The Big Hurt

I'm sure that is some sports hero's name, but for the life of me I can't recall and I'm too damn lazy to go google it. How bad is it when you don't have the energy to click over to a new web page and do a word search?

Today, there is a new owner of the name.

I had a massage scheduled with Heather today. Oh she of the magic hands Heather. Perky cute girl with an amazing touch and ability to ferret out my knots like a French pig ferrets out truffles. I was looking forward to my massage with Heather. Then the call came. Heather has an emergency - can I reschedule?

I couldn't reschedule, so they gave me other therapist options, men and women. "Who can do 'firm' pressure best?" I asked.

"Oh, that would be David," she purred. No, she really purred. Never having had David, I agreed. I mean, she was purring, for heavens sake! How could I say "no"?

Enter "Big Hurt"

"I'm David," came the voice, shaking me out of the reverie of looking through the jewelry catalog. I looked up to see this hulk of a young thing. Easily 6'2" . . . young man, maybe black, maybe Polynesian. Certainly seen his fair share of dinners . . . and a gym.

I followed him to the room - he was at least handsome, so I could drift off to the massage zone with a pleasant picture in my mind. That is until his massive hands pressed down on my back. with his 200+ lb. frame behind them. I felt the air rush out of my lungs as my rib cage collapsed on itself (who knew ribs were so bendy?), the crack of vertebrae the only sound in the room. Then after a quick sweep down my back (where his hands covered the entire width of my body with ease), he came back up to attack the last three weeks worth of travel and stress knots that had turned my neck and shoulders into a pain minefield. I took deep breaths. Tried to let go into his pressure. Tried to make myself jello. All while he tried pry the knots out from under my skin with his bare hands.

He managed to trigger a piriformis spasm in my rear, and then had to spend time smoothing that thing down. Did leg stretches that made me wonder if my legs were meant to bend like that other than in the back of someone's car in college. Found sore spots in my head and on my hand and other places that don't get massaged so often. It was this glorious, sick dance between pain and relaxation, and by the time he was done and was tugging my hair back one last time, stretching my neck to the ceiling, I almost felt compelled to simultaneously yell "Yes!" and "Uncle!" The Big Hurt had had his way with me.

When he finished his torture - wait, ministrations - strike that, torture - he whispered calmly to me.

"Ok, Mrs Chako, we're all done for today."

As I prepare to slip into bed tonight, my muscles are reminding me that we might be all done for a while, Big Hurt.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Missing Man

Ever watch the Blue Angels do an air show? One of my favorite ones is when they do a missing man formation . . . they fly up in perfect pattern, perfect unison, except there is an obvious gap in the line up. I have military men in my family and specifically military pilots. Each time they do it, it sends chills up my spine.

I have so many good things to report about our last Vegas trip. It's like this weird homecoming where you meet new friends, old acquaintances that become new friends, make better friends of your old friends, and have an amazing time doing everything, nothing, and all things in between (which generally involves some significant amounts of kissing and hugging and lots of Carmex).

But before I report, I want to give a shout out to the "missing man" - those bloggers who for one reason or another couldn't be with us this year. While there were probably too many to name, the few that top my list and who were most missed include:

Instant Tragedy. He was the one who encouraged me to come in the first place back while Dr Chako was still playing in the sandbox. He offered to be my chaperon and welcomed me to the tourney. Called to check on me the night I had the migraine. Organized a signed guitar for my husband that still sits on a guitar rack next to our bed. He's now married and I've yet to meet his lovely better half, but we're still hoping for the day. Dr Chako is storing up a great big man-hug for the guy he's never met but who was one of his fiercest supporters during the war.

Bam Bam and Pebbles. They were missed on a couple fronts. First, they are just an overall great couple. Pebs is a fierce poker competitor, but lover at heart. Bam is the most generous loving man I know (short of the Doc). Bam Bam's first words to me included "beautiful (in reference to myself, just in case you were wondering)" and I haven't forgotten the phrase yet. But just in case, he uses it now and then to refresh me. He's like a brother to my husband, and a dear heart to me. He also looks super-hot in a retro Packer's jersey. Me-ow!

Peaker. *sigh* I start this with a sigh because I kind of have a little crush on him. Not like that forever unrequited farm-boy crush I've developed on that big hunk of a midwest lawyer Grange, or that murky, inappropriate, yet satisfying Otis/Dr. Jeff fantasy vision I drag out on long nights when the Doc is in our other house (I'm sure I've mentioned that to you honey, right?). It's that innocent 13-year old girl crush, when she's like "so he sat that the $1/$2 NL table with me for 8 hours - and he even said 'nice hand'! OMG - do you think he likes me?" He's adorable, he's got a good heart, and he's a lean, mean, running machine. He can bring a tear to my eye, whether its with a personal interest story in Greeley, or because I'm laughing so hard about his kids and poop that I'm crying. *sigh* Did I mention he wasn't there? (Insert frowny-face).

