from a Weezer song about Beverly Hills. Close enough.)       

O, Autumn...thou art my favorite.

Fall has...sprung? fallen?...at Disneyland! The Halloween decorations are up (even though it's not yet October- a minor technicality) and it's awesome. There are pumpkins everywhere you look and orange, black, and Mickey adorning every lamppost, building, and ride. I have yet to touch a pumpkin or see leaves change their color (palm trees just sort of turn brown) or have even a taste of anything hot and apple-y, but it certainly felt like autumn this evening. It's nice to know that in the land of sunny and warm, I can still enjoy my favorite season.

That punkinhead was getting a little "handsy"...

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!

-William Blake


Two's company, indeed.

I miss my husband. I really, really do. I miss snuggling on the couch and watching television with him. I miss having someone to make dinner for (shocker, I know) and sitting down to eat with at our kitchen table every night. I miss taking trips with him, even if it's just to Costco (I even miss him pronouncing it Cost-Co) so he can walk down every aisle and spend way more money than I ever thought possible on things I never knew we needed (and I'm still not convinced we did). I miss having him in my bed, in my house, in my life. I knew when I married him that he would deploy again soon and that I would be left alone in a brand new state with no friends and no family. (Well, that's not entirely true. We already had friends living in San Diego who have been so supportive and I'm also very lucky to have family in a nearby city.) Even though I don't mind being on my own, it's not easy to say goodbye to your closest, best, and only friend in your new city. There's certainly a difference in saying goodbye for a month-long training exercise in Northern California and saying goodbye for a year-long deployment in a war zone. That's a whole 'nother type of "alone".

My husband had said to me (several times, in fact) that maybe having a roommate might not be a bad idea. I think he was concerned about me being all alone, day in and day out, with no one to talk to but the cat. I resisted because, really, I didn't want a roommate for the entire year he was going to be gone. I like my privacy and I like having to only think for myself (and my kitty, of course). I didn't want to have to worry about eating dinner together or who gets to watch which favorite television show on any given night. My worst fear was feeling uncomfortable in my own home. So when a girl I knew said she was buying a condo, but was going to have to sleep on her mom's couch until the condo was finished being built, I offered her our spare bedroom. I sort of shocked myself by making the offer, but this particular situation seemed ideal. She wasn't a stranger, she was friendly and sweet, and she had a set departure time to get out of my house. (Um, that was not intended to sound as rude as it probably did.) You know what I mean, right? A friend says they "just need a place to crash and I promise I won't be a bother and it will only be for a few weeks until I can find my own place" and then they're loud and messy and won't get off your couch for three months.

So I let her move in and it's been great. Because you know what I forgot? It's kinda fun to live with a girl! I hadn't really done that since my first two years of college at Indiana Wesleyan University. I had forgotten how great it was to stay up until the wee hours of the morning, talking about boys and clothes and life. It's fun to have a marathon of Disney movies, following up The Little Mermaid with Mulan and then completing the trifecta with Pocahontas. The house is full of sweet stuff and no one questions your decision to have a bowl of ice cream after eating a (giant) handful of candy corn. If anything, she asks you to bring some for her, too. I like being able to buy a new dress and going across the hall to get another girl's opinion on whether it still looks pretty at home and it wasn't just another "well, it looked good on the hanger..." impulse purchase. If I run out of cotton balls or other feminine necessities, I don't have to make a grocery store run because, chances are, she's already got some. It's also just nice to know I'm not the only one in the house. I've never been too nervous about sleeping here by myself, but it's definitely not my favorite thing to do. Plus, these first few months of the deployment are the hardest. I'm getting used to my husband being gone and dealing with a lot of emotions that come with it. It's sad and it's lonely and it can be awfully boring. But with someone else here to talk to and keep me busy? It's made the time fly by. And for that, I will be forever grateful.

Even still, just for the record (and because my husband is probably thinking he and his "early bedtime, let's watch more Syfy, stop making all these desserts, and of course that dress looks good on you" self will no longer be welcomed back)? I AM COUNTING DOWN THE DAYS UNTIL HIS RETURN.

