My Ass and the Boxes from Hell

I am trying as hard as I can to figure out when the fuck we acquired so much shit and for the life of me I just cannot figure out where the hell 10,500 pounds of crap came from.  Two moving trucks completely full of all the shit that makes up the Thornburg household times one month in a hotel equals on seriously pissed-the-fuck-off Kate.  God, I fucking HATE PCSing. 

And why does PCSing suck balls, you may ask.  This time it was a "simply" DITY move from Hohenfels to Pfullendorf, just a three hour jaunt from one post in Germany to another and not the leap across the pond back to the states that it could have been.  What could be so awful about a relatively (in Army terms anyway) short move?  Well, here's the list.

1. We packed our shit ourselves, which is always a delightful time.  My husband is really helpful the first day or two and then he turns into asshole hubby, making demands about what gets packed next and watching me pack boxes.  He helps load stuff into the truck, but I swear that it feels like he spends more time standing around waiting for a box to load than he actually works. 

2.  The Army has this new automated system for all the finance bullshit now, so you get paid for the move. . . eventually.  Usually after you've forked out a couple of thousand dollars to pay for the trucks and the boxes and the hotel and the meals and the and the. . .  And the finance office in Hohenfels is as useless as tits on a bull about helping with any of this, so if you happen to be there for any reason, take my advice and be prepared to scream "FUCK!" a few million times at, to or about the lazy mother fuckers who work in that office.

3.  Clearing housing with asshole hubby is fun, too.  You have to clean the place to "clear" it, and he is one OCD bastard.  I don't clean or anything on a regular basis--it's OK to have children and live in squalor, you know.  OCD bastard makes me want to suck start a pistol, but only after I feed him a bullet or two.

4.  Moving from government quarters to living strictly on the economy in a German rental is a fine idea, until you try to find a German home that is big enough for a family of seven and that doesn't cost $2500 a month to rent.  Now further limit yourself to a specific ten square kilometer area to find a house in just to make sure that you aren't driving 3-4 hours a day driving your kid back and forth to the one English speaking school in the vicinity.  Hahahahahaha!  Fuck that.  B is getting homeschooled and we will take the house that fits our family and budget. 

5.  Now that you have found a house, you have to wait a month to move in so you'll be living in a hotel room with 5 kids.  And keep in mind that one of those children is the infamous E, whose greatest joys in life are to never stop talking, never sleep, and to find new and creative ways to injure himself--in the course of that month he will endure 2 split lips, 1 face plant on concrete, more bruises from falling than I can count, 1 scraped knee for each day there, 1 rubber ball to the nose, 1 tumble down a flight of marble stairs headfirst, 1 head bashed into a window sill, 1 torn toenail, 1 nosebleed from headbutting his brother, multiple incidents of scraping his hands on gravel, and one black eye. 

6.  And finally, there are the boxes.  More boxes than you ever thought was possible to need to pack up your tiny government quarters.  More boxes than the Queen of England needs to pack up Buckingham Palace.  More boxes than God could ever use.  And to add to the mayhem, let's just forget to label some of those boxes so you are completely fucked when you try to figure out which room in a four story house a particular box needs to go to.  Then throw in asshole husband who wants everything done yesterday, four kids who want their shit unpacked and set up right fucking now and are not shy about saying so, mountains of paper, and a fifteen month old who is wearing a diaper full of the most nauseating shit ever evacuated from a human being and which is slowly reaching the level of vomit inducing stench because he's had it on for 10 or 12 hours because Mom has been neglecting him because she's so fucking busy trying to unpack!  Fuck it all!  This time I was a little slower than usual unpacking, but it still only took four days to finish unpacking everything and now the house is HOME.  I do not know or understand how anyone can live out of boxes for months on end.  No one can beat this bitch when it comes to getting this moving shit done. 

Now, on a positive note, we are moved into the most amazing, gorgeous, huge house we have ever lived in, the kids are happy, and all the boxes are fucking GONE!  But, by far, the best news is that my pants once again fit on my ass!!  I am back to my pre-pregnancy size and all it took to achieve it was a month in a hotel, suicidal level stress, and lifting and shifting more than 10,000 pounds of household shit. 

I Don't Need No Fucking Sleep!!

You would think that by 3 1/2 years of age, a child would be sleeping through the fucking night, but NO!  My little shithead son likes to get up at 2am every day just to fuck with his very pregnant mother and make her feel even more like ass than she would if all she had to contend with was looking like a bowling ball and being kicked in the ribs day and night.  To be fair, it's not E's fault that he's up in the middle of the night.  He has allergies.  So he can't fucking breathe and wakes up coughing his lungs out and blowing out enough snot to sink the damned Titanic. 

