Everything But The Kitchen Sink

An Early Morning Word-Vomit Session

2011-12-07T04:45:00.001-05:00

I'm still alive, I didn't go all AWOL on you guys again. Thanksgiving really threw a monkey wrench in my blogging capabilities. Hey, playing hostess to 20 people for dinner and making your own turkey for the first time ever is stressful, y'all!

I'm feeling a totally random post this morning and I'm not even close to being ~~alive~~ awake yet, so a few things I have on my mind:

I'm up well before the ass-crack of dawn this morning since my friend Amanda was supposed to meet me at the gym at 5, but texted me ten minutes ago and said, "Prolly not gonna make it this morning since I was up all night. Tell u about it at school." Question: if you're already up at 4 fucking 30 in the morning, why not just GO? All we were going to do was treadmill cardio anyways.

I joined the gym. Finally. Another reason I've been somewhat absent from my blog the past few weeks... getting back into that routine has been difficult. Time is a precious commodity and in order to make working out a priority and find that motivation back again, something had to get axed temporarily. Sorry, Blog.

Amanda just texted me. "Okay, I'll go anyways. Can't sleep anyways." Her ears must've been burning. My response: "Damn you, I just drank a shit ton of coffee and if I go now, we'll only have half an hour. I'll just see you at school." Meh. We're supposed to go after school also and actually work out, so whatever.

I thought I'd be nice yesterday and blow leaves in the yard for an hour for Sean before it got dark outside (at the ungodly hour of 4:45PM... I despise winter's lack of daylight!). The backpack blower needed gas so I put some in, started it and went to town on the yard. For all of about 30 minutes, anyways, and then the blower's motor surged weirdly a few times, spluttered, and died. Weird. When Sean got home I told him about it.

"What kind of gas did you put in it?" he interrogated. Defensively, I pointed to the collection of gas cans in the corner of the garage. "That one." "Ugh, Baby!" he groaned, "That's regular gas! The blower takes mixed gas!" Well excuse the fuck out of me, how was I supposed to know? In hindsight, the little picture of an oil drop + a gas pump on the lid to the gas tank probably should've been a clue, but then I've never been much of a visual learner. Oops. However, the blower pulled through the mishap just fine after Sean drained it, put the right gas in, and ran it for a while. I'm now cut off from any yardwork involving small engine equipment. Sweeeeet.

Christmas shopping is done! I'm awfully proud of myself for that one. I have yet to ship the presents, but hey.... baby steps.

If you noticed, I mentioned "school" earlier instead of "work." I got the best hookup ever a few weeks ago when I found out that my chit got approved to go to EAWS Academy; because this week, the week they enrolled me to go, is the horrible terrible week of our huge dreadful quarterly audit by AIRLANT and Naval Reactors. And I'm skipping the whole week to go to air warfare school and learn about what the air wing on the carrier does. HAHA, bitches... have fun doing stressful Monitored Evolutions and Level-of-Knowledge interviews (ala the Spanish Inquisition) with those motherfuckers... I'll be sitting in a classroom with a cup of coffee not thinking about nuclear power. Sweeeeet!!

Also, if I get my Air Warfare pin I'll look like hot shit and maybe get a better eval in March because of it, since I already have my primary Surface Warfare pin.

Life is so good this week.

And finally...

Today is the Big 4 for Sean and I. Four years of married bliss with a healthy dose of agony on the side to boot. The man drives me crazy as hell most of the time, but God I love him! He's taking me out for sushi and the new Twilight movie tonight, with promises of a mysterious "real" anniversary date which apparently fell through and had to be postponed for the time being. In spite of his faults, he's still the most amazing man I've ever met and I wouldn't trade him or what we have together for anything in the world. ♥

And now I'm off to get ready for school. Toots!

Big Little Bro Gets A Wife & A Life: Part III

2011-11-09T21:47:00.000-05:00

So earlier this year, after a series of unfortunate events of the romantic type, Big Little Bro met The One. She was apparently "a goddess, an angel fallen from heaven, my destiny, my soulmate!" (also known to us mere mortals as "Kia").

He promptly went completely off the deep end over this one. He talked to her on the phone constantly. There'd be nights where I'd hear him pull the Golf into the driveway and shut it off; and then 45 minutes later when I realized that he'd never come inside, I'd look out the window and sure enough, there Bro sat in the Golf, still talking to Kia on the phone.

Every story was about Kia. He kept bringing up details of their first date. Every time he learned something new about her, he would excitedly relay the information to me. "Kia likes to snowboard." "Kia likes brussel sprouts. You should make brussel sprouts for dinner tonight." "Kia broke her arm in 3rd grade." OMG.

Alright, so maybe it wasn't quite that bad, but it was pretty ridiculous.

He was like a zombie attack victim (no, I haven't been watching too much Walking Dead) only instead of blood, he was single-mindedly focused on Kia.

I have to admit that, while all the stories and constant blather about Kia got super old super fast, the shit that this poor smitten brother of mine put himself through trying to impress her did not. He started doing crazy and uncharacteristic Things, to apparently make himself more attractive to her, and I relished every second of his antics.

First, there was the Food Thing.

This goddess was apparently some brand of vegetarian, so Bro promptly kissed McDonalds goodbye and said hello to packing healthy lunches. He'd give me money and a shopping list for him when I went to the grocery store. Chicken, eggs, organic baby spinach, fruit, vegetables, soy, tofu... you name something healthy, it was on the list; along with some strange herbal shit and even stranger organic shit that I had never even heard of. Protein shakes, multi-vitamins, herbal tea... there was no end to the ridiculousness of this overnight about-face of his eating habits. Who are you??

Next came the Exercise Thing.

Bro said to me one Saturday morning, "Hey Miss, would want to go and do Bikram yoga with me?" I snorted the coffee I was sipping out of my nose and - spluttering and wiping coffee-snot off my face - stared at him increduously. "WHAT?? You want to try yoga??" It turned out that the Goddess was a huge Bikram buff. "Um... sure... okay." I enjoy yoga, especially hot yoga, so I was down.

Let me just say... that shit was hilarious. I've never laughed so hard at someone else's misfortune. Newport News is not quite as trendy of a place as Denver and there were no Bikram yoga studios to be found, so I took Bro to a beginner hot yoga class at the studio I like to frequent. I had warned him to practice some basic poses, drink lots of water and stretch out well beforehand, but he didn't listen. Ten minutes into the class he was already shaking with muscle fatigue and concentration, and I was worried at one point that he was going to tear something trying to contort his unused, McDonalds-fueled limbs into the various poses. I think he was actually upsetting the instructor with all his distracting struggling and grunting.

Bro doing yoga was epic beyond all words.

I also mocked him relentlessly after I caught him listening to country music on his Ipod one day. He's been relentlessly mocking country music for the past 15 years.

Sucker.

Ahhhhhhh well, the things we do for puppy love....

In May, we had the opportunity to meet the Goddess when Bro won a trip to NYC through their company. The Goddess had won the same trip, and since they were going to be sharing a room together, he offered us his room and got us massively discounted plane tickets through the company's group discount. A weekend in NYC for almost-free AND a chance to meet the Goddess? I'm totally down.

I expected her to be a hot mess, given Bro's track record with women, and was surprised when I found that she was actually quite... normal. And not a psycho, either.

(At least, not yet.)

The Goddess turned out to be a short, perky blonde with a dazzling smile and a very large "in charge" attitude. She struck me as someone who always lots of fun and is usually all smiles and giggles, but who could become reeeeeeeally un-fun reeeeeeeeeally fast if you ruined her plans or in any other way derailed her agenda. I sort of felt sorry for Bro, but then I thought about all the crap I'd put up with from him for the last 8 months and snickered to myself. Karma's a bitch, Bro.

And although she seemed fairly well-balanced, they did cook up this crazy idea over the weekend in NYC that Bro should move out to Colorado. And move he did a few weeks later, in June; but not before he tried leaving all his belongings at my house and coming back for it "sometime in September."

"OH HELL, NO." was all I said.

All summer long after Bro moved to Colorado, I waited for the other shoe to inevitably drop; waited for that phone call from him saying that they broke up and he was moving back to Virginia. It never came, though, and quite frankly I'm still shocked. Somewhere in a dark recess of my mind, too, there's still a proverbial shoe lying dangerously close to the edge of a precipice somewhere.

At the end of July they announced their engagement, and I quickly swallowed something bitter (I think it was either a pill or a nasty remark, although my retainer went missing around that same time) when he told me that her canary diamond engagement ring had cost a cool $6K. So much for all the debt I nagged him into successfully paying off during the time he lived with us; and never mind the $1500 he still owes Hubs and I from the $3000 we lent him two years ago when he first hit a rough patch. It's cool, whatevs... just don't be surprised at the lump of coal you'll be getting in the mail from me for Christmas.

They announced at their engagment that they'd be getting married in October in Sonoma Valley, CA. At a winery. On a Sunday. I thought for sure that my uber-religious mother was going to shit a brick that Bro was stealing the show from God on the Lord's Day to get married at a den of drunkenness and debauchery, but I was sorely disappointed; she barely raised an eyebrow about it. All I heard from her on the topic were a couple of disapproving grunts about not getting married in a church (a very condensed version of the hell-fire-and-brimstone lecture I got 4 years ago for getting married in a courthouse instead of a church).

She actually threw a much bigger fit when she found out that the maid of honor was a lesbian (to be expounded upon in Part IV).

That fucking figures.

Can I just interject for a second? I've caught more hell from my parents in my life than all three of my siblings have combined, and ~~almost~~ always for bullshit that was not even half as terrible as the things they got away with unscathed. Shit, they didn't even have to "get away with" anything... it was all just allowed (condoned even!) by the time they were old enough to get in trouble.

You're welcome for me saving you from at least 85% of the parental wrath that I've been putting up with for 30 years, you little bastards.

Er. Sorry. I'm not bitter still or anything.

So Bro and Goddess announced their intention to marry in October.

Read all about the ridiculous wedding that ensued in Part IV. ♦

"Turbo Has Fleas!"

2011-11-09T20:56:00.000-05:00

My friend May is one of the nicest people I know.

Even when wronged by someone, May is always quick to forgive and forget. She's rarely angry. She never curses, ever; in fact, words like "crap" and "goshdarn" are reserved only for the worst of offenders. I admire her for her kind and gentle nature, even though I often catch myself jumping to her defense and then later scolding her for being such a doormat.

She's basically everything I wish I was but know I'm not.

Recently, May asked our co-worker Keith to dog-sit her standard poodle, Cesar, while she and her hubby went out of town for a weekend getaway. When she came back to work on Monday, she was distraught.

"Cesar has fleas!" She exclaimed.

"Fleas?? How'd he get fleas?" May and her hubby are very neat-freakish. Their house is so clean, you could eat off the welcome mat. The one on the outside stoop.

She wrung her hands in annoyance. "He must have picked them up from Turbo, that's the only logical explanation!"

Turbo was Keith's dog. May had carefully interrogated him about the possibility of fleas and other preventable doggie disasters before deciding to leave Cesar with the two of them. It was understandable, then, that she was upset at this rather itchy and unpleasant homecoming gift.

Keith walked into the office a few minutes later. Without preamble, May asked him nicely, "Um... hey, thanks again for watching Cesar this weekend. By the way, ah... Turbo doesn't by any chance have fleas, does he? I know I asked you before, but... well, I noticed a few on Cesar after we picked him up last night."

Keith looked offended. "No, he doesn't have any fleas. I don't know where Cesar would've gotten fleas, but it wasn't from him. They were playing out in the yard a lot on Saturday... maybe one of the neighbors' dogs has fleas and spread them around outside."

May didn't look convinced, but she dropped the matter.

A couple weeks later, a last-minute obligation came up and she needed someone to watch Cesar again. She asked me, but Sean and I already had out-of-town plans. Too cheap to board him at a kennel, she reluctantly asked Keith as a last resort. He told her yes, so she dropped Cesar off with him after getting assurances from him that there were no fleas to be found.

The next Monday morning... "Oh. My. GOSH!! Cesar has fleas AGAIN! I can't believe this!"

I refrained from making a comment about being a glutton for punishment.

This time, the fleas were so thick on Cesar that May had to shave him completely and give him multiple flea baths, and treat all her furniture and carpets as well.

"I am so disgusted with Keith! I can't believe this!" she stormed. When she confronted him at work the next day, he got downright resentful at her accusations. "Never mind," she said, "I won't be paying you to watch him again, so don't worry about it."

Last weekend, Keith asked Hubby to do him a big favor and help him drop his new engine in his car. I had duty on Sunday, so Sean really didn't have any other plans and agreed to help him out that afternoon.

When I called him from work that evening, he started jabbering into the phone.

"Hey, Babe. Yeah, I just got home from Keith's a little while ago. Holy shit, I felt so dirty when I got home that I stripped down and took a shower first thing. What? No. No, not dirty from working on the car, even though I was disgusting after working on the car No, dirty from going inside his house!!"

Hmmm. Interesting.

"There were piles of clothes everywhere, dirty underwear on the floor in the bathroom. Ugh! Dust bunnies and dirt all over the floor, food and crumbs on the kitchen counters, dirty dishes piled up in the sink... just FILTH. Everywhere. And it SMELLED. Oh, and his poor dog has fleas like nobody's business; he sat there the whole time just scratching, and scratching, and biting at himself. It was so gross! He invited me to stay for dinner and offered to order pizza, but I just couldn't eat there... not in that house. The whole drive home I had imaginary fleas biting me."

