How did homecoming become a pissing match? What the fuck? The boys are coming home and there's not one damn thing that means shit beyond that single fact. They are coming home. This isn't a fucking competition. It's not a race of who's coming home sooner than who. As long as they all get here in one piece, I couldn't give two shits less about when they get here. Just so long as they do.
So, my husband is coming on the last main body flight. Fan-fucking-tastic! Most of my friends' hubbies will be home before mine and a good part of them will be done with reverse SRP before mine is boots on the ground. Oh well. That's just the way things have come about this redeployment. The CoC took everyone in the battalion, wrote their names on a card, pulled out the cards of people they hate, threw them in the air, and played a rousing round of 52-card pickup. Cards 1-150 are on flight one, 151-300 are flight 2, and those people we hate are on lucky number 13!! That's the only rhyme or reason I can see behind this cluster-fuck of a redeployment manifest with companies scattered hither and yon.
What annoys me most is not that my hubby is coming in dead last. It's that wives feel the need to fucking apologize for theirs coming home sooner. Hello!! I am happy for you, bitch! Go to homecoming, be happy, dance, sing, take him home, and rape the shit out of him! Regardless of anything else going on, I am ecstatic that the guys are on their way home and every single one of those heroes deserves to come home safely, be with their families and enjoy their moment in the spotlight. Fuck my husband! You know what I mean. I don't need a pity party. A few more days aren't going to kill me and I promise, my happiness at any of the guys being boots on the ground far outweighs any inkling of jealousy I might be harboring.
If you want to throw a pity party, throw it for my hubby. He gets to fly home with a CoC that he doesn't like or even respect. That, my friends, is something to feel bad about.
31 January 2011
29 January 2011
Prepare Thyself. . .
The boys are finally meandering their way home, a few at a time, spread out over a month, and it's about fucking time!! It's a timeline with a lot of room for error and which leaves all of us wives with a very serious question that needs answering: will I have time after I get the call to go in for a bikini wax or should I get it done now and pray that nothing looks "unkempt" by the time he does get home??
That may sound fucking stupid that this is a major concern for a wife, but if everything is going to be fucking perfect when he does finally gets boots on the ground, then I need an answer to this question!! Personally, I wait until the 3 day window after the call for all the plucking, waxing, shaving, painting, and female beautification routines. I spend the time up to then cleaning like a mad woman, repainting baseboards, engaging in general home repair, bleaching, stripping, scrubbing and generally suffocating everyone with a combination of deadly fumes from some evil cleaning products.
And then comes another important question that most wives like to answer well before the arrival of the husband: what the fuck am I going to wear?? OK. It's fucking February, so dress warm. Wear something cute, but not slutty. Save the fucking S&M leather corset and collar for the bedroom at home. Or the ultra mini "dress" that you made out of his ACUs. The daisy dukes on your size 34W ass I can also do without. And please, please try to refrain from showing up without your panties! There is nowhere at the hangar where you can get a quickie in. Believe me, bitch, no one wants see your twat when you sit down on the bleachers and show that nasty thing to the entire fucking hangar!! Thank you very much.
I already have the house mostly clean, laundry caught up, one room left to paint, outfit selected, the list of people to call, hair removal plan in place. . . There's a lot that needs to be done before he's boots on the ground. And there's nothing that needs to be done before he gets here. I know that sounds fucked up, but what I mean is this: we wives put the pressure to have everything perfect on ourselves! Our husbands don't care if there are dishes in the sink or dust on the baseboard or a load of laundry in the dryer. He doesn't care if you shaved your damn legs that morning or not. He wants his family and that's it. Dirty, hair in Pippi Longstocking braids, wearing fucking flannel with no makeup. Doesn't matter. Just show up at homecoming.
That's all you have to do to make him happy. The rest is bullshit.
That may sound fucking stupid that this is a major concern for a wife, but if everything is going to be fucking perfect when he does finally gets boots on the ground, then I need an answer to this question!! Personally, I wait until the 3 day window after the call for all the plucking, waxing, shaving, painting, and female beautification routines. I spend the time up to then cleaning like a mad woman, repainting baseboards, engaging in general home repair, bleaching, stripping, scrubbing and generally suffocating everyone with a combination of deadly fumes from some evil cleaning products.