I guess I should be happy that I at least know what the fuck is wrong with my kid, but it's hard to happy when it took the doctors at the hospital here a fucking YEAR to listen to me.  I'm just his mother.  I'm the one who knows how many people come in the house with communicable diseases that he can pick up.  But what the fuck do I know?  Other than it is NOT normal for a two and three year old to be sick every fucking month and to be pouring so much mucus out of his nasal cavity that his normally hospital-shy parental unit condescends to make appointments to have him seen by a doctor, who is supposed to know their ass from a hole in the ground?  After a year of being told he had a cold (that's the longest fucking cold in history and the kid should probably be dead by now), I finally got to see a different doctor who said he has allergies.  Put him on Zyrtec.  Nose stops running like a sieve.  Kid sleeps.  Fantastic. 

Yeah, right.  The Zyrtec may do its job and stop the river of snot from flowing, but there is just one tiny issue.  Apparently, my little son is allergic to the allergy medicine!   How the fuck is that even possible?  I give him Zyrtec and he can suddenly breathe and therefore (to my great and abiding delight) sleep, but he gets a rash which he scratches incessantly so he has scabs all over his back and belly!  Nice. Seriously, if these are the brilliant doctors that are serving the active duty personnel and their families, I would hate to have to deal with the fucktards they must have serving the VA! 

 So we are yet again off to the fucking doctor to see how the hell they are going to take care of this, because I am no longer in the mood to deal with their blatant stupidity.  Please, piss off the pregnant lady.  If they thought I was a bitch before, they have NO idea what they are in for now that I am sleep-deprived and experiencing all the so-called joys of being pregnant.  Whoever said that pregnant women glow never had the pleasure of being around me whilst I was pregnant. . . If I glow, it's from sheer unadulterated rage. 

So on top of the non-sleeping little ass, I also get to deal with my husband who is a big ass.  There is a rotation going on right now, which means that all those days off that everyone supposedly gets he doesn't.  12-18 hour days every day.  He worked Memorial Day weekend, which was a four-day DONSA.  So when he's home, he's tired.  I get it.  I really fucking do, which is precisely WHY I sit up with the little man and let him sleep whenever he can, but damn it!  I wish he would figure out that being 20 pounds heavier than usual, getting kicked, and sitting up all night with a sick kid mean that I am fucking tired too!  "I'll stay up with E tonight.  I got some decent sleep and I'm feeling more awake today.  You go to bed early and rest," he says to me.  Um, being asleep on the couch at 9PM before the kid has even gone to bed is NOT staying up with E! 

Now I do have to confess that I did get to take a nap today.  This was after E got up at 0230 and was up and down until 0500.  I was up at 0730 to make sure all the teenagers that had invaded my house after prom last night got off to their respective homes in a timely fashion.  Finally got a nap after noon.  Two hours worth.  (Here's where I do a happy dance and announce how GRATEFUL I am to have such a loving husband that he will allow me to take a nap at all, considering that I sit at home all day and he WORKS.)  But then, after my two hours of blissful repose, the hubby feels the need to take a shower, slam closet doors, and leave the kids to scream and rant and rave and run around.  Guess I'm getting the fuck up.

So here I am at 2335 bitching about the lack of sleep I have been experiencing because I really have nothing better to do until his royal highness wakes up choking on mucus again which is becoming so regular I can almost set my clocks by his coughing fits.  I have about 20 minutes before round one begins in the booger battle royale, so I should shut the fuck up and get the barf bucket ready.  Oh joy. . .  

P.S.  With respect to my husband (who is typically not an ass, except when he basically lives at work), who really did in fact fall asleep on the couch before the kid had gone to bed, that very kid who had not been to bed in even now sleeping on the couch with his father.  So when the little fucker wakes up to cough and choke and puke, he'll be waking up daddy dearest.  Probably with a kick to the balls because he is asleep between my husband's legs.  Oops.  So I guess one way or another, the hubby will be staying true to his word and "staying up with E tonight."  Fuck you very much. 

Happy Anniversary to Me

I'm getting fucking old.  I cannot believe I've been married for 18 years, 16 of which have been as an Army wife.  And it's apparently difficult for other people to believe that a marriage, especially a military one, can survive so long.  I am constantly asked what the secret is. There's the usual crap--honesty, faithfulness and communication.  Yeah, yeah.  We do all that but that's not what really makes our marriage a good one.  So here it is, the great secret that I've been keeping to myself--first and foremost, my husband is my friend.  Secondly, you cannot sweat the small stuff--you know, like deployments and shitty pay and crap work schedule and stupid people.  That's it.  That's my secret. 