Other poker degenerate friends were missed - from our northwestern poker pals, to the lovely Kirks (Spaceman and Rachel), Bracelet and his lovely sidekick, Riggstad, Schaubs, and so many more that have filled in a variety of WPBT events and are part of the bizarre tapestry of friendship, poker, blogging, and general debauchery that we cloak ourselves in when we need to feel warm and cozy. It's like Joseph's Technicolor Dreamcoat . . . but with a mixed up fashion sense, lack of actual color coordination, worse singing, and smells a little like alcohol and cigarettes. But damn, it sure fits well . . .

I had so much fun. But you, my friends, were missed.

Up soon . . . hot stilettos, hot girls, mediocre poker, and the definition of a "live straddle" in Mrs Chako's book. Sure to "raise the stakes", if you catch my drift.*

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

* For those of you who didn't, it was a phallic** reference.
** For those of you who don't know what phallic means because your brain is too fried from the WPBT weekend, free vocabulary lessons at my house. Next Tuesday. When Doc is in Stockton.

Dear Santa . . .

Much like attending an interesting play with live actors in a theater, I am going to suspend my disbelief for a while and call upon your good nature and apparently magical abilities to fulfill wishes at this time of the year. I realize you may have hesitation around fulfilling my wishes for some very obvious reasons, but hear me out:

1. Yes, we are currently celebrating Hanukkah and there may be some social stigma against double-dipping when it comes to major religious holidays. However, I would hope that you will be lenient, given the secular nature of your character, and consider the benefits of spreading holiday goodwill toward all, even those of us lighting candles as we speak
2. I realize you have that whole "naughty-nice" thing, and I am hoping you will take a broad view and consider the "spectrum" of things "naughty". Clearly, in the "spectrum" of things naughty, my faults and foibles rank well below things like, say, bank robbery, mass-murder, corporate embezzlement, or world terrorism. And the only thing I've coveted lately is someone's shoes.
3. I know I was the kid who went around telling other kids that Santa didn't exist, it was really their parents buying gifts. But you know how kids are - who didn't try to challenge the status quo in their youth?

With that in mind, Santa, here is a brief list of my holiday wishes this year:

• A sufficient amount of hugs and smooches in the very near future from some of the people I love the most and see the least: Otis, Drizz, Kat, CK, Falstaff, F-Train, BadBlood, Oh Captain, Dr. Jeff, . . . did I mention Otis? Please remember this has to last me for a long time . . . maybe even another whole year. Make them good. Hard. Long.
• A hug from Iggy, and multiple touches of his hair. Make sure he wears it down at least once.
• Time to see all of my other IIF (can they still be IIF if I know them by face and name and have seen them at least once?) like Waffles and TX April and Pauly and Change and Al and Gracie and Pablo and Luckbox and . . . OMG . . . list is too long . . . you know who I'm talking about.
• Extra time with my Bay Area friends . . . Betty and CA April and Bayne.
• For my Friday conference call to fly by . . . who has 4 pm conference calls on Friday anyway?
• For my husband to lose himself in the fun, the games, the friends, and the love without completing losing the contents of his wallet.
• Kissably fresh breath and the opportunity to have it be noticed.
• For a perfect balance between having enough to drink so as not to be the only responsible one in the bunch, but not so much so as to become the female Spotis.
• Enough pictures to remember the people and the fun; few enough pictures of some parts of the fun such that I do not ruin any latent career hopes of becoming a highly-visible elected official or CEO of my company
• Enough stories and laughs and good times to last me until the next time I can see this crazy wonderful bunch of folks again.

I will put out milk and cookies every night for the next 6 nights . . . just make me a happy woman come Thursday!

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Hail to the Chief

If you're good at interpreting dreams, read on. I could use your advice.

If you're not, but you'd like to know what goes on in my head during REM stage, feel free to stick around.

* * * * *

I don't know where the husband was. I was still me. Still my age. Still had two boys. But I either wasn't married, or he wasn't relevant to the dream.

I sat on the bed next to the red-headed 20-something year old. He kind of had that lean, athletic, but not filled in kind of body that 20-somethings are prone to have with sky-high metabolisms. That flop of red hair fell over his forehead while he read the letter; I absentmindedly stroked the freckles on his bare shoulders, kissing the nape of his neck.

"I guess I was just elected president," he said, letting the letter drop. I could see the official seal. For some reason, I was neither surprised nor did I find it odd that they'd waived the usual age requirement for the leader of the free world. So what if the next president of the United States looked like a cross between Ron Weasley and Eric Stoltz, was dating a 40+ year old woman with two kids, and was technically young enough to be my son?

