The freaks come out at night.

It should be known that I am scared of the dark. I have been ever since I was a little kid. And not just scared of the dark, but throw in a set of stairs, and fear is definitely a factor for me. Having someone walk up the stairs behind me gives me the creeps. Maybe it's the anticipation of having something potentially happen to me while I'm not looking. Or maybe it's just sensing another presence behind me that makes me want to run as fast as I can. Of course doing that then makes that person want to run after me because they know they're freaking me out which therefore freaks me out even more. (Ahem. *husband*) When I was a kid, we lived in a house with a basement. The steps leading down to the basement had a small light that illuminated just that area. Once you descended the stairs, there was another light along the wall that lit the entire room. I, of course, would turn on the light at the top of the stairs to lead me to the light at the bottom. This way, I could turn off the light at the bottom and still have a light on to get me back up the stairs. And if someone turned off the light at the top? (Like, say, an ornery big brother?) Turn off the light at the bottom and run AS FAST AS POSSIBLE back up the stairs. When I still lived at home, we always had at least five (...or nine) dogs in the backyard that would bark at the slightest provocation. Instant alarm system. Not to mention, my dad is a hunter. If my parents went on vacation, I had a gun in the house. They don't call me Sally Sure Shot for nothing. (Not that I've ever shot anything more than a clay pigeon. But still.)

So it should be fairly obvious that the one thing I was most concerned about with my husband deploying for a year was the being home alone part. Darkness, stairs, empty house, no manly Marine to protect me while I sleep? Oh, the horror! I check, double-check, and then, right, triple-check the doors to make sure they're locked. Sometimes I'll already be in bed and have to run back downstairs to check just one.more.time. Also, make sure the garage door is down. Because you never know when you might shut it and then, magically, it rises without your knowledge. Now, I actually live in a pretty nice neighborhood. When Dan's car was towed overnight and I found it missing in the morning (another story for another time), I thought it had been stolen. My roommate laughed so hard, I thought she was crazy. Really, she just thought I was crazy for thinking I lived in an area that even had car thieves. Yet, I still hear noises every night. I swear people are walking up my stairs. There's someone hiding in the spare bedroom. My walk-in closet is not only storing clothes, but a serial killer. I don't have any dogs, but I do have a pretty fierce cat who meows (and, um...purrs) at anyone and any thing that moves. So I've got that going for me.

The keeper of the stairs.

I successfully scared myself last night while I was in the shower. (As all good horror stories start in the shower.) I shower with the bathroom door open so that Mateo and I can still see each other. (We're pretty attached. Don't judge.) I could see him in the large mirrors on the closet doors and I could also see the reflection of the bedroom door. So the thought occurs to me, "What if, while I'm looking at the mirror, I see someone sneak into my room?" Would the scary man head for the bed and nightstand? (Not that I have anything fancy over there. Just two Nooks and three "real" books. And a booklight. A lamp. A camera memory card. A Disney "Happy Birthday!" button.) Or would he hear the shower running and come straight for the bathroom? I couldn't just lock myself in there and leave my sweet kitty to fend for himself. I would have to grab Mateo first and then lock us in while calling 9-1-1 on my ever-handy iPhone. After much consideration, my final plan of action (which is pretty dynamite, if I do say so myself) is to sneak out of the bathroom, while keeping the shower running so as not to draw more attention to myself, put on my robe that hangs on the bathroom door, gather up my kitty, and then sneak out the fire escape. (California law: If there are three stories in a house, there must be an escape route.) Which then of course led to the fact that I've never actually been in the fire escape because...it's dark. And...there are stairs! My latest email to the husband? "When you get home, we're going on a tour of the fire escape. I also need a flashlight to aid in my getaway. And to make sure there are no dead bodies down there."

And this is why I'm no longer allowed to watch 48 Hours Mystery by myself.

Alternate use for fire escape door? Necklace holder.         

He ain't heavy, he's my brother.

Today is my big brother's birthday. He turns 36 years old (although, sometimes I'm not sure he ever really aged past eighteen). Because he was only four years older than me, we did a lot of growing up together. He taught me a lot about life; not only what to do, but also what not to do. Since it's his birthday, and because he was the second man I ever loved (my dad being the first, of course), I wanted to honor him with a blog post. ('Honor' seems a little self-important. But whatever. It's an honor.)

So this is dedicated to my big brother, the guy who...

*Called me "Boog" (as in, Booger) no matter how much it embarrassed me. I called him Matt-chew because, well, Matthew is a hard name to say when you're two.

Boog and Matt-Chew.

