X is for XXX (that's 30, you pervert).

(I wouldn't have thought of this if it weren't for the fact that I own Chicago XXX, which is really just another tribute to my parents being the best parents ever...)

------------------------------------

Today my parents are celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary - WOW!  I can't help just saying WOW! when I think about it.  Thirty years, two amazing kids, I don't even want to try to tally how many moves...  And they are still going strong.  I love it and I know just how very, very lucky I am.  I can't wait to see them in a few weeks when they come to visit and we can celebrate together

My mom is probably he only person who reads this blog daily, so go ahead and wish my parents a happy anniversary (and please don't mention that it is also my dad's 50th birthday).

W is for WolframAlpha.

I will admit to you, just about a year ago when I found WolframAlpha, I didn't get it.  It's a search engine, but Google it is not (no offense to Google - I love Google, I live my life on Google).

WolframAlpha is a "computational knowledge engine."  You can use it to compare two things, convert data, solve complex math equations and all kinds of craziness.  The computational possibilities are endless.  Find your ideal weight.  How much of that weight is fat.  How much is water and how much is blood.  It's amazing.

So go check it out.  Compare your hometown to your current town.  Find box office stats for your favorite film.  Compare your favorite film to its terrible sequel.  If you get stuck, click on the "Show Hints" link.  You won't be sorry.

You will be obsessed, and like me, start spending your day thinking of how to use WolframAlpha.  You are so welcome.

V is for Vacations.

Since we've been married before we got married, Matt and I have taken quite a few awesome vacations. Shall we happily remember them?

December of 2004, I left the U.S. for the first time to visit Matt at his University in Beijing. It was a pretty amazing trip, and oh yeah, that was when this happened --->

On our honeymoon to New York City, when after wondering aimlessly down Broadway we stumbled upon The Ed Sullivan Theatre, home to the King of Late Night (always and forever in my heart, at least) and got tickets to see his show LIVE.  Our amazingness was expounded (and my heart nearly stopped beating) when Dave allowed Matt o ask him a question before the show ("Where's the best pizza in Manhattan?" and dear, dear friend Dave bought us the best pizza of our lives.  David Letterman bought us a pizza.  Best. Honeymoon. Story. Everrrrrrrrr.

<--- Us before the show.  Soooo EXCITED!!!

Then, quite sadly, the vacation life stagnated because we were dirt poor.  Oh, well, we had each other and all that jazz.  Two years into our marriage, we got our fancy little three year vacation in the form of orders to Okinawa.

So for our third anniversary/pre-deployment leave, we decided to go big and spent a week at the Amari Coral Resort in Phuket, Thailand.  We spent most of the week walking around window shopping or drinking fruity drinks at the lobby bar.  Pretty amazing, right?

It was really hot and sweaty in Thailand.  And we didn't trust any of the locals to take a picture of us and give our camera back.  That's my excuse for this terrible picture. --->

I didn't really think the Thailand vacation could be topped until  (dun, dun, DUN!) we met up in Buenos Aires.  I fell in love with South America immediately. 

Matt spent a year in Mar del Plata, Argentina his Senior year of high school and so I've been hearing about this country for the last 8 years.  While debating where to meet for Matt's mid-deployment leave, Argentina was a natural choice (even though I wanted to go to France).  We spent two weeks enjoying and exploring the huge city.  We ate more beef than I can really even comprehend.  And more good food than I've had in two years in Okinawa.  We went shopping and saw art.  Rode the subway and pet a pretty disgusting stray dog that just looked sad.  Mini-theme park!  Empanadas!  Eva Perone!!  It was such an amazing vacation and will probably go down in the books as "Best Ever."

U is for UFOs and whatnot.

I love UFOs and conspiracy theories.  One of my favorite books is UFOs, JFK and Elvis by Richard Belzer.  It's so silly, but I'm sure the government is out there controlling exactly what we see and what we don't see and all that.  I'm fascinated by it all.  I loved The Lone Gunmen and taped every episode.  I am also fully aware that this brings me dangerously close to the world of the Super-Nerd.  Dangerously close.