After we ended our conversation, I turned to May, almost tripping over my next words in excitement.

"Turbo has fleas! Sean said so!" I shouted at her.

Her eyes widened. And then narrowed. She slammed her book down on the desk.

"AUUUGGHHH!!! I KNEW IT!!! THAT... THAT... DOUCHEBAG!!!!"

Even the very best of people have their limits. ♦

Spell Check For Retards

2011-11-02T22:59:00.000-04:00

I decided to make a ~~covert trip to CVS for 50% off Halloween candy~~ Lowe's run for more paint and some door hinges for the spare bedroom I'm repainting.

Yes... Lowe's... door hinges. (taps forehead) Must remember alibi.

"Huuuuubby! I'm running to Lowe's, do you need anything?" I shout upstairs.

"Uh, yeah... I need a padlock for the shed if you're running there. Thanks!"

"No problem, be back in a bit."

I look at my list. Paint and hinges... check. Padlock... check. Halloween candy... check.

While strolling down Aisle 15 looking for the padlocks, I pretend not to notice the grubby contractor in the overalls and the 5 o'clock shadow ogling me furtively from over by the doorknobs.

(I'll leave that last part alone for now. I have a completely separate rant reserved for Lowe's and its cave-dwellers.)

I successfully evade Grubby and finally find the padlocks.

So many choices. Who knew? Hmmm....

Nothing with a key. That won't work at all. I can absolutely see Hubby losing the key and having to smash in the new doors he just built in order to mow the lawn.

Next? Your standard combination lock? Nix on that... he can't even remember my Social Security number. (Maybe not a big deal to you, however, to those of you who are or have been a milspouse, you understand. Kind of a big deal.)

And then I spot The One, a combo lock that has letters instead of numbers. You mean my lock combo can be a word?? Oooooooh. Perfection, thy name is WordLock.

I'd like to tell you that I bought it for him, but I didn't; I really bought it just because I thought it was badass.

I get back home. "Hey, tada! Look at the cool lock I bought ~~myself~~ you for the shed!"

(pause)

"Ehhhhrrrrr.... what is it?"

"It spells words, see? Way cool. 'Cause I figured you wouldn't remem... uh, wouldn't want to bother remembering numbers just for a shed lock."

"Oh wow, Babe, thanks for the vote of confidence."

You're welcome. Because the first time you hesitated over the exact year, month, day, hour, minute and second that I said 'I do' and made you the luckiest man alive, you lost that vote. Oh yeah, and the social security number thing. I'm just sayin'.

I take the high road. "Who cares, you know what I mean. Open it! Let's pick a word!"

Looking through the sample words on the instructions, he points. "CANDY. That's gonna be our combo. Because yesterday was Halloween, and candy is dandy."

"Huh? No, no, no... you can't pick a word on the instructions, how easy is that to figure out?!" I scoff.

"Well, then pick something better, Einstein."

So I - being the mature 30 year-old woman that I am - stare at the letters on the lock studiously for a moment and then announce, "How about 'dildo'? That'd be a hard one to forget. Haha, get it?" *laughs at own hilarious impromptu joke*

Hubby raises a dubious eyebrow and frowns at me like a 5 year-old who just said 'penis' out loud in church. "Yeah well, it's all fun and games until the little old neighbor needs to borrow a rake. What're you gonna tell her, "Oh sure, Miss Matilda, go ahead and help yourself to whatever you need in the shed; if we're not home, the combination is 'DILDO'?" I don't think so."

Fine. Such a killjoy, that one. Like when we got our tattoos and I wanted to get matching ones that read 'S&M' because I thought it'd be funny and he told me hell to the no. Some people have no sense of humor.

We go back and forth for a few minutes, and finally I say, "Terds. How about terds? That's semi-PC."

"Nope, it won't work. There's no 'U'."

"What? You don't need a 'U'! Why would you need a 'U'?" I exclaim.

"Turds. T-U-R-D-S. Turds."

"What are you, a Speak & Spell? Terds is spelled with an 'E'. Teeeerds."

We argue. I Google it and Google gives me:

turd (tûrd)

n. Vulgar

1. A piece of excrement.

2. Slang A contemptible person

But I can't let him win. I Google it again and it kicks me to this:

Showing results for definition of turd

No-o-o-o-ooooooo!!!

He sees the look on my face. "I was right, wasn't I?!?" he gloats.

I muster a nonchalant face and say matter-of-factly, "It had it spelled both ways."

"I win, I win, I beat the Grammar Nazi! I was right and you were wrong! Nanny-nanny-pooh-pooh!" he mocks in a sing-songy voice while he does a victory lap around the coffee table.

"What are you, like, 5? You will so fit right in with our children. If we can have any... are you sure that you've hit puberty?? You are such a tard sometimes!"

He goes outside to smoke a victory cigarette, still gloating, but Hubby has wisely learned when to stop poking the sleeping bear. So instead of a verbal counter-jab, he offers a peaceful alternative to end the Turds vs. Terds battle:

We're the rubber and the glue.

It fits us, don't you think?

I just hope that Miss Matilda has her own rake. ♦

Maybe The Bronchitis Will Scare The Roaches Away?

2011-10-31T13:48:00.000-04:00

We interrupt the recent rash of really long story-blogs to bring you something a little more light-hearted today.

1. Happy Halloween! I won't be doing shit for Halloween this year due to a horrendous head cold I've had since last Tuesday, which only got worse when I had to do my PFA on Friday morning in the midst of an icy, rainy, cold wind and 40F temps.

Halloween. I suppose I should put a pumpkin on the doorstep and go buy some candy for the trick-or-treaters. Maybe I'll even go all health-conscious and hand out little travel-size hand sanitizers along with the candy so the kiddos don't catch my diseased cold.

Now all you moms and dads are thinking, "Oh my God, thank God my kids won't be trick-or-treating in her neighborhood!" and you're also contemplating making your kids throw away any and all candy that's not hermetically sealed.

Or, if you weren't thinking that, you are now.

You're welcome for that. I'm here for you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

2. Ha!

I totally scammed out of work today. On a duty day, too; and I don't feel one bit bad about it. I never scam out of work.

This morning, Hubby told me, "Fuck it. You need to go to Medical when you get to work this morning; your hacking kept me awake all night." "Fine," I croaked. I figured I had nothing to lose by it.

Being ill is frowned upon in the Navy. I don't get to just phone my boss and tell him I'm not coming in today. I have to go to work and go to sick call at the ship's Medical, where they'll decide for me if I'm too sick to work.

Oh, and did I mention they're not real doctors, either? Well, some of the officers might be; but all the corpsmen are just a bunch of incompetent enlisted fucks who have a basic knowledge of how to stick needles in arms and read the display on the blood pressure machine. Not really the kind of people you want 'diagnosing' you with their pretentious latex gloves and their little Playskool doctor kits.

But... I went to Medical anyway.

I figured there was no way I'd ever get lucky enough to get an SIQ chit (read: get-out-of-work-free card), but maybe I'd at least get some free cold meds.

I may have slightly over-exaggerated to the doc how ill I felt. A feigned heavy-lidded, glassy-eyed look and a wracking, hacking cough can be very effective when combined with just right the inflection when you're rasping, "I feel awful, Doc." Puh-lease. I've faked my mother out at least a dozen times over the years; the Navy doctors don't stand a chance. Also, as a smoker, I never seem have a hard time finding some lung cheese to cough up.

Just be careful not to overdo the dramatics. It has to be convincing, but you can't make them think you're coming down with the bubonic plague.

I was nonetheless surprised and pleased when the doctor told me I had the beginnings of bronchitis and ordered me SIQ for the day.

Even with my congested chest and runny nose, it was all I could to to keep from skipping to the parking garage and singing, "'Cause I've got a Gold-en Tiiiii-cket! 'Cause I've got a Gold-en Tiiiiii-cket!"

I celebrated my bronchial freedom for the day with a cigarette as soon as I got out to my car.

And now to go pick up my Albuterol inhaler.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

3. Have I mentioned how much I hate spiders? Spiders and roaches. Eeeeuuuuggghhhhh. They make my skin crawl!

Our new house is in a much more wooded, tree-ish area than our previous house. I've haven't seen a ginormous spider or roach a day in my life since we left South Carolina and moved to Virginia.

Until we moved into this house.

I think a lot of it had to do with how completely dir-tay the previous tenants were, and the general condition of filth that we took ownership of when we bought the place. It's much better now after I bug-bombed the place and had it professionally sprayed inside and out by an exterminator. But still.

One is one too many for my tastes.

So imagine my delight when I was shopping at Big Lots a few weeks ago (I ♥ Big Lots!) and found a 2 for $10 special on these:

I know.

I'm a total SUCKER. I'll buy anything that says it scares spiders and roaches away.

These things probably don't work. But just in case they do, I bought some.

I got home and gleefully plugged them in, images dancing through my mind of ultrosonic sound waves driving the spiders and roaches screeching away from my house in terror.

When my parents came to visit a few weeks ago, I proudly pointed them out to my mother, who hates creepy-crawlies even more than I do.

"Cool!" she said. (Pregnant pause) "....but where does it scare them away to??"

Silence.

Silence.

I hadn't thought of that.

Images of terrified roaches and spiders fleeing to my upstairs to evade the killer ultrasonic Bug Scare thingies downstairs - and spotting me sleeping peacefully in my bed and exacting their revenge - danced through my mind.

Oh, fuck.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

4. The song "Day Tripper" by the Beatles is stuck in my head today, and keeps repeating over and over in my brain like a skipping record.

Can anyone tell me what this song is actually about?!?

It confuses the fuck out of me.

Big Little Bro Gets A Life & A Wife: Part II

2011-10-30T23:11:00.000-04:00

Where was I?

Ah, yes... Big Little Bro and how he managed to procure a wife while living with us and sucking the life-blood out of our kindness.

So.

Bro had a few romantic encounters while on the road as a traveling insurance salesman (because what woman doesn't get wet over cancer insurance??).

Number One wasn't even anything close to a real romantic encounter, but I think it bears mentioning here because it will show you Bro's modus operandi.

I give you Number One, a girl I work with named Erika.

She's gorgeous. While not quite supermodel svelte (read: could stand to lose fifteen pounds), I'd still give her an 8 out of 10 on a bad day. Unfortunately, Erika is an insecure, self-loathing head case who is absolutely convinced at all times that she's a 3 on a good day.

Bro saw a picture of Erika on my Facebook while sitting at the other end of the couch one day. "Oh, holy shit, who is this hot girl?!?" I explained Erika to Bro. "I don't care if you think she's a head case. Is she single? Set me up!"

Gahhhhh. *makes annoyed sound in back of throat*

He wouldn't listen. But such is the war of the genders... a girl warns a guy that another woman is a total wackjob, and the guy concludes that the girl is just jealous of the wackjob's beauty.

Yes... yes, that must be it.

So at his request and against my better judgement, I mentioned to Erika that I had a cute brother living with me that wanted to meet her. I had her attention. "Ooooo!" she squealed excitedly, "Invite him out with us this weekend!" I did. A bunch of us all went out to a local club, and during the course of the evening I introduced Bro to Erika.

"Hey!" she purred, smiling at him from under her long dark eyelashes, and then proceeded to spend the rest of the evening alternating between flirting with Bro and lurking in the ladies' room on her cell phone having a heated, tearful, and increasingly drunk argument with her most recent ex, Kevin.

I looked at Bro and shrugged. "Sorry. I warned you," I mouthed to him across the loud table.

But he was not so easily dissuaded; this just made her more interesting. The next day he said, "I want her number. Get her number for me, tell her I'd like to take her out for coffee or lunch or something."

What the fuck? He was convinced that he could convince Erika to ditch the ex if she would just give him a chance.

Okay. So I told Erika my brother really wanted her number and to take her out; and I dutifully relayed to him her reply that yes, she really wanted to go out with him, too! But she just needed to clear up this whole mess with Kevin The Ex first.

Say no more, Erika. I've totally got your number, even if Bro doesn't.

I'm no Yente (nerd alert: I love Fiddler on the Roof. I may have just watched it yesterday for the 27th time). I have no patience for this busybody shit, back and forth, trying to convince both parties that the other person is a total catch. Nope.

I told Bro, "Look, forget Erika. She's a semi-insane, game-playing, attention-craving drama queen. Is that really who you want to try to date??" Bro got tired of the games after a month and finally quit pursuing her. (And of course, Erika started asking about him constantly the minute I stopped telling her that he wanted to go out with her. But don't worry about her, she got over it eventually. She's currently recuperating quite nicely from the fake boobies and liposuction she just bought herself, and will soon be back on the market as a 9.5 out of 10. On a bad day.)

But rambling on.

Number Two was also a total bust.

I love this particular story. I like to think of it as a classic redneck romance.

Number Two was the blindest of blind dates.

While working in North Carolina one week, Bro sold an insurance policy to some woman living on a country road out in BFE, who wheedled him into taking her daughter out after he complimented her on her lovely family upon seeing the family portrait in the living room.

Blink. Blinkety blink blink.

Yes. You read that right.

How would you like to have that for a mother? With the husband and grandmother nodding and smiling in agreement, this woman actually called her daughter with my brother sitting right there and said, "Oh, Hi Honey, this really cute guy stopped by this afternoon to sell me some insurance, and I think you should go out with him. Here, just talk to him."

No, really.

That is really how it went down.

And this girl actually agreed to meet my brother at some bar for a drink.