Hall and Oates couldn't have said it any better:

"Because your kiss is on my list of the best things in life."

(And now you're going to have that song stuck in your head all.night.long.)

(You're welcome.)

Welcome to the O.C., bitch.*

I have days when I am reminded that "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas (er, Ohio) anymore" and today was one of those days. My roommate and I decided to have lunch with a friend who works at a bookstore in one of the fancier parts of our area. It's at the kind of mall that comes with an ocean view, every car in the parking lot is a Lexus, Mercedes, or BMW, and there are palm trees as far as the eye can see. Not to mention, stores you've only heard of on Access Hollywood or read about in US Weekly and every other person who walks past you looks like they (maybe, possibly, could be) a celebrity. Below, I offer photographic proof that this Midwestern Girl is out of the cornfields and into the O.C.

Just beyond the haze and the parking lot...the Pacific Ocean.

Even the bookstores are lovely.

Avocados. At Subway.

The first ever cupcake bakery (cupcakery?) started here.

It's called Sprinkles and it's dee-licious.

I bought six cupcakes and paid more than I'm willing to tell you.

Worth. Every. Penny.

And this? This is called "drybar". You arrive with wet hair

and for $35, they will...

(add sparkles and give it magic powers? perform a spiritual ceremony?)

blow dry it.

No cut. No style.

Just a blow dry.

For $35.

Holy lazy rich girls, Batman! 

*Again, sorry for the language, mom. This is a direct quote from the TV show called The O.C. which took place where we shopped today. Seemed appropriate.



When Danny comes marching home again. (Hurrah!)

I read a lot of blogs. Most of them are written by people I actually know in an effort to keep up on the happenings of their lives. I love to read the inner-most thoughts of my friends and hear about how their lives are really going. Or, just see silly pictures of their silly, cute kids. Sure, facebook exists for that purpose, too. As everyone knows, I luuurve facebook. A blog is different, though. It feels more personal and seems like a place where you can be a little more revealing. I could tell you how I'm really feeling in a status update, but is it going to make much of an impact when the very next post you see is of someone taking a (usually crooked) picture of themselves with a weird duck-like pout on their face? (C'mon. You know what I'm talking about. The same photo that will have the caption "I look so bad today." Even though they're actually saying "Look at me! I'm so pretty!" Because, really, if you thought you looked bad, why would you post that photo? ...Sorry. Rant Ended.) Right. So facebook doesn't always create the atmosphere one might be looking for when one wants to "go a little deeper". And I'm certainly not saying that all of my blog posts have been intellectually deep ramblings on the meaning of life. (Although, my relationship with my cat is pretty meaningful.) But I appreciate that someone has come to my blog to read about me because they wanted to and not because a News Feed threw my status in their face.

Then there are the blogs I read that are written by people I don't know. I usually stumble onto their page because of a link from another person's blog or a posting on facebook. It could be an author I'm interested in or a friend of a friend or, as was the case today, a military wife whose husband just came back from a year deployment in Afghanistan. I confess, it made my cry. I don't know these people and I'm sure I never will, but I will be in that same situation one day. Her feelings of joy were palpable, through her writing and through the pictures she posted. They were just. so. happy. The looks on their faces were priceless. She wrote about their first hug and their first kiss and how, as military spouses, we get to experience those "firsts" all over again, and several times over again, with each deployment homecoming. She even mentioned they knew he would be deploying again, but it was okay. He was home now and that's all that mattered. I can put myself in her place (326 days from now) and I just know my blog post that day will be the BEST ONE EVER. (Assuming I actually blog that day. My husband will have just come home after being gone for a year. Helloooo! I probably won't even be on facebook...Okay, who am I kidding. I will be on facebook and I will be posting photo after photo of my returning hero. It's good to be honest with oneself.)