Here's a good example.  Upon my hubby first going active duty, his first unit is the Rakkasans.  Ranger standards (although most Rakks will tell you Rangers are pussies) and an inordinately ridiculous training schedule with field problems every couple of months.  We get to Campbell, get thrown into this unit, and I'm thinking "What the FUCK is going on?"  He gets paid next to nothing, works 12-15 hours days, and leaves for weeks on end every other month.  Talk about a rude wake up call as to what exactly military life is going to be like. 

But you get used to it.  You adapt.  You learn to treasure the little things, like DONSAs and tax returns.  But I think the biggest surprise for me was that I could manage on my own and that my marriage was actually better than it had been before the Army.  Somewhere along the line, in the midst of all the bullshit and insanity, I had learned a valuable but simple truth--absence does make the heart grow fonder, and by this I mean that about the time I was ready to kill the motherfucker that is my husband, he left and by the time he came back, I actually missed him. 

So when 9/11 happened and he came home from work just ecstatic that he was finally going to put all the weeks and months of training to use (or as he put it, "to go kill some motherfuckers"), I was ready.  Another nice long break from the bastard.  Nice!  And he gets paid extra while he's gone so this could be a REALLY good thing.  So 6 months later, he's in Afghanistan and I get to experience deployment and all the bullshit firsthand.  Six months of nail biting later, I had survived, the children were still alive, and the house wasn't falling down.  The hubby came home without a scratch.  And after six months, I was really glad to have him home.  (And not just for the sex, alothough that is nice.  For the comradery, friendship, adult conversation, help with the kids.  Stuff like that.  OK.  But mostly the sex.)

After a whopping 4 months at home, he's off to BNOC for two months (which I was not terribly happy about, because I wasn't tired of him yet) and they had to graduate him a few days early to deploy to Iraq for OIF-1.  36 hours at home from school, leaving a trail of TA-50, bitching when he can't find something, treating me like his personal valet, and then he's off to war and I'm on my own again.  You know what, after those 36 hours, I was really happy to see that fucker leave.  He got the standard Kate good-bye.  "Keep your head down, your ass tucked in, and I'll see you when you get home."  I was so proud of myself.  At no point did I tell him he was an asshole or a miserable son of a bitch like he deserved.  See, I can be nice.  Fucker.

Now preparatory to deployment, I had called all the wives in my hubby's squad to introduce myself and let them know that I was available should they need anything.  Advice, a friendly ear, help with a military issue, whatever.  So the boys leave and two days into deployment, I get a call from an hysterical wife.  She's not sick, no issues with the military side of things, no kid problems.  She called me because she was "lonely and didn't know what to do. . . "  Great.  A whiny fucking bitch. 

However, contrary to what this blog may reveal about my typical method of handling stress and situations that may arise, I can be diplomatic when absolutely necessary (just don't expect it very fucking often).  I calmed her down, gave her the chaplain's number, suggested she maybe volunteer or get a job to stay busy and keep her mind off of things, get a hobby, and to not worry because the Rakks are the best at what they do and the boys will be fine.  Go me.  She couldn't leave well enough alone, though.  She had to ask it. 

"How do you stay so calm?  Don't you miss your husband?"

And here's where the blunt, foul-mouthed, bitchy Kate reared her ugly head and laid it out for the blubbering, bawling bitch on the other end of the line. 

"Fuck NO, I don't miss him!  They've been gone 2 FUCKING days.  Really?  I'm glad the son of a bitch is out of my house.  I've spent the last two days cleaning up the aftermath of his packing spree and now all the TA-50 is contained and the fuck out my way.  My house is actually clean and I don't have to hear him bitching about getting left behind because he was stuck at that fucking school and it's bullshit he'll miss the invasion and how I'm useless and where's his shit or how he wants to get laid.  Fuck him!  He needed to leave or I would have killed him.  I'm glad he's gone.  I need a break.  Really?  Two days and you're ready to have a mental breakdown?  Call me in a month.  I might have decided by then that I don't hate his fucking guts or want him to die.  No, I take that back.  In a month he gets paid all that extra pay, so in a month I'm going to be doing a happy dance on the LES and I still won't give a fuck that he's gone.  In fact, if the Army is going to keep paying him that extra cash, at this stage of the game, I say they can just keep his happy ass over there!" 

