The Frequency of Fuck

The frequency of my opportunities to fuck is inversely related to the frequency of my use of the word fuck. It's very strange. I reread my blog to observe the new year tradition of looking back over the past and I noticed that the longer I go without being able to fuck my husband, the more I say fuck. Coincidence? I think not. I think that this is just one bit of further proof that I am indeed sexually deprived and that my mind is slowly slipping ever further into the toilet bowl of life.

Seriously. In my first three posts, I use the word fuck, fucking, fucked, and other variations of this glorious word ONCE and only once. How the hell did I manage that? In the last three I've written, this most versatile of words makes TWENTY appearances! Now that is fucking phenomenal! Who knew that I had gone from being such a sweet little girl to being a cussing prodigy? I don't know whether I should be ashamed of myself or damned proud that I have achieved such a level of infantry foul-mouthed-ness.

Now that I've finished bashing my head into a wall from my depravity (or patting myself on the back, I haven't decided which) I have an actual point to make. Deployment is finally drawing to a fucking close. Plans are underway to get the boys home. Shit is moving along and packing should be commencing. THIS IS NOT THE TIME TO DECIDE THAT OPSEC IS NO LONGER IMPORTANT!!! It will not stop being important. When in doubt, keep your fucking mouth shut and for God's sake, don't post anything about homecoming on Facebook.

My hubby's first deployment, the Taliban found out about the homecoming flights and T's pilot had to take evasive measures when the flight was taking off to come home!! Fantastic. The man lives through deployment and then fucking dies on the airstrip trying to come back. How fucking fucked up would that have been? Thank God for crazy pilots who know their shit and an enemy with shitty aim.

My point is this: My use of the word fuck may have increased dramatically over the past year during this godforsaken deployment, but one thing has not changed: my love for and concern for those boys. And make no mistake: in the company or no, those are MY fucking boys. Maintain OPSEC from now until the moment he steps off the tarmac and you have him in your arms. Let's bring them home, ladies.

And then rape them. . .

New Year's

I had no idea why it is that people make New Year's resolutions, so I googled it. Apparently, it dates back to Roman times with the infamous Julius Caesar who made a new resolution every year to honor the god Janus. Janus has two faces which allow him to look to the past as well as to the future. Whatever. People make them now and the success rate is fucking pathetic. That's why I have never done it.

Now we do have a tradition in this house that I follow every year, mostly because it is way too fucking fun NOT to do it. We pick a member of the family to literally throw out of the house. And let's face it, watching your teenage son or daughter fight while their dad throws them out the door at midnight is too damn funny to pass up. You see, the idea is that you throw the old year out of the house with the family member and then you welcome the new year with the person when they ring the bell to come back in, yelling "Happy New Year!"

I think we military wives need to come up with our own tradition for New Year's. Like getting shit-ass drunk, dancing naked it the moonlight, and blowing up blocks of C4 with notes attached to them symbolizing all the things we hate about the Army. You know, things like deployment, no sex, husbands getting shot at, the names of officers and NCOs who are shitty beyond all belief, stupid paperwork, crap pay, etc. Did I mention deployment and no sex? I think that would be fan-fucking-tastic and just plain old fun.

I have no idea who would join in, nor do I have any idea how the fuck I could even get a hold of C4. Damn it. Oh well. Since that won't work, here's my New Year's resolution: I will be a happier person in the coming year. This will be easy to keep after February-ish, because I'll be getting laid again!! I would also include that I will not swear so much and that I will quit smoking, but let's just face reality. Neither of those is ever going to fucking happen.

So good night. Happy New Year's. I'm going to go open that bottle of wine and have a fucking cigarette.

I'm On Profile!!

Ever heard of being on profile? In Army lingo, that means that you are broken, hurt, insane or whatever that prevents you from performing your job fully and gives you time to recuperate from said ailment. I don't even know all the kinds of fucking profiles you can get. A PT Profile. A No Running Profile. A Pregnancy Profile. A Psych Profile. A Temporary Profile. Shit! They even have a No Shaving Profile!! Fantastic.

Well, I've thought it all out and I have a solution to the deployment problem. My husband just needs to get a profile. A profile that will send him home. A profile that no one can possibly dispute the validity of and that all my boys can use. You call it the No FUCKING Deployment Profile and I have very specific criteria to qualify to be on this profile.

1. You must be able to show that you are sexually deprived. For infantrymen, that means no pussy for a period longer than 12 weeks.

2. You must have a wife or girlfriend of long standing from whom you would normally be getting sex on a regular basis. Divorce having been filed disqualifies the soldier.

3. The following symptoms are proof of sexual deprivation:

a. Your penis is chafed, chapped, or otherwise damaged due to the frequency of masturbating without lotion and in a sandy environment.

b. Your penis and hand now have matching callouses.

c. You are desperate enough to jerk off in front of another man.

d. Your bunk has a neon pink sign above it that reads, "Do Not Disturb. Work in Progress."

e. The "desert blossoms" are making you wonder what's under that berka.

f. Camels humping gives you a hard-on.

g. You have constructed a pocket pussy out of 550 cord.

h. You keep hearing 9 Inch Nails singing, "I wanna Fuck You Like An Animal."

i. The HUMVEE's tailpipe is looking mighty tight to you.

j. You seriously considered going the last time Hadji asked you to take a walk to "watch the sunset."

k. You have fucked your boots because you walking 12 hours a day in them has made them smell like fish.

l. Your wedding band has been worn through and your penis has developed an allergy to gold.

m. Your eyepro now serves the alternate purpose of protecting your eyes from cum-shots.

n. Your Blackhawk gloves are no longer black, but white (and crusty).

o. "Clearing your weapon" has taken on an entirely new meaning.

3. Should these symptoms be exhibited, the soldier's qualifying time to be classified sexually deprived will be rated according to the number of children he has sired, with each child earning a reduction of one week. Hence a soldier with 1 child can be declared deprived after 11 weeks rather than 12.

I don't think the Army is going to go for it, but I think this profile idea is fucking brilliant!! And by my calculations, my husband should have been home in April. Four kids mean after 8 weeks, he's deprived enough to be placed on a No FUCKING Deployment profile. If you don't have kids, I'm sorry--not really--but this works for me!!

I like this plan.  Go me.  Fuck you, Army.

Don't Say It!

"Cut down a tree with a herring?? It can't be done!"

"Don't say that word!!"

"What word?"

"I cannot tell! Suffice to say, is one of the words the Knights of Ni cannot hear!"

Thank you, Monty Python, for once again having a sketch relevant to my topic of conversation which is simply this: Suffice to say that "It's almost over" is one of the phrases the Kate of Rakkasans cannot hear!!

I am so fucking tired of people saying "It's almost over. . . " like that makes everything OK. Because it fucking doesn't!! It just makes me want to kill the bastard who said it and then go fucking suck start a pistol after chugging a gallon of wine. We are well into the months of "It's NEVER going to fucking end" and there is not one goddamn thing you can say that is going to make me feel better.

So shut your fucking pie hole. The only words that are going to make me happy are "The plane is on approach. Please feel free to go outside and greet your soldiers as they de-plane." Unless you are telling me this, I don't care what you have to say about redeployment or how I should feel or how it will be OK. You do realize that we still have KIAs? WIAs?

Until he is home and in my arms (or pants), do not even attempt to make me feel better. I am, in my own twisted way, content with being a bitter bitch. Don't like it? Fine. Don't fucking talk to me. And that actually works out really well, because then I wouldn't have to listen to some stupid FUCKTARD tell me constantly that "it's almost over!"

Life isn't tiddlywinks, bitch.

Nice or Naughty?

Thank God, Christmas is finally over! Santa, that fat fucker, didn't bring me what I wanted--my husband. Damn it. Seriously though, the holidays without the hubby suck ass, even if you have an amazing family like mine to spend them with. I love the fact that I can be a bit mopey and no one asks me, "Are you OK?" Or that Christmas waits if the husband calls, because he supersedes any and all activities of the day. Very nice.

And with Christmas gone, I can move on the new topics to bitch about, like the fact that I just discovered that I am NOT in on the latest and greatest gossip? How the fuck do I get left out of the loop on all the newest juiciest shit going on? I'm a woman--I want to know what all the other bitches are up to so I can prove to myself how much better than them that I am! Hello! That's why we gossip to begin with. I need to know who's being naughty!

I asked my friend why it was that I am not in the know and apparently, people do not want me to think badly of them so they do their damnedest to make sure I don't know the shit they are up to. What?!? How the hell did I become someone that people look up to? I'm just Kate. The old lady in the unit. Everyone's go-to girl. I do NOT want to be looked up to or whatever it is people seem to think of me. Fuck! I am no one to be admired. I am a BITCH!! And pretty damn hateful, too. What the fuck is the point in having a harem when they won't dish out the dirt on what the other crazy bitches are up to?

Whatever. I miss being a Joe's wife. I knew EVERYTHING that was going on then. The NCO wife shit and no one giving me the goods is BULLSHIT and completely fucked up.

Dear Santa

I have come to the conclusion that you are a useless sack of shit and that I hate your guts. How fucking hard is it to fit one 5'11", 190 pound man somewhere in that sleigh of yours and deliver him to my house? That's the one and only thing I asked for for Christmas and you are going to be a prick about it and not give me what I want!! You can fit toys for every fucking snot-nosed brat on the planet in that sleigh of yours, but you can't find room for ONE soldier??? He's infantry. He can handle the trip!