And then comes another important question that most wives like to answer well before the arrival of the husband: what the fuck am I going to wear?? OK. It's fucking February, so dress warm. Wear something cute, but not slutty. Save the fucking S&M leather corset and collar for the bedroom at home. Or the ultra mini "dress" that you made out of his ACUs. The daisy dukes on your size 34W ass I can also do without. And please, please try to refrain from showing up without your panties! There is nowhere at the hangar where you can get a quickie in. Believe me, bitch, no one wants see your twat when you sit down on the bleachers and show that nasty thing to the entire fucking hangar!! Thank you very much.
I already have the house mostly clean, laundry caught up, one room left to paint, outfit selected, the list of people to call, hair removal plan in place. . . There's a lot that needs to be done before he's boots on the ground. And there's nothing that needs to be done before he gets here. I know that sounds fucked up, but what I mean is this: we wives put the pressure to have everything perfect on ourselves! Our husbands don't care if there are dishes in the sink or dust on the baseboard or a load of laundry in the dryer. He doesn't care if you shaved your damn legs that morning or not. He wants his family and that's it. Dirty, hair in Pippi Longstocking braids, wearing fucking flannel with no makeup. Doesn't matter. Just show up at homecoming.
That's all you have to do to make him happy. The rest is bullshit.
26 January 2011
I Can't Take Them Anywhere!
My kids go everywhere with me and I do mean everywhere. Well, the teenagers are becoming more independent and stay home from some stuff, but when they were little, you didn't see Kate without the Irish twins in tow. I homeschool and finding a babysitter in the middle of the day is a fucking nightmare, and I actually spank my kids so they know to behave in public. We save the acting like a monkey for at home. Needless to say, I am very lucky that I could take them with me to meetings or fundraisers or whatever.
After the invasion, the battalion CO had an AAR (after action review) with the FRG leaders and rear-d to see what went well on the homefront and what was fucked up. I was the battalion secretary at the time and had to be there to take notes, so the kids got an extended lunch break to tag along with Mama and the battalion leadership got a show.
Everyone brought their kids to this shit--mine just happened to be about 4 or 5 years older than the rest of the rug rats and so got sent to the corner with the rest under orders to keep the little ones occupied. And my two were happy to do it. They love little kids. So off they go to the other side of the room with 7 or 8 little ones to put in a movie and play while the grown-ups discuss important things.
Halfway through the meeting, the LT across from me starts biting his hand and kicking me under the table. I'm thinking, you fucker. But he's trying not to laugh and starts pointing over my shoulder to the other side of the room. The colonel by now has seen what is going on behind me and is gagging from trying to hold the laughing in. By this point, I do not want to know what the fuck is going on. I am afraid to turn around. But the whole room is trying to maintain some level of professionalism and failing miserably, so now I have no choice. I turn around.
And there, on the other side of the room, are my two wonderful kids. They have all the little ones in a single file line and are leading them around in this twisted game of follow the leader. No big deal. The truly horrible/funny thing is that they have found magazines which they have passed out to all the children and have taught them something that they probably shouldn't know, but their mother is a bad parent and has let them watch selected parts of the Holy Grail at the ripe old ages of 7 and 8. These children are parading around chanting in Latin, "Pie Jesu Domine. Dona Eis Requiem" and then beating themselves on the head with the magazines.
Fuck. Me.
After the invasion, the battalion CO had an AAR (after action review) with the FRG leaders and rear-d to see what went well on the homefront and what was fucked up. I was the battalion secretary at the time and had to be there to take notes, so the kids got an extended lunch break to tag along with Mama and the battalion leadership got a show.
Everyone brought their kids to this shit--mine just happened to be about 4 or 5 years older than the rest of the rug rats and so got sent to the corner with the rest under orders to keep the little ones occupied. And my two were happy to do it. They love little kids. So off they go to the other side of the room with 7 or 8 little ones to put in a movie and play while the grown-ups discuss important things.