Hello-o-o-o-ooooo! Red flag, much? What kind of a psychopathic woman sets her own daughter up with a complete stranger? Never mind what kind of a lunatic girl agrees to meet up with some strange guy who know one knows from Adam?

It'd be safer to answer a fetish ad on Craigslist... at least then you'd know what you were getting into right off the bat.

They were all clearly idiots, but I mainly blame Bro. He, unlike them, had not born in BFE to crazed redneck parents; he had at least been brought up with the decency to know better.

So Bro, with his, ahem, er... heart in the lead and his black hole of a brain in tow, went traipsing off to meet the hottie daughter for drinks.

They met at the bar and he bought her a few drinks. He walked her to her car, where she pounced on him and ravaged him quite heavily in the parking lot (or so the story goes).

He then developed an obsessive crush on her, meeting up with her only once more during the course of a two week-long "relationship" based mostly on texting and Facebook. When it all just suddenly ended one day and she stopped returning his calls (and blocked him on Facebook), he then moped around heart-brokenly for weeks.

"I thought we hit it off great!" he'd say in bewilderment. "What went wrong? She seemed really into me!" (Whores are generally into things with two legs and a penis, Bro.) "Maybe her Grandma died? She's probably just really busy at work, she works really long hours." (The only people who work hours that long are pole dancers and prostitutes, Bro.) "I think I'll give it two more days and then call her one last time. What do you think, Sis? Call her one more time, or not? Is two days too long, do you think?"

No, I'm not making this conversation up.

*Sigh*

I kindly and gently told him, "Get a clue, dude. She's a ho and you're acting like a pathetic semi-stalker right now."

Mercifully, a few weeks after the Blind Date Ho fell off Bro's radar, another woman who lived in the same town purchased an insurance policy from him. Ho's mother was mentioned by this woman, and when Bro told her that he had gone out with the Ho a few times and it had ended badly, the woman confided in him that Ho and her female family members were just a bunch of redneck, inbred sluts with a notorious reputation around town.

It was finally confirmed by someone whose opinion mattered (I'm a sister, I don't actually count when it comes to opinions): Ho was, indeed, a Ho.

So he gave up again.

Number Three was almost as bad. I'll spare you the details.

Poor Bro.

He seriously can't catch a break with the ladies. He's always looking for Mrs. Right in every cute girl he sees behind a department store counter or sitting by herself at Starbucks. Every girl is a potential damsel in distress, and he's the knight in shining armor that she's been waiting for her whole life, whether she knows it or not.

A true romantic with no common sense is a recipe for disaster, and I've been on the listening end of every single one of these train-wreck relationships.

Have you forgotten the Nicole incident from two years ago? And then there was Lydia, the super-cute blond hairdresser he fell in love with last year. He sent her flowers between haircuts, and swore every week that this was going to be the week she broke up with her boyfriend to go out with him.

He's not a stalker, he's just Puppy Love to the max.

It was no huge surprise then this past February when Bro came home from a weekend business conference in Tennessee and told me, "I met the hottest girl this weekend." Oh, great... we just recovered from the Blind Date Ho.

This story started out just like all the rest.

She had also been attending the business conference. She was super hot. Way too hot to talk to, of course, but that didn't stop him from obsessively over-analyzing the way she'd said "hello" to him. Omigod omigod omigod, I thought, I'd rather get punched in the face repeatedly than listen to this shit all over again.

To my relief, she was only brought up sporadically about 3 times a week or so. This was mostly because she lived in Colorado and thus could only be worshiped from afar. Even then, Bro told me, "She doesn't date people in the company." Hmmmmmm. Smart girl, to not eat where she shits. However, he still continued to talk about Kia on a regular basis.

One day, Bro came home from work and informed me that the company wanted to fly him to Wyoming for a week to job-shadow and sell with one of the top salesmen in the country. He told me excitedly that Kia only lived about 2 hours from where he'd be staying, and that he was going to get up the nerve to ask her on a date.

I seriously doubted whether his recently wounded ego or my frazzled nerves could stand many more romantic disappointments.

"Don't be too disappointed if she says 'No'... remember, you said she doesn't date co-workers," I reminded him.

Yes, I'm a Grinch with no soul, I know. I just couldn't stand to keep watching the spiraling plane crash that seemed to be his love life lately.

Bro flew to Wyoming for a week.

By Thursday, he had worked up the nerve to ask Kia out for Saturday night. He called me Thursday night, ecstatic. "She said 'Yes!" The truth came out five minutes later. What she'd actually said was, "Well... I'd like to, but we'll have to see... I have a 20-mile run on Saturday afternoon. So sure, as long as I'm feeling up to it after that."

Sidebar rant: What ever happened to the good old "I have to wash my hair tonight" excuse?? When did shit get so complicated that girls now have to make up a 20-mile run as a reason to blow a guy off for a date?

As it turns out, she wasn't making it up. She was actually training for a marathon.

*looks sideways rather sheepishly*

How was I supposed to know??

Anyways, they did go out.

And clearly you're all not stupid, and have figured out that she ends up being The One.

But to hear about how I spent all summer waiting for their shit to blow up in both of their crazy faces.....

You'll just have to wait for Part III.

Big Little Bro Gets A Life And A Wife: Part I

2011-10-28T17:27:00.000-04:00

Big Little Bro got married a few weeks ago.

And quite the wedding it was.

(On a side note, a huge sigh of relief is in order for me. The onus no longer rests solely on Hubby and I as the only married children available in both of our respective families to produce respectable and legitimate grandchildren for our clamoring, impatient, and not-so-subtle mothers.)

So, who's the Lucky Woman, you ask?

Ahhhhh, not so fast.

First things first.

Big Little Bro moved down to Virginia last year around September to stay with us for a while. He was having some minor money issues and some major female issues, and having just a regular old shitty time of things back home. His life got sticky enough that I started to worry about him, so I offered to let him stay with us for a few months if he needed to clear the air, find a fresh start, and just get back on his feet in general. I was a-flitter with excitement when he took me up on that offer.

He eventually moved down to stay with us, and ended up finding his fresh start.

I eventually almost lost my mind because of him, and experienced in small part what it must be like to the mother of an illogical, carefree, late-twenties man-child living at home with you.

Big Little Bro is crazy intelligent. However, he somehow managed to get overlooked almost entirely by the Department of Common Sense when he was born. He is a dreamer, not a realist. With his double-major degree in Biology and Genetic Research, he could probably save the world someday... if he doesn't forget to turn the gas to the stove burner off in the morning and blow himself up first. He's totally 'that guy' who would starve to death because he locked himself into the pantry.

Anyways.

He moved in and all was well. It was nice having him around again; he and I are extremely close but neither one of us is much of a phone conversationalist, so it was great to be able to talk to him in person again. I was happy to be able to help him with his fresh start and proud of him for being so gung-ho about getting his life back on track.

He got a job selling insurance. It wasn't what he wanted to do, but it paid really well and he had bills up the wazoo to pay. Not that it was a difficult job for him, since Big Little Bro could sell a ketchup popsicle to a lady with white kid gloves on, but I was impressed that he sucked it up and took the crappy well-paying job anyway.

He bought a car (his couldn't make the trip down to Virginia so he sold it). Bro found a steal on a little VW Jetta with really low mileage on Craigslist. It supposedly needed major engine work, but when Sean's crafty sixth sense about vehicles told him that it'd be a cheap fix, they bought it. After a $30 part and a couple hours of Sean helping Bro under the hood, the car was running like a champ.

All was well.

Then one day, the honeymoon was over.

In a fit of unpleasant realization, it struck me one evening that Big Little Bro was a Slob.

The gung-ho attitude had been replaced by a lacks-a-daisical mentality of "I'll get to it when I get to it." It was as though.... it was like he was tired of being all adult-like and shit. He had found a place where he felt safe, where he didn't have to worry about all that emotional and financial junk that had happened back home. Rent due? What rent? Bills due? What bills? Girlfriend troubles? What girlfriend??

It was as though he reverted back to being 13 years old and living with Mom & Dad again; he mentally and emotionally plopped down on my comfortable couch and made himself right at home as our grown-ass brother-son. His procrastination of even the simplest of ordinary tasks was unending; and his perpetual disregard for behaving as a functioning, self-sustaining member of our household left my orderly, organized soul reeling in horror on a daily basis.

"Hey Bro, could you please not leave your plate of unfinished omelet on the coffee table in the living room?" "Oh, did I do that? I'm sorry!" (proceeds to finish watching movie before putting dirty plate on the counter) Not rinsed and in the the sink, or in the dishwasher; on the counter, y'all. *grits teeth* Crumpled napkin and all.

"Hey Bro, don't leave food in the sink, man; it's gross and it attracts flies and shit." (for the nth time in three weeks) "Oh. Okay. Sorry." The next afternoon, I go to the kitchen sink to wash my hands after getting home from work, only to discover the remains of a bowl of raisin bran in it, with the dumped-out milk dried onto the bottom of the sink. And then a fruit fly came up and flitted inquiringly into the bowl. And then I went completely ape-shit.

"Hey Bro, here's your mail. I thought you might want it, this letter looks important." (points to a fat envelope and hands it to him) "Oh, okay, thanks." I find the letter under the couch three weeks later. It's from one of his credit cards, offering to settle for half of what he owes on the card. Kind of a big deal, no?

"Hey, Missy, could you help me set up a budget?" My eyes light up in surprise and delight. I love spreadsheets. "Sure!" I say. We spend a whole afternoon making him an account on Mint.com (by the way, best website EVER. Simple budgeting for both dummies and smarties at its finest!). When I discovered that he'd been spending upwards of $150 a month on eating out while on the road for his job, I suggested he pack lunches to save money. That lasted all of about a week. So did the rest of the budget. *sigh*

"Hey guys, I think I'm going to sell this Jetta, I want something a little more comfortable with all the driving I do for work." So he sold the perfectly good Jetta to a guy I work with on a Saturday, dragged Sean all over kingdom come on Saturday and Sunday to look at replacement cars he'd found on Craigslist, found one, and Sean told him, "I'd steer clear. It looks okay... but I can only see so much at a glance, and these Volvos are expensive to fix and it has high miles." He ignored Sean and bought it on Tuesday. It was "such an awesome car, though! And sooooo comfortable!" Wednesday it was discovered to have a coolant leak, and, "Oh, no! I have a business trip to Tennessee tomorrow! Sean, can you fix it in time?"

Sean couldn't say no because he's such a nice guy, so he climbed through his asshole to fix Bro's car - the one he told him not to buy - by Thursday. Six weeks later, the awesome Volvo blew a head gasket and then proceeded to sit in front of our house for the next 3 months before Bro got around to selling it because he didn't have the money to fix it. In the meantime, he drove our extra car - a hideously awesome beast of a 1991 VW Golf hatchback - and pooh-poohed it the entire 3 months. When I finally got tired of listening to him make fun of driving the Golf, I confronted him. It was "embarrassing" to be seen selling insurance in it, he said... I mean, who could take a professional salesman seriously in that car?? I told him, "Are you fucking kidding me? That car makes you totally relatable to the average American. And if you hate it that much, then sell the useless piece of shit that you have currently sitting in front of my house and get your own GD car; but don't you dare talk shit about my Golf that I'm letting you borrow, you ungrate!" Then he felt bad. For about two days.

Just a few examples. I could go on and on.

I have realized that - although I still fully believe he doesn't do it on purpose, but rather out of a total lack of awareness for how his actions affect others - Big Little Bro is a User as well as a Slob. He uses people. He's oh-so funny and charming and full of life and charisma; and in his mind, people should want to help him out because, well, because he's awesome and he's their friend so why wouldn't they?? You do this for me, and I'll be your bestest buddy. Until you need to rely on me for something. Then, tragically, I'll be super busy helping this other person out and probably won't be able to help you, or even have time to swing by and say hello to you. Sorry. Raincheck?

He's always genuinely sorry if you let him know that he stepped on your toes, but the next day he seems to have completely forgotten the previous day's conversation. He's just too busy making big plans for his life, and with his dreams and ambitions, to worry about mundane details like courtesy towards other people's feelings and property. The Golden Rule seems to be completely lost on him.

I can't believe we came from the same mother sometimes. I mean, at least when I step on other people's toes it's usually intentional. Call me an asshole, but at least I'm a self-aware asshole.

We felt so used by him that we were beyond relieved to be rid of him when he moved out. The best part is, he probably thinks that we're a bunch of uptight, buttholes-puckered killjoys who worry too much about paying bills on time and leaving food in the sink and boring shit like that.

Yeah, I'm not bitter or anything.

Anyways, Big Little Bro lived with us for a good 8 months, during which time he managed to squeeze a few lovely ladies into his busy schedule, somewhere between Being Super Awesome, Taking Two Showers A Day, and Forgetting To Pay My Student Loan Before My Two Week-Long Business Trip.

I'm ~~finally~~ ~~totally~~ ~~mostly~~ somewhat over all of the use and abuse that our hospitality suffered during those months, partly because he's my brother and I love him even if he is a total fucktard sometimes.

But also partly because one of those aforementioned lovely ladies is probably the only reason he's not still living with us and using up all our hot water.... so I guess it all sort of had to happen for a reason.

Stay tuned for Part II. ♦

Can We At Least Call Her Your 'Wusband'? For My Sake?

2011-10-24T05:52:00.000-04:00

I'm one of the departmental sponsors on the ship. Meaning basically, I help new people with orders to my department get all of their personal and professional business squared away, both before and after they report to the ship.