Maybe in some twisted, fucked up way you are trying to teach me about the spirit of Christmas and that I'm being selfish wanting my husband home. Well, FUCK YOU, Fat Man! You work from home every day with your little Army of elves who actually do all the construction while you sit and compile lists of names. . . Oooh! That's a hard fucking job, with your wife right there 24/7 bringing you milk and cookies and giving you head whenever you want it. You do actual work ONE NIGHT a year! My husband's been gone for TEN months! SO FUCK YOU SANTA!!!

I am going to go eat the cookies we made for you, open that bottle of wine and load the 22. You have a good night Santa! I hope you freeze your balls off. And if you show up at my house empty handed, well, let's just say that it would be wise for you to have emergency services on speed dial.

Celibacy

With the husband 10,000 miles away, the military wife is left to her own devices in all manner of this. And in sexual matters, a wife has but three choices: fuck around, buy some toys, or accept the imposed celibacy that deployment relegates you to. Simple. I've opted for the third of these through all four deployments and it seems to be working for me. However, my choice of terminology in referring to the other wives may lead some to believe that I have been having a string of lesbian affairs.

I am not a fucking deployment whore, lesbian or otherwise. I DO have a harem, but that's my way of dealing with all the idiots who know nothing about an FRG or a POC and who look at me like I have eight heads when I mention "my wives." Polygamy is right up there on my list of things not to do along with fucking around on my husband and becoming a lesbian. Not happening. My wives are all the girls in the platoon/company that I try to help get through deployment. Harem is a more all encompassing term, allowing me to include all the parents as well. Besides, let's face it, it is just way too fucking funny for a little girl like me to announce that she has a harem!!

So, to my harem, be warned. Apparently, there are jackasses out there who think that I am fucking half of the company's wives, having drunken orgies with all of you, and inviting parents over to join in the fun. Isn't that fucking fantastic? And a complete load of bullshit. I have a couple more months before the celibate life will end and I'm going to be getting laid by anyone, and I'm sorry, there will be a penis involved--the one attached to my husband. Sorry ladies!

I know I'm hot. . .

Hell Week

Place your wager: Will Kate make it through the rest of this deployment without killing herself, beating her children bloody, and still somewhat sane? Because with the week I've had, I'd say the odds are 10:1 against. At some point, an inanimate object is going to have to suffer the consequences of simply existing and face the wrath of Kate. I am about to lose my fucking mind. This shit has got to end--soon.

Here's a slice of my life: teething baby up all fucking night for week #2, making candy and Kolachi for my entire family so on my feet in the kitchen for hours on end, Christmas is coming and crowds and the fun and the boring as shit battalion party that I went to for the singular purpose of getting pics of the boys with Santa, a KIA with two fucking months left to go in this goddamn shitty deployment and a memorial service that made me cry (and I never fucking cry), a CoC whose mission in life seem to be to fuck my hubby over, assholes who make more red tape than God Himself could work His way through, and trying to smile through the mouthful of shit sandwich that this past week has been.

Please tell me I have finally hit rock fucking bottom! Because if anyone tries to tell me I have further down to go, I'm going to need a fucking shovel!!

I know that these feelings are simply the by-product of a combination of "feeling sorry for myself" holiday blues and "is this deployment ever going to fucking end" anxiety. Happens to me every time he goes and it always seems to hit about now. Last time, I cut off 18 inches of my hair just so I could watch something die. Not a good frame of mind to be in when you have children. . .

The long and short of it is that this has been one fucking shitty week. The Class Six had better be fucking stocked up on Golden Rose and my cigs, or I will not be responsible for my actions.

Death by Stupid

In case you couldn't tell by all the references throughout my blog, I love Monty Python. Love them. Fucking brilliant. And the opening scene of "Meaning of Life" has got to be one of my faves. There's a man who's running through this village being chased by topless women on roller skates. The scene follows him just running from these women and running some more--right off the edge of a cliff and falling from some ridiculous height into the grave below which already has the vicar and mourners waiting to participate in his funeral. He's a criminal who's been sentenced to death and this is the method of execution he has chosen. Love it.

Now given the choice, I would have to say that this man's particular choice wouldn't be high up on my list of ways to die--but then I don't swing that way. Nothing really springs to mind as a great way to die in fact, but one thing I know for certain is that DEATH BY STUPID is the very last way I want to kick the bucket. Fuck you very much.

Dying by stupid is a rather vague way of putting it. There are so many stupids to choose from!! And they all seem to be ganging up on me right now, threatening to do what suck-starting a pistol would do in a much nicer way. There's death by stupid children who are teething and up all night causing insomnia dementia to set in or the more general version of stupid children who don't fucking listen to their mother. Then there's death by stupid husband who is nice one second and then fucking Satan the next. And the there's death by stupid wives (not you, my harem of lovelies) who act like fucking two year olds. And let's not leave out stupid in-laws who seem to think my world revolves around them. But by far, the number one method of death by stupid is the stupid fucking bastard asshole Army, which seems more concerned with protecting pieces of shit fucks and pretending it gives a damn about family than it does about doing the right thing!! FTA!!

Tired of HMFIC

"'The time has come,' the Walrus said, 'to talk of many things.'" Of boots--and guns--and kicking ass--and cleaning kits and slings--and why the guns are smoking hot--and whether angels have wings." OK. That's not very good poetry, but you try parody-ing Lewis Carroll and see what you come up with. I think I've beaten PTSD until it's a dead horse and it's time to move the fuck on.

Every time I think that I have the Army figured out, I get another curve ball thrown at me which completely fucks up my entire world view. Example: You can only get fucked over so many times before something has to give. Wrong, wrong, wrong! FUCK this CoC. Their motto isn't 'Ne Desit Virtus'--it's "BOHICA because RHIP so Fuck You!" Bastards. How can you in good conscience screw over a soldier who always does the right thing, takes care of his boys, and lives by the Army values? If even half of the rumors flying around about this CoC are even half true, this unit has gone to shit and these fuckers have been using everyone under them to wipes their asses.

Anyway, I need some serious fucking prayer here. I am more angry than I have been in a long ass time and I swear that no one important better be at the homecoming ceremony. At the very least they will get an earful and with my mouth and lack of filter, that could be one fucking huge no-go! OK. It would be a completely and total no-go, no "could" about it. On the other hand, with the level of my anger and the assinine shit continuing to go on, I'm thinking 12-gauge or Yeti beater, but I'm am leaning toward the Yeti beater.

Less jail time for assault than attempted murder.

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

During the Civil War, it was called soldier's heart. WWI introduced the term shell shock which was carried through about two years into WWII. After General Patton's infamous slapping incident, the term exhaustion started being used by the US Army. (If you will recall, he slapped a private hoping to "shock" him out of his shell shock. Oops.) That wording got changed again during Vietnam when it was renamed battle fatigue and traumatic war neurosis. PTSD is just the latest in a long line of words and phrases that all describe the same psychological problem.

I've been ranting and raving (the entire fucking point of this blog--hello!!) about PTSD and the Army scaring wives, and I suppose some of you think that I think that PTSD isn't real, isn't a problem, or is just plain old bullshit. In other words, I opened my mouth, jammed in my foot and kept right on shoving until I'm chewing on my own ass. Me thinking PTSD isn't real is not the case and I hope that no one takes my opinion about a briefing and what I feel is overstating and exaggeration of the problem as that I just don't give a flying fuck about the boys who do come home with issues. Because I do. I really do. And probably a little too much because those boys flat out break my heart.

Those men over there are all heroes and anyone who says otherwise can go fuck themselves. I've seen guys that have PTSD and are on meds out the ass, guys who pretend to have it (fuckers), but mostly men who are fine with some new quirks in their behaviour. All I'm trying to say is that there is no need to panic or freak the fuck out over something that probably isn't even going to be an issue. Just enjoy the honeymoon period (I know I'm going to) and then get ready to really start getting things back to normal.

Whirlwind

And so it begins. . . The mayhem of the holiday season followed in rapid succession by the frenzy of reintegration briefings and the sheer stupidity that redeployment will bring. Christmas is doable, provided that you don't mind having to do the majority of your shopping online to keep the kids from knowing what they are getting and to keep yourself from going fucking mad from taking the kids shopping in the first place. Christmas decorating around here is a no-go. Number one: I have a 16 month old who I do not need to be attempting to keep out of the fucking tree and Number 2: I cannot reach the damned decorations anyway!! They are in the attic buried under mounds of his fucking TA-50 and other miscellaneous Army shit. So fuck it!

And then there's the "reintegration" brief. Used to be called a redeployment brief. But apparently, we all need to go to learn how to "reintegrate" our husbands back into our families and society in general. We also are going to have to learn about what to look for in our husband's behavior that would be a warning sign of PTSD. Oooooo. Scary. The Army can't leave anything alone. They have to be sure that everything is as PC as possible, even if that means scaring the shit out of people who don't know any better. The notes with the email they sent out about the brief went on and on about PTSD and TBI and sleep issues and how not to let it fuck up your marriage. . .

All the bastards at this briefing are going to do is manage to scare the shit out of some little new Army wife who is going to think that her husband is going to some home a fucking nut job and freak out every time he has a bad dream or gets angry or doesn't want to be around a bunch of people. Give me a break! Just say it like it is. THEY ALL COME HOME FUCKING WEIRD! And that's the long and the short of it. Deal with the weirdness. This too shall pass.

Now I will admit, there are the weak-minded pussies who do stupid shit or go way off the deep end or have waking dreams and beat their wives, but it's mostly just really stupid things which aren't even worth mentioning. But now we have that fucker on poste who I guess killed his wife and then went to work like nothing had happened, so you know that all the higher-ups are going to be ramming this PTSD shit down our throats. And completely ignoring the fact that the piece of shit in question was on fucking rear-d this whole deployment and is just an asshole who killed his wife.