Halfway through the meeting, the LT across from me starts biting his hand and kicking me under the table. I'm thinking, you fucker. But he's trying not to laugh and starts pointing over my shoulder to the other side of the room. The colonel by now has seen what is going on behind me and is gagging from trying to hold the laughing in. By this point, I do not want to know what the fuck is going on. I am afraid to turn around. But the whole room is trying to maintain some level of professionalism and failing miserably, so now I have no choice. I turn around.
And there, on the other side of the room, are my two wonderful kids. They have all the little ones in a single file line and are leading them around in this twisted game of follow the leader. No big deal. The truly horrible/funny thing is that they have found magazines which they have passed out to all the children and have taught them something that they probably shouldn't know, but their mother is a bad parent and has let them watch selected parts of the Holy Grail at the ripe old ages of 7 and 8. These children are parading around chanting in Latin, "Pie Jesu Domine. Dona Eis Requiem" and then beating themselves on the head with the magazines.
Fuck. Me.
24 January 2011
The Perfect Army Wife
And it sure as hell isn't me. Not by a long shot. Beatrice Patton, the wife of General George Patton, is, in my opinion, the epitome of what an Army wife should be: generous, devoted, encouraging, and not afraid to pull strings. Both Patton and Beatrice were from very wealthy families and had tons of connections. After WWI, Beatrice used some of her acquaintances to get her husband a posting in Washington DC and to endure that they would be included in high society/military functions.
At this point the general was a full bird colonel and escorting his wife to a military ball at some hoity-toity venue. She's in this full length gorgeous gown, walking on the arm of her husband in his dress uniform with all the ribbons and medals he's earned during the war. The ideal picture of a soldier with his beautiful bride dressed to the nines. They are walking up the stairs to enter the ball when she hears some jackass say, "Well, they'll promote anyone these days!"
Beatrice has no idea what happened. She was fucking pissed and blocked out everything and everyone but the fucker who had been so demeaning to her husband. She came back to her senses to find that three men were escorting her inside.
Apparently, as soon as she heard what the bastard had to say, she had let go of her husband's arm, vaulted herself up the steps and launched herself at the idiot. Taken by surprise, he collapsed under her whereupon she straddled him to sit on his shoulders and proceeded to pound his head into the marble floor. It took three men to pry her off of him.
Now, that's a fucking Army wife!!!
At this point the general was a full bird colonel and escorting his wife to a military ball at some hoity-toity venue. She's in this full length gorgeous gown, walking on the arm of her husband in his dress uniform with all the ribbons and medals he's earned during the war. The ideal picture of a soldier with his beautiful bride dressed to the nines. They are walking up the stairs to enter the ball when she hears some jackass say, "Well, they'll promote anyone these days!"
Beatrice has no idea what happened. She was fucking pissed and blocked out everything and everyone but the fucker who had been so demeaning to her husband. She came back to her senses to find that three men were escorting her inside.
Apparently, as soon as she heard what the bastard had to say, she had let go of her husband's arm, vaulted herself up the steps and launched herself at the idiot. Taken by surprise, he collapsed under her whereupon she straddled him to sit on his shoulders and proceeded to pound his head into the marble floor. It took three men to pry her off of him.
Now, that's a fucking Army wife!!!
23 January 2011
What FRG??
I bitch. A lot! And a reoccurring theme of my bitching lately has been the CoC, which is an insurmountable disappointment in so many ways. I've also bitched about rear-d and the psycho wives and cheating assholes. The Army in general hasn't avoided the wrath of Kate either. However, this weekend reminded me of one very specific group that I have overlooked in my bitch sessions and not wanting them to feel left out, please allow me to take this opportunity to say that FRG is fucked up five ways from Sunday and that it's a fucking miracle that the people who do volunteer haven't all run screaming for the hills.
Why the sudden onslaught against the FRG, you ask. Well, it's been a long time coming and this weekend's festivites/complete and total nut-fuck was the final straw that broke the camel's back. How is it that you decide to make up barracks rooms for the boys, schedule times to go in, ask for volunteers, and NOT have enough stuff to make up all the rooms?? We still need 35 sets of sheets, and 55 towels and pillows! WTF??
