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.
31 October 2010
28 October 2010
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. . .
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. . .
27 October 2010
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.
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.
25 October 2010
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!
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!
23 October 2010
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.)
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.)
20 October 2010
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!
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!
Booty Call
With all the drama, drama, drama going on, I've decided to for once to just keep my fucking mouth shut and blog about something completely pointless. Still Army related, but irrelevant to any of the current goings on.
My husband had been active for 2 years when a new guy joined the unit whose name was. . . wait for it. . . Jody! OMG! An infantryman named JODY! Funniest shit I'd ever heard. So poor Jody got shit everyday during PT runs and was forced to sing the Jody-calls. Poor kid. Couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.
Anyway, Jody was a great friend and over at the house all the time. After PT to change, for lunch, over the weekend. . . All the time. Nice guy but he kind of freaked me out. He was the same height, weight, hair color, eye color, face shape, and build as my husband. Could have been his damn brother! Freaky!
When the boys would come home after PT, I'd make coffee and pancakes or something while they were showering and changing. Good Army wife, you know. One day, they come in, Jody heads upstairs and T is talking to me around the corner while I get coffee on. I came out of the kitchen around the corner and on the way past my husband, I smacked him on the ass and that poor bastard must have jumped a good foot off the ground. I laughed, continued on my way to the living room and picked up our conversation where we'd left off. "Is it going to rain today?"
"I think so. It was sprinkling all during PT."
WTF? That's not T talking. That's fucking Jody! Oh shit.
Up the stairs I go like a whore out of a church and into our room where T stands getting on his uniform.
"Were you just downstairs?" I ask.
"What do you mean?"
"OK. Let me rephrase. . .
Did I just smack you on the ass?"
T justs gives me the funniest look, starts laughing and runs down from whence I had just come, screaming at the top of his lungs,
"JODY!! Wait til the guys at work hear this shit! That's fucking outstanding!"
My husband had been active for 2 years when a new guy joined the unit whose name was. . . wait for it. . . Jody! OMG! An infantryman named JODY! Funniest shit I'd ever heard. So poor Jody got shit everyday during PT runs and was forced to sing the Jody-calls. Poor kid. Couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.
Anyway, Jody was a great friend and over at the house all the time. After PT to change, for lunch, over the weekend. . . All the time. Nice guy but he kind of freaked me out. He was the same height, weight, hair color, eye color, face shape, and build as my husband. Could have been his damn brother! Freaky!
When the boys would come home after PT, I'd make coffee and pancakes or something while they were showering and changing. Good Army wife, you know. One day, they come in, Jody heads upstairs and T is talking to me around the corner while I get coffee on. I came out of the kitchen around the corner and on the way past my husband, I smacked him on the ass and that poor bastard must have jumped a good foot off the ground. I laughed, continued on my way to the living room and picked up our conversation where we'd left off. "Is it going to rain today?"
"I think so. It was sprinkling all during PT."
WTF? That's not T talking. That's fucking Jody! Oh shit.
Up the stairs I go like a whore out of a church and into our room where T stands getting on his uniform.
"Were you just downstairs?" I ask.
"What do you mean?"
"OK. Let me rephrase. . .
Did I just smack you on the ass?"
T justs gives me the funniest look, starts laughing and runs down from whence I had just come, screaming at the top of his lungs,
"JODY!! Wait til the guys at work hear this shit! That's fucking outstanding!"
16 October 2010
What were you thinking?
Before he deploys, my husband has in mind what couples will be divorced by the time deployment ends or shortly thereafter. He can pick them out a mile away. It's actually kind of scary sometimes, but when you understand the circumstances of some of these marriages, it doesn't take a fucking rocket scientist to figure out that it is never going to work.
For those of you who don't know, lower enlisted don't technically have to get permission to marry, but they do need to inform their chain of command of their intention to do so. A lot of these young soldiers come in out of the blue and announce that they are in love and are getting married. Upon hearing this, they will invariably be asked, 'How did you meet her?"