Contrary to this, I follow another blog that I really shouldn't be reading. My husband knows I read it and has told me several times not to, but I can't help myself. It's the blog of a military wife whose husband was killed in Afghanistan almost ten months ago. No matter how many times I tell myself not to read it, my morbid curiosity gets the better of me. The palpable joy in the other blog? Is now palpable sorrow in this one. The heartbreak and the misery and the utter sense of loneliness is devastating. And if that's how it makes me feel? I can't even imagine her feelings. Nor do I want to try. I don't want to put myself in her place. I don't want to think about how I would feel if my husband was one of the ones who didn't come home. I don't want to think that the person I am counting on spending the rest of my life with could be gone in an instant. I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to. But I do. Because, as I mentioned before, it's good to be honest with oneself. I know it's a possibility and accepting that doesn't make it any easier, but it also means I'm not kidding myself. I'll keep reading her blog because it also helps to know that life does go on. HER life does, and will continue to, move forward.

Fret not, my friends. I don't allow these thoughts to consume me. I don't cry on a daily basis while thinking about my husband in harm's way. He's there, and I can't change that through tears, whining, or temper tantrums (but that's not to say those don't happen. Honesty again, dear readers). I have a plan for my life, but God has THE plan. What good would non-stop worrying do me? Not a thing. And since I'm generally an optimistic, happy (albeit snarky) girl, I abso-freakin'-lutely believe my husband WILL come home, safe and sound. We will have our (second) first kiss and I will post photos galore of his happy return. Even now I'm sure he's shaking his head over everything I've written and thinking I worry way too much. I'm okay with that. Just as long as I get to see that cute, shaking head again.

   I mean, really. Who wouldn't want to see this?

Serenity* now!

My favorite space cowboy, Nathan Fillion, is back on television tonight in "Castle". Not as a spaceship captain, but a sarcastic mystery author helping to solve crimes with a hard-nosed (but secretly sensitive, and maybe secretly in love with said author) police detective. My husband and I love this show. We used to pop popcorn and drink Diet Mountain Dew while relaxing on our super comfy couch. This was a "laptops down" kind of TV show. We watched AND paid attention for the full hour. Pretty rare for two technology-obsessed people like ourselves. The new season started tonight and I'm watching even as we speak (or I type, you read). I'm sure my husband is hoping I'll DVR every episode and save them for an entire year (Correction: eleven months. Yea!) so we can watch them together when he gets home (specifically, 328 days). And while that sounds super sweet and romantical...no. I'm totally watching every episode, every week. (Sorry, husband. I promise to watch it again with you.)

...I just wish my current companion was a little more enthusiastic.

*sigh*

You could at least pretend to care, Mateo.

*My fellow "Firefly" fans will get that.



What a way to make a livin'.

And then...there are days like this. When you think maybe there is something better out there. A more intelligent place where people don't ask you for the book "Annie Frank, or something like that". A magical place where people pick up after themselves and teach their children to do the same. A place where, after answering the phone, you aren't chewed out by the person on the other end because they had to listen to a recording and when you politely inform them they can simply press "0" to bypass that, they tell you they don't want to "press all those buttons". Or maybe a place where people aren't constantly referring to it as a library and asking you how much it costs to rent a movie. (True story.) A place where this doesn't happen...

Note to self: Do not stack books too high on a bent v-cart.

Someone could get hurt and, chances are, it's going to be you...

or a small child running around with three stuffed animals clutched in their grimy hands.

That? Is a book cover I found shoved into the waterfall in my department.

Clearly, a punk teenager took the title literally.

  Just because you stacked your mess neatly

does not mean you cleaned up after yourself.

Also, "hiding" it under the chair is not putting it away.

But I'm gonna "pour myself a cup of ambition" (aka strong black tea with a spoonful of Splenda) and get right back to it tomorrow. 

Thank you for calling. May I help you find a book/nook/love of reading?

