That's 'Petty Officer 2nd Class' To You!

So...

I've been absent again lately.  I suck, I know.  What can I say?   The Navy hasn't approved my request for more time off so I can blog.  The bastards.

But they did promote me.

I found out this morning that I made E-5 off the test that I took back in March!  Woot!

I just had to tell y'all because I was that excited. :)

In other news, my parents are driving down to visit for the holiday weekend and I have the next four days off; so hopefully I'll find a little time to blog more this weekend (when I'm not playing hostess and tour guide).

Happy Memorial Day!

Fauuuugggghhh. And A Gay Sushi Epic Fail.

Yeah, that's right, fauuugggghhh.


I don't even know what that means, it's definitely not a word... rather more of a noise/feeling.  But it describes me well today.

So. I just posted yesterday about the whole reenlistment debate yesterday, right?  This morning at quarters it was put out that the multiplier for reenlistment went UP.  I won't explain this mystery called a "multiplier" to you because I don't even fucking understand the mathematical logistics involved in it but it means the the bonuses just got much better.  Much better.

As in, if I reenlist now I'll get $75,000.  That's before taxes of course, so it would end up being like $55,000 and then I'd get some of that money back when I file my taxes next April, but still.

Fuck my life.

And yet, it's still not about the immediate benefit of that much money in my bank account.  It's about the long-term benefit.  The majority of people burn through their bonuses faster than Kirstie Alley can shovel cake into her face.

I really can't see myself doing that.  We have everything we need and most of the things we want, and a hefty little sum tucked away in savings in case of emergency.

What I can see is that that much money, if invested wisely, could allow me to pay cash for a house when I get out of the Navy and we settle down somewhere.  Pay cash for a house??  That's like 30 years of mortgage payments and who knows how many thousands of dollars in interest over that 30 years that I'd be skipping out on completely.

That's hard to turn my nose up at.

But it's not really about the money for me at the end of the day.... finding this out just makes it a little more painful if I do take a pass on the money and decide to say, "To hell with reenlisting, I'll take my life back, please and thank-you!"  I was like 70/30 against it yesterday, and now I'm right around 55/45.

Sigh.  I'll keep you posted.

In other news...

Hubs and I love sushi, so we went and got sushi from a delicious little hole-in-the-wall place by our house on Friday night.

A few minutes after we sat down, the hostess seated two guys who looked to be in their very early 20's at the table right next to us.  I didn't give them a second glance. That is, until I happened to overhear a snippet of their conversation.

First Dude:  "... well, how much, er... how much money were you... I mean, what's your budget?  Because then I can recommend something good off the menu to you."

Second Dude: "Huh?" (questioning look)

First Dude: (awkwardly) "I mean, like, how much money did you want to spend on your dinner?"

Second Dude: "Oh!  Oh, it doesn't matter.  Like, whatever."

First Dude: "Oh, okay. (laughs nervously) Well, the sashimi here is really good, and so is the..."

My ears pricked up at this exchange.  I glanced over.  Both guys were dressed very casually, borderline grungy if you will.  One was slightly nerdy-looking (a la Shaggy from Scooby Doo, plus glasses); the other was a little more clean-cut.  Both seemed slightly uncomfortable, and their conversation and mannerisms were very stilted.

I looked at Sean and turned my head slightly away from them.  "Omg, they're so gay!" I silently and excitedly mouthed to him.  Gay men fascinate me, and most of the time I'm a little intimidated by them.  Like my hairdresser.  He is very feminine and stylish without being flamboyant or "girlfriend-ish", and he intimidated the hell out of me the first four or five times I went to him.  To the point where I would consciously wear something trendy and look halfway decent to go get my hair done because I felt like he might judge me or make fun of my outfit after I left.  I dread being judged by gay men for having no sense of style, don't ask me why.

These two, however, were far from intimidating; I don't even think they were sure yet if they were gay.