Here's some of the better answers I've heard:
--at a strip club (she was performing)
--she was dating my roommate (and half of the barracks at one time or another)
--she delivered my pizza
--on-line
Women who grow up around a military poste can probably tell you the pay scale better than most military men themselves. And let's face it: boys fresh out of basic and free for the first time in their lives are horny bastards and easy prey. They are also foolish beyond comprehension and do not listen to their sergeants. If they did, there would be fewer divorces in the military. But what do they expect?
You married a girl you saw dancing in a club and only knew for 2 days because she popped your cherry. Then you discover she's a druggie and on welfare. And it only costs $50 for anyone who wants to to fuck her in the ass. Well, maybe you should know a person longer than 5 minutes, shit for brains!! I was astonished to learn that she emptied your bank account and stole your car on your one month anniversary. Didn't see that one coming!
Or you married a barrack whore--you know, the girl who has slept with the entire company at least once and has probably slept with every man in every company in the battalion. . . You're surprised she cheated on you?
The pizza delivery girl is good. Know her 2 weeks, marry her, knock her up, deploy 2 weeks later. She files for separation dating from the DAY YOU LEFT, takes your bonus to spend on meth and uses the kid to fleece you monthly with child support payments! Shocker!
And then there is on-line dating. My fave. Hook up with a girl who says she is 5 foot, 7 inches tall, 120 pounds, blond hair, blue eyes. Marry her BY PROXY and send her a plane ticket to come here to meet the boys. Too bad she's 5 foot, 3 inches tall, 350 pounds, black dyed goth hair, brown eyes. Sucks for you. Here's a clue: You're on-line. You can LIE about yourself! Who knew? Hey bitches, I'm 5'7", 120 lbs, with DD boobs (if you add 7 inches, 30 pounds and about 5 cups sizes. . . )
What the fuck are these boys thinking? The same boys who go "hogging" to military balls. Never heard this term? They find the largest girl they can to take to the ball and then they have to sleep with her. Biggest girl makes you the winner. Lovely, huh?
(I am not prejudiced against big girls--some of my best friends are plump. When I say large, I mean morbidly obese. The big girl who shows up in a yellow dress and all I can say when I see her is "Parkay!!" Yes, I know, I'm going to hell!)
But the BEST one I ever heard was the guy who met a girl in a club, came to work Monday, and announced he was getting married. My husband told him he was insane.
The kid's response??
"But Sergeant. . . she ain't got no gag reflex!"
For those of you who don't know, lower enlisted don't technically have to get permission to marry, but they do need to inform their chain of command of their intention to do so. A lot of these young soldiers come in out of the blue and announce that they are in love and are getting married. Upon hearing this, they will invariably be asked, 'How did you meet her?"
Here's some of the better answers I've heard:
--at a strip club (she was performing)
--she was dating my roommate (and half of the barracks at one time or another)
--she delivered my pizza
--on-line
Women who grow up around a military poste can probably tell you the pay scale better than most military men themselves. And let's face it: boys fresh out of basic and free for the first time in their lives are horny bastards and easy prey. They are also foolish beyond comprehension and do not listen to their sergeants. If they did, there would be fewer divorces in the military. But what do they expect?
You married a girl you saw dancing in a club and only knew for 2 days because she popped your cherry. Then you discover she's a druggie and on welfare. And it only costs $50 for anyone who wants to to fuck her in the ass. Well, maybe you should know a person longer than 5 minutes, shit for brains!! I was astonished to learn that she emptied your bank account and stole your car on your one month anniversary. Didn't see that one coming!
Or you married a barrack whore--you know, the girl who has slept with the entire company at least once and has probably slept with every man in every company in the battalion. . . You're surprised she cheated on you?
The pizza delivery girl is good. Know her 2 weeks, marry her, knock her up, deploy 2 weeks later. She files for separation dating from the DAY YOU LEFT, takes your bonus to spend on meth and uses the kid to fleece you monthly with child support payments! Shocker!
And then there is on-line dating. My fave. Hook up with a girl who says she is 5 foot, 7 inches tall, 120 pounds, blond hair, blue eyes. Marry her BY PROXY and send her a plane ticket to come here to meet the boys. Too bad she's 5 foot, 3 inches tall, 350 pounds, black dyed goth hair, brown eyes. Sucks for you. Here's a clue: You're on-line. You can LIE about yourself! Who knew? Hey bitches, I'm 5'7", 120 lbs, with DD boobs (if you add 7 inches, 30 pounds and about 5 cups sizes. . . )
What the fuck are these boys thinking? The same boys who go "hogging" to military balls. Never heard this term? They find the largest girl they can to take to the ball and then they have to sleep with her. Biggest girl makes you the winner. Lovely, huh?