And then there's the redeployment itself, which someone will manage to fuck up in some way or another. That's SOP. Whether it's maps to the unit and air field getting lost, or not enough buses, or the heat being off in the hangar, someone somewhere in this unit will somehow drop the ball and something will end up fucked up.

It just had better not be my husband's fucking flight.

Suck-Start a Pistol

This was in my FB status today and is for some reason, funny. OK. Unfortunately, the average wife of a deployed soldier will tell you there are many times where that phrase isn't so much funny as it is a perfectly viable idea. Even I feel like that sometimes and this is NOT my first pony ride. In 15 years of marriage, amongst the schools and field time and deployments and ranges and other really fucking stupid Army shit (Oh, I forgot EIB training, haha), I figure my husband has been gone about 7 of those years. Now ask me why I would ever want to end myself?

Now, it's a fleeting thought. And a rare one. Here's the thing. With deployment insomnia, if you lay still enough, long enough, and have enough alcohol in you, you will eventually pass out. But then there are those times, when you have lain there long and still and half buzzed and sleep has just kissed your eyelids down, and then the 16 month old baby announces his extreme displeasure at the molars that are attempting to force themselves upon him and he is fucking pissed!!!

This has been going on for a week! A FULL FUCKING WEEK!! ARGH! I love my son. I really do, but if those teeth don't break through the gum soon, I will not be held accountable for my actions!

Sleep deprivation can be fun. Just not when I am trying to be mom and dad and get ready for the holidays and answer questions daily about redeployment and PTSD and reintegration and rescue friends who are magnets for idiot drivers and homeschool and deal with a teething child !! FUCK ME SIDEWAYS! It just never fucking ends. Ever. And there are times when suck-starting a pistol really sounds good. . . Not really an option though.

I don't own a pistol.

Ho Ho Holy Crap

And so begins that most wonder-fucking-ful time of the year with my husband 10K miles away! Another holiday. Alone. Again. Reason number 1796 why sometimes I hate the fucking Army!!! I'm not sure why, but someone apparently objects to soldiers being home for more than 2 holiday/birthday/anniversary dates per year. If it's not deployment, it's the field. If it's not the field, it's a range. If it's not a range, it's a fucking school of some kind. And just to spice things up a bit and make a really asinine reason for him to not be around, if it's not any of the above, it's CQ!!!!

I know Christmas is the birth of Christ and all that. Got no problem with the Jesus part of the season. He gets a birthday cake at Christmas dinner and no presents get opened before he joins the Nativity scene that morning. Jesus is cool.

However, I cannot wrap my brain and my emotions around the idea of my husband being absent YET AGAIN at fucking Christmastime. It's annoying. And upsetting. And it fucking sucks ass!!! (Do you like how I segue from Jesus into a paragraph with the f-bomb getting dropped twice? I am so going to hell!) It's that Monty Python song (to the tune of Jingle Bells), "Ho Ho Fucking Ho, what a crock of shit!!" You're preaching to the choir, buddy.

Tomorrow begins the annual candy making spree. Oh God. I have at least 6 or 7 fun filled days of melted chocolate, peanut butter, caramel, rice krispies, nuts, pretzels and candy molds. The house will smell fantastic and there will be candy for miles. Just one minor detail in all this chocolate-coated chaos:

With my husband gone, who the FUCK is going to eat all this shit?!?!

The Big Girl Panties

Yesterday that particular pair of undies needed washed, but today they are clean and once more upon my fat ass! No more whining. Complain, yes. Whine, no. I am the wife of a RAKKASAN, a hard core, kick ass, shit-kicking infantryman. I am not the wife of some pussy fucking pog. This deployment is going down, even if that means breaking out the C-fucking-4! (And it only took half a bottle of wine and 2 packs of smokes to convince myself of this!)

FUCK YOU DEPLOYMENT! And I do not mean that in the "nicest possible way." I mean, FUCK YOU!

You will not bend me.

You will not break me.

You will not make me a bitch.

You will not make me cry.

You will end and when you end, I will be laughing all the way to the airfield to pick up my husband, you bitch.

My name is Kate. You took my husband away for a year. Prepare to die!!

So there it is, ladies. It's almost time to kiss this fucking deployment good-bye.

The Kate is back!

I Am So Fucking Done. . .

Done.

Unfortunately, I am not in a position to do a damned thing about it. I'm just stuck with the shithole that is my life as I "Hurry Up and Wait." As usual. Army motto. Get fucking used to it, because we are all going to be doing a fuck-ton of waiting. And waiting some more.

At this stage of the game, I swear that snowballs will grow in hell before my husband gets to come home. I am sick and tired of being mom, dad, disciplinarian, cook, cleaning service, accountant, driver, errand runner, and organizer day in and day out without a fucking break. A few hours away from the kids does not fucking cut it--in fact, it actually makes things worse because it only reminds me that those few precious hours haven't amounted to dick over the course of this deployment. I can probably count on my fingers and toes the total amount of time that I have had completely to myself. How fucking sad is that??

It's freaking pathetic. And I'm being a whiny bitch about it. I know that. But God help me, I want someone else to get up with the baby at night, to beat the 5 year old when he's being bad, to scream at the teenagers, to go to the commiscary or fucking cook dinner. Hell, even someone else to load the dishwasher without me begging them to would be heaven.

But none of this whiny ass bitching is going to change things. I made my bed and now I get to lay it in. (Too bad, I'm not getting laid in it! That might make me a nicer person.) I married a soldier and a damned good one at that, and I knew from the get-go that he might have to go away. But that doesn't mean that I can't have one good bitch session about it after he's been gone for 10 months!!! So I'm being whiny and stupid and a cry baby.

I think I'm fucking entitled.

Leave Dates: It's about FUCKING Time!!!

Block leave dates are now finalized, formalized and officially disseminated for the families. SO why now? Is there a reason we couldn't have the dates a month ago at the FRG meeting? Is it really so difficult to keep the families in the know as to what the fuck is going on with OUR soldiers? They may have signed a contract so the Army may own their asses, but the Army swears up and down that family is important to them. Well, if family is so fucking important, why not keep us in the loop about shit like this?

It's not like block leave dates are a violation of OPSEC (not really, but I'll get to that). You aren't telling us the date the boys are boarding a plane to come home. No target is getting painted on the boys by releasing this info to us. The danger they are in isn't increased by showing a little goddamn common courtesy and telling us when they will be able to take leave.

And don't try to tell me that the Army just figured out when block leave was going to take place. They already know when the Rakkasans are headed back to the rockpile, and that is in a fucking year. Block leave is 3 months from now. Let me think . . . Is it within the realm of possibility that the Army can plan for more than a year out, but not know what the fuck is going on in a few months? I don't think so.

I'll tell you why I think it is that they withhold this kind of intel until they can't possibly keep it back anymore: they are trying to keep the boys from being too forward thinking. If the guys are looking too far ahead, their minds won't be on mission. Their morale will be too high to allow them to kill the enemy with extreme prejudice the way they are expected to. And it puts their lives in danger. It's only now when they are getting ready to pack up to come home that it's really safe to release leave dates. OPSEC in an ass backwards kind of way.

I get it. I really really do. But I am a wife. And I don't have to fucking like nor do I have to swallow the bullshit they are trying to sell when they say they just got the dates. Wives are trying to make plans for trips home and cruises and shit that require tickets that only get more expensive the longer you wait to buy them. We aren't all officers' wives who make $6-10K a month. Some of us have to budget.

So FUCK YOU, Army. We wives are not the pussies you seem to think we are. We are strong. We've made it this long without our hubbies and are still alive, kicking, and mostly sane. Just tell us the truth. "We have the dates, but are not releasing them due to OPSEC. You will have them as soon as we deem it safe to give out the info." Again, I may not like it, but given the choice between a dead husband and a more expensive ticket, I'll take the latter.

Just get his ass home to me in one piece (his penis, too) and then give me some time to rape him repeatedly. I'm good.

Still Awake? Shit!

"It's a quarter after one. . ." Literally. As per the usual state of things during deployment, I am all alone and God do I need the hubby around about now so I can get laid--just like the song says. Fucking Deployment Insomnia!! I'm am more exhausted than I can even try to explain, but sleep is not forthcoming. And it is only getting worse the longer this stupid, shitty, fucking deployment goes on. I just want to sleep. Maybe if I was getting sex, I could sleep. But sex isn't happening either. Fuck.

Apparently, I should be on drugs to be able to fucking calm down enough to get to sleep, but drugs would likely render me comatose and I can't do that with a baby in the house and two kids to wake up at 0600 for school. I've tried exercise. Reading. Watching infomercials. Hot showers. Alcohol. And nothing will fucking just knock my ass out! I haven't fallen asleep before 0300 in probably a good month and that is just unacceptable!

Stupid doesn't being to describe this sleeplessness. I don't sleep when my husband is home because he snores like a damned freight train, but I can't sleep when he's not here because he isn't fucking here! Bullshit! Bullshit! Bullshit! I cannot go another 3 months like this. Sleep is necessary to maintain sanity and I don't have a lot of that left to go around. Have you seen Star Trek and the episode about not dreaming leading to psychosis? Well, beam me up, Scotty. That's where I'm headed!!

Unfortunately, the only cure for this shit is a plane full of men in uniform landing at the airstrip here at Fort Campbell and giving me back my goddamn husband!!! I think I should should start holding nightly coffee-less coffees at my house for all the ladies who are here and still awake at zero-dark-thirty. It's five o'clock somewhere (and not 5am!!).