Sean read my lips and then made a face accompanied by a hand motion, which together said, "Yes, I realize that.  Calm down and quit being so rude and obvious."  (Me?  Rude?  Obvious?  Never.)

A little miffed at his lack of interest, I pouted for a second and then we continued our conversation, but I was still hawk-eyeing the awkward guys out of the corner of my eye every few minutes.  Their waitress appeared at their table.  "Hi!  What can I get you guys tonight?  And will this be together or separate?"

The two looked at each other questioningly for a full three minutes five seconds, and then simultaneously:

First Dude: "Ahh, together."

Second Dude: "Oh.  Uh, separate."

More awkward seconds passed while the waitress looked from one to the other, and finally First Dude (the nerdy one) said, "Together, please."  She took their orders and left.  Then out came the date manners.  "Oh, you don't have to pay for me!"   "Oh no, it's fine, I got it.  You can buy next time."  And a nod and forced laugh from Second Dude, like he's thinking there might not be a next time.

Sean and I enjoyed our sushi over pleasant and funny conversation, while next to us, the nerdy guy instructed his friend in the art of enjoying sushi.  Their waitress came back.  "Did you gentlemen want to order dessert?" They hemmed and hawed, and she brightly exclaimed, "Aw, come on, aren't you guys on, like, a date?  You can't have a date without dessert!"

Whoa.  Totally awkward now.  More nervous laughter, but neither one of them protested her comment.  Dessert was ordered hastily.  After the waitress left, they conversed about how presumptuous it was of her to assume that they were on a date.  When dessert arrived, they picked at the ice cream for a few minutes and then left it alone.  The waitress came back.

"What?  You haven't even touched your ice cream!" she said.  "Sure I did," the First Dude protested as he turned the ice cream dish around so she could see the scooped-out side.  The spoon caught on something and  fell out of the dish, clattering onto the floor.  "Oh no, fail!" she yelled as she picked up the spoon and then bounced away. (She was kinda fucking rude and oblivious.)

The poor guys didn't even attempt to salvage what was left of their date, they just sat in silence.  Sean and I paid our tab and left.  As we walked out to our car, I said, "Wow, those poor guys had like the worst date e-ver!"

Sean ~ being the open-minded and observant man that he is ~ turned to me in shock and said, "They were on a date?? Yuck!"

Good times at the sushi restaurant. ♦

To Re, Or Not To Re? That Is The Question...

I've been contemplating the re-up for a while now.

It all started over a year ago when one of my Prototype instructors told me that I'd be crazy not to do the STAR reenlistment.  (If you really want to know what that is, click here.)  I told him to eat shit and die, and that I'd never re-enlist.

He got me thinking though, and reenlistment has been a hot topic of internal debate with me for quite some time now.  For a few months I was all like, "Yeah, I'd do it!  It wouldn't be so bad, it's only an extra two years, right?  Two years will fly by even if I hate it."

But.  I dunno.  I could also get out and use my GI Bill to go to school for free and the Navy would pay me a monthly stipend of about $1300 or so a month to  cover living expenses while I'm going to school.  If you throw a decent part-time job into the mix, I'd essentially be making almost the same money as I'm making right now, all while going to school and enjoying being a civilian again.  That sounds unimaginably awesome right now.

Anyways, I digress.

STAR in a nutshell... only job rates that are considered critically undermanned in the Navy are eligible for this special reenlistment; and Nukes are at the top of the "critically undermanned" list.  For me, to STAR reenlist right now would mean I'd be adding two to three years of active duty service onto my contract.  My reward?  Automatic advancement to E-5 and a reenlistment bonus of anywhere from $40,000 to $90,000.  Sounds like a sweet deal, huh?  I'd be crazy not to do it, huh?  I know.

It sounds good on paper, but just hold on a sec before you get your panties all in a twist and judge me for passing on the mucho money.