Me, after ringing up a customer's purchase: Do you have a member card to save 10%?
Customer: I don't, but I would like to sign up for one.
Me (He's going to say no after I tell tell him how much it costs.): Great! Do you know all the details and benefits? It costs $25 for a year membership for 10% off everything in the store...
Customer: Yep. Sign me up! By the way, do you have a trashcan?
Me (Ugh. What is he going to hand me?): ...Yes.
Customer, handing over his Borders discount card: I won't need this anymore.

That's right. All of the local Borders have officially closed down. We are the only bookstore in a twenty mile radius. The next closest bookstore? Another one of us. (I don't think we need to get specific. Y'all know where I work.) I actually felt a little sad when he handed me the card and I threw it away. I know I would sneer whenever someone mentioned Borders. I also plug my ears and "lalalalala" every time someone mentions Amazon. Truthfully, though, losing Borders is the end of an era. It was always us against them in a friendly "booksellers rule!" rivalry. To lose them is to lose another option for one's book buying purposes. It's one less store for people to find that book that will change their life (or just keep them up all night reading). One less store to smell the bookish air (and yes, there is a certain kind of air in a bookstore). One less store to hold that book in your hand and just know you've GOT to have it. People still want to buy books, even with all those iPads and iPhones and e-readers, including that e-reader from another company (lalalalala!). I love my NOOK, but there's just something about a BOOK.

I started selling books eleven (ELEVEN. Holy. Crap.) years ago, right after I moved back home after going to school in Indiana for two years. I wanted a part-time job while I attended The OSU and my cousin was a manager at our local bookstore. It seemed like the perfect fit for an English major. Love of reading? Check. Knowledge of classics, cheesy romances, and pop culture? Check. Ability to not kill someone for yelling at you when you're sold out of the book they need for class tomorrow even though they've known about it all summer? Um, yeah. Check! I've been a head cashier, a music seller, a cafe server, a receiver, a lead for every section imaginable, and an "I need a cigarette. Be the manager for ten minutes" bookseller. I've transferred to three different stores in three different states and have always found the same welcoming crew of friendly booksellers. (Well, there are always a few exceptions. Amiright, North Carolina peeps?!) Overall, you're working with a similar group of people no matter what store you find yourself. We love books, we love to talk about books, and we want to help other people find that same love.

So what upsets me more than anything? When a fellow bookseller says they're going to quit and people congratulate them on "getting out". I mean, good for you. You've found a job that pays more money/is in the field you studied/offers more hours. That's awesome. But for some of us (and I include myself in the 'some')? We're staying. And, shocker of shockers, we like it. We WANT to stay. And *gasp* this might actually be the place we work for the rest of our working lives. And when you're congratulating someone on quitting, you're saying the rest of us are still "stuck in the hellhole". (Not my words, but words I've heard.) I've had bookseller friends tell me they're looked down upon by friends, family, even strangers, for "still" working at the bookstore. "Why can't you find a 'real' job," they're asked. I despise that question. This IS a real job. I work forty (not always fun, labor-intensive, dealing with cranky customers, picking up after people who surely learned how to do it themselves, constantly on my feet) hours a week and get a paycheck. That's a J-O-B, my friends. And a good one, at that.

Long live the bookstore! Long live the booksellers who keep them running all day, every day (except for Thanksgiving and Christmas, because we deserve a couple of guaranteed days off)! Books are my passion and it's what I love to do. A cubicle does not a real job make.

But, uh, I'll still plug my ears and "lalalalala" every time someone mentions Amazon.

The tools of MY trade. (Also, a behind the scenes look at a breakroom. Ooo!)  

Y? Because we like you!

Guess where I went today!

The Happiest Place on Earth...only twenty minutes away!

One of the greatest things about living in Southern California is having Disneyland so close to us. To the locals, it's just like any other amusement park. Most of my friends have annual passes and visit several times a month (sometimes a week). Some go for dinner and a little shopping for a few hours on any given weekday night. Growing up in landlocked, Midwestern Ohio, Disneyland was more like DISNEYLAND(!). One of those bold-faced places you got to visit if you were really lucky. I went there once when I was a little kid and the only memory I have of it is not a fun one. (There's this ride, see? It's called Mr Toad's Wild Ride. You "drive" a little car after a fun night at the local pub and, clearly, you're driving drunk. You're careening around corners and cutting it thisclose to walls. This is horribly traumatic to a four year old who is pretty sure she's going to kill her mother and herself if she doesn't sober up and get that car home.) I went again when I was older, conquered my fear of the "drunk toad ride", and had a great time.