(I am not prejudiced against big girls--some of my best friends are plump. When I say large, I mean morbidly obese. The big girl who shows up in a yellow dress and all I can say when I see her is "Parkay!!" Yes, I know, I'm going to hell!)
But the BEST one I ever heard was the guy who met a girl in a club, came to work Monday, and announced he was getting married. My husband told him he was insane.
The kid's response??
"But Sergeant. . . she ain't got no gag reflex!"
15 October 2010
Nice Ass!
If you have ever been a one vehicle family, you know the joys of taking the hubby into work and if you are military, you get the added bonus of taking him lunch and dinner when he gets stuck pulling CQ. Good times. We hadn't been stationed here for very long when my hubby got that delightful 24 hour duty and I got stuck bringing him meals and praying to God that I could find my way to the fucking barracks without getting LLMF. But I made it to the company and I was even a little early.
Now back in those days, wives were NOT allowed in the barracks--ever. Some stupid whore wife had been banging two of the single guys while her husband was in Sinai and the boys had six months of video and pics to prove that she was just a cheating bitch, but when her husband came home, she cried rape and the Army sent those boys to jail for 5 years of hard labour. Stupid cunt. Anyway, the Rakks decided none of the boys were going to get fucked over that way ever again and that meant no wives in the barracks.
Tangent done. I just HATE cheating wives. . .
Anyway, I got there early, stuck my head in the door and hollered for T. He came outside, got his lunch, chatted for a few minutes, and then told me to go ahead and go home. He could hear the boys being released for lunch and needed to get back to the CQ desk. So I walked back to the car and went home. No problem.
I found out later that my appearance at work had caused rather a ruckus. I'm walking away as the boys are walking out when my hubby noticed a group of about ten guys all huddled around talking and laughing. He wandered over to discover John, who was the biggest man whore I have ever met but also one of the most fucking gorgeous men I have ever met, at the center of this knot. Husband asks what's going on and gets the response, "Holy shit, T. Do you see the ass on the girl? Man, I would tap that shit right now!" All the fingers are pointed at me.
Without batting an eyelash, my husband says, "That is a fine piece of ass. . .
God, I'm glad I married her."
Now back in those days, wives were NOT allowed in the barracks--ever. Some stupid whore wife had been banging two of the single guys while her husband was in Sinai and the boys had six months of video and pics to prove that she was just a cheating bitch, but when her husband came home, she cried rape and the Army sent those boys to jail for 5 years of hard labour. Stupid cunt. Anyway, the Rakks decided none of the boys were going to get fucked over that way ever again and that meant no wives in the barracks.
Tangent done. I just HATE cheating wives. . .
Anyway, I got there early, stuck my head in the door and hollered for T. He came outside, got his lunch, chatted for a few minutes, and then told me to go ahead and go home. He could hear the boys being released for lunch and needed to get back to the CQ desk. So I walked back to the car and went home. No problem.
I found out later that my appearance at work had caused rather a ruckus. I'm walking away as the boys are walking out when my hubby noticed a group of about ten guys all huddled around talking and laughing. He wandered over to discover John, who was the biggest man whore I have ever met but also one of the most fucking gorgeous men I have ever met, at the center of this knot. Husband asks what's going on and gets the response, "Holy shit, T. Do you see the ass on the girl? Man, I would tap that shit right now!" All the fingers are pointed at me.
Without batting an eyelash, my husband says, "That is a fine piece of ass. . .
God, I'm glad I married her."
14 October 2010
Cockroaches, Rumors and Fat Chicks! Oh My!
I was once again recently reminded why it is exactly why I do NOT miss living in on-poste housing. Holy fucking hell. Here's my top ten list of why on-poste housing sucks balls.