People are still amazed by this. "They let YOU sponsor new people?" they ask incredulously. "Wow, they must really be hard up for sponsors."

Um, thank you?? I happen to be a great sponsor, fuck all of y'all.

In spite of my hatred of the ship and my strong dislike for my chain of command and the atmosphere they foster, I try very hard to put my best face forward to arriving newcomers, while at the same time not lying to them. Because nobody showing up wants to hear, "Oh yeah, this place is super swell!" only to find out later that it was complete bullshit; and neither does anyone want to show up and hear, "Oh my God, are you gonna wish you'd never gotten orders to this suckhole!" even if it is the truth.

In this context, ignorance really is bliss.

Especially the babies; the new, impressionable young baby Nukes, fresh out of Prototype and so eager and excited to finally be done with school and out in The Fleet (spoken in revered tones, much like one might speak of Shangri-La, or Atlantis, or some equally mythical and magical-sounding place). I can't bear to be the one to break their hearts. Besides, why should I embitter them with my experiences? Maybe theirs will be different than mine.

So when they ask me ridiculous questions in all their wide-eyed wonderment and awe, waiting impatiently to hang on every word about to fall from my lips, I usually try to steer away from the uber-bitter or the equally uber-cheery and go with something more matter-of-fact. Not lies... just not what I'd like to tell them. Let them make up their own minds. I deflect the ones who try to delicately probe about the inner social and political structure within their respective divisions with a well-placed, "I'll tell you what, the best thing you can do is to keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open, and decide for yourself in a few weeks. It won't take you long to figure out how things work if you do that." It's true. The place is an open book for someone who's willing to shut up and just listen and pay attention while others talk.

But I digress.

My newest sponsoree is a cheery, chipper girl named Kay*. I've been emailing with her and texting back and forth, answering all her questions about how things work on the ship and in The Fleet for about two months now. Throughout all her questions and stories about herself, she's mentioned several times that she's engaged. When I asked about the wedding, she said forthcomingly, "Well, we're not sure yet, we might be getting married in September right before I report to the ship." I told her to let me know if she had any questions about the paperwork or name-changing, or Page 2 updates, or legal stuff involved in getting married, since I've BTDT. She said she'd be sure to ask me, thanks.

Last week, I see this text when I'm driving home from work.

Hey we got married last weekend, but the Navy won't honor my marriage. Can I still apply for married BAH instead of single sailor BAH?

Huh? "I don't get it," I thought to myself, "What the hell is she talking about?"

Yeah. If you're quick on the uptake, you've probably already guessed where this is going and are right now laughing at my complete and utter oblivion. Go ahead, laugh; like you've never been oblivious before.

Since I'm already lost one mere text into this conversation, I text her back:

I just got out of work and saw your text, call me when you get a chance.

Nothing like a good old-fashioned phone call to figure out what the hell this chick is trying to ask me.

She calls. I congratulate her on getting married, and then ask her what her text meant.

Me: So wait, what did you mean by "the Navy won't honor your marriage"?

Kay: (static) .... and I just don't want them to... (static) know that it probably won't work.

Me: Wait, what? What won't work out, your marriage? I'm confused. Is it that you just don't want to tell the Navy that you're married for some reason?

Kay: No it's not that, it's just that (static. more static.).... you know, with like DOMA and all that shit, I don't think they will recognize it. But I want to know if I can still get married BAH. What do you think?

Keep in mind, peeps, that I am still completely in the dark as to what we're talking about here. Still. I know. I know you're dying inside slowly at my daftness. What can I say... it had been a long sucky day at work.

Me: (pause) DOMA?

Kay: (super nice and explanatory, as though I'm the newbie and she's helping me out) Yeah, you know DOMA, Defense of Marriage Act and all that... DOMA. I just think that because -

Me: O-o-o-o-oooohhhh! Oh. Oh, OOOO-KAY... gotcha. I know what you're talking about now. Got it. Sorry. I'm a little slow today, sorry; it's been a rough day and my brain's fried.

Kay: (laughs) Oh, no, it's fine. So what do you think?

Me: (trying to act like I'm thinking studiedly instead of gaping bewilderedly) Well, you're right, the Navy doesn't consider you to be legally married. Not yet, anyway. That will probably happen eventually but I think it's a long ways off still. (pause) I can, er, ask some people at work tomorrow and try to find out if there's some other way you could apply for BAH?

Kay: Yeah, that'd be great if you could, thanks!

How. Clueless. Am. I.

???????

The 'ole gay-dar completely failed me on that one. Totally.

Although in my defense, she was very misleading. And still is. She keeps -

Wait. I should interject here and point out something.

Without climbing onto a soapbox, my personal viewpoint on homosexuality is that it's unnatural and yes, from a religious viewpoint, sinful even. I think that there's also a more logical, non-religious viewpoint; there's a perfect good reason why two women cannot physically procreate together, much in the same way that two sows cannot have piglets together: it's just not supposed to be that way.

However, I'd like to think I'm a little more progressive than my mother, who talks about gays and lesbians the way one would speak of a leper, or a rapist, or a serial killer. It's all the same to her; in her mind, sin is sin is SIN. I personally feel that even if I don't agree with someone's sexual preferences, I do not have the right to treat them with any less courtesy or respect or friendship than I would a straight person. They're still people.

"And how, pray tell," I keep asking my mother, "is it in any way, shape or form 'Christian' of you to shun them? No wonder people think Christians are hypocrites! You spout off to me about setting a Christian example and showing Christ's salvation to the lost people of the world, but then you turn around and treat homosexuals as though they're pariahs of society and to be looked down on, pitied, and avoided at all costs? How can you reasonably expect to set a good example for people and "help lost souls" when you refuse to mingle with the unmentionables of your social circles, your little comfort zone?"

I disagree with my mother on this issue. I feel that it's my responsibility to be the best version of me I can be, and that it's okay to be friends with people whom I may disagree with on certain things. Me telling a girl, "I'm a Christian, I don't agree with you eating snatch," should be no different than her telling me, "I'm a vegetarian, I don't agree with you eating meat." Er. No pun intended; perhaps broccoli would've been a better example.

Anyways, I'm getting side-tracked again... this is not the post where I write a thesis titled My View On The Moral, Social and Religious Implications Of Same-Sex Marriage In Today's World.

The entire time I've been talking to her, Kay has referred to her fiancee as "he" or "him" or "my boyfriend".

I am simply, almost two weeks later, trying to figure why Kay still keeps referring to her partner as her "husband" and "he" and "him"? Is it any wonder I was confused? Either:

She is just trying to be a 'cool' or 'different' kind of very evolved lesbian, or
She is still trying to be as kosher as possible about the fact that she's a lesbian, and even though "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" is officially no more, she doesn't want people at work knowing her personal business, or
She really honestly thinks of her partner as a "he"

Just in case I was crazy, I told a lesbian friend of mine this story and asked her what she thought. I respect her opinion in this matter, since she's been with her girlfriend longer than I've even known Sean. Her response?

"She calls her wife her "husband"?? That's super weird. Why not just be straight then?"

Ha. I rest my case.

*Name changed.

How To Emasculate A Man

2011-10-21T21:41:00.000-04:00

You will need:

(1) Half-rotted shed

(5) Packages of shingles

(1) Hammer

(1) Box of roofing nails

(1) Ladder

(1) Dad

(1) Husband

Directions:

1. Get your parents to come visit for the weekend. Agree with your Dad that yes, it's a great idea to fix all the rotted wood on the shed and put a new roof on it. Send Husband to go get necessary supplies with Dad. Begin project on a Saturday morning and have Dad and Husband tear apart shed past the point of no return.

2. On Sunday, ensure that it rains so that shed cannot be worked on at all.

3. Spend day off on Monday playing Boo Boo to Dad's Yogi, since Husband has to work. Run to Lowe's with Dad to get additional supplies for shed. Fart around unnecessarily for about an hour getting lawn care supplies, since "we're already here anyways."

4. Work on shed throughout the day. You may encounter multiple snags, measurement miscalculations, and other unforeseen problems. Also, own a shitty cheap circular saw that doesn't work right, so that it takes approximately 10 times longer to cut the wood with a jigsaw. Fight the urge to say something at Dad's comment that he should've brought his circular saw from home with him.

5. Begin laying shingles about an hour before total darkness. Give up at dark. Do not attempt to lay shingles with a flashlight, as this is unsafe and you may hit your thumb while trying to drive a nail into the roof.

6. Say goodbye to your parents on Tuesday morning before they leave to head back to Michigan. Tell your Dad to stop apologizing that the shed did not get finished. Go to work. Have duty on Tuesday night so that you will not even be home again until Wednesday afternoon.

7. On Wednesday, continue laying shingles after it stops raining. First though, cover yourself in mud and yuckness while pulling the huge tarp off the shed. Also, make sure that you almost fall from 12 feet in the air while struggling to climb the ladder with a 50-lb. bag of shingles under your arm.

8. When Husband comes home from work to find you diligently and methodically nailing down shingles, and then picks a fight with you because you were supposed to go running, offer to finish the row you're working on and go for a run. After he tells you in an annoyed tone not to bother and grumps off, fight the urge to yell "What the hell?!?" at his retreating back; just roll your eyes and keep working until dark.

9. Once it becomes dark, put away tools and go inside. Discover Husband in the kitchen making dinner. Breakfast for dinner, mmmmm! When Husband gets snippy while answering a simple, non-roof related question, inquire as to why exactly he is in such a bad mood. After Husband protests that he's not in a bad mood and then hems and haws and finally apologizes for being grumpy, proceed with getting to the bottom of things.

10. When Husband finally informs you in a stumbling and sheepish manner that he was mad because you were outside doing "man's work" while he was inside doing "woman's work," and he is now "over his pity party," try very hard not to laugh hilariously, as he is already licking his wounds and this will only rub salt in them. Ignore the sexist, gender-biased comment about who-does-what-around-here; it was not meant to be insulting. Assure him kindly that you would've gladly taken his help if he had offered it, and remind him that you did not ask him to make dinner (however, do not neglect to thank him for making it).

11. After Husband reminds you that he would've offered to help but ~~he's terrified of heights greater than 4 feet from the ground~~ he doesn't know how to lay shingles, assure him again that ~~it's not your fault that you're not afraid of heights AND know how to lay shingles because your Dad made you roof the house with him one summer when you were 15~~ it's no big deal, really, and that if didn't get dark out so early these days, you would've much preferred to shingle the roof with him. Logically point out, too, that the roof needed to be done as soon as possible before it rains again.

12. On Thursday after work, go to it like a woman possessed and finish laying the shingles on the shed roof. You must do this by yourself. IMPORTANT: it must be done before Husband gets home from work.

WARNING: Use extreme caution regarding the subject of roofing in the future! This subject is extremely flammable and could be hazardous to your Husband's fragile man-pride and therefore your own sanity. Keep the peace and be content in the knowledge that you are, indeed, a totally bad ass chick and are pretty damn good at doing "man's work" when the occasion calls for it.

And that, ladies, is how to effectively emasculate a man.

Although what gets me is this: shouldn't our men be overjoyed when they discover that we know things like how to change the oil in a car, or clean out gutters, or how to start a pull-cord lawnmower, or the difference between a phillips head and a flat head screwdriver?!?

HELL, NO. I've discovered that it's only okay to know these how to do these things if they already know themselves.

That being said...

Cost of putting a new roof on the shed:

Materials - $300.00

Future therapy sessions for Hubby to sort through his inadequacy issues ~ $1000.00

Overhearing him brag to his buddy that "My wife shingled the shed roof by herself." - PRICELESS

Keep your man-pride. I know I'm a bad ass. ♦

Slug Girl, The Amazing (Future) Baby-Maker

2011-10-20T00:20:00.001-04:00

No, I'm not knocked up. Not yet, anyway.

But can we just talk about how I have not worked out in months???

It's been MONTHS.

The day before we closed on the house at the end of June has been the last day I made any type of serious and dedicated effort toward fighting gravity. I was about 2 weeks into starting the Insanity program, and then I became a homeowner; all "pointless" exercise promptly ceased, replaced instead by "necessary" exercise, such as packing boxes and carrying furniture. Thoughts of supermodel legs and killer triceps morphed into visions of tastefully repainted rooms and new closet shelves in the master bedroom. A few days went by with no workout; and like everything else, a couple days turned into a couple weeks, and weeks turned into three months.

It's been THREE MONTHS.

I've turned into a slug. I am Slug Girl. Except for the bicep on my painting arm... that sucker is rock hard, baby! I'm like Popeye with his one huge arm; only instead of the can of spinach, I have a paint roller. And no, those aren't chocolate stains on the front of my shirt, those are paint smudges. Yeesh.

Now I have my semi-annual Navy physical fitness assessment coming up in two weeks ~~which I've known about for six months~~, and the thought of it makes my somewhat flabby abs clench in consternation. ("Clenching" your abs doesn't count as a crunch, by the way.)

I've always been in decent shape, and I've always rocked out my PFAs with top scores in my age and gender category. Hell, my numbers usually beat half of the guys in their early 20s when it comes to the timed push-ups, sit-ups, and the mile and a half run we're required to complete. I'm not worried about passing, but this go-round, I'll be lucky to get a satisfactory score. The thought of not kicking the shit out of something I know I'm normally excellent at really pisses me off.

What pisses me off even more is that I let it come to this.

Also, in case some of you were unaware, 'not fat' does not equal 'in good shape'. Similarly, 'fat' does not equal 'out of shape'. A couple of the heftier girls at work beat me at the physical fitness assessment every single time, hands down. Word to the wise, people.