Needless to say, people like to visit us in sunny SoCal.

We have adorable nieces.

My bestie and her super cute family.

In an effort to keep me busy, entertained, and happy, my awesome husband bought me an annual pass to Disneyland right before he deployed. (I would also like to point out that he give me said pass in a Medieval Times envelope. He's hi-larious, no?) I've already been there a couple of times and, as Dan likes to (constantly) remind me, I have to go 16 times to make the pass worthwhile. I'm sure that won't be a problem. I'm always finding something new to ride or see or eat. And, oh the food! I had a Monte Cristo sandwich, garlic parmesan fries, a cake pop in the shape of Mickey, and a delicious concoction called a Pineapple Whip (brought to you by Dole). It's like a creamy, whippy, custard-like ice cream made of pineapple. Mmm...pineapple. Plus, my roommate (Yes, I have one. She's a friend who will be living with me for a few months until her condo is built.) is a Disney expert. She grew up in SoCal and has been visiting Disneyland since she was a child. She knows where all the secret bathrooms are located, where you can buy the best corn dog, and which ride to ride first before the line gets out of control long. It's like having my very own Cast Member ('cause employees aren't called something as mundane as "employees" at the Happiest Place on Earth) giving me a tour of the park.     

Also, I'm falling in love with Mickey.

    It's like Fall...in a place where Fall does not really exist.

So, Disneyland? M-I-C...'C' you real soon! (...and at least fourteen more times after that.)

Peace out, Minnie.

Happiness comes on little cat feet.

I've had a few less than awesome days this week. There's been sadness and irritation and disgust and a super mean lady who yelled at me on the phone because I couldn't find the exact book she was talking about and how dare I not be able to read her mind. Whew. Yeah. Not awesome. But you know what makes me happy? ...or should I say who? My kitty, Mateo. (Not that there aren't plenty of other things that make me happy: an email from the husband, a good book downloaded on my NOOK, cold Diet Coke, Sarah Michelle Gellar back on television.) But look at him. No, really. Look.

How can you not smile at that precious creature?

My husband and I discussed getting a pet before he deployed because I really wanted another being in this house after he was gone. You know, someone to talk to and keep me company, who depended on me, and gave me lots of affection. (Kind of like a husband.) Since there was no way on God's green Earth I was going to have my first baby with a husband gone for a year, we started our search for the perfect cat. Because I'm definitely a cat person. Don't get me wrong. I like dogs. I grew up with a dad who did, and still does, raise, train, and hunt with Brittanys. I'm pretty sure we had no less than six dogs barking their heads off in the backyard at all times. But inside the house? We had cats. Cats with an "I don't really care if you pet me and I'll walk right past you without a second glance, but whenever you need me most, I'll put my face right up in yours and purr my loudest until you feel better" attitude. And that's what I wanted. So we went to the animal shelter on base (because even our animals have to be USMC-approved) and found...him. (No, not the Marine. I already owned...uh, had...him.)

  Petmelovemetakemehome!

I was torn between getting the cute fuzzball kitten and getting the slightly older cat who clearly loved us. We decided on the more "mature" cat and it was best decision we've ever made. (Well, getting married was a good decision, too. It just took a lot longer to get to that one.) We named him Mateo after the section on base where my husband works. (NOT after our brothers Matt, much to their lament.) They were calling him "Edward" at the shelter so in honor of that, I gave him the middle name of Eduardo. (Eduardo in keeping with the Spanish theme and NOT any sort of connection to Twilight. *cough*horribly written teen fiction*cough*) Mateo is affectionate with everyone he meets, never scratches the furniture, and lets me put him in ridiculous outfits.