1. Getting housing- To get on-poste housing, you have to have a mountain of paperwork that would crush a small child if it fell on him and then prepare to wait anywhere from a few weeks to a year to get a house that may or may not be within what your standards are. And God forbid your husband is deployed, because then you get the added fun of hoping that your fucking POA is the one housing wants that week. Then you get to move into a more than likely filthy dirty house, depending on if the previous tenants hired the cleaning crew or cleared themselves. More on that later. The entire process is a prime example of the Army motto: Hurry up and wait and then wait some fucking more. Exhausting to say the least.
2. Noise, noise, noise- The walls in on-poste housing are paper thin. You can hear EVERYTHING, and I do mean everything, if you are attached to another unit. Good example? We went home for a weekend and there had been some robberies on our block, so we asked a friend to stay while we were gone. No problem. Got home and the neighbours begged us to never leave again, or to at least never let him stay there. For 3 nights in a row, they got no sleep. Apparently, John and his girlfriend had an orgy all weekend long and just when the neighbours thought they were done, they would hear "Oh John! Fuck me harder! WHOO!" All fucking weekend. (Bad pun, I know!) Needless to say, expect everyone to know how frequent, how long, how good, and everything else about your sex life. They will hear it all.
3. Electricity, sometimes- The power on poste will go out at random times for exactly one hour. I'm serious. You can time that shit to the second. The Army has to save money somehow. . .
4. Infestations- Plan to be buying a lot of bug repellents and bleach. Case in point: Cockroach Village. We had cockroaches and so did all our neighbours, but rather than spray all the houses in one day, weeks would pass so the little bastards would just move next door until the exterminators decided to spray there. Then they moved back. Bleaching did no good. And then there were ants and spiders and mice and everything creepy crawling fucker you can imagine moving into my house to get away from all the construction constantly going on. Disgusting and damn near impossible to keep clean and bug-free. Not to mention embarrassing when company comes and sees some nasty thing crawling across the floor. I swear that we should have invested in Chlorox--we'd be independently wealthy.
5. Just Nasty- I don't know what it is about some of the families on poste, but on-poste housing must be like a beacon in the night to white trash filthy mother fuckers, because you can find them all over poste. You know, bitches who NEVER fucking clean. My house is cluttered. I have kids. But I clean and bleach every day. I swear that people on poste get paid to breed the nasty things I talked about in number 4.
6. WTF is your kid doing?- I'd be a millionaire if I had a nickel for every time I thought this when I lived on poste. Or for "where the fuck are that kid's parents?" I get asked all the time how I can be so thin after having had 4 kids. Well, I clean and I actually DO things with my kids. What a shocker! That is enough exercise to at least lose some of the baby weight. There are more fat chicks on poste than at a Walmart convention. And invariably, they have a baby running around outside repeatedly (like every fucking day) butt ass naked with no parental supervision!! Gee, I wonder why you're fat?
7. Who did what?- The fat chicks on poste hate the skinny chicks, so watch out. They will all look at you and accuse you of everything from fucking the mailman to having anorexia. Talk about a rumor mill. If you listened to my fat ass neighbours, I was banging my brother, my husband's best friend, the 1SG, the other skinny girl who lived on our block and everyone in the squad. I also was only 12 years old and the eldest daughter of my husband. Just brace yourself and keep an eye on your neighbours. I have seen people resort to binoculars, no shit, to try to get dirt on the people in their neighbourhood!!
8. Red Light, Green Light- And those assholes who called me a whore are always the ones with the green light out, or the apple, or the broom thing. Whatever it is on your particular poste. It's basically a sign that means that anyone who wants can go to the door and get a free fuck. Isn't that nice? Red light means the free fuck is a no-go.
9. Harassment- does NOT exist in a military poste. No matter how badly the neighbours treat you or what rumours they spread, housing doesn't give a flying fuck. It's he said- she said, so you are on your own. Unless things escalate to physical violence. . . So being yelled at you have to deal with, but if they shoot you, housing will intervene (after the third incident or so).