*Taught me all about sports. I was the little brother he never had, but probably never needed after he was done with my "tutoring". We played catch (of the baseball and football variety) in the front yard, kickball in the streets, basketball in the backyard, and golf on the golf course. (Although, after the "Golf Cart in the Pond" incident, he did the driving.) He quizzed me on football players until I knew their nicknames, their colleges, and the mascot of their current team. (So when that customer asked me for books on Marcus Allen? I knew exactly who she meant.)

*Was my protector, whether we were at school or a guy had broken my heart. "Who do I need to beat up?" was asked on more than one occasion.

Big brother imparting wisdom on graduation day.

     

*Is the funniest guy I know. (No offense to my husband, of course.) My brother can still make me spew milk at the dinner table with one of his impressions (usually of said husband and his "Marine voice") or a sarcastic comment. (We look favorably on sarcasm in our family.)

Hi-larious!

*Made me love Michigan. Yes, you read that correctly. At one point in our lives, when we were young and deluded, my brother and I wore Michigan sweatshirts and even visited the campus in Ann Arbor. (Ann Arbor is a whore!) (Sorry. Reflex.) If my big brother was a fan then I was a fan, too. Clearly, we saw the error of our ways and became the Buckeye FANS we are today.

Even on my wedding day, we show our support.

*Used my computer on a nightly basis. We would talk and listen to the musical stylings of the BeeGees ("And where are you now, now that I need you? ...I cry me a river that leads to your ocean."), Guns and Roses ("Estranged". Longest. Song. Ever.), and our personal favorite, "On My Own". (I was Patti LaBelle and he was Michael McDonald. Epic.) 

*Always remembers to say "Love ya, babe" before getting off the phone with me.

Love ya, babe. I've watched you become a husband and now a daddy and I'm happy to say "you done good". Happy Birthday, big brother!      

What's my name again?

The other day, I was filling out a form at work and I signed my maiden name. I remember looking at it and thinking, "Why does that look weird?" It finally dawned on me that my last name is no longer that last name. (Duh. Married!) Because I'm a traditional sort of gal, I legally changed my last name to my husband's. I didn't even move my maiden name to my middle name, as my big sister had done when she got married. While I love my father a great deal and carried his last name with pride for thirty years, I felt the need to symbolically (and, eventually, literally) leave his household and cleave (now that's a Biblical term if I ever wrote one!) to my husband. It struck me that, had I left my name the way I originally wrote it, no one would know it was me. Oh, sure. I'm the only "Sally" that works there (and, really, I'm always the only "Sally") so they would have figured it out, but it was so weird to think that the coworkers who know me now only know me as me. Now. (Does that make sense? It makes sense in my head.) It's like in the movies where the high school girl moves to a different city/state and attends a brand-new school and gets to completely reinvent herself. (New clothes! More makeup! Ditch the glasses!) Except, in my case, it's not really like the movies because I did not reinvent myself upon moving to Southern California. (I didn't even do it when I was the girl being moved to a different city and attending a new high school where no one knew me. Maybe I just like myself too much to change? Also, it seems like a lot of work and I say no thank you to that.) But, maybe you consider an obsessive love of all things Disney, wearing Uggs when it's not really cold out, and smothering guacamole on everything, a reinvention?

I'm probably wearing my Uggs, too.

On the one hand, it made me laugh when I wrote my maiden name. It felt like a ditzy blonde moment (even though I stopped dying my hair years ago so I'm not really blonde-blonde anymore). But, on the other hand, it made me a little sad. Has this Single Wife (sallyannemcbridetrademark) thing gone on too long? It's only been five months and I'm already signing my maiden name! Have I forgotten what it's like to be a wife? My husband sends me photos of himself sometimes and I think, "Oh, right. That's what he looks like." (I always follow that thought up with "He's cute!") I don't like looking at a picture of my husband and having a small part of me feel like I'm looking at a stranger. I've been seeing his face for almost eleven years so I have it pretty much memorized. But now that he's been gone for SO long? I feel like I'm forgetting little pieces of it.

He looks exactly the same!

(Well, probably. I'm pretty sure that's him.) 

Now, I don't want to be too dramatic. He's not dead. He's coming back to me. (Soon! Thank you, Jesus!) When I see him at the airport for the first time, I'll definitely know it's him. But I'm starting to forget what his hug feels like. And his kiss. And I can't remember what he smells like (unless I smell his soap which still sits in the shower). (And I do.) (Don't judge me.) We have a joke that every time I pass the base, I'm going to stop and have one of the Marines give me a hug. They all look pretty similar in uniform anyway, right? (This potential scenario makes me laugh. I'm not sure the husband thinks it's too funny.) I haven't done it. ...Yet. It is a little disheartening to think that when we have kids, they will probably go through these same feelings and will be too little to understand the bigger picture. (Heck, I understand the bigger picture and I still get upset about it!) It's all for the greater good, right? (Yep. Can't wait to explain that concept to a child.)

