I have a secret. Well, technically, I suppose I have many. But I only have one today that I am worried about. Let me explain, dear internet. You see, we all have different ways of dealing with our grief. Mine has been to do some slight body modifications, blog and cry. My husband's has been to abandon me, chase the almighty dollar and work himself into oblivion. (Aren't we the picture of health?) I forgive Boo for wanting to work out of town. I understand his reasons, I even agree with them. Sometimes. It is hard to remember that I agreed to this in the middle of the night and the only thing I have to snuggle up to is the damn dog who keeps letting out puffy little farts while his butt is a mere inch from my nose. But I digress.
Boo has been gone now since July 31. It's been a long stretch. He has managed to make it home twice in the seven weeks he has been gone. For a day at a time. It's not much, but it is certainly more than military wives receive and I am thankful. But in between his sporadic visits, I am left alone to fill my time and putter. And cope.
And let's face it. I'm not always so great at the coping part. There is only so many blogs and books I can read. Only so many shows I can watch on my three whole channels. And now that the kids are back in school, well that leaves house cleaning. Ahem. I mean, that should leave house cleaning, right?
But in my newly found understanding of life, I have decided life is much too short to worry about the dust on the mantle. So I ignore it and focus on the big things. Like babysitting my five month old nephew every day for ten hours a day. And when I don't have the devil baby himself, then I'm left alone trying to fill my days using my twisted imagination.
Somewhere along the way, about a week ago, I decided it was time for some more body modification. (My therapist sees the hole poking as a way to release my pain. I disagree. I think it just looks cool.)
So off to the piercing place I went. And out I came with two more spectacular holes. One in each boob.
They are healing, but my nipples are slightly green from bruising.
I haven't told my darling Boo. Who is a mere four hours from walking through the front door, tossing down his bags and wanting to reunite. Wink, wink.
Imagine his surprise when he finds his wife with a few new holes and oddly colored nipples.
Good times, dear internet, good times.
And as a side note, when some one tells you that you may feel a slight pinch. Don't believe them. Instead, you are about to feel as though someone is ramming a dull butter knife through your boob. Just so you know.