You're right. I DO look good in camouflage.

And the best thing about him?

He loves the Buckeyes. Just like his mama.    

Do not lose heart.

This may be one of the most difficult blog posts I'll ever have to write. And I certainly hope it is because I don't think I could handle anything worse. One year ago today, my husband called his mom to wish her a happy birthday. Only ten days after my own birthday and one year after our engagement, it was a special day all around. His mother told us Molly, our sister-in-law, had been in a car accident. We didn't know many details and never expected it to be anything more than an overnight stay in the hospital.

Molly never came home.

We got the call from Dan's big brother saying Molly had been hit by a car while getting gas on her way home from work. The driver of the car was on his cell phone, driving too fast, and because of that, took away our wonderful Molly. A man lost his wife, two little girls lost their mother, and we all lost a funny and warm woman who loved her family and loved her life. We were in absolute shock. I had never seen that look on my husband's face before and I hope to never see it again. I always thought if someone was going to lose a spouse in this family, it would be me. It's a morbid acceptance, but one you make when you marry a Marine. To find out Molly was gone? So unfair and so gut-wrenching. It took my breath away.  

My husband and I dated for a loooooooong (everyone of those "o"s is intentional) time before we got married. The majority of our relationship was long-distance and we even broke up for a few months at one point. Through it all, Molly always told me to hang in there. When everyone else was telling me to walk away and find someone else, Molly never did. She said, "McBride men are always worth the wait". I took those words to heart. I will never regret following her advice. I miss that support now, when Dan is deployed and I can no longer have her words of encouragement. But she is still alive today in the love of her friends and family. It delights me to see her adorable girls still enjoying life to the fullest. My brother-in-law has been the best daddy and stronger than I could ever imagine. Even though our Molly is gone, her spirit lives on in all of us.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

...Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

Christina Rossetti

        

One of our best nights together, that of the infamous

"Peaches" and "cannoli holder" incidents.

Snark attack!

So here's the thing. I know most people who ask about my husband have only the best intentions. Their wish is to offer support and love and encouragement to me and to my husband. I absolutely appreciate their kindness and love any chance I'm given to talk about our life. Yet, he's deployed and not in a safe situation (no matter how many times he tells me he is, I don't believe it). I know that sometimes this can leave people at a loss for words. They want to offer support, but aren't sure exactly what to say so what they do say? Is awkward. I know they're trying to relate. That they're trying to make me feel not so alone in my situation. And instead? They've said something completely ridiculous. But because I don't want to call anyone out on their craziness, I keep silent and just smile and nod. Until now...because I'm a snarky kinda gal. (Shocker, right?) So below are ten things people have said to me and in parentheses (I <3 parentheses, remember?), is how I would respond IF I wasn't a nice person. (But I am.)  

1. At least he's not on the frontlines! (Right. Because the first rule of combat is to NOT shut down communications.)

2. Oh, I know how you feel. My husband was on a business trip in Chicago/St Louis/Des Moines for a whole week! (Ah, yes. The mean streets of "whatever random American, non-war zone city you just named. How brave of you both.)

3. I could NEVER be without my husband for a whole year! I just love him too much! (Well, clearly, you love your husband more than I love mine. I only married him because he looked good in the uniform.)

4. There was a helicopter crash/IED/earthquake/bombing/local uprising in Afghanistan. Have you heard from your husband today? (Why, no. I sure haven't. But thank you for giving me something to freak out about. I was feeling entirely too calm.)

5. But he's an officer, right? So he'll be a lot safer. (You bet. The terrorists only target the enlisted.)

6. Think of all the money he's making while he's over there! And tax free! (Awesome! I would much rather have money than my husband home.)

7. Well, he was in the military when you met him so you knew what you were getting yourself into. (So true. I really should just suck it up.)

8. I was in a long distance relationship once. (Once? I'm guessing it didn't work out.) It was so hard. (No shit.*)

9. I was in the military so I know exactly what you're talking about and exactly what your husband is going through. (Oh, really? 'cause I'm pretty sure you were only in for the required four years and never once deployed.)