Right now, the bonuses are low (comparatively).  A year ago I could've reenlisted for the full $90,000 (and possibly tax-free, too) but I wasn't eligible to re-up yet.  Right now, my bonus would be about half of that (and not tax free... Uncle Sam takes about 25% right up front), which makes re-upping half as appealing.

I know you're all sitting there thinking I'm insane.  Forty grand??  If I offered you 40K just to stay at your current job for an extra 2 years ~ and I offered you a salary raise on top of it ~ would you take it?  Most of you are like, "Fuck yeah, I would!"

But.

Take this little questionnaire before you tell me I'm insane for not jumping readily on the re-up bandwagon.

1. Do you work anywhere from 60-80 hours a week?
2. Have you ever seen 4:30 in the morning from the "waking up" end of things?  Do you see it every morning, without the option of going back to bed or taking a nap later?
3. Do you go to work every day wondering if you'll get out on time that day or whether you'll be kept three hours late for some bullshit reason that ends up being no reason?
4. Do you madatorily wear the exact same outfit to work every single damn day?
5. Does your boss yell at you if your shoes have a scuff or a bit of dirt?  Or if your shirt's not ironed?
6. Do complete strangers who are more important than you chew your ass if they don't like your appearance that day?
7. Are you required to have a certain hairstyle, hair length, or hair color at work?
8. Are you forced to eat lunch at the office every day?
9. Are you frequently subjected to random urine drug testing?
10. If you answered 'YES' to #7, are you treated like a sketchy heroin junkie while someone watches you piss in the cup (yes, some random girl you don't know watches your urine trickle out of your coochie) to make sure you're not cheating?
11. Does it take you a couple months to figure out your co-workers' first names?
12. If you're not feeling well, can you call in sick to work?
13. If you answered 'NO' to #10, if you're feeling ill, are you required to go into work to see the doctor there, who must then sign a piece of paper giving you permission to be ill, which you then have to give to your boss so that you can go home and be ill in peace?
14. Do you have to spend the night at work once or twice a week on a regular basis?
15. Does your job require you to spend months at a time away from home with minimal means to communicate with friends and family?
16. Are you forced to clean your offices and various spaces around you from 8AM to 9AM every morning, and for three hours every Wednesday?
17. If 'YES' to #14, does your boss supervise you while you're cleaning your office to make sure you're actually cleaning?
18. Do you and your co-workers stand in formation every morning in front of your boss while someone reads your name off a list to make sure you're at work on time?
19. When you started your job, were you given a certain amount of time to be fully trained and told that if you didn't progress as well as they wanted you to, you would have to spend 2 extra hours at work every day?
20. Do you have to fill out a vacation request form and have it signed by everyone but God before you get it back a month later?
21. Are you required to pass a physical fitness test to keep your job?
22. Are you forced to work out with your co-workers on a regular basis?
23. Are you forced to take monthly exams to make sure that you're still smart enough to keep your job?
24. Are you forced to complete weekly homework assignments that no one even looks at or grades?
25. If you slept with a co-worker, would you get fired on the spot?
26. If you slept with a co-worker, would you be forced to live at work for two months while they docked half your pay for those two months?

I could go on forever, but I'll spare you.

And if you can't answer 'YES' to at least five of those questions, don't judge me.  If you can answer 'YES' to more than ten of them and you'd still put up with it for the money, than you're a much braver and nobler soul than myself.

My point is this....

Some things in life are worth more to me than money.  The little things.  Things like:

1. The luxury of having a job where I could sleep in until at least 7:00, maybe even 8:00!
2. Calling in sick when you're on your deathbed.
3. Calling in sick when you're not on your deathbed.
4. Choosing when I want to take my vacation.  Summer?  Fall color tour?  Winter in the Keys?
5. Not having to tell someone where I'm going on vacation before they'll allow me to go, or how many miles away it is, or a good number I can be reached at "just in case", or the address I'll be staying at while I'm on vacation, or who will be going on vacation with me.
6. Being able to wear normal clothes to work.
7. Not having to spend the night at work every 4 or 5 days.
8. Not having to spend the night at work for days, weeks, and eventually months at a time.
9. The luxury of snuggling up to my husband every night because I'm not spending the night at work.
10. Being able to have a funky hairstyle, or put blue streaks in my hair if I so desire.
11. Having my nose pierced again.
12. Getting a tattoo wherever I want to on my body.