I've reached that stage of hazy semi-realization where I know that if I don't start doing something soon, I will soon transition from sluggy, to chubby, and then on to porker, with morbidly obese soon to follow. Especially with the way I've been pounding down the bags of chocolate chips that I buy at the grocery store the good intention of "baking cookies to bring in to work for the potluck." (Yeah, we've all heard that excuse before, and we all know it's a big fat lie. Chocolate chips are meant to be eaten after 10PM and straight out of the bag. Duh.)

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

But wait! It gets worse. Immediately following the "I need to start working out!" self-pitying monologue is the introspective psychoanalytical thought: "What kind of a mother am I going to make someday??"

Hubby and I have had "The Kid Talk" several times over the past few months, and I think we've reached the consensus that it's about that time... time to ditch the trusty old IUD and head into uncharted territory.

And here's my greatest fear. Out of all the legitimate fears I could conjure up in my over-imaginative mind, my one single greatest fear of about pregnancy and motherhood is this: FAT. How shallow is that?? How shallow am I?? Not "Will I be a good mother?" or "Will my baby be born healthy?"... no, I'm worried about being a fatty preggo chick. And then a fatty mom.

Shallow or not, there it is: the ugly truth. I have a horrible fear of getting knocked up and then losing the few clinging shreds of self-control I currently possess, and then proceeding to eating my way through thousands of boxes of pizza and hundreds of gallons of ice cream for 9 months straight. Quitting smoking wouldn't exactly help the cause, either.

I'D HAVE TO QUIT SMOKING, TOO.

My future kids are fucked. And so are those chocolate chips. ♦

When Did I Start Liking My Parents??

2011-10-16T20:10:00.001-04:00

When did I start liking my parents?

I mean, this is isn't supposed to happen. They're supposed to be annoying and mean and strict and nosy forever, and I'm supposed to be annoyed and chagrined and deflective of their nosy questions forever... right?

I'm not so much annoyed with them anymore. Scary. I find myself identifying with them a lot lately. (I know... it kinda makes me want to bleed from the ears just hearing myself say it.)

For instance, owning a home. Yes, I am now the proud owner of my very own ~~mortgage~~ house. Sean and I bought a house in Yorktown at the end of June; but that's a different 'catch-up' post to come. (Man, this whole not blogging in forever thing sucks; there's so many back-stories to be told!)

My parents drove down to Virginia this weekend for a visit to see us, or maybe just to see our new house. Either way, they volunteered to be put to work on home improvement projects, and we were more than happy to oblige them in that department. But a funny thing has happen over the past few days. I've realized that it's extremely weird to me to have all these conversations with them about tile grout, landscaping, and the finer points of replacing a garbage disposal and not be bored out of my mind. I even actually might enjoy it.

WHO AM I??

Thirty Is The New Eighty-Five

2011-10-10T23:33:00.000-04:00

Well now that I've climbed out of my writing funk, where to begin to catch y'all up on the lfe stuff?

For starters. In the time I've been gone, I've turned 29.

And 30.

Yes people, I am now a card-carrying member of the thirty-something club. (Must remember to get rid of the 20SB badge at the bottom of my page since that ship has obviously sailed.)

Thirty. It sounds so... so thirty-ish. Thank God for all the people who keep lying to me and telling me that I don't look a day older than 25.

I always thought that I'd be a crying, screaming blubbering mess when I turned 30. I took the day off from work to celebrate; and I think they were only too happy to give it to me, since I've been threatening to come into work with a shotgun and start picking people off on my 30th birthday for the past almost 2 years. In reality, 30 was totally uneventful. Vanilla, even. Hubby and I went to the bar with some friends, got a little drunk, stayed out until the shockingly late hour of 1AM, came home and passed out. Stop the presses, people!

Nothing's changed, and yet it has. I don't feel any older, but I have this peevish voice inside my mind somewhere that leaves me with the impression that I might be getting older. Just last year I was a senior in high school, and 30 year-olds were people to be pitied only slightly less than parents. The 20s peeps had it all and were highly envied and worshipped from afar, 30s were the, like, washed-up, in-betweener people, either single and sad or married and sad, but either way... sad. The 40s were parental, and 50s and up were teetering on the brink of death and every breath they drew could be their last. Am I right??

It doesn't seem possible that I could now very well be that boring, borderline 'oldish' person I used to smirk at and feel slightly sorry for behind my hand. Doesn't it count for something that I still feel like I'm 18?!? (Except for when I go running. And when I look in the mirror every morning. And when I try on bathing suits in the spring. And...)

Enough. Thirty isn't as bad as I thought it would be. So far. But I haven't even had kids yet, either. The very thought of the combination of 30 year-old skin (smoker skin, no less) and pregnancy stretch marks is enough to trigger a panic attack.

I feel like I'm halfway to 85. Or close enough.

On the other hand, to fight for the cause of "You're only as old as you feel," we have my Grandpa...

My Grandpa (one-half of Grandpa & Grama, my Grama who died last year from Alzheimer's) has gone and reverted back to his childhood. While I'm starting to feel older and crustier by the year, he's getting younger and sprier by the day. Or so I'm told. I haven't actually seen him since I was home last December, but his latest antics have the fam all in an uproar.

Gramps went and got him some poontang.

I know, trust me. EEEEWWWWW.

Grandpa went out to Montana this summer with his motorhome for what started out as a 3 week-long visit to his brother and nephews and nieces, etc... he grew up there, his heart belongs to the West, and he hasn't been able to visit there much the past five years because of Grama's illness.

I digress. Gramps goes out to Montana. A few weeks go by, and he hasn't called my mom more than 2 or 3 times. Unusual, she thinks, since he's been lonely and has made it a regular thing to call her several times a week since my grama died.

So she calls him. Oh yes, he tells her, everyone's great, everything is going great out there, and oh yes, well, he ran into an old friend and he'd been spending some time with her. Her?? My mom pounced on the pronoun, and immediately called me to ask for damage control advice. (One of Life's little ironies... my mother calling me for damage control advice.) I told her, "Look, he obviously found himself a 'friend' or 'girlfriend' or whatever he feels like calling it, can't you just be happy that he's happy for the first time in a long time?" Nope.

So the three week-long visit turned into two months of few-and-far-between phone calls, which - when he did call - were always quick chats about the adventures of him and his new friend. And then one night in August, he called my aunt's house, where all the uncles and aunts had gathered for dinner and game night, and told them them that he was engaged and that he and Evie were getting married.

Oh, the shock and horror! I didn't hear the end of it for days. I didn't even find out from my mom, I found out from Facebook (of course. I hate Facebook.) and as I went to go look for my phone, it rang. Little Sis was sobbing unintelligibly into the phone before I even said hello. "Di... did mom call you?" "No... is everything okay? Did something happen to Dad or something? What's wrong?" "Grandpa's getting ma... married!!!" she wailed, and then more unintelligible sobbing. She didn't take the news well, and neither did my mom or half of the rest of the family.

I personally don't see what the fuss is all about. I loved my Grama, I know that he loved my Grama, but I don't see how he's "betraying her memory" by finding love again. Of course, it was a little faux pas when I noticed the next day that his Facebook picture (yes, my 85 year-old grandfather has a laptop and a Facebook account, neither of which he knows how to use properly) was still a picture of him and my grama from before she got really sick. But, he deserves to be happy.

And she's not 40 or anything, she's a respectable 80ish. In fact, she grew up on the farm down the road from my Grandpa when they were kids, and they dated in high school. So I think he deserves to be a little happy and a little selfish at this point in his life.

So yes. I feel like I've got one foot in the grave, and my grandpa is making hay while the sun still shines. It kinda puts things into perspective, I guess.

Of course, I did not need to hear him tell me about drinking wine and swimming in the pool until 2 o'clock in the morning on their wedding night. Old people love... *shudder*.... ♦

Better Late Than Never?? An Explanation & An Apology

2011-10-10T11:48:00.000-04:00

So.

I'm back.

I'll give all of you who just fell out of your chairs a chance to pick yourselves up off the floor.

*moment of silence*

So as I was saying, I'm back.

I'm sure the burning questions are: "WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU GO FOR A YEAR AND A HALF WITHOUT TELLING ANY OF US?? AND WHY?" And I'll be perfectly honest right off the bat and tell you that I really didn't go anywhere, and I have no idea why I just stopped blogging.

Well... that last part is not entirely true. I do know. Sort of.

If forced to pinpoint one particular thing which derailed my blogging capabilities, I would have to admit that I just got, well... got sucked into reality. Work got busy, life got even busier, and a couple weeks went by. And those weeks turned into months. The Navy - and my life in the Navy - eventually got to me to the point that it consumed me. Bad juju reared its ugly head in the worst possible way.

It wasn't too terrible over the course of last summer, just busy, but every time I thought, "I should really blog tonight," and sat down with my netbook, all that crowded into my mind was rants about work, how much work sucked, this douchebag at work, etc. etc. And who really wants to read about how depressing work is all the time? I really honestly couldn't think of anything to talk about that didn't somehow turn into, "I hate being stationed on this ship!!!!" so I eventually gave up trying to write a blog that didn't sound totally insane.

The more awful and all-consuming my life on the ship became, the more I needed to vent and rant, but the more I simply didn't want to be THAT angry and bitter on my blog. I guess I just thought most of you wouldn't understand. So instead, I ranted to my equally bitter friends and co-workers. And you know how that story goes... Misery loves company. I felt better, but in the end I just felt worse after bitching with them. Or I came home and ranted to Hubby, who patiently tried to understand but wasn't really all that interested in hearing about how terrible my day was. Every. damned. day.

By then, it had been a good six or seven months since I had last blogged, and at that point I think I was just deeply ashamed to show my face around my blog. Ashamed to come back and be all like, "Tada! It's me! Hey!" And I still couldn't think of anything good to say.

So that is really "IT" in a nutshell. Too much bitterness, anger, depression, writer's block, and shame.

Time went by, work sucked some more, and after a while I forgot about the blog. I was too busy being angry and depressed about work. And being a Nuke, you're not allowed to be depressed. No "mind-altering medication" for Nukes. You take meds, you lose your nuclear job, and usually get re-rated and sent elsewhere to be a conventional MM or EM or ET, which is way worse; exact same job with only slightly less stress and less pay, fewer promotion opportunities, and no bonuses. We have a term in the Nuke community for admitting to a doctor that you're depressed and probably need medication (and a lobotomy) to overcome it; it's known as "going sad." The brave ones who admit to being severely depressed, and take the medication offered and eventually leave and get reassigned elsewhere, are taunted and ridiculed by their fellow Nukes and called "Sad Pandas" by all except a few sympathetic souls who can actually admit (even if only to themselves) that they feel the same way and don't blame them for finally throwing in the towel.

A few of you left me comments months after I had last posted, worrying and wondering where I was, and I was so deeply touched by your concern for me and yet was too ashamed to come slinking back to Blogland with nothing good to say for myself. I'm sorry, and your concern meant a lot to me, I just couldn't bring myself to acknowledge where I was at or how I was doing, because it was not good. I really have been stewing in a slowly growing cesspool of Navy-related misery, bitterness and depression for the past year and a half. To make matters worse, I did eventually end up re-enlisting last summer (punches self in the face repeatedly) when things were still okay around work: and that just ended up adding to my misery, because a few months after I re-upped, my work schedule and everyone's general sense of morale and well-being became way, way worse on the ship.

So why now? Why blog now after a year and half of silence? Work still sucks ass. BAD. Morale has never been lower since I've been on the ship, and people have been dropping like flies and going sad left and right. The shipyard still sucks, and we won't be out of the yards for another year and a half from now, which translates to, "It's only going to get worse, people. Worser and worser." Somewhere along the way, however, I've had this nagging sense of "Get over it!" pulling at the back of my mind. When others told me to get over it, it just made me angry; probably because I'd been ignoring my own mind telling me to get over it for so long.

But I'm over it. So, so, soooooo over it.

I became so exhausted by all the bitterness and anger that I'd been fueling and nurturing that I eventually reached a point where couldn't keep it up any longer. It was destroying me. It turned me into a person I didn't like seeing in the mirror every day. Hubby and I were fighting all the time, and I have a funny feeling that the fighting was largely due to the extremely over-reactive, harsh, sarcastic and aggressive personality that I'd spent months developing. Every time my Mom would ask me on the phone, "So, how's work going?", so much venom would spew forth that she eventually just stopped asking about work altogether. I'm actually surprised she kept calling me at all.

And some of you may not understand this, and I'm the last person to go around forcing my 'religion' on others, but I really feel like all this anger and bitterness could've been headed off a long time ago if I had just given it all over to God and trusted Him to take care of me, and quit trying to pretend that I was okay and that I could handle everything myself. Hubby and I finally found a church that we both like a lot, and we've been going, and this is probably - okay, definitely - how the whole emotional healing process started in the first place.

I've had an epiphany that Life really, truly is what I make of it. I can choose to keep going down this poisonous road I've been on, or I can adjust my attitude and start fresh and make the best of things. I choose the latter. And I'm sorry it's taken me so long to come to what probably seems to some of you like such a simple conclusion. Like, duh! Right? But I understand now how difficult it is sometimes to just "get over it." There's a lesson in all of this, and I'm not sure what it is yet, but I'm relieved and overjoyed to finally be letting go of all the bad shit and angry thoughts which have consumed the better part of my life for the past year and a half. Onward and upward! Can I get an "Amen!"??