10. My son/daughter/cousin/uncle's stepson from his second marriage was deployed and lost a leg/broke his arm/got the stomach flu/cheated on their spouse. (Okaaaay. How about you have a happier story the next time we talk?)

...and I said only ten, but how about one more?

11. Thank you. (Nope. No snarky remark for that one. Just a "you're welcome" and "thank YOU for your support".)

*Sorry for the language, mom. 

Where were you when the world stopped turning?

Ten years ago today, my parents and I were on vacation in one of my favorite states- Maine. I was in love with lighthouses and my parents decided to indulge this romanticism and book a night at a renovated lighthouse. It was beautiful. I was getting ready for a day of exploring along the coast when my mom knocked on the door and told me, "A plane has hit one of the Twin Towers in New York City. They don't know why." Those words didn't make sense. I had to think for a minute what exactly the Twin Towers were and what does it mean that a PLANE had hit one? How was that even possible? My parents and I watched the news all morning, horrified by the events that were unfolding. I saw that it very much was possible and was done with deliberate, evil intent. My thoughts were on a Marine I had just met six months before. Also, on my friend's sister (another Marine) who was working at the Pentagon where another plane had hit. I knew that their lives would be forever changed. Our country had been viciously attacked and this is what they had trained for as one of the few and proud.

I never would have guessed I would marry that Marine and our lives would still be affected by the events on that day ten years ago. My husband deployed twice after 9-11 and is currently on his third deployment. He is gone for an entire year because of that day. I am without my best friend, my soulmate, and the love of my life because of that day. Yet I am a proud Marine wife and a proud American. My heart aches for the families of the men and women who were lost on that day. It aches for the families of the men and women who are still losing their lives because of that day. I am so lucky to know that my husband is alive and well right now, sending me funny emails and telling me how much he misses the cat. (And I'm pretty sure he misses me, too.) I pray with every part of me that this continues to be the case until he is safely back home with me (and the cat, of course).

"People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf." George Orwell

Thank you, 'rough men'. (Husband on the left.)

God Bless America!       

Here's looking at me, kid.

My husband said, and I quote, "If you add pics, you get more hits". Clever, isn't he? (I'm pretty sure he was quite pleased with himself when he wrote that.) It seemed a little soon to do a blog post of just photos. I always thought that was the go-to post when you didn't have much to say. Seeing as how I'm only on my third one, I should be talking your ear off. Or...writing your...eyes...off? (You know what I mean.) Yet, I have several episodes of House Hunters International taped that are just waiting to be watched. My kitty is begging for soft food. The new People magazine just came in the mail. I have gummy candy corn straight from the Happiest Place on Earth, calling to me from the kitchen. ...Alright then. Photos it is!

  I call this my "Sassy Patriot" look.

Major Hottie. Amiright, ladies?

Our little family of three.

We live (near) here. I consider that pretty lucky.

Yes, that tower IS leaning.

Ah, Florence. You sure are pretty.

Who loves vacations? I do! (Pompeii with Mount Vesuvius in the background.)

Sally Anne McBride, signing off. Victoriously!

Home is where the cat is.

I was in the Phoenix airport the other day, flying back home after having been...home? (We'll get to that hesitation in a minute.) when a woman commented on my Ohio State bag (yes, I'm THAT kind of fan). Her daughter was attending the school and the woman was flying back to Orange County after visiting said daughter. I said I, too, was flying back to the OC after being home for a few days. Cue the conversation...

"But you live in Orange County now, right?" she asked with raised brow.
"Yes. My husband is in the Marines and we've been stationed there for a little over a year now."
(At the mention of "Marines", people nearby turned and started listening. It's amazing how fascinated most people are of the military and the lifestyle.)
"But you don't live in Ohio. Why would you still call that home?!" She actually sounded a little shocked.
"Well. Um. I guess because that's where I grew up. Since my husband's in the military, we'll probably be living in a lot of different places and have several homes and..." and then I sort of stopped talking.