So I'm off. To another night of staring at the ceiling, wondering why I am awake, and wishing the hubby was around to fuck my brains out and maybe wear me out enough that I can go to sleep!! My love, prepare your penis. I'm going to need it when you get home.

Spanking the Monkey

Sexual deprivation is a part of every deployment--an exceptionally shitty part, but what the fuck do you expect to happen when you are married to a soldier? That he's never going to have to leave? That he will always be there? If you married a soldier and honestly believed any of this could ever be remotely within the realm of possibility, then you're just fucking stupid!! We all have to live with it and figure out a way to overcome it (and that does not ever excuse fucking around!!!)

The boys have to deal with the same issues and luckily for us infantry wives, females are pretty slim pickings overseas. Oh, there's the occasional "desert rose" or "Kandahar cutie" but when you haven't seen your wife in 12 months, these particular native "beauties" are considered such because they still have all their teeth!! So not really too much to worry about there.

My husband has his own way of dealing with his frustrations. He gets a LOT of Victoria Secrets catalogs in the mail (because you can't send porn to a Muslim country and VS is about as risque as is safe to send.) And since he's a senior NCO, he has been able to establish what he likes to call "the designated shitter." It's the port-a-potty that you may not use for its intended purpose. No pissing, no shitting. It's a strictly jerking-off only area. And the boys keep it nice and clean and fully stocked with whatever porn they can get a hold of, tissues, lotions, and potpourri so it smells nice. And that was one of the strangest requests I've ever gotten for a package. I'm amazed he even knew what the fuck potpourri is!!

So that's how the boys manage to vent. They are all very good friends with their hands. We wives on the other hand seem to fall into one of two categories: those who have lots of toys to alleviate their tension and those who have none and don't. I am of the latter party. There are nights I REALLY wish my husband was home so I could rape him, but generally speaking, unless he's here to rape, I just don't care about sex. At all. Maybe I'm strange. I just have no emotional attachment to whatever toy might be available, and get nothing out of the experience.

We're down to double digits now and that husband of mine better be using that time to rest up. Because God help him when he gets home. . .

Can We Shoot Them?

Having spoken yesterday of the need for friends who will tell me to shut the fuck up, today is the list of people who either need to start doing the right damn thing(and/or just quit being assholes) or fucking drop dead where they stand. But NO, we cannot shoot them (however fucking much we may want to.) Now I would LOVE to suggest colourful alternative methods by which they are free to accomplish dropping dead, but I will allow everyone's imaginations to flourish and relish the weapon and/or method of their own choosing. I will, however, mention that my personal fave involves bamboo, duct tape and a grenade.

Here is my "hit list":

1. wives who fuck around on their husbands
2. FRG volunteers/leaders who do nothing
3. ass kissers, both soldiers and their spouses
4. spouses who wear their husband's rank
5. soldiers who try to fuck married women
6. liars
7. NCOs and officers who screw over their men
8. yes men, officer and NCO (different from the ass-kisser. These assholes are too stupid to understand they should say no sometimes!)
9. wives who bitch about the FRG but do not get involved
10. soldiers who do not know how to wear a fucking beret or their uniform correctly
11. military wives who do let their children run wild (officers' wives are especially bad about this)
12. disrespectful sons of bitches (especially the ones who disrespect veterans like our Golden Rakkasans)
13. officers who carry the concept of RHIP way to fucking far
14. anyone who works at housing
15. that horrible person who decided blood rank was too mean and invented this gay velcro rank
16. e-4s in general. arrogant, lazy, stupid
17. mps
18. cadets

This is by no means a comprehensive list of people who should deserve to be run over by a tank. Just a sampling. But generally speaking, not one of these mother fuckers has an ounce of moral fortitude or sense of honour. When you are in the Army, you should live by the Army values. They should be second nature to you, like cleaning your weapon is. Well, maybe not to a pog. But you get my drift. And if you are a military spouse, those same values should be something you aspire to. I try to live by them. Whether I succeed or not I leave to you who know me and are witness to my life. My husband eats them for breakfast and I don't think he could NOT follow them if he tried.

I get it. The Army kills enemies of America. It seems like an oxymoron to suggest that a group of organized killers could be a morally sound group of individuals. But that is what the Army is and should be.

The Army values: read them, learn them, live them or get the fuck out!

Shut the Hell Up!

I would sincerely hope that the people I call friends would have the balls to tell me to shut the fuck up if I need it. Or that I'm full of shit. Or that I'm just out of my damned mind. I make it a point to surround myself with hateful people--you know, bitches who don't take shit from anyone and would just as soon knock you out as to have to tell you repeatedly that you are as wrong as two boys fucking. I like hateful people. They're fun. But they are also fucking honest!

Sometimes I may come across as a cold-hearted bitch or as some fucking nutjob who thinks she knows everything. I am neither, nor do I wish to appear that way. I'm just very business oriented, believe in taking care of shit NOW and completely, and I have 15 years as an Army wife, so I do know quite a bit. And I can damn sure promise you that if I don't know something, I'll find out pretty fucking fast!

Oh, another quality that I have and use: I'm pretty fucking fearless. If that means going into battalion to grill rear-d, then I'll do that. They may not like me up there, but they damn sure jump when I ask a question. Some of those boys look like deer in the headlights when they see me walk through the door and I've only seen men scatter to the four winds like that when the 1SG was going througha divorce.

And being fearless also means that I am not afraid to piss people off. Housing and Tricare know me and fucking hate my guts. Last deployment, I was up at housing for four different wives no less than twice for each to find out what POA they needed to get on-poste housing. What the fuck!?! How hard is it to get a straight answer? I'm not asking for the moon; just the right goddamn form to get their names on the fucking list. S1 had one, legal had another, BDE had a third and none of them was the right damn form. So I screamed and yelled, chewed out the housing manager, and finally got my wives on the list. But housing now hates me. Oh fucking well.

So maybe I come across as arrogant or bitchy. Doesn't bother me in the least. Think what you will of me. I really couldn't give a fuck less. I do my job. My harem knows they can count on me for whatever they might need and that means their husbands know that their shit will be taken care of. If the boys don't have to worry, they can do their jobs and come home ALIVE! So fuck you very much if you have a problem with me.

Here's a Quarter--

I meet all kinds of people in the Army: from single Joe to the 1SG and his wife. One thing all military people have in common, regardless of rank, is we can all find something to bitch about. Always. And 99% of the time, the Army gave us that thing to bitch about. You know, shitty pay, paperwork fuck-ups, waiting for something to happen, the fucking hospital and doctors, the jackass in charge. Whatever. We all bitch.

And then there are the people who you see are calling and you want to dig a hole, fill it with cement and jump in just so you don't have to fucking talk to them. And all you want to say to that person, before they can open then mouth to start whining (because this person doesn't bitch) is, "Go fuck yourself. Please. And for God's sake, quit being such a whiny little bitch!"

Like the wife who tells her deployed husband she wants a divorce. They've been married about 16 months and have a 2 month old (and she's fucked at least 3 other men). Then she calls me in tears when he changes his bank account, revokes her POAs, and only gives her BAH-II and what the state estimates his child support will be. Like I can fix it. Ummmm. . . You made your bed, fucked another man in it, and now you are SOL, psycho whore! Don't come whining to me. Nothing I can do for you, honey. He's giving you everything the Army says he has to.

Or the soldier who is always at sick call because he has an ingrown toenail. Or who calls his sergeant to say how everyone picks on him or he can't leave his wife alone to do his fucking job or that the other sergeants hate him and he wants to kill himself (please, just get a knife and stab yourself). You know, if you have a legitimate problem, I'll be the first one to help. But when a soldier whines at me about something at work and how horrible it is, I ask him what the fuck he did wrong to deserve it, and usually the soldier did do something. Like never fucking do what he's told! Grow the fuck up. Get a pair. Be a man, you fucking whiny pussy!

I cannot stand whiny people (she said whiningly). They bother me. But I have a, idea for combatting the fucktards who insist upon complaining for nothing. From now on, when whiny people call me, I'm going to invite them to come to my house. I'll have an actual coffee with actual fucking coffee (as opposed to my coffee-less coffees--good times!!) And we will all sit around and all of them can fill out the following official military form to be turned in to the appropiate piece of shit officer:

Good? Bad?

"I'm the guy with the gun!" If that moody asshole continues to call me at insane hours from 10,000 miles away just to give me a list of shit he's pissed off about or that he wants me to do, I'm gonna be the BITCH with a gun! And I'm bringing it to the Welcome Home Ceremony, baby! Leave me the fuck alone!

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I bring out this psychotic bi-polar side of my husband or maybe it's his NTBS (no tolerance for bullshit) kicking in and I just happen to be in the line of fire. All I know is that one phone call is "OH, baby, I love you and I miss you and I'm so proud of you and I'm so lucky to have to you." Blah, blah, blah. And the next call is, "What the fuck did you do that for? And where's my goddamn dip? Didn't you send it?"

MAKE UP YOUR FUCKING MIND!!!

Either I'm the greatest thing since the wheel or I'm a useless ass-wipe. Decide. You are making me insane! And believe me, I do NOT need any help with that! I am perfectly capable of becoming insane on my own, fuck you very much!

I love my husband. . . I love my husband. . . I love my husband. . . I love my husband. . . I love my husband. . . If I keep repeating it, maybe I won't yell at him next time he calls or try to kill him when he gets home. That would be bad. There are lots of people at Welcome Home Ceremonies--hence, lots of witnesses!!

I do love my husband. I really do. And when he is good, he is very, very good, but when he is bad, he is HORRID!!! And then I hate him. And want him to die. Slowly. Painfully. In front of me.