10. Clearing- Once you decide that housing can go take a flying leap off a low bridge and living off poste is the life for you, you get to clear which brings me back to the clean it yourself or hire the crew. If you hire the crew, you are good to go, but you are $300 for some idiot to take a GARDEN HOSE into your house and spray the place down. I watched them do it to a neighbour's place. And if you do it yourself, you will get 3 different ways that the floor must be cleaned which are contradictory and pointless. It's a fun exciting time dealing with inspectors and timelines. Have you ever noticed that when you want something from the Army, it takes FOREVER, but when the Army wants something from you, you better have it yesterday? Bastards.
Living on poste has its perks. And its pitfalls. Life on poste is never dull at least, if you like stupidity and drama. . .
1. Getting housing- To get on-poste housing, you have to have a mountain of paperwork that would crush a small child if it fell on him and then prepare to wait anywhere from a few weeks to a year to get a house that may or may not be within what your standards are. And God forbid your husband is deployed, because then you get the added fun of hoping that your fucking POA is the one housing wants that week. Then you get to move into a more than likely filthy dirty house, depending on if the previous tenants hired the cleaning crew or cleared themselves. More on that later. The entire process is a prime example of the Army motto: Hurry up and wait and then wait some fucking more. Exhausting to say the least.
2. Noise, noise, noise- The walls in on-poste housing are paper thin. You can hear EVERYTHING, and I do mean everything, if you are attached to another unit. Good example? We went home for a weekend and there had been some robberies on our block, so we asked a friend to stay while we were gone. No problem. Got home and the neighbours begged us to never leave again, or to at least never let him stay there. For 3 nights in a row, they got no sleep. Apparently, John and his girlfriend had an orgy all weekend long and just when the neighbours thought they were done, they would hear "Oh John! Fuck me harder! WHOO!" All fucking weekend. (Bad pun, I know!) Needless to say, expect everyone to know how frequent, how long, how good, and everything else about your sex life. They will hear it all.
3. Electricity, sometimes- The power on poste will go out at random times for exactly one hour. I'm serious. You can time that shit to the second. The Army has to save money somehow. . .
4. Infestations- Plan to be buying a lot of bug repellents and bleach. Case in point: Cockroach Village. We had cockroaches and so did all our neighbours, but rather than spray all the houses in one day, weeks would pass so the little bastards would just move next door until the exterminators decided to spray there. Then they moved back. Bleaching did no good. And then there were ants and spiders and mice and everything creepy crawling fucker you can imagine moving into my house to get away from all the construction constantly going on. Disgusting and damn near impossible to keep clean and bug-free. Not to mention embarrassing when company comes and sees some nasty thing crawling across the floor. I swear that we should have invested in Chlorox--we'd be independently wealthy.
5. Just Nasty- I don't know what it is about some of the families on poste, but on-poste housing must be like a beacon in the night to white trash filthy mother fuckers, because you can find them all over poste. You know, bitches who NEVER fucking clean. My house is cluttered. I have kids. But I clean and bleach every day. I swear that people on poste get paid to breed the nasty things I talked about in number 4.
6. WTF is your kid doing?- I'd be a millionaire if I had a nickel for every time I thought this when I lived on poste. Or for "where the fuck are that kid's parents?" I get asked all the time how I can be so thin after having had 4 kids. Well, I clean and I actually DO things with my kids. What a shocker! That is enough exercise to at least lose some of the baby weight. There are more fat chicks on poste than at a Walmart convention. And invariably, they have a baby running around outside repeatedly (like every fucking day) butt ass naked with no parental supervision!! Gee, I wonder why you're fat?
7. Who did what?- The fat chicks on poste hate the skinny chicks, so watch out. They will all look at you and accuse you of everything from fucking the mailman to having anorexia. Talk about a rumor mill. If you listened to my fat ass neighbours, I was banging my brother, my husband's best friend, the 1SG, the other skinny girl who lived on our block and everyone in the squad. I also was only 12 years old and the eldest daughter of my husband. Just brace yourself and keep an eye on your neighbours. I have seen people resort to binoculars, no shit, to try to get dirt on the people in their neighbourhood!!
8. Red Light, Green Light- And those assholes who called me a whore are always the ones with the green light out, or the apple, or the broom thing. Whatever it is on your particular poste. It's basically a sign that means that anyone who wants can go to the door and get a free fuck. Isn't that nice? Red light means the free fuck is a no-go.