So I'm back.

And I'm deeply and extremely sorry to my Bloggie Friends, and you know who you are. I'm sorry that I worried you unnecessarily. I can't believe that most of you are still followers on my blog, even after a year and a half of silence and nothing from the world of Nuke Girl. That speaks volumes to me about the power of Bloggie friendships. I apologize to all of y'all, and I hope that you'll all find it in your hearts to forgive me and let me back into your Bloggie worlds. And if you can't, I understand, trust me.

I commit to turning over a new leaf in my life, mentally and emotionally. I can't promise that there will be no "GAHHHH!" posts about work sucking, but I can promise that they will be much fewer and farther between. I've decided to make a conscious effort to redirect my thoughts and emotions.

A little less Nuke Girl, perhaps, and a little more Missy instead. Because in the grand scheme of things, Missy is who I really am and who I really want to be. (Did you even know that my real name was Missy? See? New leaf.) ♥

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

2010-05-27T16:46:00.000-04:00

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.

2010-05-17T20:40:00.001-04:00

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...

2010-05-16T23:05:00.001-04:00

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.

Do you work anywhere from 60-80 hours a week?
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?
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?
Do you madatorily wear the exact same outfit to work every single damn day?
Does your boss yell at you if your shoes have a scuff or a bit of dirt? Or if your shirt's not ironed?
Do complete strangers who are more important than you chew your ass if they don't like your appearance that day?
Are you required to have a certain hairstyle, hair length, or hair color at work?
Are you forced to eat lunch at the office every day?
Are you frequently subjected to random urine drug testing?
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?
Does it take you a couple months to figure out your co-workers' first names?
If you're not feeling well, can you call in sick to work?
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?
Do you have to spend the night at work once or twice a week on a regular basis?
Does your job require you to spend months at a time away from home with minimal means to communicate with friends and family?
Are you forced to clean your offices and various spaces around you from 8AM to 9AM every morning, and for three hours every Wednesday?
If 'YES' to #14, does your boss supervise you while you're cleaning your office to make sure you're actually cleaning?
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?
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?
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?
Are you required to pass a physical fitness test to keep your job?
Are you forced to work out with your co-workers on a regular basis?
Are you forced to take monthly exams to make sure that you're still smart enough to keep your job?
Are you forced to complete weekly homework assignments that no one even looks at or grades?
If you slept with a co-worker, would you get fired on the spot?
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:

The luxury of having a job where I could sleep in until at least 7:00, maybe even 8:00!
Calling in sick when you're on your deathbed.
Calling in sick when you're not on your deathbed.
Choosing when I want to take my vacation. Summer? Fall color tour? Winter in the Keys?
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.
Being able to wear normal clothes to work.
Not having to spend the night at work every 4 or 5 days.
Not having to spend the night at work for days, weeks, and eventually months at a time.
The luxury of snuggling up to my husband every night because I'm not spending the night at work.
Being able to have a funky hairstyle, or put blue streaks in my hair if I so desire.
Having my nose pierced again.
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

2010-05-11T17:50:00.002-04:00

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

2010-05-06T23:49:00.000-04:00

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...

2010-05-05T05:21:00.001-04:00

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

2010-05-04T17:35:00.001-04:00

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!

2010-05-03T21:10:00.002-04:00

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? ♦

Grama

2010-04-25T23:45:00.000-04:00

My grandmother passed away on Friday morning.

Now before you go getting all sad on me, you should know that I’m more relieved than anything else at her death.

A few years ago she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Since then, it has been absolutely heartbreaking to watch her slowly deteriorate into an empty shell of the woman she once was.

Just as heartbreaking as watching her mind leave her - and taking her quality of life with it when it left - was watching my grandfather struggle to carry this burden alone. Think The Notebook, only my gramps refused to put her in a nursing home, even after it became obvious that caring for her was starting to take its toll on his health and his spirit. The first time one of my aunts mentioned putting her on a list for an assisted living home, he became very annoyed and upset. “No, no, she’s fine,” he would say. “It's nothing I can't handle."

Stubborn man, my Gramps. And my parents wonder where I get it from.

I don’t really know at what point someone realized that she had a problem that went beyond the normal forgetfulness that comes with old age; but she went from forgetting where she parked her car, to forgetting how to walk, feed herself, and control her bladder in a matter of two years.

It's been rough, to say the least.

But she's no longer in pain and she's in a better place, so I can only be happy about that. I've realized that death only seems terrible when I feel that I'm not ready to let that person go, or when someone's death seems unjust or unfair. When someone is suffering in constant pain - not to mention total mental confusion - then it's much easier to let go.

I got to the point where I prayed that God would taker her away so she wouldn't have to suffer anymore. And I don't think that's a horrible thing to pray for, either.

My grandmother was an absolute angel of a woman, and now she's an angel for real. Rest in peace, Grama... I love you. ♥

Fuck You, Jillian Michaels

2010-04-22T20:41:00.000-04:00

Um, okay.

Has anyone else tried Jillian Michael's 30-Day Shred???

Dear Lord.

All I have to say is... I thought I was in pretty good shape.

I was wrong.

I wanted to die.

I tried to quit (to avoid dying) but the bitch wouldn't let me. The only way I made it through the Day One workout was by cussing her out the entire time. That is, when I could manage to catch enough extra air to pant expletives at the TV.

This better be good.

And if I don't look better in 30 days, I'll hunt her down and kick her ass with every shred of strength I have left in me. ♦

I'm Cool (Even Without Fake Boobies)

2010-04-18T12:30:00.000-04:00

I know. I've been MIA for about a week now.

But not by choice, trust you me. This past week of work has left me drained and devoid of any energy or motivation to do anything other than eat, sleep, and exercise.

And so far, even this weekend is kicking my ass. I'm feeling mucho better after the Head Cold From Hell (which I then gave to Hubs and he continued to make my life hell).

But all this sick-people laundry isn't gonna wash itself, after all. Neither is the bedspread, which the Siamese Priss delicately projectile-vomited on and then walked away from without so much as a "Hey Blondie, I hurled all over your bed. Just thought I'd let ya know. Word." and without even a remorseful flick of her snobbish tail.

I have no less than six draft posts started that have been sitting here, started, waiting to be typed into existence. Unfortunately, the Navy has not yet realized that I have more important things to do (like blogging) than work for them. Pffffft.

Anywho.

Our neighbor Army Guy stopped by.

I've only spoken to Army Guy twice since we moved in; one was a brief conversation the first night we moved here, the other was an even briefer shouting conversation across the cul-de-sac. So basically, I've never had a substantial conversation with the guy.

I wasn't missing much.

Hubs said, "Hey Babe, Army Guy might be stopping by," ~ he was supposed to take a look at some electronic issue with Army Guy's diesel Jetta for him ~ and then he headed up to the bathroom for a quick shower. Sean is pretty good "neighbor-buddies" with him; he's talked to him much much more than I have. His take on Army Guy was "nice guy, but kinda strange."

Still, "strange" did not prepare me for his absolute fucking weirdness.

The doorbell rang and Sean was still upstairs in the shower, so I answered the door. Army Guy. He was all, "Hey, how's it going? Sean's supposed to take a look at my car..." and I was all, "Oh! Yeah, he's upstairs taking a shower real quick, so you can wait... or actually, I can just send him over in a few minutes." By which I meant, "I really don't want you standing inside my front door because then I have to stand here and make small talk with you. Weirdo."

He didn't take the hint. "Naw, that's okay, I don't mind waiting a few minutes. Enjoying the nice day?" Great. Fucking great.

I stood there and talked with him about military shit (of course, because what else do we have in common? not a damn thing. thank goodness.) for almost a full ten minutes before Sean came to the rescue. As they were walking out the front door, which I hadn't even closed yet, me still standing less than four feet from them, Army Guy proclaimed loudly to Sean, "Hey, your wife is pretty cool, man. I haven't really talked to her at all, just in passing, but I had no idea she was cool and shit!"

Sean, with an indescribable backward glance at me, nodded in agreement that yes, his wife was pretty cool; and Army Guy's voice trailed off as I closed the front door, still talking about how cool I was and how lucky Sean was to have a cool wife.

So there. I am cool. Army Guy said so.

When Sean returned, I raised an eyebrow and said, "So I'm cool, huh?" He looked at me with a smirk, shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and said, "I told you he was strange."

So where do boobies come in to all of this, you wonder?

(Well, they don't have anything to do with Army Guy, thank God.)

You'd have to read this rant first to understand completely.

Remember how I told you that my friend Sally sent me this random text the other day? I didn't text her back; and two days later, she called me.

I saw the missed call when I got out of work, and since I have a 45-minute drive home after work, I decided what the hell, I'll call her back.

(Plus, I'll admit it... I was curious as to what was sooooo important that she was breaking an almost year-long silence just to tell me about it. Curiousity killed the cat.)

She answered, and gushed about how she missed me (really? it's been almost a year, you haven't tried calling...) and that she had no idea that we'd moved in January, she just found out a week ago! (This in a questioning, disappointed sort of voice, as if to remind me sadly that I was a terrible friend somehow.)

And then... the bomb.

"Yeah, so I finally got my boobs done three weeks ago. And the Navy paid for them!"

Ugh. I have to hand it to her, I really didn't think that she was going to be able to weasle a free boob job out of the Navy, but apparently she did. Unless she's lying. Which I wouldn't put past her.

Then she bragged and bragged about the boobies for a while, and told me all about how she had an allergic reaction to the anesthesia and ended up in the ICU at the hospital, blah blah blah, words words words.

I ended the (30 minute-long) conversation as quickly and politely as I could.

Just so y'all know... if I ever get anything done to my boobies some day down the road, I will not subject you to hearing about it in full detail. In fact, I may not say anything about it at all.

Because I'm cool like that. And I don't need fake boobies to be cool. ♦

Growing Up Dutch

2010-04-11T16:32:00.000-04:00

So I might've mentioned this ~~a gazillion times~~ once or twice, but I'm Dutch.

Not like no-shit, straight from the Motherland, grew-up-in-Amsterdam's-Red-Light-District Dutch.

Naaahhhh. That would be too exciting.

We're talking forth-generation, straight from southwestern Michigan, Christian Reformed Church, ancestors-left-the-Motherland-because-of-things-that-probably-contributed-to-the-popularity-of-Amsterdam's-Red-Light-District Dutch.

Dutch, Dutch, Dutch. (Spoken in the same tone that Ron Burgundy says, "Scotch, scotch, scotch...". I love that movie!)

Growing up American Dutch meant a lot of things for me. It meant penny-pinching, frugality, and thrift. It meant garage sales and second-hand stores instead of designer jeans. It meant you work hard first, and then play later (but only if there's time, because there's a lot of work to be done!).

It meant not only was going to church important, what church you attended was almost as important as your attendance there. A Dutchman attending a Methodist or Episcopalian church would be cause for suspicion and questioning of said Dutchman's morals and traditional values. Because that's just too "out there" for the rest of the Dutch.

It also meant your last name was of the utmost importance. Because depending on your last name, you were either part of the In-Crowd or you were Not Quite As Good As If You'd Been Dutch. It meant pedigree and family connections were everything.

I grew up in this comfortable yet stifling bubble of Dutchness. It's kind of cool to have traditions and heritage and all that jazz, but sometimes... it can get old real fast. I was relieved to get away from it.

And yet, it follows me. Damn you, Dutch-ness!

Today at work, a guy walked into the office and started talking to someone near me. Now, I have a habit of reading people's last names off their uniforms and consciously trying to remember the name with the face; and it comes in handy quite often. If someone says, "Hey, go give this paper to So-And-So," I may not actually know them personally, but I know who they are and what they look like.

This guy stuck out, because his last name was almost the same as mine; a most obviously Dutch last name. He glanced around the room while he continued his conversation, and his eyes fell on me. He looked at me rather curiously, as do most people who suddenly see a new face in their office after months of seeing the same old faces every day.

"Hey, nice last name," I said humorously, because he was still looking at me rather expectantly, wondering who I was, and it would've become uncomfortable if one of us hadn't broken the silence.

He looked down at his name. Then he looked at mine. His expression changed from one of idle curiousity to interest. And the rest of the conversation went much like all conversations go between two complete strangers who both grew up Dutch.

Him: Weird. You must be Dutch.

Me: Yep.

Him: Are you from Michigan?

Me: Yep.

Him: Are you from Grand Rapids?

Me: Well, I was born there but I didn't grow up there. I have family that lives there though.

Him: Huh. I don't think I know anyone else by your last name.

Me: Well, this is my married name. My maiden name is _____.

Him: (thinks for a second) Really... do you know Jeff _____?

Me: Is he in his early 30s? From Grandville?

Him: Yeah!

Me: Yeah, I know him. He's my second cousin.

And that's always Part I of the the Dutch Strangers conversation... a comparison of hometowns and last names to see if you know each other directly.

I know, what the hell, right?

But this is what Dutch people do; they love to expand their cliquey circle of friends, family and acquaintances whenever possible. (But only if the other person can present the proper credentials and connections, of course.)

The truly amazing thing, though, is how willing the Dutch will automatically trust other Dutch people who do have proper credentials and connects. You can become respectable by association.

You can also become bad-ass by association. For example, people who I've never met know me simply because of a few well-known family connections. And after I married Sean, I became part of his clan; and since his douchebag cousins are intimidating, brawling, play-boy drug dealers/users and run around with a pretty rough crowd, I could be quite scary back at home if I really wanted to be.

