Military Wife: The Good, The Bad, and the Guinea.

Husband is officially gone as of 1:30 Sunday. We had a tearful farewell. It seemed like the movies, until I saw what I looked like in the mirror.

First of all, my “windows to the soul” had clearly been pierced by a wayward baseball. There is this internal waterproof mascara matrix debate I have each time I prepare my face for weddings and funerals. I tell myself that I need the waterproof mascara, because it’s what you wear when you know you’re going to cry. Period. I’ll think back and remember one particularly unfortunate mascara event, and somehow I completely forget that waterproof mascara absolutely burns my corneas out. Every single time.  Self-inflicted wound number one.

Nose slobber was no longer visible, but its historical presence was marked by a trail of sparkly residue. Closer inspection revealed lovely broken blood vessels outlining my nostrils, evidence of child #1’s memorable delivery. The price tag that accompanied the useless coverup makeup was self-inflicted wound number two.

My upper lip was inextricably swollen. This was not swollen like Angelina Jolie. It was more, well, think Planet of the Apes. I poked at it until it became even more swollen. Self-inflicted wound number three.

This leads us to the “Guinea” in today’s title, which is self-inflicted wound number four.

Two minutes and thirty seconds after Husband left, I successfully stopped the blubbering by promising a new pet. We are not equipped for dogs or cats, but both children are smiling and ready for guinea pigs in no time flat. I’m suddenly thinking Husband is a real genius. This was his insane idea, and I agreed only after considering the potential shopping therapy it would provide.  We check out with two piggies in cardboard carriers, a deluxe furry friend habitat, and the smallest polka-dotted walking harnesses you’ve ever seen. I sign the $200 receipt and think, “He really is a brilliant man.”

The Volkman Vermin.

Insane to Inane.

The piggies were named Prilla and Buddy, tucked into their cushy condo for the night, and I thought about finally getting some rest. Right after my youngest pulled the covers up and declared it was the best day of his life I started rubbing my eyes again. That mascara was really something else. I was just tired enough to entertain murderous thoughts that involved using the maxo blast lash lengthening brush to give the Lancome Lady an involuntary tracheotomy. I had to pee anyway, so I might as well wash my face again.

Add splotchy red skin to the face described above, and you’ve got an idea of what I saw looking back at me in the mirror. It was the pig rodents. I was allergic. Yes, allergic. Self-inflicted wound number four.

Conclusion: Husband is going to die when he returns. Current execution methods include being eaten alive by guinea pigs.

Also, don’t worry. Buddy is a girl. I may look like an ape, but I’m not an idiot.