9. Harassment- does NOT exist in a military poste. No matter how badly the neighbours treat you or what rumours they spread, housing doesn't give a flying fuck. It's he said- she said, so you are on your own. Unless things escalate to physical violence. . . So being yelled at you have to deal with, but if they shoot you, housing will intervene (after the third incident or so).
10. Clearing- Once you decide that housing can go take a flying leap off a low bridge and living off poste is the life for you, you get to clear which brings me back to the clean it yourself or hire the crew. If you hire the crew, you are good to go, but you are $300 for some idiot to take a GARDEN HOSE into your house and spray the place down. I watched them do it to a neighbour's place. And if you do it yourself, you will get 3 different ways that the floor must be cleaned which are contradictory and pointless. It's a fun exciting time dealing with inspectors and timelines. Have you ever noticed that when you want something from the Army, it takes FOREVER, but when the Army wants something from you, you better have it yesterday? Bastards.
Living on poste has its perks. And its pitfalls. Life on poste is never dull at least, if you like stupidity and drama. . .
12 October 2010
In the Army
Let me set the scene. A bride wearing a flowing white gown (and hopefully not looking like a meringue) comes down the aisle with her groom in his military dress uniform. As the couple exits the church, they pass between two lines of soldiers also in military dress uniforms holding sabers over the heads of the happy couple. As she passes the last man in the line, the bride feels a smack on her ass; the last man in line has hit her with the flat of his blade and uttered the infamous phrase, "Welcome to the Army, ma'am."
There it is. Even if you got married before a justice of the peace or had just a regular civilian wedding, you better wake up to one simple fact: you may not signed on the dotted line, but you are in the Army now and had better be ready to deal with all the bullshit that Army life brings. And "Hurry up and wait" will be your new motto. You're going to be doing a LOT of waiting--waiting for paperwork to go through, waiting for husbands to come home from the field or deployment, waiting for promotions, waiting for orders, waiting to get laid. . . A whole fuck ton of waiting.
And expect the military to rub off on you in ways that you would never expect. Case in point: my husband and I met in college where we were studying to be pastors. Most people are surprised by this and surprised is putting it mildly. Apparently pastors frown upon the use of words like fuck, shit, damn, hell, pussy, asshole, etc and my fondness for these words excludes the ministry from professions most people can see me doing. Ah, the joys of hanging out with infantrymen!
My husband is a soldier, and a damn good one at that. He's the one who goes to foreign country to kill with extreme prejudice those who threaten this country. He's the one who has to deal with bosses who will fuck you in the ass if you let them and soldiers who don't know their asses from holes in the ground. He gets to play with all the cool toys and see fantastic faraway places. I may not get to do any of these things, nor do I wear a uniform, but I am in the Army too.
I am an Army wife. A proud and noble profession.
Don't fuck with me.
There it is. Even if you got married before a justice of the peace or had just a regular civilian wedding, you better wake up to one simple fact: you may not signed on the dotted line, but you are in the Army now and had better be ready to deal with all the bullshit that Army life brings. And "Hurry up and wait" will be your new motto. You're going to be doing a LOT of waiting--waiting for paperwork to go through, waiting for husbands to come home from the field or deployment, waiting for promotions, waiting for orders, waiting to get laid. . . A whole fuck ton of waiting.
And expect the military to rub off on you in ways that you would never expect. Case in point: my husband and I met in college where we were studying to be pastors. Most people are surprised by this and surprised is putting it mildly. Apparently pastors frown upon the use of words like fuck, shit, damn, hell, pussy, asshole, etc and my fondness for these words excludes the ministry from professions most people can see me doing. Ah, the joys of hanging out with infantrymen!
My husband is a soldier, and a damn good one at that. He's the one who goes to foreign country to kill with extreme prejudice those who threaten this country. He's the one who has to deal with bosses who will fuck you in the ass if you let them and soldiers who don't know their asses from holes in the ground. He gets to play with all the cool toys and see fantastic faraway places. I may not get to do any of these things, nor do I wear a uniform, but I am in the Army too.
I am an Army wife. A proud and noble profession.
Don't fuck with me.