Because, dear readers, that's when it hit me. I don't know what (or where!) home is anymore. Is it the place we own in Washington DC? Even though I only lived there for two months and we currently have another family renting it? Is it this apartment in the OC where we've lived for a year, but I'll be living in by myself for another year? Or is home where I grew up, where my parents still live and my brother and sister and their families visit on a weekly basis? I don't feel a connection to the home in DC or the home here. It's just where I've got some stuff I can call 'mine'. And I know, "home is where the heart is" so home is...Afghanistan? That doesn't work. "Home is where your stuff is." Well, sure, I suppose, but that hardly seems sentimental. "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in". My parents, who have taken all of their children in at some point, would wholeheartedly agree with Robert Frost on that one. The old Amish church that my parents made into a home is still my home. Right now, this lovely apartment in lovely SoCal just feels like "the place I live". So maybe 'home' is more of an emotional feeling? The place you can go to anytime and be with the people you love and feel like you belong. It's not easy being a Single Wife (sallyannemcbride trademark). It's not easy trying to make a home with the man you love, when the man you love, is living in a tent in a war zone. (Oh, I ain't living there, people.) Instead, I'm attempting to make a home with my cat. And, for now, that'll just have to do.      

Oh, hi. I'm new here.

I've been putting off starting this blog for fear of writing the first entry. Also, I hate when people start a blog, but never update it. I don't want to be THAT girl. I intended to start it almost four weeks ago, but clearly, intimidation got the better of me. Why four weeks ago and not, say, right now? Because four weeks ago my husband of 16 months was deployed to Afghanistan. For a YEAR. That's right. 365 days with no husband, in a state I had barely visited, let alone lived in, and not a mom in sight (because sometimes you just need your mommy). So it's me and the best cat ever, finding our way in The OC without our favorite guy by our side. In honor of conquering my (admittedly irrational) fear and writing my first official blog entry (I'm guessing "notes" I've posted on MySpace and now Facebook don't count), here are 10 things you need to know about my life. After all, if you're going to be following me on this journey, you should probably get to know your guide.

1. I'm the baby of my family with a sister (married to a Newfie, eh) and a brother (married, with the sweetest baby you ever did meet). My family is super close and they all still live in the state of my birth- Ohio. Speaking of Ohio...

2. Go Bucks! I graduated from THE Ohio State University and love Buckeye football. It's sort of a religion around there.

3. Jesus and me? BFFs. He's gotten me through a lot of trials and will definitely be getting me through this one.

4. My husband is a communications officer in the Marine Corps. This is his third deployment, but the first one since we've been married. He's currently stationed at Camp Pendleton and we're living happily under the palm trees in The OC. Correction: I'm living under the palms trees. He's living in the desert with nary a tree in sight. (Or maybe there are trees around him? I've never been there.) 

5. We still own our home outside of Washington DC (where Dan was stationed before this) and I have to admit, I miss it. As much as I enjoy SoCal with its lovely beaches and equally lovely weather, I miss the East Coast and plan on living there again...just as soon as the Marine Corps lets us.

6. Parentheses? I heart thee. I'm sure you've noticed my use of them already. (Because they're fun.) I was an English major so I'm a little obsessive about punctuation and grammar and spelling and...  

7. I sell books for a living. I love to read and I love my job. Do I love the customers? Um. Next topic please.

8. I watch TV. A lot. I'm not ashamed. Another guilty pleasure? Info-tainment magazines (US Weekly, People, Entertainment Weekly).

9. I've visited all 50 states, except for Oregon, Washington, Alaska, and Hawaii. I've also traveled outside of the country (Italy, Greece, France, Croatia, Turkey, Canada, Spain). I'm a big fan of vacations.

10. I called the blog "put your brave face on" after a song by Delta Goodrem, an Australian singer (and Jonas Brother girlfriend, but don't hold that against her). My husband proves his bravery on a daily basis. I'm working on it.   

I don't promise to write every day, but I do promise to try. ...Or at least think about trying.