But, of course, that has never stopped me.  Which brings me to a website I found probably ten years ago, way back when I was in high school (sick - I can't believe it's been that long).  Please enjoy - I really think Metric Time could catch on.

I support the Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus.

T is for Track Star.

If you know me (and I'm assuming you all do, because who else would read this?), you know two things:  I am diabetic and I hate the military healthcare system.  Don't get me wrong, I am so thankful to have healthcare and to get my insulin needs fulfilled, but when it comes to the Navy docs I've dealt with, well, they leave a great something to be desired (like maybe getting my prescriptions right or being knowledgeable about my condition).

That brings us to a few days before our vacation when I went to the Air Force clinic to get syringes, because the Navy WAS OUT AGAIN.  Fed up to here *points way above head*, I asked how I could transfer to the Air Force clinic, followed my instructions and when we returned from vacation, I had a letter telling me to see a new doctor....  I was relieved, but anxious it'd be more of the same.

When I finally got in to see my new doctor, I was blown away.  Matt came with me to help bust heads if needed.  He was not needed (but I was glad he was there).

My new doctor was amazing.  He knew stuff about diabetes.  He suggested a different insulin schedule to bring down my HbA1C.  I was on board!  I was so super-pumped.

Then.  Then he suggested the unthinkable (for me).  Thirty minutes of cardio five days a week.  Thirty miutes of RUNNING five days a week.  And Matt heard it all, so I couldn't just pretend it didn't happen.

Disgusting.  Awful.  Miserable.

I am not a runner.  I have no desire to be a runner.  People who run marathons baffle me.

But now, I am slowly pacing myself to become a runner.  I started off walking five minutes and running one minute for a half hour.  Now I am up to 4 minutes of walking with 3 minutes of running.

And I hate it.  I hate running.  It sucks.  I do not feel better when I an done running.  I do not feel bad when I miss a day.  It sucks.  And I'm not even actually RUNNING.  I'm walking most of the time and jogging because Matt insists I'll wear myself out if I actually run.

Maybe it will be better when its not so stinkin' hot here, but I just don't know.  I'm sticking with it for now for my health.  But I am letting everyone know that I hate it.

S is for Singing. Or Singing Along.

I'll be the first to admit that my vocal skills are lacking. In the 8th grade, someone told me my singing sounded like a dead cow. Ouch.

This has never stopped my love of music.  My dream house has speakers in every room so no matter where I go, I'm listening to something.  I love all kinds of music: Barry Manilow to System of a Down, The Killers to The Blues Brothers.  Gypsy punk, 60's folk, 80's pop rock - I'll listen to almost anything.

Before college, when my parents bought me a beautiful new computer with a CD burner, I learned the glory of Mix CDs and I've been making them ever since.  I have a few fans out there (Mom, Ryan, Miranda) and a nay-sayer or two (MATT, who hates every CD I make).  I consider my Mix CDs an art (Mom says its my spiritual gift) and you know I like you if you've got one.

My favorite thing about the CDs is throwing them in the sweet 1994 12-disc cartridge in my Toyota Windom and driving around the island singing my brains out to something I (sort of) created.  With no one in the car to tell me I sound like a dead cow.

------------------

As a side note:  I have quit quitting Facebook.  But I deleted between 40 - 50 friends, so I'm hoping it willbe less annoying.  So if you made the cut and I'm still FB friends with you, consider yourself lucky.

R is for Read, Reading, To Read.*

Books I Have Recently Read.
Freakonomics by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner
Eats, Shoots and Leaves by Lynne Truss
The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell

Book I Am Currently Reading (because I can only read one book at a time).
Blink by Malcolm Gladwell

Books I Am Preparing to Read.
Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell
The Well-Educated Mind by Susan Wise Bauer
Thinking in Pictures by Temple Grandin
Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer

Don't I seem quite intelligent?

(Call it cheating that I just realized I was on R and could sneak this post into my alphabet. I call it resourceful.)

Q is for Quitter:

...which I am not (regardless of the appearances).

So, you might think I have deserted my blog and my alphabetical endeavors. I have not.

I have merely taken a break to devote myself to my more interesting and personally rewarding practices such as vacationing and taking care of my husband (which is, in itself, a full time job).