And so on and so forth.

I know you're thinking, "Yeah, but your 'bennies' list is only half as big as your 'shitty' list... that should tell you something."  Not true.  Every item on the bennies list is at least 4 times as important as each item on the shit list.

I lost myself again, but I think what my original point was is this:

Some things are more important than money.  Like maybe having my life back  to call my own?

The military has done a lot of positive things for my life and my personal growth, but lately I just feel like it's a huge ball and chain.

Military peeps/military wives, weigh in!  Do you know what I'm talking about here, or do I sound like a crazy person?

If you know what I'm talking about, leave a comment and say so, or better yet... write your own post about this issue and link back to mine.  In other words, consider yourself tagged (if you so desire to weigh in on this topic).

To sell my soul to the devil for $40,000?  Or to be able to call my body and soul my own again in 3-ish years?  That is the question... ♦

Caution: Sleeping May Be Hazardous To Your Health

At least if you're sleeping with my husband, that is.

(Which, come to think of it, none of you should be in the first place so you're probably all safe.  And if you were considering it, let the following story deter all would-be mistresses.)

I'm a very heavy sleeper, so most of the time it takes an act of God to wake me.  Alarm clocks being included in the 'act of God' clause, because I finally seem to have passed the stage in my life where I'm late for work because I slept through the alarm clock. *knocks on wood*

Once in a while, though, I wake up with the distinct impression that something just happened to jar me out of my REM cycle.  Ever get that?  'Something' usually ends up being the sound of a lawnmower outside or the sound of Hubs auditioning for a Breathe Right commercial a ravenous Siamese Priss mewling angrily outside the bedroom door.  Whatever the cause, it often starts out as part of the dream I'm having at the moment; and as the dream dissolves into semi-consciousness, I realize that it actually happened.

On Sunday morning. I was awakened by the distinct impression that I had just been punched squarely in the center of my back.

The more awake I became, the stronger the impression became that I had indeed been sucker-punched in the kidneys.  My brain dragged its neurons out of their slumber just enough to string together a coherent sentence.

"Did you... did you just punch me?  In the back?"

Sean was barely awake also.  He mumbled sleepily, and after a long pause replied with effort, "I... I think so?... I was... having a dream.  Sorry."

At this point, I was waking up at rapid rate.  "And you punched me in your dream??"

"No!" he mumbled emphatically, "I was... fighting these guys in my dream and I palm-punched one of them in the face.  You know, like Bruce Lee.  I didn't mean to do it... I'm really sorry, are you okay?"

For some reason, his sleepy half-apology for palm-punching me in the back a la Bruce Lee annoyed me more than soothed me.  Really though, can you blame me?  What woman likes to be awakened to being smacked squarely in the verterbrae?  And all people are irrational when half-asleep, but especially  when they've been physically beaten to a state of half-awake.

"What's next?"  I asked annoyedly, "First biting, now punching... one of these days I'm gonna wake up with a black eye.  Lucky for me that I usually sleep on my other side."

You see, this isn't the first time I've been mauled in my sleep.

A couple years ago right after we were married, I woke up one night at 3AM feeling distinctly that someone had just bitten me quite hard on the arm.  The more awake I became, the more my arm throbbed.  It wasn't just a feeling; and it turned out Hubs had in fact been wrestling a robber in his sleep and had bitten the "robber" squarely in the tricep.

Sean was now fully awake.  "I'm really sorry, Babe! I didn't mean to hit you.  Did I hurt you?"

"No.  Not really."

And then he said it.  "Oh.. well, then quit being such a whiner."