Maybe not the best way to comfort a wife who is upset about deployment, but she DID ask and I cannot tell a lie (cough, cough).   Anyway, deployments are a good break for us and the first 2-3 months are a relief for both of us.  I don't have to put up with his assholery, and he gets away from my bitchiness.  Works well for us.  I'm not saying that deployment is fun in any manner, shape or form (because deployments fucking suck!) but you take what you can get and try to make the best of things. 

Anyway, that's my secret to a good and lasting marriage. I married my best friend and the Army keeps us in a state of fucking limbo that we've managed to convolute into something that helps us appreciate each other.   18 years and still going.  And now, thanks to 5 kids, I'm too expensive to get rid of, so the fucker is stuck with me now! 

And for my next trick. . .

So for two years we've been in Germany and for two years I've been calling or going into the volunteer office on post, leaving my name and number along with the hubby's unit, wanting to volunteer with the FRG.  Unfortunately for me, the FRG consists of an officer's wife who says she's the FRG leader and then does a whole fuck ton of NOTHING!!  But what the hell, it looks good on a resume to say you ran an FRG even if over the course of two years you made not one phone call, sent out no emails, introduced yourself to no one in the unit and helped absolutely no family figure out how the fuck to survive in Germany.  Needless to say, for the past two years, I have been waiting with bated breathe waiting for the phone to ring and an FRG to magically fly out of someone's ass and need my help.

And now, at long last, an FRG appears!!  It's a miracle!!  Well, fuck me sideways with a 2 x 4!  In the past week I have received three (count them 1-2-3) emails from the FRG/chain of command??  Two are the usual "here's some fun shit that's happening in the area" bullshit emails, but one of them was an invitation to an actual FRG event!!!!  Well, bestill my beating heart!  And thanks for fucking nothing, because I'm not going.  Why not?  After two years of wanting an FRG that actually did anything, why would I sit at home? 

Here's the long and the short of it.  The event is a coffee.  At 1030 on a school day.  In an actual cafe.  Not on poste.  In a German city.  With German people.  Who frown upon 3 year olds acting like asses and running around like hooligans.  But "kids are welcome."  Yeah, let me think about that. . . Um, NO and Hell NO!!  There is a perfectly nice coffee shop on poste with a play zone where the kids can can act like fucktards in a contained space while wives sit around and enjoy their coffee and chat.  So why are we not having it there?  Because that isn't classy enough for the officer's wife and she has no children at all and didn't bother to take those of us who do into consideration.    

And the best part is, she wants to plan a dinner--kids welcome.  Let me think really hard about this entire scenario.  Fuck you.  Fuck no.  And Fuck the FRG (or whatever you're calling this insanity.)

As an additional footnote, I will say that I did email back to express my "regret" at not being able to attend and precisely WHY I would not be able to attend (ie. the finger-pooper).  This was a week ago.  I have not received an email in reply, either to say "so sorry--maybe next time" or "what if we had it at the CAC?"  And before anyone jumps to any kind of crazy conclusion, I did not once in the course of composing said email use any of the following--

• bitch
• cunt
• whore
• dumbass
• fuck (or any variation thereof)
• cock
• ass
• shit
• shithead
• fucktard (which I do not consider a variant of fuck.  This is a noun.)

or

• the ever popular cumstain

And people wonder why I get frustrated with the FRG.  Not only is there a lack of forethought and activity, there is a complete and total lack of thoughtfulness and consideration for others.  So, yeah, the FRG so far earns a definite Fuck You!

My Fat Ass

Seeing as how I have been very remiss the past couple of years in maintaining and posting on my blog, it's time to get off my fat ass and fucking get to it.  So what has happened over the past two years?  Aside from moving to Germany, dealing with a husband who might as well be in fucking Afghanistan, contending with evil asshole teenagers, watching the seven year old grow and learn, and chasing the three year old (who has finally given up finger-pooping) and attempting to keep him from killing himself, not a fucking lot. . .  The latest and greatest news is that on July 12 we are expecting the imminent arrival of Thornburg baby #5!  What the fuck was I thinking?  Another baby?  God, just shoot me now.  I swear that if Germany had more lax gun laws, I'd be suck starting a pistol about now.  Needless to say, when I say that it was time to get off my "fat ass" and blog again, I quite frankly have an actual fat ass to get off of.  And that bitch had better bid a hasty retreat once I endure yet again the "joys" of childbirth.  Fuck.  