Oh well. Another day, another chance for a phone call from my love. And who will it be today? The good one? The bad one? It's like playing Russian roulette picking up the phone when he calls. It could go either way.

So today was happy day. In fact, he used the word "chipper" which is fucking scary. Who the hell are you and God help me the next time you call. I'm sure it will be Asshole Husband calling and not Nice Guy Husband.

Fuck me.

Happy Thanks for Nothing Day

More commonly heard among the civilian populace as "Happy Thanksgiving!" but I definitely prefer my version of greeting for this upcoming holiday. I am grateful for my children, my health, my parents and siblings, and my friends, but the overwhelming feeling on this specific holiday is piss off. Stateside we spend a week baking and cooking for one meal, when the boys overseas are lucky to even get a hot meal. Thanksgiving does nothing but remind me of what the boys are missing: family, friends, holiday goodies, gifts, not getting shot at. . . It's only the beginning of a holiday season that I would rather fucking ignore, but that I have children and can't.

Here we are entering yet another fucking holiday season with the hubby 10,000 miles away in a shit hole country dealing with a stupid fucking CoC and the ever present opportunity to come home in a body bag. Fuck the holidays and FUCK THE ARMY!

I am so over this deployment shit. And I get to attempt to yet again put on a happy face for the sake of my kids when I would much rather crawl in the bottom of a bottle for the next two months. Why can't I just be semi-comatose and wave at the holidays as they roll on by. Or can we just skip the fuckers altogether? Wave a magic wand and arrive in January? That would be fan-fucking-tastic!

So Happy Fucking Thanksgiving to you all! There are many things to be thankful for, but the Army likes to fuck people up the ass and repeatedly leave families without their soldiers for these "family" holidays. Not much there to be thankful for--unless you want to discount the whole distance thing and just run with the fact that at least he's still alive and one day closer to getting his ass back where it belongs: with his family! Morbid, I know. But Thanksgiving without my husband really is just another fucking day in this fucking deployment.

Ass vs. Hole in the Ground

Definition of Ranks:

General--Leaps tall buildings in a single bound, is more powerful than a locomotive, is faster than a speeding bullet, walks on water amid typhoons, gives policy to God.

Colonel--Leaps short buildings in a single bound, is more powerful than a switch engine, is just as fast as a speeding bullet, walks on water if sea is calm, talks to God.

Lt. Colonel--Leaps short buildings with a running start and favourable winds, is almost as powerful as a switch engine, is faster than a speeding BB, walks on water in indoor swimming polls, talks to God if a DA-4187 request form is approved.

Major--Barely clears a Quonset hut, loses tug-of-war with a switch engine, can fire a speeding bullet, swims well, is occasionally addressed by God.

Captain--Makes high marks by trying to leap buildings, is run over by a locomotive, can sometimes handle a gun without inflicting self-injury, dog paddles, talks to God.

1st Lieutenant--Runs into buildings, recognizes locomotives two out of three times, is not issued ammunition, can stay afloat if properly instructed, talks to walls.

2nd Lieutenant--Falls over doorstep when trying to enter buildings, says "Look at the Choo-Choo," makes a wonderful target on the range, plays in mud puddles, mumbles to himself.

Sergeant--Lifts tall buildings and walks under them, kicks locomotives off the tracks, catches speeding bullets in his teeth and eats them, freezes water with a single glance, HE IS GOD.

Disclaimer: There are exceptions to very rule, and we've all met some of those exceptions--from the LT who kicks ass and takes names and the colonel who couldn't find his ass if you gave him grid coordinates and a GPS to the buck sergeant or sergeant major who is not God (even though he thinks he is), but Satan incarnate and needs to have a 203 round dropped on his head.

All I'm going to say is that my sergeant, the love of my life, the man I married, is God to his men--not God in his own mind--and would die (or kill) for any one of his men. This is for the boys (and I hope the definitions made you laugh): we are here for you if you need us. We truly love you all. And for anyone who would hurt our boys, we will FUCK YOU UP!! Just saying. . .

BOHICA!!

We've all met them: soldiers who think that the more rank they have, the more god-like they are. Dirty, back stabbing mother fuckers, the lot of them. What is it about gaining rank that makes some jackasses think that their shit doesn't stink? Or that they fuck other soldiers in the ass at their whim?

A good soldier, a good NCO and a good officer all have several qualities in common. They take care of the men that are under them. They use their rank and authority to protect the men they serve with and to better the unit they serve in. They are the first one to show up at work and the last to leave. They will take being screamed at if it means doing right by their men. They never ask another soldier to do what they are not willing to do themselves. Advancing their own career is an afterthought--in fact, being promoted and being put in a position away from the men makes them angry. They live, eat, breathe and sleep the Army values. These are the qualities of a great soldier.

And then there are the other kind. Pieces of shit. Bastards. They live only to serve themselves and will fuck over (or literally fuck) whoever they have to if it makes them look better. They use their rank as bait to attract people who normally wouldn't give them the time of day. They have their nose so far up higher ranking people's asses that all they see is brown. And if you are unfortunate enough to be lower ranking than them, they will use you as a footstool to advance themselves or a scapegoat to cover their own fuck-ups. These kinds of soldiers can only be called pieces of shit! Complete and utter disgraces to the uniform they wear. Worthless fucks who don't give a damn about morals or the Army values.

Fuck them all to hell and back again.

All I can say is : Karma's a BITCH!!!

I Hate Him. . .

OK. That's not true at all. There are times when I want to fucking kill my husband, but I really do love him. I'm just remembering all the phones calls I got before deployment from wives wanting to know what the fuck was wrong with their husband because he was being a total asshole. And before deployment, the guys do turn into assholes. Well, bigger ones than usual anyway.

The guys act like assholes because they are doing their damnedest to distance themselves emotionally before they leave on deployment. And I don't think they even fucking realize what they are doing. As they said in Boondock Saints II, "Fuck it! Do it all I say! Do you think Duke Wayne spent all of his time talking about his feelings with a fuckin' therapist? There's no fucking way he did!
John Wayne died with five pounds of undigested red meat in his ass. Now that's a man! Real men hide their feelings. Why? Because it's none of your fuckin' business!
Men do not cry. Men do not pout. Men jack you in the fuckin' jaw and say...
Thanks for comin' out."

My husband doesn't typically start acting like an ass before deployment. He finds things to keep him busy and distracted from the impending separation. This last time, it was the Impala. For two weeks before they left, my husband had boys over nightly, playing with a welder and putting new floor pans into the 1966 piece of shit Impala in the garage, which he swears will be awesome and worth $50K by the time he's done with it. Whatever. Working on the car meant that he could distance himself from the family, get drunk with the boys, play with power tools, make a HUGE fucking mess, and then come in exhausted and go to sleep. The two weeks before a deployment, I can pretty much guarantee that I won't be getting laid. Every fucking time.

I mention this because redeployment is fast approaching and the guys do the complete opposite of what they did before they left. It's another fucking honeymoon. For a month or so. . .

And then the shit will hit the fan. Asshole mode times ten! They all do it. And we all become bitches, the kind of bitch we would punch if the face if we met her. He has to readjust to being in the real world and we have to learn to let go of being in charge of everything. Easier said than done. I know a LOT of people who have made it through deployment only to get divorced after that honeymoon stage is past. It sucks but it's true.

So ladies, remember that your husband isn't the only one who is going to have to readjust to life as part of a couple; you will too. You have to let him be a part of your family again, and not just the fun parts--you know, playing with the kids, going out, vacation, watching movies, company. You have to let him take back some of the things he used to do that you have been responsible for for a year now. It's not easy, but marriage isn't always flowers and champagne. I promise, it's worth the effort. Fifteen years and counting. . .

And I still love the bastard and call him my best friend.

The Kate

Today I got reminded that a hell of a lot of people stand in awe of me for some reason. One of my very good friends ran into another wife from the company (who I have never met, by the way) and mentioned that she and I were friends. The wife's reply? "Kate!?!" with a look of awe that my friend was on such good terms with me. Apparently, I am famous in the unit. Probably infamous would be a better word.

This incident, related to me by my friend with a good deal of laughter (Fuck you, E), got me to thinking: why do people hold me in such high regard? Am I just that fucking awesome? Is there something about me that inspires confidence or do people just think that I'm a bitch you wouldn't want to cross? What? And I have come to this conclusion: it isn't me. It isn't Kate that people look up to or admire or fear. It is the personae of an Army wife who is tough yet caring. It has nothing to do with Kate the person.

SO what exactly are the qualities of an outstanding Army wife?

1. Tough- She can run her house, deal with kids, juggle bills, and tackle any situation even when her husband is 10,000 miles away. Nothing ever seems to catch her off-guard. She is a rock.

2. Rank schmank- She doesn't care what rank her husband wears or what rank anyone else wears. Rank is used only as a means of addressing a soldier. She knows she is just a wife like all the other wives and that all of us have the same worries and problems.  And she lets it be known that those wives who do try to wear their husband's rank can go fuck themselves.  She has no tolerance for the whose husband's dick is bigger game. 

3. Proud- She is proud of her soldier and proud of his unit. Nothing can change this: not the rumor mill, not the chain of command, not a jerk NCO. Her husband is her hero and anyone who says otherwise gets a "FUCK YOU!" to the face. Done. Now, if her husband does fuck up, she'll be the first one to tell him he's a piece of shit.