I promise that in the next few weeks I will begin to remember this little blog and I will start posting again. Be patient, dear friends.

P is PC.

Yes, I am going there.

I am a PC girl. There was a time, ages 5 - 11, when I was a Mac girl; I'll never forget my days playing The Dark Castle. But since then, I had developed a love for PCs. I liked them. They worked for me (well, okay, not the Compaq Presario 700, but that's a story for another time). They're unpretentious and I know the OS. What else do you need?

As most of you know, two weeks ago I purchased a new computer. It was fancy. It was beautiful. The screen was large and the picture was crisp. I liked Windows Vista. My music sounded great and my-oh-my, it even had a Blu-Ray drive. I loved my new computer dearly.



Well, apparently Queen Constance (yes, my technologies all have names) did not love me back. After five blue screens of death in ten days, I decided it was best if we parted ways. So I took her back to the store and they refunded my money. In cash. Now, all I have is an empty place in my heart where a new computer should be and $999. Cash.

O is for OPSEC.

OPSEC stands for Operational Security (love those military acronyms, right?). It's a pretty important concept, as any AFN commercial will tell you. Abiding by OPSEC means being careful about what things you post on the internet - blogs, Facebook, MySpace, wherever. "The Bad Guys" can take the little pieces of information that you post innocently enough and put it together to form a bigger picture of what is going on.

Say a spouse, we'll call her Mrs. C. Puller, posts on her blog that her husband, Gunny Puller is coming home from Iraq next week. Maybe previously she had posted an address so all her hubby's fans could send him care packages. Maybe she had put on her site that she was a "Proud Xth Marines, XX Battalion WIFE!" Well, we can piece together that there is going to be some changes in Iraq, with Xth Marines, XX Battalion. We know where they are located. And I'm sure other details that the loose lips of Mrs. Puller let go.

OPSEC is why I'll never mention where Matty is going, when he's going, when he's coming back, none of it. We can never be to careful about what we write and where we write it. You can't control who sees what you put on the internet and all the little pieces you and your friends post can come together to form a big picture.

Keep my husband safe, don't spread the word. If you want to know whats up with Matt, e-mail me personally and I will respond personally.

N is for NEXT!

Sorry, I'm having too hard of a time writing "N is for Neighbors" so I am skipping it and perhaps I'll revisit it in the future.

Moving along to O this week.

M is for Matt.

(... or Missing Marvelous Marine Matt)

I met Matt my first night away at college. This is my journal entry the night I met him after InterVarsity:

afterwards, the girls i had been hanging out with were going to someones room to watch a movie, but i didnt want to, so i found another girl who was going back to Reilly Hall. Her name is Kelly and shes in room 737. all the way at the top! Well, she was having some guys from intervarsity help her with her computer, but one of them Matthew wanted to go back to his room to put his big impressive bible away. so we went to the "smart people's dorm" (honors - cowden) and walked around there for a while. and do you know what i noticed?!?! Matthew looks strikingly similar to elijah wood. it was crazy. he even sounded like him a little too. crazy!!

And a week later when I saw him again:

ok there were like a ton of people in the elevator and one guy was asking some scientific question
"how do you tell how old a black bear is?"
and i said:
"by how many candles there are on his birthday cake!"
and matt said "hey thats a really good one!"
(matt is the guy that looks like elijah wood for those of you who dont remember)

(It's obvious I won him over with my stellar sense of humor)

I got butterflies every time I'd see him around campus and every time - oh my goodness - he recognized me. He remembered my name... He asked me to get lunch with him, to sit by him, to meet his friends. I was nonplussed when he told me he wasn't looking for a girlfriend his freshman year of college. But I was thrilled when he asked me to "make it official," and be his GF. October 6, 2002. At 10:38 pm. (Don't tell my mom he was in my dorm room that late...)

I've been so blessed to find someone to complements who I am so completely. He is the extrovert to my introvert, the socks I have to pick up, the one who adds adventure to my life. I love him so so much and I hate being without him right now.

K is for Kitanakagusuku.