11 October 2010
Vodka and Fireworks
We are over the halfway mark in this deployment and it's time to again get ready for the boys' homecoming and the weirdness that follows. Let's face it , ladies--the guys have been in a war zone for a year, living a life that is not what would qualify as a "normal" American life, and they are going to be fucking weird when they get home. The redeployment brief will have people there who are going to describe PTSD and what to look for, but it's mostly bullshit. The guys are all weird, but 99% of the time, it's not anything to run to the shrink over or try to have him committed to the loony bin. Don't let those idiots at the brief mindfuck you.
What do I mean when I say weird? I mean exactly that: fucking weird. Crowds are a no-go. Sitting facing away from a door is a no-go. Eating chicken can be an issue. And in the case of my husband, vodka is right out. He'd done some freaky shit since his first deployment, but the night he got smashed on vodka and was screaming about seeing dead people on the front porch was the first and only time he scared me. So vodka is now on the list of things he cannot do, and life is good.
Some examples for you: I've been picked up by my throat when I woke my husband up too abruptly (that was a one time deal); I've laughed my ass off at guys checking their cars for IEDs at Walmart. And my personal favorite, people diving under cars when they have heard fireworks go off or a car backfire, literally. One of my friends went to Disney and stayed to see the fireworks only to discover that her husband had taken off. She found him under their car in the parking lot. Very funny. But none of these things, however fucked up they might seem, is cause for mental health to get involved. They just require that we wives readjust the way we do things and have a bit of patience. So get ready for it, ladies. You are entering the Twilight Zone. Try to enjoy the experience.
I have yet to see one boy come home and not be strange, but of all the ones I've seen, only one can I honestly say had PTSD and needed help. When you dream so deeply that waking up does not end the dream and you beat the shit out of your wife thinking she's an Iraqi, you need drugs. But for the most part, all the strange shit they do is perfectly manageable.
Weirdness is not PTSD. My hubby calls it NTBS--No Tolerance for BullShit. Sounds about right to me.
What do I mean when I say weird? I mean exactly that: fucking weird. Crowds are a no-go. Sitting facing away from a door is a no-go. Eating chicken can be an issue. And in the case of my husband, vodka is right out. He'd done some freaky shit since his first deployment, but the night he got smashed on vodka and was screaming about seeing dead people on the front porch was the first and only time he scared me. So vodka is now on the list of things he cannot do, and life is good.
Some examples for you: I've been picked up by my throat when I woke my husband up too abruptly (that was a one time deal); I've laughed my ass off at guys checking their cars for IEDs at Walmart. And my personal favorite, people diving under cars when they have heard fireworks go off or a car backfire, literally. One of my friends went to Disney and stayed to see the fireworks only to discover that her husband had taken off. She found him under their car in the parking lot. Very funny. But none of these things, however fucked up they might seem, is cause for mental health to get involved. They just require that we wives readjust the way we do things and have a bit of patience. So get ready for it, ladies. You are entering the Twilight Zone. Try to enjoy the experience.
I have yet to see one boy come home and not be strange, but of all the ones I've seen, only one can I honestly say had PTSD and needed help. When you dream so deeply that waking up does not end the dream and you beat the shit out of your wife thinking she's an Iraqi, you need drugs. But for the most part, all the strange shit they do is perfectly manageable.
Weirdness is not PTSD. My hubby calls it NTBS--No Tolerance for BullShit. Sounds about right to me.
06 October 2010
The Dragon Lady
"I didn't know you smoked." Well, you obviously haven't been paying attention, fucker, because I smoke like a damn dragon. Deal with it. My husband is 10,000 miles away being shot at, and I'm the one who has to maintain some level of sanity for a year on my own with 4 kids, 2 dogs, and a slew of wives who think that I am the all-knowing, all-wise, all-powerful Kate who can fix any problem. My sanity is directly linked to my nicotine level. Don't like it? Too fucking bad.
I am of the opinion that one does what one must during a deployment. So I encourage the use of cigarettes, caffeine, alcohol, and psychiatric medication (by prescription) if that is what you require to make it through. Caffeine gives me migraines, I have no tolerance for alcohol past a glass of wine (I weigh 93 pounds. I'm a cheap drunk.) and I'm afraid that psychiatric drugs will render me unconscious and unable to care for my kids. Solution: I chain smoke like a motherfucker and enjoy every single drag.