He stood up, walking to the window, running his hand through his hair. His face was a mask of concentration, but I couldn't help but notice how the fine hairs on his stomach caught the sunlight. "Well this is going to make your resume interesting," I laughed. "Fast food worker; Spanish tutor; laboratory assistant; . . . President of the United Sates." I got up and walked around to kiss him, but he reached down to pick up the letter, avoiding my kiss.

I felt myself panicking: Was it the kids? My age?

* * * * *

Before I could heap anymore insecurities on the list, I found myself awake in the dim light of morning, my bed occupied by one age-appropriate Dr Chako, who was currently still employed as a doctor.

So what is it? A deep down desire to date a red-headed 2o-something? Or date the POTUS? Or a deep-seated fear of another upcoming birthday?

*Sigh*

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

I Want to Be a Vet

If one of my kids said that to me today, I would assume it meant that their love of animals, particularly dogs, had inspired a career choice in the veterinary sciences.

With Veteran's Day right around the corner, why wouldn't I think they meant a "vet" in the military sense? Because no one "wants" to be a vet. Some people want to be soldiers. Some people want a military career. Heck, some people just want a job and the military is a good place to get one - 3 squares a day, a roof over your head, a uniform , and all the on-the-job training you can handle.

To be a vet, in the truest sense of the word, you need to have been in active military service and have involvement in and direct exposure to acts of military conflict. No one wakes up and says "hey, I feel like being in a military conflict today". Well, no sane person does. But thousands of people still sign up for a career that could thrust them into conflict at any time, and ask for the ultimate sacrifice - their life.

It's a little crazy. I mean, if my employer said "Hey, we want you to come analyze the financial results of our mega-sized global IT company, and, oh by the way, if we feel like it, we could send you off to Brazil to fight IBM." I think I'd be opting for underemployed CPA or hausfrau.

Regardless of the insanity, I'm glad someone does it. I don't want to get all political about what conflicts we should be in or not - sure it was easier when the Japanese were bombing the crap out of Hawaii and were a mere hours from our continental coastline or the Germans were off gassing Jews by the millions. But we choose to have a military in this country, and we have brave people who line up to put their lives on the line at a moment's notice when our elected officials determine we need to be involved in a conflict.

So as we approach this Veteran's Day, without commentary on the politics behind which conflicts we get involved in, here's to:

• My dad, for building bridges in Korea in 1950
• My uncle, for his time in Vietnam
• My husband, for his medical talents in Iraq
• My sister in law, stationed in Afghanistan as we speak
• My countless friends who have served or are serving
• Many more friends who could easily be tapped any day to do the same

Hat's off to your sacrifice, and may you find your way back safely to your friends and family when your service is done.

May we remember the few who did not make it back.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Worth a Response?

I post on Facebook occasionally. More if something exciting is happening; less if I'm busy and it's life as usual. It's a place where I make small notes about life or how I'm feeling at the moment. Not somewhere for me to push an agenda. Or make large political statements. Or philosophize beyond whether you can ever have too many cute shoes.

So I found myself in an odd situation - one that spawned an actual debate in our house about how (or whether) I should respond. I posted a flippant comment on Facebook about surviving a day without my au pair's help - she has gone on vacation and we've had to rearrange our work schedules to be able to work and still get the kids to and from school, etc. It was one of life's little musings, filled with truth - I will be happy when she returns to help, as it's tricky to balance two careers around two school age boys.

My cousin's hubby chose to comment - he rarely comments on anything or anyone. Without speculating about why he wrote or what his intent was, I'll give it to you verbatim:

"Mrs Chako, love you and the Dr., but be very grateful on what you have. Instead of being 1 day without an au pair, there are many people losing thier houses and jobs...please be sensitive to that."

Again, given that I use Facebook solely as a casual way to keep in touch with an extended network, rather than broader political and social commentary, I was surprised at this. I was more surprised because he knows my background, and I am surprised that he would think, for a moment, that I am not grateful for what I have.

For those of you who haven't heard my story, I'm your classic rags to riches (well, rags to solidly-suburban-middle-class-two-income-not-living-paycheck-to-paycheck-but-still-can't-retire-to-Hawaii-yet) story. Born below the poverty line, worked on the farm, ate government cheese (yes, actual cheese distributed by the government), got free lunch in school, wore hand-me-down clothes, and babysat for $1 per hour to save money for school events. I put myself through college on a combination of scholarships and working, including a dual shift as the night clerk at a local motel, followed by morning at the McDonald's drive-in. Crappy uniform and all - would you like fries with that?