He was joking me of course, which is what he does when he feels awkward during serious moments and doesn't know what else to do or say.  Unfortunately for him, I wasn't ready to laugh about it yet.

"A whiner?  So now I'm a whiner??"  I threw my legs over the side of the bed hastily and started putting my robe on.

"Oh, come on, I didn't mean it!  I was just joking," he protested.

"You think punching me in the back is funny?  Even if you did do it in your sleep?" I shot back from the bedroom door.

And that was about the time he was done apologizing.  "I said I was sorry, what else do you want me to do about it?  Can't you just let it go?  I already feel bad enough about it as it is!"

He was mad.  I was mad that he was mad, because I was the only one who had a right to be mad.  And I was not ready to forgive the fact that he had pummeled me awake.  So I turned without a word and walked out the bedroom door, bent on making a pot of coffee ASAP before the morning got worse.

And I stepped right in a pile of half-dried cat puke.

Sigh....

The day improved eventually, luckily, and Hubs and I made up our fight and laughed about the whole incident afterwards.

Quite a while afterwards.  And not until after coffee and more than one cigarette. ♦

A Tale Of Two Twats

I had duty yesterday on the ship.  I didn't make it to bed until about 1:00 in the morning, so when my mini-alarm clock went off in my face this morning, I wanted to die.  (Actually, I'm fortunate I heard it and woke up at all.  Coma patients are more easily awakened than myself.)

I swatted vaguely in the direction of the obnoxious "bee-bee-bee-beep! bee-bee-bee-beep!" but only succeeded in knocking it out of my bed and onto the floor.  "Shit!" I groaned, since I was sleeping in the middle rack.  I hurriedly shimmied my ass out of the rack and wiggled my toes toward the floor, four feet below.  I lost my balance and slipped, landing squarely on the fucking alarm clock with my bare foot.

"Ohmyfuckingeeflksjkafslkjalskdfjslkfjl!" I screamed soundlessly, trying not to wake the girls around me.  As if.  Not even Rip Van Winkle could've slept through my 'bull in a china shop' routine this morning.

I grabbed my bag, slipped on my flip-flops, and fumbled my flip-floppety way out of the berthing compartment and into the hallway.  I winced in the painfully bright fluorescent light, and my already puffy eyes teared up instantly.  I blindly stumbled into the bathroom, got out my shower kit and began washing my face.  The cold water made my eyes feel better, and I started to wake up a little more.

I could hear someone taking a shower in the back, and there was one other girl using a sink behind me, but the bathroom was otherwise empty.  (Like it normally is at 4:45 in the morning.)

I began putting my foundation on.  I heard the shower shut off.  A few minutes later, a girl with her hair in a towel and another towel wrapped around her strolled into the sink area.  The girl already at the sinks turned. "Oh, hey girl, you up already?"  Apparently they were friends, because they started chatting about "I hate duty, did you hear about so and so, blah blah blah" and so on.  I listened to their chatter absentmindedly while I applied concealer to cover up the baby raccoons underneath my eyes.

Shower Girl started telling a story about her twin sons and how badly they had misbehaved on a recent plane trip.  "And they was kicking the seats in front of us and the guy in front of me turned around asked me to make them stop.  And I was all like, 'What the fuck, they three years old!' How you gonna make 3 year-olds behave on a plane?  I mean, they needed a good ass-whoopin' but the whole plane was nuthin' but... (pause) these people (accompanied by a hand motion in my direction) and they prolly woulda, like, called Child Protective Services on my ass or sumthin'!!"

I was slow to process.  And then it hit me.  Did she really just fucking refer to me as "these people" to my face?  She did!  What the fuck?  "These people"???  Really?  What.  The.  Fuck.

Oh, I forgot to mention that both girls were black.  I didn't mention it because it really didn't fucking matter.  At least, not to me.  Apparently it did to her.