4. Compassionate- She actually gives a damn about the soldiers and families she meets. Not an "I'm so sorry. Now go away," but a genuine concern for whatever problem someone may be having. The kind of wife that will tell off housing for being fuck-offs or call out the CoC for dropping the ball. She won't just stand by while people get fucked over and she will go that extra mile to do whatever she can. She also has the entire platoon over for Thanksgiving when they can't get leave or for a weekend BBQ and lets everyone get piss-ass drunk (after she steals their keys!)

5. Knowledgeable- All the time she's spent as an Army wife are years she's spent learning how the Army operates and she'll use that knowledge to mentor new wives. You really can expect her to have the answer or to able to get an answer. She just fucking knows it all.  (And if she doesn't know, you can damn sure bet that bitch will have an answer by 1600 that day!)


I really think that's what people see when they look at or talk about "Kate." They don't really see me. If they did, they would know that I am a psycho bitch and would run screaming in the opposite direction. I am far from being this exemplary Army wife. I try to be all the things in that list up there, but I am not sure how successful I really am at being all those things. I certainly don't deserve any kind of recognition or admiration. I'm just an Army wife trying to make it through deployment and trying to make sure my harem makes it through, too. If we all come out the other side sane, I say MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!

It's Greek to Me. . .

Now, if you don't know me very well, you probably don't know that I was studying to go into the ministry when I met my husband. You probably don't know that I cuss like an infantryman. Or that my husband now kills people for a living. Ironic, isn't it? But I think the thing that would really surprise people is that while I am not racist, hearing the words "Praise Allah!" makes me laugh my fucking ass off!

This whole War on Terror kills me. Just makes me laugh. And not because I think that it is not a noble or honorable cause or that the fuckers who brought death to America's shores don't deserve to die in a hail of gunfire. . . I am 110% behind the cause of this war and the men who are boots on the ground fighting it. It's the Islam thing that gives me the giggles. And I swear I am not a racist.

Let me explain: In college, I had to take Ancient Greek for my religion major. I was the only female in a class of about 25 guys and I am not an ugly female. Every week we had vocabulary tests, just like you do in French or Spanish. The particular week I have in mind, we were learning articles and conjunctions, like as, but, for, and and. Absolute hell. Did you know there are 30 ways to say the word "the" in Ancient Greek. It depends on singular or plural, gender, and usage in the sentence. Complete and total mind fuck trying to remember that shit.

Anyway, we used the same stupid tricks anyone trying to learn a foreign language uses. Repetition. Rhymes. Word Associations.

It's the word associations that got me into trouble. We're all trying to remember that "the" is ho, hay, ho, hoy, hi, tah. . . and ki means and, and alla means but. I sit in the front row and after our prof released us, I headed on out the door followed closely by 25 men, to include my husband, when I hear a commotion behind me. I turn to find 25 guys on their knees, bowing down screaming, "Praise alla!"

See?? I am not a racist. I just happen to have a very nice ass. . .

Grace Under Fire

OK. So Army wives don't technically come under fire, but fuck me, isn't all the shit we have to deal with comparable in some ways to being in a war zone?? Don't the terror we experience for our husbands, the psycho wives we encounter, obnoxious children we wrangle, the headaches we get from the Army being stupid count in any way toward us being able to say that we are under fire?

Deployment is a constant battle for spouses left behind-a battle to maintain our sanity, stay strong for our families, to make a somewhat normal life for our children. We struggle with these things for a year at a time with no loving husband to hold us in his arms and say, "It will be OK." Who do we have to lean on?

Some people pray and that's all well and good. I pray myself. A LOT! But I find that God is a poor substitute sometimes for a shoulder to cry on or another person to vent at. There are times during deployment when it seems like life would be easier if there was no husband to worry about and no kids to try to control. Sometimes it seems like it will never end and we will be stuck at the bottom of this shitty rabbit hole forever. And it's times like these when we wives need the strength and courage of our friends and fellow Army wives to pull us through.

I have seen wives who cry at the drop of a hat and wives who can't seem to take charge of their own lives. I have seen women hide in their homes and try to deny what is going on and others who bury themselves in a bottle to ignore the fact that they are alone. I have seen it all. Drugs. Fucking around on their husbands. Near suicidal behavior. Neglecting their children. But I am happy to say, that these women are the exception to the rule.

Most of the wives I have met this deployment are handling the shit storm that is deployment with immense grace and integrity. They go out. They take care of their kids. They may have the occassional drinking binge or smoke like a fucking dragon (that would be me), but they are handling their business. They manage to juggle bills, kids, school, jobs, loneliness, and fear with only sporadic contact with their husbands. And when it all gets to be too much, they find another wife to cry to or bitch at.

These women, these great wives, are the unsung heroes I would like to honor. Army spouses usually get a bad rap, but these women are outstanding human beings and deserve far better than the lot they have drawn (a lot which any one of them would tell you they wouldn't trade for the world). In spite of all the shitty circumstances and the overwhelming emotions that a deployment inevitably brings on, these women not only survive: They inspire other wives to not just make it through deployment, but to conquer deployment.

So, to my harem, you are my heroes! You inspire me to do more and be a better Army wife. Thank you all and Happy Veteran's Day to the unsung hero: the Army Wife.

Down the Rabbit-Hole

"The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well." Lewis Carroll

That's deployment in a nutshell. It goes on and on and just when you think there's a light at the end of the tunnel, you find yourself falling down a very deep well of depression. You start off deployment in a state of denial and then into depression, then anger and then the halfway mark hits. And oh the joy that floods my soul!! Seriously. That halfway mark is the best part of deployment. It's exciting to think that it's half gone and then reality comes back and bites you in the ass. Fuck! Especially about now.

Month 10 is the "Is this Mother Fucking Deployment Ever Going to Fucking End?" Month. God, just kill me now. I can't do it anymore. The fucking thing goes on and on, like a goddamn carnival ride. Up. Down. Up. Down. Fuck me sideways. I nearly cry every time he calls, and I don't fucking cry. I am a rock, but I swear it feels like he's never going to come home. The end is in sight, but the bastard Army won't tell me when exactly that end will be. If I had a date to mark on the calendar, it might make things easier. But the Army's 2 favorite games are Hurry Up and Wait and It's Fun Fucking with Wives.

So we aren't just waiting for them to come home. We're waiting for a date. Wait and wait some more. And don't ask questions that require specific answers, because the Army won't give them. So it's fucking depressing and everyone is going through it. Months 10 and 11 are the worst. Month 11 is "Just fucking tell me already" Month. So hold on tight. We get to enjoy these two joyful months along with the holidays that we have to celebrate alone. Fuckers. How the hell am I supposed to get motivated to celebrate a family holiday with the best part of my family 10,000 miles away? I know how. I'm going to get fucking drunk, piss a bunch of people off, and smoke like a fiend. Hello, Katie Hyde.

On an happier note, we only have 2 months, give or take a little with the Army's timeline, before we will have a more concrete time frame for the boys to be home. Oh goody. I can hardly wait. Until then, ladies, crawl in the bottom of that bottle, stock up on smokes and tissue, and prepare for the shit storm of emotion to hit if it hasn't already. Or grab some wine and head on over to my place. Bring the kids! We can drink and bitch at each other. We all know the Army couldn't give a fuck less how we feel. Might as well have a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.

Liar, Liar

I fucking hate liars. And I imagine that people saw the title and are looking to get some good and juicy dirt on some stupid whore. Not the case, so you can quit reading now if you want. Some crazy bitch is a liar, but I wouldn't classify myself as a whore. Crazy, yes. Whore, no. However, I did manage to tell a lie. A huge one to myself and since I've been blogging a lot lately, I managed to lie to everyone who read this shit as well. Fuck me.

Here's my confession: If you are a regular reader, you know that I was bitching not too long ago about how I don't need a fucking man around and that I can do anything to include fixing major appliances by myself and men are assholes who are pointless, useless wastes of space. I think I said the only thing I needed my husband around for was sex. I have since come to the conclusion that I have been deluding myself and that while I may not need him technically, I do need him. Damn it.

Allow me to explain myself. Maybe then you can all forgive me. I don't need him around to do shit. I can take care of shit on my own. Whatever crisis comes my way, I can handle it somehow or someway. What I do need him around for is sanity, moral support, adult conversation, and nights like the past week's worth of nights when I am coughing up a fucking lung and have a houseful of sick kids, one of whom is 15 months old and is up 2-3 times a night for an hour at a time because he is teething and has enough snot up his nose to sink the fucking Titanic. I want to sleep and having the husband around to get up with the puking 5 year old or snag the baby would be fan-fucking-tastic!! But NO!!!!!!

The Army has him 10,000 miles away and I am stuck here alone in a river of snot, shit and vomit without a paddle and not a chance in hell of getting a decent night's sleep. Needless to say, I am bitchy to the nth degree. So fucking with me right now is NOT a good idea and my teenagers are doing their valiant best to never come out of their rooms where they might have to face the psycho bitch their mother has become.

So there it is. I lied. I DO need the motherfucker that I married to be here. I need my husband and I am wishing in one hand and shitting in the other if I think that I'm going to get him any time soon. Still a quarter of deployment left to go and if I'm still sane by the time he gets home, it will be a fucking miracle.

One more confession: I actually miss the son of a bitch, too. And not just his penis. I mean, I miss his penis, too (a lot). But I actually miss the man. My confidant, the other half of my brain, my friend. Fucking hell. God, deployment sucks.

The Big O???

You know when you're in the throes of passion, making love with your husband and then he's just done and you're left there thinking, "What the fuck? That was a waste of time." Yeah. Well, that's how I've been feeling about everything concerning this deployment lately. They get me all excited and worked up and then leave me hanging without getting my big climax. Who knew that the Army could leave you feeling sexually frustrated, but that's the only way I can think to describe it. Fuckers.