But I digress.

Meanwhile, everyone in the office standing close enough to overhear this little exchange looked back and forth between us, mesmerized. At this point, before we were able to start Part II of the Dutch Strangers conversation ~ which is always a comparing of school and churches attended to see how many other friends and family you have in common ~ one of the guys finally interjected and asked, "Wow, is this some sort of Dutch thing? You guys are, like, speaking in secret code or something."

Yep. It's no secret code, but it's definitely a Dutch thing.

Not all roots are shallow. Some roots wither and die when you pull the plant up by the stalk and transplant it elsewhere. Some are strong and stubborn enough that they can survive even in harsh conditions, with poor soil and little water or sunlight.

Once Dutch, always Dutch. Sometimes I'm proud, sometimes I'm all, "Ick!" but for better or worse, it's a part of me.

How do you feel about your roots? ♦

Today I...

2010-04-09T16:29:00.026-04:00

Today I feel very stream-of-conscious-ish.

Today I woke up with the peculiar feeling that, while not quite sick yet, I was going to get sick. That feeling has never failed me. Sure enough, it didn't get any better by the time I got to work; scratchy throat, dry hacking cough that makes your chest burn afterwards, feverish and a little light-headed. After morning muster I headed down to sick call and arrived at Medical at 8:05.

The corpsman at the front desk gave me a sympathetic look and then all but told me to go fuck myself. "Shouldna been late for sick call," he drawled. I never go to Medical (and this is exactly the reason why) because in the Navy, you are only allowed to be ill during the sick call hours of 7:30 to 8:00 in the morning. After 8:00, you must be lying in order to try to get out of work, because "if you're so sick, why didn't you come to sick call this morning? Huh?" Asses.

Today my senior chief took pity on me and let my sickly ass leave at noon, mostly because ~~my usefulness factor is equivalent to that of an infant~~ ~~he must've gotten laid last night~~ he's such a nice guy.

Today I ran into a girl from my boot camp division. She's the first person (besides the Nukes) from my boot camp div that I've run into since I graduated two years ago. She was standing quarterdeck watch as I boarded the ship.

She looked at me funny. I looked at her funny. Neither one of us said anything. Even though she was one of the ~~less bitchy~~ nicer girls from boot camp, I had nooooooo desire to talk to her. Just seeing her face almost sent me into a flashback seizure. Interesting how you can spend nine intimate weeks of pure hell with someone and still feel no common bond with them afterwards?

Besides, what is there to say? "Hey, remember me from boot camp? Yeah... soooo... what have you been up to since then? Oh? You've been slaving your life away in the Navy? Me too, how weird... *uncomfortably long pause* well, see ya later..." Nope, no thanks. I'd rather spare us both the awkwardness and walk away without saying anything and instead let her think I'm a stuck-up bitch.

Today I heard a commercial for a local car dealership on the radio. A woman's voice blared from car speakers, "Hurry before the savings ends and get your ass into a brand-new Kia today!" Startled, I thought maybe I had heard wrong. They didn't actually say 'ass', they said 'a-bleep!', but still... I shook my head, chalked it up to not having drank enough coffee yet, and forgot about it.

Today on the way home, I heard the same commercial again. It definitely said "...get your a-bleeeeeep! into a brand new Kia today!" What the fuck is the world coming to when an everyday commercial has to have obscenity in it? I'm obviously not opposed to potty language, but I found it a little offensive because it simply seemed so unprofessional.

Like the house that Sean looked at here before we moved from South Carolina. We loved it but decided not to rent because the skeezy realtor dropped variations of the word "fuck" into casual conversation no less than three times while showing it to him. As Sean disgustedly put it, "Who the fuck says 'fuck' when trying to close a business deal with a total stranger??" It's just bad business, plain and simple. It grabs the auditory senses, assuredly, but a lot of conservatives out there (people like my parental units) will hear that commercial and decide never to buy a car from that dealer simply because of one little bleeped-out word.

Today I ate half a bag of dark chocolate Easter M&Ms that I bought at Walgreens earlier this week (50% off, people! How could I say no??) and then hid from Sean because I had just finished admonishing him the day before about how we should really start eating more healthy food and less crap. Oops. And I wonder why I don't have supermodel legs...

And now you know where cellulite comes from and why it's all lumpish-looking. It's all those damn M&Ms that went straight to the thighs without being digested properly.

Today I got a weird text from Sally. (If you're confused, just click the 'Harry And Sally' label and enjoy. She's a piece of work, that one.) She hasn't once attempted to talk to me since she moved to another part of the base in SC last summer, and the silence has been golden. Golden, people. "Hay just wanted to say hi and see how ur doin!" Oh, Sally... *shakes head and smiles*... you're so transparent. Interpreted properly, this text actually reads "Hay I have mad drama to complain about and since I burned some bridges and don't have any friends at the moment, I thought I'd lure you into my web of drama so I'll have someone to complain to about it!" Ick. Or perhaps I should call her. I could use a good laugh.

Today I took a rare nap. Unless I'm truly ill to the verge of non-functional, or falling asleep while walking a la Mr. Bean in Rat Race, I never nap. I always feel guilty, as though I have more productive things to do than sleeping and I can't sleep until they're all done. Is this normal?

Ironically enough, I waste way more time reading and writing blogs than I would if I was napping. Go figure. ♦

When Paying Bottom Dollar Isn't Worth It

2010-04-07T22:05:00.003-04:00

Something like this would never happen to moi, but:

There was this girl.

The girl decided not to go to the commissary last Friday but instead stopped at local grocery chain store called Bottom Dollar to pick up a few essential groceries, because she was in a hurry and it was on the way home.

In retrospect, the girl admitted that she should've known better than to shop at an establishment with a name like 'Bottom Dollar'... but their mail flyer had advertised such good sale prices! She couldn't resist.

But anywho.

The girl snagged a cart and began her quest. A few groceries turned into a whole cartful of groceries, and half an hour later, she made her way to the checkout lane. After the socially awkward clerk rang up all the groceries and she paid for them, she turned to take her cart of bagged-up purchases and leave.

Only the purchases weren't bagged. Items littered the cart in exactly the same manner they had been before.

"Oh. Okay? Er... do you not bag groceries here??" she inquired, a bit put off. The awkward clerk looked at her and quickly shifted his gaze to a spot on the floor. "Um, no... we just sell them," he replied awkardly, still staring intently at the floor. "But there's boxes for you to put them in right over there by that counter if you want."

"Ugh, what the fuck kind of place is this?" she thought vexedly as she pushed her cart over to the boxing counter and began offloading her groceries into cardboard boxes. So much for getting home quickly.

Just then, an adorable African-American boy with dimples and a big smile, who looked to be no more than 10 years old, approached her and asked, "Excuse me, ma'am? Excuse me, did your, uh... did your, um, tattoos hurt??" She smiled at him kindly and replied, "Well, mostly no, but some of them did. It depends on where you get it."

He nodded but didn't go away, just stood there staring at her for several seconds. She looked at him inquiringly since he obviously had more questions about getting tattoos. With a nervous but mischievous smirk he suddenly stated boldly, "Yeah? Well, I think you should get my name tattooed on your arm right here!" and gestured at his entire forearm from wrist to elbow.

Say whaaaat?

The girl was caught completely off-guard. The kid glanced triumphantly over at a twenty-something-ish man standing nearby (his dad? older brother?) whom the girl hadn't noticed until then, and who was looking away and making a very bad attempt to hiding his sniggering behind his hand. After a few seconds of blankly staring at the boy, she finally managed to collect her wits enough to reply with her own smirk, "Yeah? Well, I'm not sure my husband would be too crazy about that. What do you think?"

But all the bravado left him when he realized that his attempt to spit game had failed miserably, and without a reply lil' Romeo slunk away shamefaced and followed his (still sniggering) dad out the door. The girl stood for a second, rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, shook her head, and turned to finish ~~bagging~~ boxing her food. An employee pushing some carts past laughed and said, "Bet you've never gotten asked that before, huh?"

"Nope. At least, not by a ten year-old!"

She then hastily boxed the rest of her groceries and left, vowing under her breath never to return to Bottom Dollar again.

And the moral of this story is:

You really do get what you pay for. Sometimes saving a few pennies just isn't worth the headache.

But then again... crushing the ego of a prepubescent boy with mad flirting skills? Priceless. ♦

Open Mouth And Promptly Insert Foot

2010-04-05T20:37:00.003-04:00

I've been known to be extremely good at sticking my proverbial foot in my mouth.

My words sometimes come back to bite me in the ass; and I feel that old familiar stabbing at my consciousness from my old buddy, that annoying little bitch known as Guilt.

Every once in a while she stares me down until I'm uncomfortably forced to admit to myself that I am not always a nice person.

*Gasp!!!*

I know, I just totally ruined my image of bad-assery for you, didn't I?

Remember this post from not too terribly long ago about my friend A? Well.

She still reads my blog apparently, even though she deleted hers. And she read this post.

And then she commented about it. And it wasn't a nasty comment.

It was quite a shock, and I was left with the thought, "Why wasn't she a total bitch to me? I would've been. Wow. I am a total asshole sometimes."

Have you ever had that moment? You know... the moment where you realize that you crossed a line somewhere and said some pretty nasty, hurtful things about someone who ~ although they frustrated you to no end on occasion ~ had never done anything ever to hurt you? Because, you see, that person happened to read all the nasty things you wrote about them and then called you out on it? And in that moment, you realized that you might actually not be as nice of a person as you'd like to think you are, and you're not quite as non-judgmental as you'd led yourself to believe?

Yeah, well I've had that moment. With a vengeance.

I'm not sure why A didn't rip me a new asshole. Her and I have had a long, loooooonnng conversation via e-mail about that post over the past few days, and it blows my mind that not once has she said anything bitter or vindictive either to me or about me in the course of the e-mail conversation.

She could have. I would have if the tables had been turned. If any of you wrote a nasty, hurtful post about me, I'd be all like, "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, have a nice life, The End." But no-o-o-oooo. She was as nice as someone could be given the circumstances.

On a side note, she did clarify some of the issues that I were frustrating me and caused me to feel like writing that post in the first place.

While I think both of us know that things between us will never be quite the same again, and while I wouldn't recommend "bitch posting" as a good way to inadvertently tell your friends that you're frustrated with them... I think we might get through this ~~gaping and awkward hole~~ snag in our friendship.

I've learned a few things about myself this week.

I've learned that I'm really not as "accepting" as I think I am. As weird as it may seem, I tend to be open-armed and accepting of people whom most others would pass judgment on; and I tend to pass judgment on people whose lives are relatively normal and ordinary.

Is it just slightly fucked up that I'm totally unfazed by someone who used to be a crack whore for a living (although I don't have any former crack whores in my life at this particular moment), but when someone with a nice normal life comes along, I get all, "You are such an epic fail." How perverse am I? "Sorry, if you don't have any skeletons in your closet, we can't be friends." What the fuck?

I've been doing some pretty deep searching over this, because I'm someone who prides myself on not being a judgmental asshole. Snarky, yes. Judgmental, no. Because that would mean I've turned into the thing that's always bothered me the most about my parents.

I was raised with the always unspoken yet very clear impression that people who weren't like us weren't quite good enough. And by "like us" I mean people who were good Christian people (preferably good Dutch Christian people who went to a respectable church that didn't have any hand-raising or guitar-playing). People who went to church twice on Sundays. People who weren't divorced and didn't have broken homes. People who didn't have any skeletons in the closet or any scandalous family members.

This always unsettled me. I wanted to ask my parents, "How is this setting a Christian example? Why would anyone want to be a Christian "like us" when all I see is you passing judgment on those who are not just like you? Because if I can see the judgment in your eyes and heart, they can see it too." But I didn't. It would've started yet another pointless argument, and I was tired of arguing.

Growing up in this mold of perfection did quite a number on me. By the time I was 18, I was seething with unanswered questions and rage over the years of repression and guilt trips (some of it real, some of it probably conjured up by my rebellious teenage mind). Once I was on my own and scot free, I lashed out at the version of Normal that had been instilled in me.

So much so that I've been unwittingly hanging on to the leftovers of that rage and frustration all this time. I have such a hard time stomaching people ~ especially women ~ who give off an aura of The Good Little Wifey, or the Doting Mommy, or The Perfect "Leave It To Beaver" Family.

Those stereotypes were what was expected of me, and in that sense, I've always had this nagging sense of disapproval (mostly parental disapproval) following me around for my entire adult life. Because I didn't fit into them, and I probably never will.

I lost my innocence and naivete years ago. I went to college just to get as far away from my parents as I could. I moved out when I was eighteen so that I could do whatever the hell I wanted. I partied. I drank. I had a fake ID. I can neither confirm nor deny that I might have dabbled in some gateway drugs from time to time. I had sex out of wedlock. I drank and drove. I swore like a sailor. I got tattoos. I got piercings. I vandalized a few buildings, I smashed some mail boxes, and I may or may not have exploded someone's TV by throwing it off the roof of my two-story house in a fit of annoyance.

I did other things that I won't mention here because A) I'm not ready to talk about them here, B) my Little Sis reads this blog and she's probably gasping for air right now as it is, and C) they would require their own posts.

I digress.

My point is this: I've realized that judge people who have normal, boring, ordinary lives. And that's not right. Just because I rebelled against a mold that I didn't want to be forced into, doesn't mean they are weaklings who succumbed to being forced into a mold. After all, maybe they wanted to fit into that mold all on their own? Who am I to point fingers and judge?