I was outraged.  I stood there in disbelief, still putting my makeup on calmly like nothing unusual had been said, fuming inwardly and battling with myself over whether I wanted to cause a Jerry Springer-esque scene in the bathroom of an aircraft carrier at 5:00 in the morning.

Bitch Me lost the internal debate.  Bigger Person Me knew that if I opened my mouth, some angry shit was going to come out that I'd regret saying later.  And honestly, I didn't even have the heart to get into anything with anyone right then.  I was running on four hours of sleep, I was irritated, my eyes were puffy, I hadn't had any coffee yet, and I hadn't even had my morning cigarette yet, either.  So I kept my damn mouth shut.

However, I'm still kicking myself that I kept my damn mouth shut.  I should've figured out a nice way to call her out.  It was such a rude, racist thing to say and was so unprovoked and uncalled for that I was still in shock over her comment and gesture for a full thirty minutes later.

And in case you think I'm just being a hyper-reactive white bitch, I related the entire scenario to my friend Sam ~ who happens to be a tiny, fiesty Latina girl ~ on the smoke deck after morning quarters.  Her response after I had finished venting was: "Ooooh, are you for real??  What the fuck is wrong with people?  I woulda said something to her ignorant ass.  What a twat."

What a twat, indeed.  And her other friend is a twat for being racist by association.

And that, my friends, is the Tale Of Two Twats.

Let me just say that I don't get paid enough to put up with shit like this.  Especially not at five in the morning.  I won't be so caught off guard next time, and I  swear that the next stupid tuna that makes a racist remark about me as though I'm not even standing there is going to need more than concealer to cover up the baby raccoons under her eyes.  And they won't be from lack of sleep; no, they'll be from me punching her in her twat face.

Okay, I'm done now. ♦

I Normally Don't Do This Kind Of Thing, But...

I normally don't do this kind of thing, but....

(And if we all had a dollar for every time some creepy douchenozzle came up to us at the bar and started a sloppy, pathetic, inebriated pickup line with that phrase, we'd all be millionaires, right?)

.... but Lindsay over at Undomestic Chica is having a fabulous giveaway!  And you should check it out, first because she's pretty awesome, and secondly because this is an awesome giveaway.

I don't normally whore out my blog to win giveaways ~ in fact, I think this is a first ~ but we're talking all six seasons of Sex And The City, people!

I'm not secretly a shoe whore, or a purse whore, and I'm certainly not a fashionista by any stretch of the imagination, but I am addicted to Sex And The City.  I love it like a fat kid loves cake.  And when I watch it, I can connect with all these 'inner whores' that I don't have the time or the money to be in real life.

How can you not love this show?

Even Hubs secretly loves watching it.  He'd be mortified if he knew I told you, and he'd deny it vehemently, but it's true.  He used to bitch when I watched it.  "What a stupid show, it's all about sex and shoes and chick drama."  After a while, the bitching turned into, "I don't really mind if you watch Sex And The City for a bit, I'm working on this {insert imaginary project} anyways right now."  Finally one night, he just couldn't keep  quiet any longer.  "Wait, when did Miranda and Steve break up??  Did you skip an episode?"

"Aha!" I turned and half-shouted at him. "I knew you were watching!"  He shrugged rather sheepishly and said, "It's alright sometimes.  It's better than I thought it was.  It's okay, I guess."  A few nights later, he came over to the dark side completely when he asked, "Hey, you wanna watch an episode of Sex And The City?"

I win.

I haven't actually watched an episode in ages because I don't own any of the seasons on DVD, but I'm still just as addicted.  Just talking about it makes me want to watch it right meow.

Carrie is my favorite character, and probably the one I can identify with the most.  I mean, the whole admitting to wanting to find something real and lasting and forever to commit to, but still going through all the various stages of self-doubt and fear and insecurity about actually committing?  Who hasn't felt that way?