Last deployment, we didn't have this issue. We planned months in advance and sent out flyers to everyone about what we wanted to do. And the donations came flowing in. By the time we were done, all the boys had sheets, pillow, towels, blankets, shower shoes, toilteries, tp, snacks and posters and cards in their rooms. We had so much stuff that the single guys who didn't even fucking live in the barracks could all take stuff home!! So all I want to know is, who the hell dropped the fucking ball? Because the FRG is the so-called "brains" behind this one.
I posted a very simple Facebook status and have been answering emails from parents all weekend. They want to help. Parents are the most a-fucking-mazing people and want to do things for the boys, which isn't always convenient because they don't live here to do them. However, if they know what is going on well enough in advance, parents can send a check or send sheets or ask their church to pitch in. But the key thing here is to let them know what the fuck is going on with the boys!! If they don't fucking know, they can't help.
That's my gripe for this evening. People bitch about the FRG and unfortunately, I can't deny that they are right. In four deployments, this is the most unorganized, careless FRG I have ever seen! In past deployments, if you wanted to see a good FRG, you came to the Rakassans. Fuck, division sent CNN to interview Angel Co because we had the best fucking FRG on the post!! We were the shit. Now the FRG is shit. And it all boils down to piss-poor planning and not giving a fuck about anyone.
Why the sudden onslaught against the FRG, you ask. Well, it's been a long time coming and this weekend's festivites/complete and total nut-fuck was the final straw that broke the camel's back. How is it that you decide to make up barracks rooms for the boys, schedule times to go in, ask for volunteers, and NOT have enough stuff to make up all the rooms?? We still need 35 sets of sheets, and 55 towels and pillows! WTF??
Last deployment, we didn't have this issue. We planned months in advance and sent out flyers to everyone about what we wanted to do. And the donations came flowing in. By the time we were done, all the boys had sheets, pillow, towels, blankets, shower shoes, toilteries, tp, snacks and posters and cards in their rooms. We had so much stuff that the single guys who didn't even fucking live in the barracks could all take stuff home!! So all I want to know is, who the hell dropped the fucking ball? Because the FRG is the so-called "brains" behind this one.
I posted a very simple Facebook status and have been answering emails from parents all weekend. They want to help. Parents are the most a-fucking-mazing people and want to do things for the boys, which isn't always convenient because they don't live here to do them. However, if they know what is going on well enough in advance, parents can send a check or send sheets or ask their church to pitch in. But the key thing here is to let them know what the fuck is going on with the boys!! If they don't fucking know, they can't help.
That's my gripe for this evening. People bitch about the FRG and unfortunately, I can't deny that they are right. In four deployments, this is the most unorganized, careless FRG I have ever seen! In past deployments, if you wanted to see a good FRG, you came to the Rakassans. Fuck, division sent CNN to interview Angel Co because we had the best fucking FRG on the post!! We were the shit. Now the FRG is shit. And it all boils down to piss-poor planning and not giving a fuck about anyone.
22 January 2011
Bad Parenting
Days like today make me think that I have got to be the worst fucking parent ever. The baby decided that jumping on mam's bed sounded like fun and he doesn't have what you would call great balance. So the poor boy flips face first onto the headboard. I think we can expect to see black eye number 4 tomorrow. Number one involved him rolling off the couch onto the rocking horse (more about this horse later). Number 2 was falling onto the corner of the coffee table while he was learning to walk. Number three is my all time fave, though. That earned him not only a black eye, but a nice scar on his brow bone. He was playing in the tub with the five year old, decided he was done with that shit because the five year old kept stealing his toys, and attempted to climb out. He was doing fine, with one leg slung over the side of the tub, but apparently, wet balls are slippery and once those rubbed the tub wall, he slipped off and whacked his fucking eye again! Two big cuts, gushing blood, and bruised all to hell.
That's my youngest. My five year old just liked to poop on the living room floor when we had company over. My daughter, on the other hand, had a talent for nose bleeds. First one ever was in Walmart. She walked straight into a cart and started pouring blood all over the floor. Some Walmart person runs for the manager who gave her a free ICEE to make her feel better. Bad idea. So for about a year, every fucking trip to Walmart invariably ended with the girl crying and bleeding and an ICEE in her grubby little manipulative hand.