Try to say it. I dare you. Ki-ta-na-ka-gu-su-ku. Say it fast. Say it over and over. Ki-ta-na-ka-gu-su-ku. Ki-ta-na-ka-gu-su-ku. Ki-ta-na-ka-gu-su-ku.

Because of the large number of Westerners on Okinawa, there are actually a lot of signs written in Roman characters. A lot of the city names are written out so we can (attempt to) say them. Kitanakagusuku was the first one I remember really having a problem with. I just couldn't get it out right. I didn't think I'd ever get it out right. And I didn't ever think I'd feel at ease and happy here in Okinawa.

Quite fortunately, I was wrong. I am feeling more and more comfortable in my foreign home at a time when the person who makes me most comfortable is leaving. We will have a few weeks together this summer (one in Thailand!), but after that he's going to nine long months in a place far, far from me. At least there's a mall down in Kitanakgusuku where I can indulge in some retail therapy.

J is for Jacki (My Mom).

I am going to try not to make this sound like an elementary school "My Hero" essay, but I can't make any promises.

My mom is my best friend. I'm not really sure when this happened - it might have been when I graduated high school and left for college or a year later when my family moved from Arizona to Georgia... I guess I really can't pin point any one time or thing that led to this, but here I am today with a best friend who couldn't be any more like me if we tried. We have the same freakin' genes.

My mom has B+ blood type. My mom has a "Be Positive" lifetype. I love my mom. She has the best sense of humor (strangely similar to my own...) and she has an immense bay of knowledge of all things. My mom was a Military wife for 24 years, which led her to sometimes have to be mom and dad. My mom supported my dad's career and allowed him to support us.

One of the strongest memories I have of my mom is when I was diagnosed with diabetes. Alone, in a clinic I had to break the news to my mom over the phone. She said, "If we were still in Phoenix, I would be getting in the car to be with you right now." Those heartbroken words ring in my ears when I think of my mom's love for me, and I'm not sure why. Maybe I knew it was true and I knew whatever to took, my mom was going to be there for me whether it was physically or prayerfully because of her love for her moldy little pickle.

My mom is amazing. Anyone who knows me knows my love for my mom. She always makes me laugh and is there for me when I cry, or even more comfortingly, or when we cry together. I hope some day (SOME DAY, NOT SOON) to be as loving, thoughtful and supportive as my mother is for me.

I love you, Mom.

I is for Ice Cream.

Well, I was planning on using this ninth installment of the Andrea Alphabet to celebrate one of my favorite Is, Ice Cream, even before my ice cream experience this weekend. Let me tell you about that first.

So Matt always teases me that I have terrible taste in ice cream. That the flavors he chooses are always superior and that my tastebuds are sub-par. It was my choice of Dreyer's Chocolate Chip Mint Brownie that I knew would make him eat his words. When Matt got home on Friday, he saw my choice and said, "Eww, gross. That looks disgusting." Whatever. I told him I hadn't tried it yet and didn't know.

So, after work on Saturday, when I went to grab a bite and about a quarter of the ice cream was gone, I felt vindicated. I took my bite and when out to Matt (who was, of course, at the grill) and said "Yeah, looks like you thought that ice cream was reeallllly terrible."

To which he told me, "I only had one bite."

Haha, thats one big bite.

"No, really, I thought you ate it all."

No I haven't had any. joker... Haha...

Hahaha.... ha... ha?

GROSS. I bought (and ate from) an already USED carton of ice cream. If I had any other choice than the commissary I would NEVER SHOP THERE AGAIN. DISGUSTING. Yuck. Gross. Ick. Yuck.

And so I don't leave you all on a bad note about Ice Cream, I present you with my most favorite ice cream of all time (or at least for now): Magic Brownies by Ben & Jerry's. Black raspberry and sweet cream ice cream with delicious chunks of brownie. Wonderful. Heavenly. Yum.

H is for Half-Hearted Hostess.

(I hope I'm getting double and triple points on all those Hs!)

So, I always get excited when we are going to have people over. I make plans and find recipes and think about how fun it will all be.

It never goes according to plan. By the time the actual date come, I have worn myself out thinking about about everything I have to do. And I never have the right stuff. And I always end up thinking "What does it matter? Marines won't notice, anyway."