The big meeting was a waste of time and energy. No news beyond the usual hurry up and wait and the boys are in a shithole. Rear-d doing their usual we would love to help but we have no follow through. And the CoC doing the you aren't important enough to give a fuck about thing. Yeah. Completely useless and utterly disappointing. At some point you are going to have to give me my orgasm or I am getting a divorce.

Someday, someone will get their head out of their fourth point of contact and decide to bring back the glory days of the Rakkasans, when family really did matter and the main object of the unit wasn't to fuck over everyone else to make yourself look good. Maybe I'm just old-fashioned or my memory is faulty and things weren't as good as I seem to remember them. I am getting old.

And I know there are soldiers and leaders who do harken back to those good old days and still aspire to live up to name of Rakkasan. Just not anyone high enough to really bring back that esprit de corps (and in fact, those that are high up are just killing it!) I love this unit. It's home. I guess I'm just tired--tired of deployment, tired of having to physically do shit for wives myself because no one else will, tired of seeing good soldiers getting fucked over. . . Just tired.

I'm going to shut up now. All I'm going to say is that the day we have a COC ceremony, I am so there and you will hear me screaming from the back row.

"Oh God, Yes, Yes, Yes!"

R. Lee Ermy and my creed

With the husband gone, watching war movies is so far out of the scope of things I can handle, that you might as well send them all to the fucking moon. Can't do it. And I love me some war movies! Hamburger Hill, Saving Private Ryan, We Were Soldiers, Band of Brothers (which is technically not a movie and it's about 506th, but it's still fucking phenomenal!!) Can't watch them. Scares the ever-living shit out of me when I think of where my husband is.

But, I have a 15 year old son who loves history and loves war movies. All those movies I can't stand to watch, he's glued to the TV when they come on. (I do make him watch the majority of them on TV because they are edited for language and content--I'm not that bad of a parent.) He's been begging me for years to be allowed to see Full-Metal Jacket, after he discovered that R. Lee Ermy was in it as a drill sergeant. That movie, unfortunately, you MUST watch in its full R-rated glory to truly grasp the brilliance that is Ermy's performance. He may be the one person on the planet who cusses with more grace than most people dance. "Who's the slimy little communist shit, twinkle-toed cocksucker down here who just signed his own death warrant?" Genius.

Since we own the DVD, I let him watch the first half of the movie, the part when the recruits are in basic training. The war part is totally off limits. I'm not completely out of my mind. The kid spent half of it with his jaw of the floor and the other half ON the floor, laughing. I'm guessing he liked it. I spent the time looking for fodder for my blog and with the plethora of emails and comments about how much my stupidity helps people know they aren't alone, I've found a choice bit from the movie that I am adopting as my creed. I mean, hell, I've already parodied the Bible and Monty Python. So fuck it. Here it is:

This is my blog. There are many others like it, but this one is mine. My blog is my sounding board. It is the sanity in my life. I must master it as I must master my sanity. Without me, my blog is useless. Without my blog, I am useless. I must write my blog with truth. I must write with greater strength than this deployment, which is trying to destroy me. I must bitch first before deployment gets to me. I will. Before God I swear this creed: my blog and myself are defenders of the rights of Army wives, we are the masters of this deployment, we are the saviors of sanity. So be it, until there is no deployment, but peace. Amen.

Is It Over????

The long and the short answer to that question is this: NO. We still have months to go ladies and this is when depression really starts to set in, especially with all the rumors flying around that they will be home at such and such a time while the chain of command is sticking with the party line of "the orders are for a year." It sucks donkey balls, but if you just run with that idea of them being gone the FULL fucking year, you are less apt to get your heart broken. Sorry. There's no easy way to say it, but now is the time to break out the big girl panties and suck it up.

OPSEC demands silence on the whole redeployment thing. And there is actually a very good precedence for this line of thinking. My husband's first deployment to the Stan in 2002: on the plane to come home. They take off from Kandahar and the pilots have to take evasive measures because some mother fucking enemy asshole decided to fire an anti-aircraft gun at them. So, take your pick. Staying in the dark about homecoming until the last possible minute or having some Taliban fucker get the info and kill all the boys? Gee, let me think. . .

NO matter what you hear, no matter what your husband tells you, MAINTAIN OPSEC and keep it to yourself. This is not some bitchy wife who thinks she knows it all trying to tell you what to do--this is a serious safety issue first and foremost. But it's also a big morale issue. If a wife gets it in her head that her husband is going to be home for the holidays and he doesn't come home is absolutely heartbreaking. Towing the party line is the best way to keep our emotions in check. I'm about to have a nervous fucking breakdown. The anticipation is killing me and incessant phone calls from my harem are NOT fucking helping. I am NOT suggesting that I won't help you if you need help, but don't ask me about redeployment anymore. I DON'T FUCKING KNOW WHEN THEY WILL BE HOME!!!!

**Yes, I have a harem. I talk about my wives all the time because they are my source of sanity and I get a lot of funny looks from POGs who have no idea about the Army, so I've just decided it's more fun to fuck with them and say I have a harem than to go into a long explanation about FRGs and POCs that no one in their right mind could give a flying fuck about.

Kate swears??

Apparently little girls like me are not supposed to swear. I am too cute to have such vile things come flying out of my mouth. You should see the look on people's faces sometimes the first time I say "FUCK" in front of them--with some people it's sheer horror and with others, pure relief to realize that I am a human being with human feelings and not just the "platoon sergeant's wife." Fuck that. I'm me. Just Kate. I am not an angel and I don't try to wear his rank.

I am an infantry wife, a Rakkasan wife, and a damned good one, too. Hence, I cuss. A LOT! When you deal with some of the fucked up shit I've had to put up with in my career as an Army wife and FRG volunteer, swearing is the only way to get your point across nine tenths of the time. I will tattoo my ass with 502 rules if you can find me a true infantryman who will respond as well to "please" as he will to "fucking now." This blog reflects my typical usage of the English language, so brace yourself. I am not an uneducated idiot who cannot think beyond the scope of four-letter words. I have simply come to embrace the joy that is cursing and recognize the efficacy of these delightful turns of phrase in accomplishing what needs to be done.

So here it is: my disclaimer.

This blog makes frequent use of cussing cluster bombs (a bomb that deploys multiple munitions when it bursts) and F-bombs to include Precision F Strike and Atomic F Bombs. As an Infantry wife, you will see instances of Obligatory Swearing, which sometimes takes the form of Cluster F Bomb. I will not change my manner of speaking to accommodate those who think my language is too obscene for human consumption, nor will I substitute with Foreign Cuss Words, or Pardon My French, or the ridiculously childish Gosh Dang It To Heck. This blog is my outlet for the stupid fucks and shitty situations I run across on a daily basis, and as such, I will use the language I feel is appropriate to make my point. Be warned however that I have known to scare grown men and induce strokes in the elderly.

So FUCK YOU very much and go suck on a grenade if I offend you. Don't like what I have to say or how I say it, don't read my blog. And it is MY blog. Start your own with your goody-two shoes ideals and leave me the fuck alone.

BOB

Continuing on with last night's argument against the profligacy of PTSD, I would like to offer my husband as an interesting case to study. Some people say that my hubby came home fucked in the head. Out of his damn mind. Suffering from an acute case of PTSD. The people who say this are mostly privates from his days as a drill sergeant and for a very good reason. They don't know the story behind the infamous "BOB." They only know that Drill SGT T had a chair in his office that no one was allowed to sit in or touch, he would yell random threats of violence at thin air, and Starbucks cups would appear with the name of the mysterious, and apparently invisible, Bob. The privates were terrified of SFC T.

Now T met BOB, who was a real person, during the invasion of Iraq in 2003. BOB was an enemy combatant who was shot through the chest and landed on his back. When the medics responded to examine him, they needed to see if the bullet was a through and through so they lifted him up to see. Unfortunately, doing this broke the seal his body had created when he fell, and BOB's lung collapsed with the sound of a balloon deflating. Needless to say, BOB is dead and was given the name BOB for "bullet out the back."

Apparently, BOB made an impression on the guys who witnessed his death and they adopted him. BOB had a seat at chow and was a great prankster, because he was at the heart of every practical joke or fuck up the platoon experienced for the duration of the deployment and after they got home. The boys all talked to BOB and would start a fight if anyone tried to take his seat. BOB was the shit.

Well, BOB followed T to drill. By this time, I had already asked my husband if he knew that BOB was not real and was answered that he did know, but it was fun to mind-fuck people. OK. So BOB had his chair in the office and privates did push-up until they wanted to die for touching BOB's chair. BOB sat with T at chow. And when T pulled CQ, I would take Starbucks to him and make sure I brought one for BOB. Screwing with privates is fun! However, I don't think that the privates were expecting their drill sergeant's wife to be as crazy as he was.

I was walking up the stairs. Privates all over. I tripped and without batting an eyelash, turned and screamed,

"Goddammit, BOB. Get out of the way!"

That was the quietest class my husband had in two years. . .

The Land of Oz

Yesterday was fun--tornado warnings as far as the eye can see, people freaking out about them on FB, and texts flying about hiding in bathtubs! Meanwhile, where am I? Not in the tub. Not in the closet. Hell, I'm not even in my house! My oldest son and I were on the porch looking for the funnel clouds! So, we're a little nuts, but hiding in the tub for a tornado that may or may not come seems silly to me. I was told by a friend that she'd see me in Oz after the tornadoes had gone.