Some people want that ordinary life with the prospect of a nine-to-five husband and father, a stay-at-home mom, three kids, a dog, a house, a white picket fence, and annual vacations to Disneyland. That's the life I grew up with, and that's the tradition I was (and possibly still am) expected to carry on.

But I don't want it. Not now, maybe not ever.

Still, it doesn't give me the right to judge those who do want that kind of a life and are happy living it.

Along with this, I've realized this week that I have not "arrived." I'm not always the bigger person or the better person in many situations. I am an asshole sometimes. I'm too outspoken and opinionated sometimes. I wouldn't trade myself for anyone else, and thank God neither would Hubby, but still. Sometimes I wonder how and why people manage to keep on loving me even when I'm blatantly not loveable on occasion. It took A busting me out on my post about her to realize this about myself.

The day you die is not the day they bury you in the ground; the day you die is the day that you decide to stop learning, changing, or growing.

Self-realization is by far the most painful lesson learned in life. At least for me. ♦

How I Became Nuke Girl

2010-03-30T05:17:00.002-04:00

A while back in a comment on another post, Rose asked me why I joined the Navy in the first place.

Funny that I've never really talked about that before on here.

So here you go, Rose et al...

There are people back home, old acquaintances from another life, that I still run into when I'm home or who hunt me down on FB and are all like, "Hey! Missy, omg! What have you been up to lately? I haven't seen/talked to you in forever!" When I tell them I'm in the Navy, I live in another state, blah blah blah, the emotions and reactions that cross their faces or blaze across my computer screen are quite interesting. Surprise, mostly. Shock. Disbelief. Wonder. Confusion. Amazement.

I can't really blame them. I used to be, well... the least likely candidate for joining the military.

So, why did I join the Navy?

Well for starters, ever since the movie G.I. Jane came out when I was in high school, I always thought the idea of being in the military sounded so bad ass. G.I. Jane is still my hero. I know. But it's true. And I would shave my head in a heartbeat if the occasion called for it (and hopefully the occasion never calls for it, because I would be one fugly bald chick).

Anyways, I liked the idea of it.

Ten years later, the thought of joining the military became something more than just a thought.

It was the summer of 2007. That summer I was, in a word, restless. I had quit my six-year stint at the dealership earlier that year and my roommate Amanda had hooked me up with a job at the monkey factory. It was an interesting job, and I didn't hate it by any means; but once the glamor and excitement of the new job wore off, I found that I was still restless.

I knew I needed to go back to school if I was ever going to find a job that wasn't a dead end and paid a decent salary, but I hated the thought of going back to school. And besides, I didn't have the money.

It's super easy to find plenty of excuses not to go back to school when you're mid-twenties, single, supporting yourself, barely scraping by, living paycheck-to-paycheck and with no savings account to boot. If you've been there, you know.

To add to my restlessness that summer, the Hubs was the Boyfriend back then. We'd been dating for a few months, but things were not all peaches and cream. It probably had something to do with the fact that I was unaware (but starting to suspect) that he had a drinking problem. We were sort of on the outs on that particular June day.

I was outside having a smoke break to calm down, fuming over some insignificant political power-play that had just happened in my boss's office; and also fuming over the fact that even though the monkeys I wrestled all day long had a far higher IQ than my boss, I had to do everything he said. I thought to myself, "I need a change. A big change."

Well, I've always been a "go big or go home" kind of girl. The problem lie in the fact that whenever I'd set out to do something, I would always start out ambitious and determined, but then fade out quickly at the first sign of difficulty. I was ~ and still am sometimes ~ the most ambitious lazy person I've ever met. Perseverance? What's that??

But I digress.

There I was, a ciggy in one hand and my cell phone in the other. I looked at it for a moment, took a deep breath and with trembling fingers, dialed the number. "Naval Recruiting Station, Petty Officer Blahbitiblah speaking, how may I help you, Sir or Ma'am?" I said, "Uh... yes, I'm thinking about joining the Navy and I want some information...?" as though it were a question rather than a statement.

Pause. Looooong pause.

He probably thought it was a prank call. I didn't know it at the time, but recruiters don't get very many people calling and flinging themselves at the Navy. They're usually on the phone all day long, pulling out eye teeth just to get a couple high school kids to come in and get some information about joining the Navy.

"Uh, okay... yeah, SURE!" in his most ~~excited~~ professional tone of voice.

So that very day when I left work, I drove straight to the recruiting station. The looks on their faces said it all when I walked in the door in all of my Silver-jeaned, wedge-sandaled glory. She's a joke. No way she's here to join the Navy. Easy on the eyes but probably not a brain cell in her pretty blonde head. "Hi, what can we help you with?" one of the recruiters asked rather disinterestedly. Suddenly, the determination kicked in.

"I want to join the Navy," I said.

And that was how it all began.

There's more to the story but that's the basic gist of it.

In a way, it was a selfish decision. My parents, being the conservative traditionalists that they are, were none too happy about it. A woman's place is at home, they said, not off fighting wars. I tried to explain that I would probably never be sitting in a trench in Iraq somewhere getting shot at, but it didn't help. Sean was also extremely upset about it. How can you do this?, he asked, I'll never see you again. I told him that he could come with me, and I hoped that he would; but that that was his choice, and I had to make this choice for myself.

Many other people looked at me like I was crazy. I could see the thoughts on their faces. Crazy Missy, cooking up another one of her crazy ideas that she'll never follow through on. One particular frenemy from the dealership even had the gall to ask me, "Why are you doing this? You're too smart to join the military!" I didn't grace her idiocy with a reply, I simply smiled.

I joined the Navy because I was searching for a different life. Note I said a different life, not an easier life.

I joined because I wanted to do something that had meaning, something that gave me a sense of accomplishment and something to take pride in.

I joined to get out of the small, podunk town I grew up in; to get away from the same old people who were all up to no good and doing the same old things at the same old bars on the same night every week. When your 25 and you look back and realize that nothing about your life has changed in the past 6 or 7 years, you either shove that realization farther down inside you, or you use that realization to get off the path you're heading down.

I joined the Navy specifically to honor my grandfathers. Both of them were in the Navy. My Opa, God rest his soul, never lived to see me join the Navy and that makes me incredibly sad sometimes, because he would be so proud of me right now. My Grampa, who is still very much alive and kicking, is very proud of me right now. It's a special connection that he and I share, and we chat quite often on the phone, just "talking shop."

I joined the Navy because I was tired of making a living and wanted to actually live my life. I wanted to look back someday when I was an old lady and say, I did that. I did it even though I was scared shitless to do it, and I'm not sorry I did it.

I'm not sorry. If I hadn't joined the Navy, I would still be sitting in my little podunk town in Michigan, spinning my wheels and going nowhere fast.

The one thing in life I could never do was overcome my fears and step out into The Unknown. Finding the courage to finally take that first step into the abyss, and committing to something that I knew I would be forced to see through to the end, changed me forever.

Amongst other reasons, I am who I am today because I joined the Navy. If I'd known back then how challenging it would actually be, could I have done it? No, probably not. The Old Me would've chickened out. If I could go back and do it all again right now, would I do it? Would I still join?

Yes. In a heartbeat.

I'll tell you the rest some other time if you want, but that's how Nuke Girl came into existence. ♦

And Now I Remember Why I Quit The Dealership

2010-03-27T11:37:00.002-04:00

I've had a lot of interesting jobs in my lifetime. That's what happens when you start working at the tender age of thirteen.

Factories, fast food, flower shops, working with grease monkeys, wrestling real monkeys.... yes, you read that correctly. I did hand-to-hand combat with real live no-shit monkeys for a living.

(You can read all about my job history here if you're interested.)

But more than the interesting jobs, I've worked with a lot of ~~fucking weirdos~~ interesting people. A lot. But every once in a while, one person stands out particularly.

Once upon a time I worked at a car dealership. And while ~~most~~ all people think car salesmen are slimy at best (and ~~all~~ most of them are), many of them in my experience are more of the harmless, creepy, weirdo type.

And then some of them are creepy, weirdo, and not so harmless.

Like maybe this guy? My old roomie Amanda (who also worked with me and this guy at the dealership) forwarded this story to me in an e-mail today. Heebie-jeebies!

The bastard made the 6:00 evening news and everything.

I worked with him for quite a few years at the dealership. I always thought he was a creepy tard, but he seemed harmless enough and never really bothered me too much.

He was a little kooky, and he definitely shoved too much cocaine up his nose; but he certainly didn't seem like the kind of guy who would shoot up his apartment. Or hide a cocked and loaded gun under his 3 year-old daughter's mattress??

WTF.

The news report says it was an "accident." I say... accident schmaccident.

"There is no such thing as accident: it is fate misnamed." ~ Napoleon Bonaparte

No accidents, just fate. And I believe we choose our own fate. Poor choices eventually lead to unfortunate consequences. You can blame all your problems and issues on the fact that your mom was an alcoholic, or your dad was never around; but in the end, we choose to either be victims of our circumstances or we choose to rise above our circumstances.

This loser chose to endanger the lives of his family for God only knows what reason.

Kinda makes you take stock of the people you work with a little more closely, huh?

If you haven't heard the Dane Cook skit "Creepy Guy At Work," you should. It's hilarious. And true.

There's always at least one weirdo at work. ♦

Scuffles, Shuffles, And Shuffleboard Love

2010-03-24T22:31:00.001-04:00

Some random thoughts that have somehow been filtered out of the whirpool called my brain today.

While waiting for a safety brief to begin today, I turned to my buddy Sheay and quietly reminded him of the papers to bring if he wanted to talk to the reenlistment guy tomorrow. I wasn't speaking in my outdoor 50-yard voice, but rather in my nice calm you're-five-inches-away-from-me voice. All of a sudden this huge, fat, sweaty beefcake of a mechanic with bulgy eyes and scraggly, sweaty hair who was sitting several feet in front of us whipped around in his chair and glared at me.

"Are you talking about reenlisting?" he demanded to know accusingly. "Uh... yes...?" I replied, totally taken aback by his demeanor and more than a little frightened by his appearance.

And that was about the time he got red in the face (okay, purple really) and shouted vehemently, "If you reenlist, you're a fucking retard!" He maintained eye contact for several seconds to emphasize his point, then turned to Sheay, repeated his statement, and launched into a full expose on all the evils of reenlisting.

I just stared. I was pissed. If a friend or even an acquaintance had lavished these kinds of niceties on me, I would've flipped. my. shit. I really don't appreciate people yelling "Fucking retard!" at me a mere six inches from my face.

However, not knowing this huge blob of lard from Adam, and being unwilling to cuss him out in front of a room full of complete strangers, I just stared. And then raised an eyebrow, and with the most superior and condescending look I could muster, replied in a deathly quiet voice, "Well, reenlistment or no, you're a fucking psycho, dude. Don't ever yell in my face again."

Wheeeeeeeew.... (shakes head) takes all kinds....

A conversation with Hubs last night while falling asleep:

Me: "What are you going to do {for er, uh, you know, release} when I'm on deployment someday?"

Hubs: "Hang a big naked picture of you on the wall and... (makes graphic hand motions with sound effects)."

Me: "Ewww. Just don't get it on the wall, okay?"

Hubs: (innocently) "Well, how else did you think I was going to get the picture to stay up there?"

I tried to be disgusted and grossed out, but I couldn't help it. I laughed.

I get irritated when people shuffle their feet while they're walking. Even more so if they're walking sloooowwly and shuffling their feet.

There's something about the noise of sole scraping pavement that's almost as grating as fingernails on a chalkboard. Or those damn kids in the grocery store who decide to hang off the basket like they're professional water skiers, while Mom plows determinedly down the aisle. Grrrrrr. The foot shuffle is unattractive in children, but adults? Ten times worse.

The manner in which you walk is a direct reflection of your attitude and your outlook on life. People who shuffle might as well wear a sandwich board sign that says, "I'm so lazy, lethargic and slobby that I can't even be bothered to put one foot in front of the other, so I'll just drag it along behind me until it catches up. Picking up my foot off the ground sounds like waaaay too much work." Lazy slobs.

You know what's completely and utterly yuck? Old People Love. No, no, not the cute old people who sit on the park bench holding hands and looking at each other lovingly. The old people who make sexual comments and gestures to each other or their friends and then laugh uproariously at their own jokes.

I witnessed two old couples leaving the movies in front of me, and I wasn't paying them much attention until the old man in front of me ~ who had to have been at least 70 ~ reached over and pinched his wife's rear. He smirked. She giggled like a schoolgirl. I looked at over at Sean in horror. He hadn't noticed.

No one noticed except for me, as usual. I don't ever want to be old. I have a fear of being old and saggy and wrinkly. I also don't ever want to see an old man pinch an old woman's ass ever again. The thought of old people love makes me shudder. The thought of being an old person myself someday and making old person love... blech.

Although, I guess when we're old as dirt, I hope that Hubs is still the mischievous ass-pinching kind and not the grumpy, crusty, "Eh? Eh, Matilda! What'd you do with my circulation socks? Dammit, woman, they were right here next to the shower chair!" kind.

And if you made it through all that nonsense, congrats.

It's been a random-ass week so far, and these are the things that cross my twisted and imaginative mind throughout the day. And telling you about it is how I self-medicate.

In better and brighter news: I have a formspring up at the top of the blog now, so if you'd like to hear about things other than foot shufflers, masturbation and old people love, feel free to direct me to a topic that interests you a bit more! ♦