Then there's my oldest, my darling son, who is too damn smart for his own good. He's a bit OCD and always has been, so he's never been much for doing things that will actually hurt him. Our problems with him are of an entirely different nature. He said his first word at three and half months old and it wasn't the usual baby gibberish. No. He was playing with my mom's dog, who got sick of getting his hair pulled and his eyes poked and said, "Fuck that. I'm gone!!" The dog walks away and my son yells the dog's name, Scruffy. I thought that I was going nuts and just trying to hear actual words, but my sister freaked out and started screaming that he's said the dog's name. That poor boy. The two of us are in his face trying to get him to say it again to no avail. The kid didn't talk for another two months and when he did, I wished he hadn't.
My grandfather died when his great-grandson was five and a half months old. We went to the funeral and afterwards headed for a family dinner at the house. My grandfather's brother built this beautiful wooden rocking horse for my son, so of course we have to try him out on it. He did fine for a while, but again, balance issues and he fell off. The boy doesn't cry. Doesn't scream. Doesn't make any kind of fuss. Just sits there, looks around, and says "FUCK!"
That's my youngest. My five year old just liked to poop on the living room floor when we had company over. My daughter, on the other hand, had a talent for nose bleeds. First one ever was in Walmart. She walked straight into a cart and started pouring blood all over the floor. Some Walmart person runs for the manager who gave her a free ICEE to make her feel better. Bad idea. So for about a year, every fucking trip to Walmart invariably ended with the girl crying and bleeding and an ICEE in her grubby little manipulative hand.
Then there's my oldest, my darling son, who is too damn smart for his own good. He's a bit OCD and always has been, so he's never been much for doing things that will actually hurt him. Our problems with him are of an entirely different nature. He said his first word at three and half months old and it wasn't the usual baby gibberish. No. He was playing with my mom's dog, who got sick of getting his hair pulled and his eyes poked and said, "Fuck that. I'm gone!!" The dog walks away and my son yells the dog's name, Scruffy. I thought that I was going nuts and just trying to hear actual words, but my sister freaked out and started screaming that he's said the dog's name. That poor boy. The two of us are in his face trying to get him to say it again to no avail. The kid didn't talk for another two months and when he did, I wished he hadn't.
My grandfather died when his great-grandson was five and a half months old. We went to the funeral and afterwards headed for a family dinner at the house. My grandfather's brother built this beautiful wooden rocking horse for my son, so of course we have to try him out on it. He did fine for a while, but again, balance issues and he fell off. The boy doesn't cry. Doesn't scream. Doesn't make any kind of fuss. Just sits there, looks around, and says "FUCK!"
Rated R
If you at all follow this blog, are a friend of mine on Facebook, or actually personally know me, then you are fully aware that I am not a nice person and I don't have a filter on my mouth. I am R rated.
That having been said, tomorrow is yet another round of prepping the barrack for the boys' homecoming. Nothing tremendous--just making beds and putting out towels and bags of toiletries and snacks. Just some little things to make sure that the boys will be able to rest when they get home and not have to make an emergency Wal-mart run as soon as they land stateside. My two teenagers want to go and so the three of us will be there as usual for the boys.
Now why the fuck are we doing this? I don't do it to let everyone know how fucking wonderful I am. And I don't do it to try to make my husband look good. And I sure as fuck don't do it to make the CoC look like it actually gives a flying fuck about anyone but themselves. There is one reason for doing this and my kids feel the same way I do. It's for the boys. Plain and simple. Because they are fucking heroes and we love them. That's all.
So how does tomorrow's activities fit in with that shit about me being rated R? Well, there are always lots of opportunities during deployment to volunteer with the FRG and there are not always so many people who are willing to volunteer their time. Two of my very good friends have been put in for awards for their work over the course of this deployment and I am just ecstatic for them. Seriously. They really deserve to be recognized. I volunteer too. SO am I harboring just the tiniest bit of jealousy that they are getting awards and I am not (at least not that I know of)?? FUCK NO!!!
It just spares me the horror of having to shake hands with some high ranking mother fucker who I hate with a passion and trying very hard not to tell him to take his award and go fuck himself with it.