Even married people feel that way sometimes.  If it's not about your marriage, then maybe it's about merging your bank accounts, or getting a pet, or having a baby, or buying your first house.  All of those things are just different levels of commitment, some of which can be very fear-inducing changes.  The first married fight?  Whole new level of commitment all over again.  The first time you leave the bathroom door open while pooping?  Whole new level of commitment.

*cough* Oh, I'm sorry... am I the only one who does that?  My shit is as real as it gets.  Literally.

Now that I've gone off on this whole random, incoherent, babbling tangent about Sex And The City, you should go over to Undomestic Chica and enter to win! ♦

Growing Pains

Feeling a leetle bit less frazzled today, kids.  Venting does a body good, I guess.

I actually accomplished one or two semi-important qualification things today at work, so that made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

And then they gave me my TLD.

Without getting all super technical on you, a TLD is a tiny little black plastic case that you wear on your belt that monitors radiation exposure.  Without one, there are numerous things in the department that you're not allowed to do because they involve potential radiation exposure.  Each person who needs one gets a TLD issued to them and them alone... letting someone else borrow yours is a huge no-no.

So far I've been fairly useless to anyone because I didn't have one.  Didn't.  Past tense.  Now I do.  And since I'm on duty tomorrow, guess what that means?

I have to stand my first ELT watch. (looks around wildly in despair)

This will be the first time I've stood watch in four months, since I left Prototype.  And in all honesty, I considered Prototype to be "fake."  The instructors told you what to do the whole time, nothing really unexpected ever happened, and they expected you to be retarded because you were a student, so if you fucked something up it wasn't a huge deal.

This, though... this is different.  Now I'm expected to not be fucked up, to know what's going on, and to become self-sufficient as quickly as possible.  This is a whole different ballgame.  This is "for real."

Granted it's only an under-instruction watch, because I'm not qualified yet so they can't just throw me into it like a baby in a trash can and say, "There ya go, have at it!"  I'll have someone helping me and watching me the entire time.

But still.

You've gotta love the things that scare you shitless and make you want to run screaming the other direction as fast as you can, stabbing anyone who gets in your way.

I think this is what is commonly referred to as "growing pains."

Now, does anyone have a paper bag I can borrow?  'Cause I can feel the vomit panic starting to rise in my throat... ♦

Stop The World, I Want Off!

I'm fully aware that I've been a terrible blogger the past few weeks.

Terrible.

I have my reasons.

First, the whole thing with my Gram.

I was home in Michigan last Sunday through Thursday for the funeral.  Obviously while it's always nice to go home, it's sort of sobering when you have to go home.  I did get to enjoy some downtime with the fam, the in-laws, and my bestie Amanda, but not much.

The funeral service was very nice and proper.  My grandparents' minister did a wonderful job of making it into a celebration of Gram's life rather than a long, drawn-out, wracking sob-fest.  My cousin and I were delegated to write a eulogy on behalf of the grandchildren and were asked to read it as part of the service.  We did, and both of us managed to keep our composure, but only because we recruited my Big Little Bro to read the very sentimental, very mushy ending that neither one of us could make it through without bursting into tears.

Between the three of us, I think we did alright.  Everyone else seemed to think so too, including Gramps, and he was all that really mattered.  I also wore my full dress blue uniform to the ceremony because I knew it would mean a lot to him (he's retired Navy).  I'm glad I did because he told me afterwards how glad he was that I could make it home, and how proud he was of me.  But I only did it for him and Gram, because dear Lord, was that uniform ever uncomfortable, hot and sweaty after awhile!  And people kept staring at me, which made me even more uncomfortable.

My Grandpa managed to keep his composure fairly well, even at the graveside ceremony after the funeral, but he lost it at the end.  I have very few memories that are so deeply emotional that I would call them "heart-breaking," but I will never forget the sight of an 83 year-old man, as he walked away from the casket with his children and grandchildren following him, suddenly breaking away, pushing back through them hastily as he hurried back to the casket with tears coursing down his leathery cheeks.  He laid his hands on top of it and as he bent down to kiss the top of it one last time, sobbing, he whispered, "Thank you, Honey... I love you."

