Why do I not allow myself to just GO TO SLEEP, ALREADY?!

Friday, Jan. 19, 2007, 12:30 a.m.

Oh, holy hell. If I don't write something in this little box tonight, I will probably explode. But if I don't at least attempt to get a solid five and a half hours of sleep tonight, I will become the Gorgon Journalist of Georgia -- which, although it has its alliterative merits (is "alliterative" a word, by the way? Further note: do I care?) is not altogether appealing to my co-workers or conducive to a non-blood-spattered working environment.

Okay. It looks as though I've already started, and there's no stopping now. I now have no choice but to dash off a few paragraphs before collapsing into bed, only to wake in the morning with daggers in my eyes and a song in my heart. One would think I'd have learned by now ... oh well. Sadly, I am one of those people who does not learn from my mistakes unless I am forced to, and even then various types of restraints and moderately-zonky drugs are recommended "just in case."

My week, which has been fairly eventful (since, by the way you've been tugging at my sleeve in quiet yet maddening persistency since my first sentence began, you're obviously dying to know), seems like it began a month ago and is currently trying to figure out how to never end. I mean, I've had several great weekends (along with several additional random days off), but it feels like I just can't get back into the swing of things like I used to after a vacation. Maybe it's because of the weather, or my sinuses, or the overwhelming employer-induced rage I experience at least once every, say, 35 seconds, but for the past month or so, I have had to ask another person to confirm for me the day of the week at least five times. When you work in a structured, rigidly-run environment like the U.S. Armoir, that is a sign that you are slowly (but surely!) going out of your mind.

In order to rein in my sanity (which, quite frankly, is on the brink of pulling a Von Trapp and heading straight for the hills), I like to reminisce about some of the finer moments of my weekends -- say what you will about the pay and benefits; my favorite thing about the Army is that it always manages to give us Soldiers plenty of time off to drink irresponsibly and make total asses of ourselves in any other way possible.

I managed to cover both those bases simultaneously Friday night in the form of liquor, midnight bowling and karaoke -- the extrovert's trifecta. However, the best portion of my weekend happened on Friday, when Husband and I took a trip down to Florida to do some scubing for his birthday.

Quick background update: If you've been reading this diary for any considerable length of time, you're probably aware that Husband and I have not exactly managed to shove a solid foot into the crack of the Healthy Relationship door. Our marriage has been up and down and in and out and around more times than those whirly teacups at the State Fair that acquaint you with your neighbor's partially-digested lunch. We've been through counseling, anger management, domestic violence prevention classes, court, etc., but still found no solutions. Our relationship issues have been analyzed on the INTERNET, for God's sake, and still we haven't been able to get it quite right. We've tried to just give up and move on, and even that hasn't worked.

Except, it kind of is working. Husband and I have been living apart (though not too far apart) for nearly four and a half months now, and we've found that we're closer than we ever were before. I'm not going to go into the details, since every time I do, the details end up changing, and it's a pain in the ass to come back and explain it all. Suffice it to say, though, that Husband and I have been in some kind of odd married/not-married/what-the-fuck-is-going-on-here-really? limbo for quite a while. When I moved out, we took off our wedding rings and assumed that This Was It. Over the past couple of months that I thought our marriage just might still make it, I asked Husband what he had done with the rings -- he "didn't know." "Suuuuure," I thought, "but, you know, okay. The relationship is not about the bling." Which is quite true, and I know this because I asked one of those rap-guys', girl-friends. End of background update, bonus bad pop culture reference included at no extra charge.

I've shared all that just so I could be able to say this next part of the story (which, EEEE! This is the good part!) without leaving too much confusion in its wake:

We jumped into the spring, laden down with what honestly felt like half a mathousand pounds of scuba gear, and started down -- I had never done a dive below sixty-five feet before, so I was a bit worried that I might, like, die. When we got down to somewhere between ninety and ninety-five feet underwater, Husband tapped me on the shoulder and motioned for me to shine my flashlight on him. He held up a small, clear container. Inside it, shining forth in all their blingdom, were our rings.

Now. I realize that we are all cynical motherfuckers here, and that every good, sweet, loving deed should probably be viewed through poo-colored glasses after all the shit we've been through, but ...

Oh, come on -- like I don't do enough bitching on here as it is. Can't a girl just cling to her husband's unexpected romantic side for once? Thank you. I love you too.

Photos from the past, oh, week or so:

Blue Grotto, one of our favorite diving holes (snort)

Looking up from Blue Grotto near sunset.

This is Miranda Lambert, a "rising young country star" who is, according to Husband, "hot." We went to see her in concert in Atlanta for his birthday, and I may never forget that glorious sight -- a veritable forest of camouflage baseball caps. I could hear it begging me to throw on a bright orange vest, grab my firearm of choice, and let my Yankee blood show. Sadly, that was not to be.

Husband went the classy route and wore this:

As you can see, I floated in on his arm in my very best I-take-payment-by-the-hour finery (as per his request, I must add -- whether or not you believe me is your prerogative).

And for Exhibit A we have: my Too Drunk To Care That I Look Like A Sparkly Prostitute smile.

This was hanging on the wall next to our seats. I'm thinking the guy who first thought up the Gay Rodeo Porn motif has got to be really raking in the big bucks right about now.

Two more things before I finally stop typing and go to bed (according to the original, two-hours-ago plan):

1) The guys from the first video in yesterday's entry look like this ...

... and the second video, which contained my radtacular Bruvver, was not karaoke. That was him, singing and playing guitar, at a coffeehouse which happened to be too dark for me to capture any decent video. Here he is right here ...

The reason it's a bit out of focus is merely that I was trying to take the photo while physically bursting with pride. Hooray, Bruv!

This weekend, I'm headed to Jacksonville, where martinis and board games await me. (If you can come up with a better entertainment combo, I'd love to hear it.) Yes, I am way psyched to make an ass of myself. If any of you are in the area, drop me a line and we can get hammered and make fun of strangers together.

Thanks again to all of you who are still sticking around. Next month will mark two years that I've been hurling my thoughts out into cyberspace, and two years that all of you have, very literally, been making my world a happier, yet somehow more sarcastic, place. Way to rock on witchabadselves, yo. For sheezy.