This tornado scenario, while completely true, is just a segue into my true topic of bitching today: redeployment. If you read my last blog, you know about the FRG meeting and how the boss was towing the party line about exactly when the boys would be home. "The orders are for one year, so it will be one year give or take a couple of weeks." Fucker. If you already have an idea of when you are deploying next time around, do you really expect me to believe you don't already have the flight schedule for redeployment?

Anyway, (sorry, venting again) PTSD and suicide were another topic of conversation at this meeting. The usual crap about how the redeployment brief will have someone there to explain the symptoms and what help is available to your soldier. Yippy skippy! So already we have wives in a panic, expecting their husband to come home from deployment a totally different person who will either have violent tendencies or will be so depressed we need to have 24 hour suicide watches set up. Can we all just slow down a bit and breathe?

They all come home fucking weird. Weird. That's really the most appropriate word I can think of. You're not going to have really noticed much over mid-tour because that's a honeymoon stage and for a month or two after they get home, that happy blissful feeling will still be in place. Wait for it. For a year they've been in the land of Oz and now they are home and have to learn to be a normal Americans and not one of the flying monkeys. It takes some getting used to. You may have to adjust some things or pay a bit more attention to the shit that bugs him. Most of this shit is completely livable. Believe me, if he needs help, you'll fucking know it.

Here's some examples of what I mean. My husband is NOT allowed to have vodka. Ever. Vodka makes him have flashbacks and stand on the porch screaming at the POG neighbours about all the people he has killed. We do not get into a vehicle until it has been checked for IEDs. I do not wake my husband up by shaking him by the shoulder or shouting--this may lead to a very brief confusion on his part where I am an Iraqi soldier trying to kill him. I do not expect nor ask my husband to ever sit with his back to a door if we go out. And large crowds are bad, very bad--people can sneak up on you in crowds.

This kind of a reaction from a soldier is really typical from what I've heard. Some guys duck and cover when they hear a loud noise. Some guys have to go out on the freeway on their bikes and blow off steam. None of this is unmanageable. But none of this is a reason to assume that my husband is out of his fucking mind and needs drugs for PTSD. Just go off post, talk to the shrink and don't claim it or go through Army One Source which is free and confidential. No big deal and definitely nothing panic worthy. And for the girl at the meeting asking about "what if I think he needs help, but he doesn't and I can't go to the chain of command behind his back, and he get mad and bitch, bitch, bitch. . . " If it's that bad, fucking dial 9-1-1!!!

I personally know guys that have PTSD--guys that are on drugs to keep dreams and paranoia and anger and depression under control. If your husband has it, you will know, believe me.

As my hubby likes to say, they don't come back with PTSD. They come back with NTBS--No Tolerance for Bullshit. Don't be freaking the fuck out, ladies. They may be weird when they come home, but at least they'll be home where we can be sure they are safe! We wives are a resilient bunch. If we can handle a year of being alone and not getting laid, raising kids and going to school, we can handle any weirdness our husbands throw our way.

Epic Failure

Why do I even bother going to FUCKING FRG meetings? Useless. A complete mother fucking waste of time. Listening to idiots. Stupid questions. Fucking liars, the whole bunch. And my favorite, people who think that RHIP and that their shit doesn't stink, so why should they give a flying FUCK about anyone? As long as they are succeeding in their regimen of ass-kissing, FUCK everyone else.

Tonight would have been better spent giving my dog a blow job. Stupid. So the boss man doesn't know exactly when they will be home? Bullshit. He can't tell us due to OPSEC, and I totally get that, but why lie? Just tell us. "That information will be released as soon as possible, but I can't say anything right now in the interest of Operational Security." We wives may not like it, but at least it would be the fucking truth!

And then there are the pics. Pictures of the shit holes our husbands are living in with a narration of some stupid story designed to make us laugh and to distract us all from the fact that our boys are living in mouse infested, dirty, nasty conditions, are lucky to get a hot meal, and are damned lucky not to be sleeping under ponchos on the ground. And that it will be another MONTH before commo is up and running at the fucking battalion FOB--forget about the companies who are farther out. They might get to call home about the time they are ready to fucking come home!

But the pinnacle of the evening was the grim reminder that as long as it doesn't affect them directly, the majority of the fuckers in uniform at the meeting couldn't care less about your problems. Your best bet is to just start stocking up on duct tape, trash bags, and shovels. Bastards. Some of them DO actually give a shit, but none of those that do have enough fucking rank to make a difference. I have never encountered such a callous, cold-hearted bunch of mother fuckers with rank in my life.

So there it is. FUCK IT!

Avoiding the Issues

I have been avoiding drama lately. I've been sick to my stomach for several weeks now dealing with some seriously fucked up situations, but I don't feel like I should say what I'm really thinking. Needless to say, I am avoiding all the stupidity and my recent blogs have just been some very funny Army stories. In keeping with that theme of avoidance, today's offering is a letter that I avoided sending to the person it is about. I still really cannot come up with a tactful way of explaining to this poor girl why I dropped her like a dead skunk. I totally understand wanting to support your husband who's deployed, but I have to draw a line somewhere. This bitch crossed the line without ever hitting the brakes and is in fucking China by now. Enjoy!

Dear STUPID STUPID STUPID ex-Facebook friend-

When you post pictures on Facebook, did you know that it shows up on ALL your friends' home pages?? And when I see those pictures are of your children, I make it a point to look at them--I love pics of people's children. Now, when I am going through your album of children's photos (who, by the way are just the cutest things ever), the LAST thing I expect or want to see is a pic of your twat in ridiculous close-up with a vibrator going to town. HELLO!! I know your hubby is deployed, but they have this really cool thing called EMAIL!! I do NOT need to get jolted back into a wakeful state at 0130 by the porn you are producing for your spouse nor do I really want to spend the next 15 minutes vomiting and praying to the porcelain god that I never have to actually see you again, knowing what horrible image will instantly come to mind whenever I see your face. Oh my GOD! I have no idea how people can actually post shit like that on the Internet, but to just create a random photo album with children's pics, flowers, and then WHAM-O, your pussy should be illegal and punishable by removal of all Internet privileges! The best part is when I un-friend you, you have the GALL to re-request that we be Facebook buddies?!? WTF????? Are you out of your damn mind? Do you think I accidentally dumped your ass? I don't know--maybe I should have sent a message before un-friending you: Hello, FB friend: your twat pics scared me. I'm in a catatonic state and will not be available to be your FB friend any longer. Have a nice day.

Stupid bitch!

(Luckily for me, this lovely letter was preserved for me by Miss Emily on her blog. You can click on her pic to the right and peruse for yourself. She always manages to make me laugh.)

Fuck Men!!

Is it just me or am I just cursed? Without fail, three months into deployment, an appliance of some kind will do something stupid and make me learn more about do-it-yourself home repair than any sane woman should have to. This is why we get married--so we don't have to fuck with any of this stupid shit. Oh well.

Since I've been abandoned and forced to fend for myself numerable times, my dryer has caught fire, my toilet has run constantly, and my dryer has flooded the laundry room. WTF? It's like my appliances send down a memo:

"The bitch is here alone. Somebody needs to die! Sincerely, The Home Appliance Mafia"

My second deployment, and the first I was a homeowner and going to be stuck with any repair bill myself, while sitting at the kitchen table, the lights started dimming and then got brighter again. And then they went out completely. Total darkness was a nice backdrop for the light show going on in the laundry room. It looked like fireworks IN MY HOUSE! Run in there and the entire back of the dryer is in flames and throwing sparks. I shut the dryer off, extinguished the fire and tried to decide what the hell I was going to do now. I left it alone and looked at it the next morning to discover that the vent had come off and the back of the dryer had been covered in lint. Not any more! The fire had burned not only all the lint off, but also the power cord so I replaced it and lo and behold, the sucker still worked! $20 repair. Done.

Third deployment, I got a water bill for $200! AUGH! WTF!?! Go through the house looking for a leak and notice the kids' toilet is running. Take off the lid of the tank and the fill valve is cracked and spurting water in very direction and the flapper is stuck open. Great. So I found the shut off valve, got the parts and gutted the toilet. Another $20 repair. Done. (Sent a copy of the receipt to the water company and they reduced my bill to what it usually is. Very nice!)

This deployment, I'm doing laundry and notice that it sounds like it's still filling for a small load? WTF? Go in the laundry room and find an inch of water covering the floor. Great. I set it to spin. Emptied it and tried again. Still not stopping. SHIT! So I get online and find out all the parts of a washer and what they do. Took the front of the washer off and pulled the overflow hose off to find enough mildew clogging it to choke a horse. Disgusting. SO I unbent a coat hanger, jammed it in, pulled all the shit out, and put the fucking machine back together. No more floods in the laundry room and the floor in there is spotless. Free repair. Done.

This deployment after R & R, I had yet another surprise that I would normally delegate to my husband, but was he here? FUCK NO! This time the dogs are out back going ape shit so my 15 year old and four year old sons go to see what's up. Thank God for my oldest. He came running back in carrying his brother and dragging one of the dogs, screaming "Snake!!!"

Fuck me sideways. Where's a man when you need him? Oh, that's right: Afghani-fucking-stan. I head out the door with a shovel and a broom and use the broom to pin the cottonmouth down while the boy drags in the other dog. All I have to say is I am damned lucky the cops weren't called about some crazy woman screaming, "Kill the motherfucker!!" and that my son didn't object to hacking a poisonous snake to death.

So while I may have managed to get out of some ridiculous repair bills or replacement costs and avoided any animal bites, why can't these things catch fire, break, clog, or try to kill me and the kids when there's a man around? It's a curse. I swear it is. It is nice to know that I don't NEED a man around if shit needs fixed or an animal needs put down--

I just need him if I ever want to have sex again!