 

As far as #5 goes, everything looks good and the little man is healthy.   Yes, it's another boy.  Thank God for small favors.  If I am destined to have another kid, at least it's a boy.  The one girl I do have makes me insane.  What was my mom's saying about girls??  "Girls are bitches from the moment they are born."  Well, she has that one right.  V will be off to college in another year so I will be the only bitch in this house and that's the way I like it.  One bitch in the place is more than enough and I'm pretty fucking happy to be able to reclaim my status as the HBIC once she's gone.  (I love my daughter, but damn. . . ) 

 

With number 5 kicking the shit out of me, I've been lucky thus far to avoid the usual stupid questions that I was bombarded with when #4 was en route.  So before anyone has some stupid fucking question or comment to make, allow me to regale you with the facts.

 

1. Please do NOT congratulate me. If you pay any attention at all to my FB, you know that E (number 4, the finger-pooping, fearless, graceless disaster that he is) lives and breathes so if you must say something, wish me luck!!  I'm going to fucking need it!

 2. Yes, I know where babies come from. And I honestly thought we were done. I just have shit luck, because no, this was not planned. Apparently, for me, infrequency in fucking increases fertility.   Cases in point--number 3 arrived while the hubby was on the trail.  So that one random night where he wasn't falling asleep in his dinner plate after an 18 hour day dealing with stupid privates and hello!!  B arrives 9 months later.  Damn it.  Then OIF whatever-the-fuck-number-it-was, and all the wives are "We're going to try to have a baby when he gets home.  Are you going to have another one, Kate?" and I just had to open my fucking mouth and say "Fuck NO!!!"  So 14 months of no sex, he gets off the plane and I'm the first one in the company to get pregnant.  9 months to the day of his redeployment and here comes the fingerpooper!  Double fuck.  So now the hubby has a staff job, works 15-18 hours a day, 7 days a week and I end up pregnant again!  Hence my conclusion regarding frequency and fertility.

 

3. If you are really that concerned about whether or not we can afford ANOTHER ONE, I will happily accept donations. Big ones.  Especially since we will once again be forgoing WIC and the other assistance available.  Yes, maybe it's fucking stupid not to take what you can get from the government, but we've always managed without it and will continue to do so as long as possible and through however many kids we end up with.  Why?  Pride is part of.  Another part is that I take issue with some idiot doctor telling me what I can and cannot feed my child and that my kid is too fucking small or whatever.  So unless you are going to send me a big fat fucking check, let me fucking worry about it.  We may not be rich, but all the kids are still alive, OK?    

 4. No, we are not having any more. The hubby will be enduring the dreaded surgery to prevent anymore "oops"es. He is not particularly thrilled at the prospect of having his balls cut open, tubes ripped out and then cut burned and tied off, but I'm getting to old for this shit and his convalescence will be a hell of a lot shorter than mine would be.  Also, unless the doctor is going to fucking gut me (which they won't fucking do unless something is wrong and apparently not wanting more kids is NOT an actual ailment), I'm still going to bleed like a stuck pig every month, so really what's the fucking point??

 

5.  For all my childhood friends, no, I am not Amish.  Never have been.  Never will be.  I like electricity and cars and jeans and all the gadgets and gizmoes that are a part of Yankee life.  

 

6.  No, I will not be posting belly pics on FB or anywhere else and if you come near me with a camera before I have this baby, I will fucking gut you like a fish!!  I look like a bowling ball with arms and legs.  A walking stomach.  I hate that bullshit about how "beautiful" pregnant women are.  Give me a break.  I have boobs now, which I despise with passion I cannot properly express.  They are in the way and need to go the fuck away.  And let's not forget my giant distended belly that moves of its own accord and also gets in the way.  How children are born NOT covered head to toe in bruises is beyond me, because all my kids have been smacked by doors, furniture, and every other fucking thing within a 10 foot radius of my belly more times than I care to count well before they ever made their grand entrances.  

 

7.  The only drug present at the birth of this one will be the same as the others-pitosin.  Get the damn thing out of me NOW!!!!   An epidural is out of the question because there is no way in hell anyone is sticking a needle in me in a place where I cannot watch them do it.  And yes, it fucking hurts to give birth, but you get over it.  I'd rather go through 9 months of labor pains than be pregnant.  Other women may disagree, but being pregnant and kicked and punched and having someone squeezing your lungs and bladder and stomach for 9 months is 1000x worse than a few hours of pain.  Fuck you very much.  

 8. Yes, I am insane.  If I wasn't insane before kids, they drove me to it and I cannot be held legally responsible for my actions.  

Happy Memorial Day!

I am probably the the strangest female on the planet.  I fucking HATE chick flicks.  My husband enjoys them and makes me watch them with him.  And it makes me fucking insane to watch the crying and the moping and all the love and drama.  God, just shoot me now. 