It's true. They never do. Take Easter, for example. I had a ton of food ready. My girls brought food. I was planning on feeding four hungry men, three women and a kid. There was a TON of food.

Do you know what I was left with after the guys were gone? Seventy-five percent of that food. They wouldn't even take a tupperware of leftovers. Matt said the guys were hung over. Stacee said she thought they had eaten before they got to our house. Either way, they are so not invited ever again.

To End.
You are not invited to my house if: You are hung over. You already ate. You expect something fancy. You expect my glasses to match. You expect anything I own to match. You do not want sweets or baked goods. You do not want to get things for yourself.

You are invited to my house if: You enjoy Jambalaya. You like to try new sweets. You love fresh bread (I'm working on this one). You like to talk about celebrities. You care more about the people you're with than what you are doing. You love leftovers.

G is for Grapes of Wrath, and Other Classics I've Never Read.

So, here's a confession: There are a lot, and I mean A LOT, of classic literature that I have never read. In high school, rather than get the basics, the "advanced level kids" (read: super nerds) were taught the more obscure literature. Kafka, Conrad, a painfully long section on Shakespearean sonnets. We never got Grapes of Wrath, The Great Gatsby or Great Expectations. Apparently, that kind of stuff was to be "leisure reading" for the super nerds. Riiight. I was doing only the work I had to, to get by and get out of high school.

Now, I am at a point in my life where I really feel a need to catch up on those things. Well, at the very least, I have 11 very lonely months coming up and I really want this.

F is for Foreigner (not the band).

I, like I'm assuming most of you, had always lived in the U.S. And I'd always loved it. Everything was so easy. I could read signs. I could order without hand gestures. I could eat with a fork at a restaurant. I had no idea how easy it was.

Here in Japan, everything seems just a little bit more complicated. Not that I'm complaining... (Okay, maybe I'm complaining a little bit). Awkward transactions at the store are now awkward, not because I say silly, awkward things, but because I don't know how to say anything. Getting my car fixed (which I have had to do several times already) is not scary because I don't know anything about cars, but because I don't know what the mechanic is telling me about my car. Ordering fast food isn't embarrassing because I'm a little piggy, it's embarrassing because all I can say is "Beeguh Mac, arigato gozimas."

It's hard being a foreigner, harder than I thought it would be. I've been trying to learn a little more Japanese, trying to branch out a little bit, and trying to blend in. Good luck, right?

E is for E! and Other Mental Garbage.

I blame it all on Hope.

My favorite college roommate had a predilection for spending hours a week in the tub with Star Magazine. And back in the days of "Are Brad and Angelina dating? OMGOMG, is she pregnant?! Oh man, that sucks for Jen..." it was easy to get sucked in to the whirlwind of celebrity gossip. I found myself sneaking her copies of InTouch into my room to devour and eventually copying her style of tub-time gossip mongering.

After getting married and moving on to my unemployed existence in Virginia, I would keep E! on during the day for "background noise" on those long, lonely days. I couldn't leave Shoppers or Target without a glossy in my hands (and I spent a lot of time at Shoppers and Target). I'd try to quit, but would always be lured in with more details about Anna Nicole, Britney, Jessica Simpson... People I never really, truthfully cared for.

Well, when we moved to Okinawa, it seemed as though the curse would be broken. By the time the mags hit the American stores here, the new was as stale as, well, a month old weekly. I missed the birth of Jamie Lynn's bundle of joy. How could I live with myself? How could I go on, so out of touch with the world of those starlets?

The answer: Celebitchy.com. Oh, and a subscription to InTouch.

Don't hate.

D is for Diabetes.

Well, the topic for this week was obvious.

It was five years ago on Monday that I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. It was one of scariest days of my life, having no idea what I was in for. I can recall almost every moment of that week spent at the hospital. Each diabetes lesson, each visitor. Each comfort provided by the Great Healer.

Over the last five years, I have become more at peace with my condition. At times, I still hate my pancreas, but I know my limits. I know the disease. I try not to let my condition define who I am. Usually, I feel just like a normal person.

I am a normal person. (Thank you family and friends for all the support over the last five years.)