I lost it.  We all lost it.  Watching someone say goodbye to the person who was the love of their life for the past 60 years has a way of doing that to you.

Needless to say, I was drained by the time I got back from my trip and didn't particularly feel like finishing out the rest of the work week.  But I did anyways.

I had duty on Friday, and then Saturday and Sunday were here and gone again before I even had time to realize it was the weekend.

And now, after what seemed like a billion year-long Monday today at work... here I am.

Work has been taking a lot out of me the past few weeks, which is the other reason why I've been strangely absent from my beloved blog.  Mental stress at work + physical labor at work + temperatures in the mid-90s + no air conditioning on the ship right now = grumpy, sweaty, tired, brain-dead Missy who's not in the mood for blogging or much else other than food, shower, and bed.

I know, I'm just a barrel of fucking fun, huh?

Life really isn't as depressing as I'm making it sound, it's just that, well... really it's work.

I think I've told you this before, but if you're not careful, the Navy will suck the soul right out of you.

I don't think I've been careful enough lately.

I've adjusted to ship life fairly well so far, to the point where I've established something of a routine, I'm starting to learn what goes on around the place on a daily and weekly basis, and I'm beginning to figure out what they expect of me.

The problem, however, is that the more clearly I realize what's expected of me, the more overwhelmed I feel.

I've come to the conclusion that there are literally not enough hours in a day for me to achieve the levels of stardom that are apparently expected of me, even as a newbie; and I've realized that in order to be as successful and as well-rounded of a sailor as they want you to be, you have to pick and choose from the plethora of expectations and decide which ones are the most important. (Don't ask me who "they" are, because I haven't quite figured that part out yet, but the pressure's there, trust me.)

You see... I am expected to qualify on time (currently very difficult, but I'll spare you the details) or better yet, early (next to humanly impossible).  Both of these things would be very possible, except that in addition to qualifying, I'm expected to take on and learn how to do collateral duties as well (read: tedious, painstaking mountains of reports, paperwork, organizing, filing, etc.).  Also, I was told that I should be working on my qualifications for getting my Surface Warfare pin.  Ironic, since every time I ask about it, I'm told not to worry about it because no one's going to let me start those quals until I get qualified in my job rate first.

And don't forget that hour of cleaning every morning!  Except Wednesday, which is Field Day and therefore is three hours of cleaning instead of the normal one.

Oh yeah, and the 6- to 12-hour watches we stand.

As if that's not enough to keep me busy, we have a homework assignment due every Thursday which takes an hour or two to complete.  The homework is supposed to help keep our level of knowledge up to par so we can pass the Continued Training Exams we have to take once a month.  We also have 4-5 hours of mandatory divisional and departmental training to attend every week.

And the icing on the cake?  In order to reeeeeaaaaally be successful and well-rounded, you should be just as successful per the Navy's standards in your personal life as well.

Which means you should have the fitness level of an Iron Man triathelete, you should do more community service than Mother fucking Teresa, you should be taking college classes around your work schedule in order to further your professional career both in the Navy and post-Navy, and you should probably be doing something to cure cancer or end world hunger or win the Nobel Peace Prize while you're at it.

I mean, c'mon, what's wrong with you?  What are you, a slacker shitbag?  A fucking soup sandwich?

Blechhhhhhhhhh! *groans and tears hair out while banging head against the wall*

And don't forget that I'm still new.  Which means it can only get more overwhelming better from here.

I'm sorry you had to listen to all that shit.

In fact, if you're still reading this, you have the patience of a fucking saint.

It'll get better.  I just wish I knew when.

So if I've been absent lately, it's probably because in my spare time I've been busy trying to devise a way to stop the world and freeze time.

I knew I should've bought that fucking Delorean I saw for sale on the side of the road while I was home.

Because I want off.

How's that for a nice little "Hey, it's me, sorry it's been so long, guys!" rant? ♦