I will, however, confess to crying every damn time I watch a war movie.  Sounds stupid, I know, but Braveheart, We Were Soldiers, Saving Private Ryan, and Band of Brothers reduce me to tears every time I watch them.  I have never watched Black Hawk Down because I know the story and I will probably end up on the bathroom floor halfway through it bawling my damned head off.  And don't even get me going on Hamburger Hill (which if you haven't ever seen and you call yourself a Rakkasan, you will be going to hell. . . ) 

So why the problem with war movies?  And what the fuck do my emotional and psychological issues have to do with Memorial Day? 

Just this: war movies make me cry because they really bring home the fact that there are men who will gladly die for their country and their fellow soldiers.  Every fucking one of them is a hero and the honor I have had of getting to know so many of them humbles me.  War movies remind me of these men who I have come to love and seeing the sacrifices on screen that echo what these heroes do for real every day brings me to my knees crying every time.  As I said, I know it's odd to cry at explosions and valor, but the valor is what makes me cry. 

 I know that this blog is not my typical rant and rave with F-bombs dropped every other word, but for Memorial Day weekend I am taking a break from my usual tirades to say "Thank you."   To all my Rakkasans, past and present, soldier or spouse and parents alike, it has been an honor to know all of you and to be part of your lives.  And to those fallen Rakkasans, until we form again (and I pray God will let me form with you even though I am just a spouse) as Gen George Patton said, "Let us not mourn for those men who have died fighting, but let us rather thank God that such heroes have lived." 

Happy Memorial Day!  Ne Desit Virtus.

March or Die!

That's the Angel Company motto.  And I fucking love this.  It means suck it up and drive on.  Nut up or shut up.   Don't back down.  Never give up.  Be a man.  Grow a pair.  Unfortunately, while this should be a matter of course in the military to simply act this way, it is a quality that is sorely lacking in the ranks.  It seems that kissing ass, pointing fingers, and taking care of number one are becoming the norm and it makes me fucking ill.  What the hell happened to the Army values and taking your enlistment oath to heart?  Is pussydom and buddy fucking what we should expect to see in the Army now?  This is especially upsetting to see in the Corps of NCOs who job is to take care of soldiers.  In care you've fucking forgotten, here's the NCO creed:

No one is more professional than I. I am a Noncommissioned Officer, a leader of soldiers. As a Noncommissioned Officer, I realize that I am a member of a time honored corps, which is known as "The Backbone of the Army". I am proud of the Corps of Noncommissioned Officers and will at all times conduct myself so as to bring credit upon the Corps, the Military Service and my country regardless of the situation in which I find myself. I will not use my grade or position to attain pleasure, profit, or personal safety.
Competence is my watchword. My two basic responsibilities will always be uppermost in my mind -- accomplishment of my mission and the welfare of my soldiers. I will strive to remain tactically and technically proficient. I am aware of my role as a Noncommissioned Officer. I will fulfill my responsibilities inherent in that role. All soldiers are entitled to outstanding leadership; I will provide that leadership. I know my soldiers and I will always place their needs above my own. I will communicate consistently with my soldiers and never leave them uninformed. I will be fair and impartial when recommending both rewards and punishment.
Officers of my unit will have maximum time to accomplish their duties; they will not have to accomplish mine. I will earn their respect and confidence as well as that of my soldiers. I will be loyal to those with whom I serve; seniors, peers, and subordinates alike. I will exercise initiative by taking appropriate action in the absence of orders. I will not compromise my integrity, nor my moral courage. I will not forget, nor will I allow my comrades to forget that we are professionals, Noncommissioned Officers, leaders!

"My two basic responsibilities will always be uppermost in my mind -- accomplishment of my mission and the welfare of my soldiers."  Accomplishing the mission means that if it isn't getting done and needs to be done, it IS your fucking job!!  Don't point the finger at someone else and become a whiny bitch.  And don't try sayin, "It's not my job. . . "  Just fucking do it.  Your job is whatever it takes to accomplish whatever the mission may be and that may require that you do things that aren't typically in your job description!  That's what being an NCO means: doing whatever the fuck it takes to get shit taken care of.  An NCO's job is the mission and whatever that may entail. 

And the other part of an NCO's job is taking care of your boys.  You don't fuck them in the ass or try to make them your bitch.   You fucking take care of them and their families.  If that means a 2AM run to the local bar to give them a ride home or just fucking listening to them when they have a problem, then guess what?  That's part of your job!  Quick being an ass-licking, pussy bitch and March or Die! 

Now, granted I'm just an Army wife.  Maybe I don't know my ass from a hole in the ground, but in my opinion, if NCOs would actually take the fucking initiative to 1. do whatever they had to to accomplish the mission and 2. take care of their boys, the Army would have a lot less issues.