My point is this: Do whatever you have to do to survive deployment. If that means the use any or all of the above, DO IT!!! I also recommend the use of chocolate in desperate cases--you know, the nights when you want to get laid and he's not there to rape. Seriously though, deployments are hard enough without feeling guilty for using "mind-altering substances" to make it through. My smoking slows way down when my husband gets home and most women I know quit drinking or taking their meds.
So FUCK IT ALL! Eat, drink, smoke, take your meds. Be as happy and stable as you can with a husband in the line of fire. And if people don't like it, tell them to go fuck themselves.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need a smoke. Really.
I am of the opinion that one does what one must during a deployment. So I encourage the use of cigarettes, caffeine, alcohol, and psychiatric medication (by prescription) if that is what you require to make it through. Caffeine gives me migraines, I have no tolerance for alcohol past a glass of wine (I weigh 93 pounds. I'm a cheap drunk.) and I'm afraid that psychiatric drugs will render me unconscious and unable to care for my kids. Solution: I chain smoke like a motherfucker and enjoy every single drag.
My point is this: Do whatever you have to do to survive deployment. If that means the use any or all of the above, DO IT!!! I also recommend the use of chocolate in desperate cases--you know, the nights when you want to get laid and he's not there to rape. Seriously though, deployments are hard enough without feeling guilty for using "mind-altering substances" to make it through. My smoking slows way down when my husband gets home and most women I know quit drinking or taking their meds.
So FUCK IT ALL! Eat, drink, smoke, take your meds. Be as happy and stable as you can with a husband in the line of fire. And if people don't like it, tell them to go fuck themselves.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need a smoke. Really.
03 October 2010
Team Kate
Some of my friends have had a running joke about starting something they like to all "Team Kate," which apparently has something to do with my supposed awesomeness and how I seem to have a solution for whatever problems arise during deployment, not to mention that it's giving the bird to Teams Jacob and Edward. The chairwoman of Team Kate has named me an honorary FRG leader, which is fucking funny. In fact, the entire idea of "Team Kate" hilarious. I suppose I should be flattered. Maybe even be developing a big head about it. But honestly, I am just happy that I can help people and by proxy, help the boys. That is the entire reason I volunteer. It makes me almost want to cry that doing the right thing is such a fucking oddity that people feel the need to put me on a pedastal of sorts.
A couple of the boys' moms recently told me over the phone or via a FB comment that I am a wonderful FRG leader and they don't know how they would have made it this far through deployment without me. For the record, I am NOT an FRG leader. I am a just a POC--that's a point of contact, the person you can call if you have a question or that will call you with any important info. Like a caller on a phone tree. That's it and I am rpoud to able to be a POC. I've been an FRG leader at both a company and battalion level and it sucks ass. Never again. I like being a POC. I can help people, be a pain in the ass to the higher ups and rear-d, and not have to play politics. Politics in the Army are worse that in DC and I refuse to ever be in a position again where I am not free to tell any deserving person to FUCK OFF! I hate ass-kissers and I simply can't be one. Brutal honesty has worked for me so far and that's part of who I am.
Anyway, Team Kate has taken on a life of its own. If you are interested in joining, let me know and I'll put you in contact with the chairwoman.
A couple of the boys' moms recently told me over the phone or via a FB comment that I am a wonderful FRG leader and they don't know how they would have made it this far through deployment without me. For the record, I am NOT an FRG leader. I am a just a POC--that's a point of contact, the person you can call if you have a question or that will call you with any important info. Like a caller on a phone tree. That's it and I am rpoud to able to be a POC. I've been an FRG leader at both a company and battalion level and it sucks ass. Never again. I like being a POC. I can help people, be a pain in the ass to the higher ups and rear-d, and not have to play politics. Politics in the Army are worse that in DC and I refuse to ever be in a position again where I am not free to tell any deserving person to FUCK OFF! I hate ass-kissers and I simply can't be one. Brutal honesty has worked for me so far and that's part of who I am.
Anyway, Team Kate has taken on a life of its own. If you are interested in joining, let me know and I'll put you in contact with the chairwoman.
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