I earned my degrees - both of them. I took the CPA exam and passed it the first time (because I couldn't afford to pay a second sitting fee). I got a good job because I was a good student and CPA qualified and did a damn fine interview. Sue me. I found a great guy to marry who happened to have a good career opportunity, helped support him through finishing medical school and dragged my ass all over the country supporting his military career while trying to keep my own. I tended the home fires while he went to Iraq. And as if to keep me humble, just a short year and a half ago, my employer of 14 years handed me a 3 month notice and wished me luck finding a job in the worst economy in decades. Don't cry; I found a better job, and other than completely having to uproot my whole family, I would have to say we've landed ok.

While I think I have earned every thing I have, there is NEVER a day where I am not grateful for everything. Don't let my petty Facebook posting ever give you a different impression. But if we've turned Facebook into something other than a place where we can occasionally lament that our home team lost (or kicked your home team's butt), that our favorite nail color is no longer in the store, that the font on the new Facebook sucks, or that our au pair has a day off, just let me know and I'll sign up along with the rest of the world and only post deep, meaningful missives or thoughtful social and political commentary.

It spawned a debate in our house. Dr. Chako, totally offended, suggested I delete the comment, so as to avoid other friends and family members commenting and starting a Facebook fight (yes, sis, that means you). I suggested we ignore it - why give credence to someone who has missed the general intent of the post in the first place?

My only consolation that was less than 30 minutes after the comment was posted, the one person who the good Dr. was most worried about starting a Facebook fight, sent me a message, explaining her attempt to avoid getting in a Facebook fight. I give you the relevant bits, excerpted as I see fit:

"The eat-all-your-brussels-sprouts-because-there-are-children-starving-in-Africa bit is logic-less and tired. Just as anyone would, you have grown to love, enjoy and respect what you earned. . . . Ya know what? Fuck that person. . . . I have spoken. . . . I love you."

Yeah. What she said.

For those of you hoping to find deep social and political commentary here, move along. I love social debate as much the next intellectual nerd, but I'm a lover, not a fighter - I've seen what happens when I post my personal thoughts about my au pair having the day off. Heaven knows what kind of social unrest I could spawn if I actually took a stand on something meaningful.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

PS The spelling mistake in his post was left there. Intentionally. Call me petty. Maybe right after you call me insensitive.

Dear Mr. Intercontinental Bank Plc . . .

Dear Mr. Colin H. Martin, staff, Intercontinental Bank Plc:

As a former auditor, I was extremely skeptical and when I read your email, as I was certain this was another one of those bank scams. Imagine my pleasant surprise when I realized this wasn't some phony deal with same fake Nigerian diplomat trying to move his fake money out of Nigeria without political intervention. I mean, really . . . why would the Nigerian government pick me?

Clearly your responsibility for handling Mr. Ken Lay and Mr. Jeffrey Skilling's money through unnamed company accounts is a respectable and legitimate endeavor that your bank has entrusted to you, unlike that Nigerian money laundering stuff. It is unfortunate that their present circumstances (death and incarceration), combined with their lack of a named beneficiary on these accounts means their legitimate heirs won't benefit. However, as you must certainly feel, knowing their role in the Enron debacle, perhaps it seems just and fitting that for men who orchestrated one of the worst financial shams in the world, their personal fortunes could now be able to be so easily co-opted by the man who helped them shelter their ill-gotten gains in the first place.

Certainly you are entitled to use this money for your own personal benefit; after all, think of the burdens you must have had to bear during the highly-publicized downfall of Enron, knowing that you helped these men of questionable ethics drowning in their own sea of financial amorality, shelter the very money they effectively stole from thousands of employees, retirees, and pension-holders. No amount of money can compensate you for having to compromise your own ethics and personal beliefs to help them gain from the financial ruin of others.

As such, I am more than happy to help you claim your portion of the $25 million now sitting in your bank with no official claim. I do realize how it may look like a conflict of interest if you were to go directly to the bank and claim this money yourself, so feel free to use me as the appropriate beneficiary. Although I have no personal or business relationship to Mr. Lay or Mr. Skilling, and have never had any investment in Enron, I am certain you chose me for my personal financial acumen and demonstrated fiscal responsibility. Certainly the bank officials will understand that rationale. I am also confident that your assurances that this will be handled in accordance with International Monetary Guidelines will not raise any undue attention around the transfer. Given the significant amount of documentation you've already done to enable that transfer, I believe your request of a commission of 60% of the funds is certainly fair and reasonable.

Attached please find the information on my personal accounts and data you require to effect the transfer. Look forward to seeing the money in my accounts soon. I am hopeful you can complete this transaction prior to Hanukkah; between this and the distribution I am still expecting from my investments with a Mr. Bernie Madoff, I may be able to buy my husband the new Ferrari he wants, and maybe pick up the tab for my friends in Vegas in December.

Fiscally yours,

The Wife

PS - I also included my social security number - I figured you might need it to complete the transfer to my bank accounts.

PPS - Just in case anyone asks, my first pet was named "Queenie"