That having been said, tomorrow is yet another round of prepping the barrack for the boys' homecoming. Nothing tremendous--just making beds and putting out towels and bags of toiletries and snacks. Just some little things to make sure that the boys will be able to rest when they get home and not have to make an emergency Wal-mart run as soon as they land stateside. My two teenagers want to go and so the three of us will be there as usual for the boys.
Now why the fuck are we doing this? I don't do it to let everyone know how fucking wonderful I am. And I don't do it to try to make my husband look good. And I sure as fuck don't do it to make the CoC look like it actually gives a flying fuck about anyone but themselves. There is one reason for doing this and my kids feel the same way I do. It's for the boys. Plain and simple. Because they are fucking heroes and we love them. That's all.
So how does tomorrow's activities fit in with that shit about me being rated R? Well, there are always lots of opportunities during deployment to volunteer with the FRG and there are not always so many people who are willing to volunteer their time. Two of my very good friends have been put in for awards for their work over the course of this deployment and I am just ecstatic for them. Seriously. They really deserve to be recognized. I volunteer too. SO am I harboring just the tiniest bit of jealousy that they are getting awards and I am not (at least not that I know of)?? FUCK NO!!!
It just spares me the horror of having to shake hands with some high ranking mother fucker who I hate with a passion and trying very hard not to tell him to take his award and go fuck himself with it.
19 January 2011
Bring Out Your Dead. . .
I know a lot of wives who would qualify themselves as "dead" at this point in deployment. Between insomnia, worry, and lack of news on when the fuck my husband will be home, that whole suck starting a pistol thing is looking pretty damn good to me again. Then top off all my everyday "living life and it sucks" problems to my husband who is probably even more anxious about homecoming than I am, so he turns into some moody asshole, and suddenly a whole new world of ways to off myself are becoming more and more attractive. However, suicide would negate the possibility of getting laid anytime soon, so there's another fine plan down the shitter.
Since suicide is out, I've been toying with the idea of running away, but again that means no sex. So I'm stuck in this never-ending, fucked up version of Groundhog Day. 0530- kids up for school. Smoke. Check email. Smoke again. Then homeschool with the eldest, cleaning, laundry, chasing the baby. Lunch. Smoke again. Check email. Review lessons and lit class with eldest. Baby down for a nap. Smoke and maybe sit down to read. Kids home from school. Homework. Make dinner. Finish laundry. Dishes. Clothes and lunches out for kids for school. Check email. Blog. Try to find something on TV. Fail. Go read a book. Check email. Smoke again. Start dishwasher. Lay down and stare at ceiling for one hour. Give up and go read some more. Finish off pack of smokes. Finish book and lay down again. More ceiling staring. 0200- baby wants to get up and play. 0400- baby back in bed and Kate can actually get to sleep. 0530- kids up for school. Rinse/Repeat.
I know that this is not everything I do. FRG, husband's shit, helping friends. I know that life is not this shit hole that it seems to be, but if there's a light at the end of this tunnel, I must be fucking blind because I just don't see it!!
Since suicide is out, I've been toying with the idea of running away, but again that means no sex. So I'm stuck in this never-ending, fucked up version of Groundhog Day. 0530- kids up for school. Smoke. Check email. Smoke again. Then homeschool with the eldest, cleaning, laundry, chasing the baby. Lunch. Smoke again. Check email. Review lessons and lit class with eldest. Baby down for a nap. Smoke and maybe sit down to read. Kids home from school. Homework. Make dinner. Finish laundry. Dishes. Clothes and lunches out for kids for school. Check email. Blog. Try to find something on TV. Fail. Go read a book. Check email. Smoke again. Start dishwasher. Lay down and stare at ceiling for one hour. Give up and go read some more. Finish off pack of smokes. Finish book and lay down again. More ceiling staring. 0200- baby wants to get up and play. 0400- baby back in bed and Kate can actually get to sleep. 0530- kids up for school. Rinse/Repeat.
I know that this is not everything I do. FRG, husband's shit, helping friends. I know that life is not this shit hole that it seems to be, but if there's a light at the end of this tunnel, I must be fucking blind because I just don't see it!!