To My Rakkasans:

I did not write this.  I fixed the grammar and the punctuation, but that doesn't fucking count.  I don't know who wrote this or I would give credit where credit is due.  And once you read this, you will know that someone deserves a hell of a lot of credit, because this has got to be one of the most beautiful, fan-fucking-tastic things I have ever seen.  Ask any Rakkasan you know if this is how he feels and you'll get a "fuck, yeah!" in response.  So to all my Rakkasans, far and wide, this is for you!

"I will gladly give my life.

 I believe in the people of my country and keeping war from their backyards. I believe that children should grow in a land of peace and prosperity.
I know that the tree of freedom must be watered with the blood of patriots. That men who hear the call to arms are the ones we must support with our treasure.
I know that I will never make a mark in the arts or the sciences. I know that the only thing I have to make a better future for my brothers and my countrymen is my blood and the ability to shoot my enemy before they shoot me.

I am willing to lay down my life for you, so that you may bitch about the life you lead and the life of your children.

I know I will be forgotten by the annals of time.
I know that I will not be known as a great man, a good man or most likely even as a man at all.
But I watch the walls. I stand guard for one reason and one reason only:

One day you will make something of this.
One day you will create something better than I could.
One day our progenitors will live in freedom. For that I spend my life. For that future I die today in your wars. For that future I will endure pain and the depravity of our enemies.
For that future I give my all.

On that day when they count the cost, I don't care who is around to call my name. The sheer fact that they are there is my victory.

I am your infantry man. I am the man making the mission work. I am the man who lies in the grave of the unmarked soldier. I am the man who weeps with happiness each time you raise your children to the sky.

I may not be much. I may die with no one to remember my name. I may pass down in history as a number or a single word. Let that number be 187. Let that word be Rakkasan."

RAKKASAN!!  Love you guys!

A Rakkasan Wife New Year's Resolution

SO here we are again at the close of another year and the standing tradition is to make a resolution to somehow better yourself in the coming year.  Fun, fun, fun.  And I've been seriously thinking about what the fuck I can do to improve on the perfection that is me.  In all seriousness though, I have a ton of faults and I can think of lots of shit that would make me a better person--it's just that none of the things I can think of or that are "popular" resolutions are just not in the realm of possibility.

The big one seems to be to lose weight.  Well, FUCK that!!  I weigh 95 pounds soaking wet.  If I lose weight, my husband invariably informs me that I look anorexic and he refuses to fuck a skeleton!!  Since I like getting laid on occassion, losing weight is right out!!

Another resolution that seems to be popular is to quit drinking.  Again, not happening.  Simply stated, I don't drink beyond an occassional glass of wine.  Ninety pounds and alcohol just do not mix, and since a full glass of wine has me tipsy, I just don't fucking drink.  I know that it's near blasphemy for a Rakk wife to be a teetotaler, but I really don't have much of a choice.  I'm a cheap drunk!!

Next possibility is to quit swearing.  Yeah, right!  Who the fuck could ever possibly think that this was a good idea??  I can barely get through one sentence at a time without dropping a fucking f-bomb, so how the hell am I supposed to quit swearing?  I'm not an idiot with a complete lack of vocabulary and no grasp of syntax.  I actually, despite all appearances to the contrary on account of my foul mouth, am quite intelligent and employ words that baffle most people I know.  I just appreciate these delightful turns of phrase and recognize their efficacy in accomplishing what needs to be done, as does every Rakkasan who has told a private to "get it fucking done!"  So fuck that resolution in the ass and send it on to hell.

I could always give up smoking.  That's a good one, if you don't have four kids, an infantryman with an attitude for a husband, and an ability to handle stress without resorting to violence.  Unfortunately, I have neither the capacity nor the desire to give up smoking if I want to ensure the survival of my minions and my sanity.  So there's another idea, out the fucking window!!

So my final option, and the one I'm favouring right now, is to simply say FUCK IT ALL!  And by this I mean simply that if someone pisses me off, I will let it roll over me.  Be it the kids or the husband or the crazy bitches I meet, I will be the better person and I will simply destroy them.  Without anger or malice.  I will not dwell on the wrongs done to me.  I'm taking a page from the infantryman's way of handling things.  When you get shit on, it's time to fuck someone up!! 

So there you have it.  My New Year's Resolution.  My bitchiness remains intact and my life will be simpler.  Now it's time to go blow shit up (German tradition--fireworks on New Year's).  Have a very Happy New Year!  I know I will. . .

Go the Fuck Away!