But the smiles on these faces help. They remind me that he's gone for a good reason and he's fighting the good fight.

And not a rock thrower in the bunch!

(And then? That tiny selfish part of me? It says, "Screw you, kids! I want my husband!" But you didn't hear me say that. That little part of me is buried deep. Way deep.) 

We'll amuse ourselves one day with these memories we'll trace.

There's a part in an Indigo Girls' song that I love. (Clarification: there are a lot of parts in a lot of Indigo Girls' songs that I love)...but this one gets me every time.

I'm gonna clear my head

I'm gonna drink the sun
I'm gonna love you good and strong

while our love is good and young.

It always makes me think of being young(ish) and happy and married and now, living in Southern California where the sun shines all the time over this happy life.

"The saddest sight my eyes can see

is that big ball of orange sinking slyly down the trees."

I've said it before and I'll say it again: My husband (and the Marine Corps) could have taken me to far worse places than Southern California. (And some of those places are right here in the good ol' U S of A, but I'll keep those opinions to myself. I don't want to offend any readers who may live in said boring, non-coastal locations. And if you live in a boring, non-coastal location, I didn't mean you. Or maybe I did.) When we first found out we were moving here, I was definitely nervous. Definitely scared. Definitely worried about leaving everything I had ever grown up with in the Midwest. And most definitely unhappy about leaving my friends and family. But, admittedly, definitely excited. The West Coast! Palm Trees! Eighty degree weather in mid-January! Hallelujah!

This is what my dad would call "severe clear".

So while it's snowing and blustery and freezing cold back home...I got out the suntan lotion.

I love smelling like a coconut.

Let's do this, shall we?

Essential tools for a sunny day.





"Why do we hurtle ourselves

through every inch of time and space?

I must say around some corner
I can sense a resting place."





The Year of the Husband.

Ha. That was a major blog FAIL. I certainly did not update every day for one month straight. I really did try and I promise I thought about my blog on a daily basis. (It was hard not to, considering I would get one word emails from my husband that simply said "BLOG". My public is so demanding.) In my defense (because I feel like I should have excuses and you should hear them), December was crazy busy! Work was so exhausting, mentally and physically, that I could hardly do more when I got home than eat dinner, watch television, and wait for the clock to read an acceptable time for me to go to bed. (We've discussed this before, remember? Being a bookseller is WAY more than just finding a book for a customer and handing it to them with a smile. It's usually deciphering their unintelligible clues about the book they swear they saw here a month ago, geniusly figuring it out, and then handing it to them with a grimace because they inevitably don't thank you. *sigh*) My inlaws were here for Christmas which was awesome and then I went back to Ohio to celebrate the New Year with my parents and siblings. I spent every day with my adorable niece who melts my heart every time she calls me "Shoooe" and asks me to put "more bows!" in her hair. I had a great time seeing my siblings and their spouses and being with my family reminds me of how much I miss having them all in the same state. And speaking of adorable, I visited with my best friend and finally met baby Lucas. (I plan on Lucas marrying my daughter PLEASE GOD LET ME HAVE A DAUGHTER so my best friend and I can complete our plan of being together forever.) We also watched the Ohio State bowl game. And as I've been saying pretty much all season (Thanks a lot, Buckeyes. Thanks.A.Lot.), I don't want to talk about it.

Even though it was 80 degrees back in the land of palm trees,

I didn't mind being in the freezing cold and snow as long as I can be home.

So now I'm back in the aforementioned land of palm trees. It's 2012, the year my husband finally comes home. We've almost hit the five month mark and I can't believe how quickly time has gone. (Thank you, Lord Jesus!) Work is back to normal (and by normal, I mean s-l-o-w which is only nice because it means I actually have time to get my 42 projects done.) The apartment is back to being inhabited by two, Mateo and his mama. We're enjoying the peace and quiet, but it does get a little lonely from time to time. I've packed away everything red and green and shoved it all back into their respective boxes. (That includes the Christmas tree. And when I say "shoved", I mean shoved...and sat on and mauled and stained with blood due to a flesh wound on my right hand. There may be a very unhappy husband when he sees the sad state of the tree and box now in the garage.) The next holiday to prepare for is Valentine's Day which I will probably be spending with friends, eating heart-shaped cookies and drinking champagne. That's the current plan anyway. And the holiday after that? Well, it may not be on your calendar, but it's on mine...

Tie a yellow ribbon 'round the ol'...palm tree!

(We don't know the exact day and they could always decide

to send him home in May instead, but still...

Fingers crossed for R&R in less than two months!)