17 January 2011
Army Babies
My first two kids were born in the pre-Army days, but T was in the National Guard at the time. Our oldest decided to arrive a little early and spare his father the joys of yet another drill. Our daughter started life trying to be a pain in the ass, just to give us fair warning of things to come. T was playing weekend warrior at the Olympics in Georgia and my doctor was in Egypt visiting his family. Had she been accommodating enough to be born early like her brother or wait an extra day or two, both her daddy and the doctor would have been there to welcome her arrival. But nooooo!! She had to show up right on time, and so neither T nor the doc were there. She was delivered by the nurse. And of course the Army National Guard made T wait until the Olympics were over before he could come home. So our daughter was five days old before she met her dad. Oh well.
Then came the active duty days. Our oldest was nine and his sister was eight (Irish twins) when their father became a drill sergeant. And I got pregnant a year later. First words out of T's mouth, "Who's kid is it?" WTF? Um, remember that one night you weren't so tired that you passed out in your dinner plate? Well, hello baby!
The hospital at Fort Jackson doesn't do OB-GYN, so you have to go to a hospital off post to have a kid. And the doctors at the hospital were ecstatic to learn I was an Army wife. They were hoping my husband was deployed and were absolutely broken-hearted to learn that he was a drill sergeant. Why? Boys and their fucking toys. The hospital had a new thing where they could patch a live feed to Iraq or Afghanistan and broadcast the birth to deployed soldiers and these idiots were hoping I would let them use me as a fucking guinea pig! Fuck that!! Like I want me pushing out a kid broadcast over the internet to my husband sitting in a room where any of his boys could walk by and get a full view shot of my twat! I don't think so.
Then there's number four. Every deployment women start talking about trying for babies when their hubby gets home. Same thing last deployment and I got asked if we weren't going to have another one. My response?? Fuck no! So who got knocked up first when they got home. Oh, that's right. . . ME! Baby number four arrived nine months to the day of homecoming. My response when people ask me now if I want any more is he is getting snipped.
Then came the active duty days. Our oldest was nine and his sister was eight (Irish twins) when their father became a drill sergeant. And I got pregnant a year later. First words out of T's mouth, "Who's kid is it?" WTF? Um, remember that one night you weren't so tired that you passed out in your dinner plate? Well, hello baby!
The hospital at Fort Jackson doesn't do OB-GYN, so you have to go to a hospital off post to have a kid. And the doctors at the hospital were ecstatic to learn I was an Army wife. They were hoping my husband was deployed and were absolutely broken-hearted to learn that he was a drill sergeant. Why? Boys and their fucking toys. The hospital had a new thing where they could patch a live feed to Iraq or Afghanistan and broadcast the birth to deployed soldiers and these idiots were hoping I would let them use me as a fucking guinea pig! Fuck that!! Like I want me pushing out a kid broadcast over the internet to my husband sitting in a room where any of his boys could walk by and get a full view shot of my twat! I don't think so.
Then there's number four. Every deployment women start talking about trying for babies when their hubby gets home. Same thing last deployment and I got asked if we weren't going to have another one. My response?? Fuck no! So who got knocked up first when they got home. Oh, that's right. . . ME! Baby number four arrived nine months to the day of homecoming. My response when people ask me now if I want any more is he is getting snipped.
15 January 2011
Cock and Ass
The phone rings early one Saturday morning and the caller ID announces that it's a Fort Campbell number. I answer the phone, expecting that one of the boys wants to invite himself over for dinner. What I get was, "Kate. Shit. Is SGT T there?? I really need to talk to him." OK. I hand the phone over to my husband who says, "What's wrong?" and then proceeds to start laughing. He then hangs up the phone, runs out the door, and says that he'll be back after he takes the boy to the hospital.
Now the laughing and the need to go to the hospital just don't match up. What the fuck is so damn funny about the kid needing medical assistance? Well, now I know: the kid was in the shower room at the old barracks sitting on the bench talking to his girlfriend. These benches are made of wood and they're old. He got a splinter in his ass. He pulled out about half of it, could still feel some in his ass cheek, and called for a rescue. The piece the kid pulled was an inch long and the nurse cut his ass cheek open to find another inch in there. So this poor kid got shit daily for "taking it up the ass!"