Is it just me?  Am I a bad wife?  The husband is on leave and has been home for a week now and he is driving me up the proverbial wall!  He needs to go the fuck back to work before I have to kill him.  Why do I feel like this?  Is it the endless deployments and training and schools that have just accustomed me to him not being around?  Or is it that he is always on the go somewhere and can't fucking sit still for more than five minutes at a time? 

I love my husband and you all know that.  We've been married almost sixteen years.  He's my best friend, my confidant, my fuck buddy, and my world revolves around him.  Well, him and the damned Army.  But he makes me completely fucking insane!!  Add to that four kids, Christmas chaos, and perpetual insomnia and I'm ready to suck start that pistol.  Again.  Deployment makes me want to off myself and leave does the same damn thing to my state of mind.  I'm in hell.

Am I alone in this?  Is there anybody out there who loves their husband and is proud of the fact that he's a soldier, but at the same time wishes more than anything sometimes that he would go away?  I'm going to say it's the holidays.  He always goes into asshole mode around this time of year (the product of not so happy childhood memories of Christmases past), but I hate asshole husband!! 

So, for the next week, I get to have this man around 24-7 and attempt not to let him see that I would like nothing better than to stuff him in a tuff box and ship to Afghanistan so he can kill some terrorists and work out his aggressions on someone other than me.  My only other option is try to screw him into being a good guy.  James Bond managed to fuck bad girls into being good.  Maybe it'll work for me.  Wish me luck! 

The Angry Baby

My youngest has what my mom would call a 2 by 4 mentality.   You know.  The kind of attitude whereby you need to take a fucking 2 by 4 to the side of their head to change their mind.  He's the most stubborn angry little shit I ever ran across and there are days when I would love to ship him to Timbuk-fucking-tu.  One second he's happy and cute and so damn lovable and then the next second he's fucking Satan!  Screaming, crying, banging his head on the floor and just fucking pissed off at the world.  Well, I have come to the conclusion that he doesn't have a 2 by 4 mentality or anger issues--he's an infantryman in the making.

Why the hell would I say that?  Well, infantrymen as a whole have a very singular attitude: give me what I want or I will FUCK you up!  Whether that's information from an enemy combatant or discipline within the rank structure, infantrymen expect to get what they desire and express their displeasure with those who fail to abide by their wishes with a vast variety of ways.  It could be the click of a safety coming off, smoking the shit out of a private, or beating the ever living shit out of a fucktard, but infantrymen deal with people who thwart them quickly and concisely.  And God help me, that's my youngest.

My two year old has had six, self-inflicted black eyes, given me a couple of bloody noses, kicked his father in the balls multiple times and generally made everyone in the family very clear on how pissed off he is when he doesn't get what he wants.  I don't believe in beating my children, but I am not opposed to spanking them if necessary.  It doesn't fucking work with this one!  The kid is like Mungo from Blazing Saddles.  The guy who they said not to shoot because "You'll just make him mad."   That's Mr. E.  I could probably beat that kid until the Second Coming and it wouldn't make a damned bit of difference. 

I can't wait until the kid is big enough to do fucking PT until he pukes. 

Giving a Flying Fuck

For once, I'm not writing to bitch.  Well, OK, maybe just a little, but for once I have something to say that is not outright complaining.  Who knew that could happen?? 

Anyway, I got an email this morning from a friend who wants to send care packages to soldiers in Afghanistan and wanted to know if I could help.  I just wanted to blog and say that it never ceases to amaze me at how generous and thoughtful people can be.  There are people out there who genuinely care and want to show our boys their support.  As my husband likes to say, "It gives me a fucking hard-on" that people are so wonderful and want our boys to know they are not forgotten.  There really are people who give a flying fuck and still support our troops! 

That having been said, with a special thanks to Miss B for reminding me that people still give a shit, on to the bitch portion of what I wanted to say.  I'm am shocked and pissed the fuck off to learn that there are people out there who are scamming supportive people and ripping them off in the name of "supporting our troops!"  What the fuck?!?  As if the guys aren't going through enough shit being shot at and forced to be away from their families, now there are assholes out there who are taking advantage of the people who want to help the guys!  This is fucking BULLSHIT!  To use our soldiers as a way to make money off unsuspecting people who want to do right by our soldiers makes me sick.  So, to all you scammers out there, FUCK YOU and MAY YOU BURN IN HELL!!

And, incidentally, if you happen to find out the names and locations of people who are pulling shit like this, let me know.  I bet I can find a few Rakkasans to help teach them the error of their ways. . .

"If you don't want to stand behind our troops, please feel free to stand in front of them!"