Then there was Psycho Boy. You know the type. All you have to hear is his name involved with an incident. "OK. Makes perfect sense now." Psycho Boy loved going out to the field just so he could fuck with people. His favorite method of messing with people was to stay up until everyone else was asleep. At this point, out comes the ink pad from his ruck and out comes the penis. Into the ink pad with the dick and smack!!! onto some poor sleeping bastard's forehead. The infamous Mushroom Stamp!
Then there are the stupid things my husband will do to entertain his soldiers. During the invasion, Christmas was approaching and everyone was depressed, so my husband pulled one of his dumbass stunts to make the boys laugh. After the boys got home, we went on block leave to visit my parents and T loads his photos on the computer to show my mom. Sand, tank, trees, Saddam's palace, some idiot jumping in the lake, more sand, my husband's balls. . . WTF?!? Yep. There on the screen to my mother's great surprise and amusement are my husband's balls tied up in blue ribbons hanging out of his spears gear. Merry Christmas!
Now the laughing and the need to go to the hospital just don't match up. What the fuck is so damn funny about the kid needing medical assistance? Well, now I know: the kid was in the shower room at the old barracks sitting on the bench talking to his girlfriend. These benches are made of wood and they're old. He got a splinter in his ass. He pulled out about half of it, could still feel some in his ass cheek, and called for a rescue. The piece the kid pulled was an inch long and the nurse cut his ass cheek open to find another inch in there. So this poor kid got shit daily for "taking it up the ass!"
Then there was Psycho Boy. You know the type. All you have to hear is his name involved with an incident. "OK. Makes perfect sense now." Psycho Boy loved going out to the field just so he could fuck with people. His favorite method of messing with people was to stay up until everyone else was asleep. At this point, out comes the ink pad from his ruck and out comes the penis. Into the ink pad with the dick and smack!!! onto some poor sleeping bastard's forehead. The infamous Mushroom Stamp!
Then there are the stupid things my husband will do to entertain his soldiers. During the invasion, Christmas was approaching and everyone was depressed, so my husband pulled one of his dumbass stunts to make the boys laugh. After the boys got home, we went on block leave to visit my parents and T loads his photos on the computer to show my mom. Sand, tank, trees, Saddam's palace, some idiot jumping in the lake, more sand, my husband's balls. . . WTF?!? Yep. There on the screen to my mother's great surprise and amusement are my husband's balls tied up in blue ribbons hanging out of his spears gear. Merry Christmas!
14 January 2011
Killing Time
Enough bitching about the useless fucked up bullshit that the CoC tries to pass off as an "informative" meeting about redeployment. I have my own useless information to pass along: how the boys kill time during deployment.
During the invasion, as always, I contacted all the parents of my husband's boys and tried to keep them informed about what was going on. They all had my email and phone number and knew to call me if they had questions or needed help with anything. About four months into deployment in June 2003, I get a panicked phone call from one of the boys' stepmothers. The kid's mom had just gotten off the phone with some doctor and was freaking the fuck out. Her son had stepped on a landmine and had gotten hurt and she wanted to know what the hell was going on. She called his stepmother who then called me.
I had heard nothing about this from rear-d or my husband and, wanting to help, started making calls. No one knew anything about it and I'm getting a little pissed off. How the fuck can we have a guy step on a landmine and no one knows anything?!? My husband calls later that evening and I finally get the whole story.
Things were pretty quiet over there and the boys had a bit more down time than they had previously had. It's getting dark and they are getting bored, so they decide that it would be a good idea to get a game of tag going. OK. Whatever. Landmine boy is IT and chasing some other jackass around the corner of a tent, where there happens to be a clothes line strung up. The jackass runs under it, but landmine boy, who is like 6' 5", does not know it's there and didn't duck. He took it across the throat, got thrown to the ground and was knocked the fuck out for around ten minutes, which is why he got sent to the hospital. So I have to call the family and tell them that he didn't step on a landmine; he got "clothes-lined"!!!
But the best one I ever heard is from deployment number three. My husband and a bunch of the guys, bored to tears, decided to have a penis growing contest?? I shit you not. They each purchased a different male enhancement product and began taking/using them to see which would work the best. Before this began, they had to all present their penises for measuring and then had weekly penis checks to measure and record the results. These had to be done with witnesses to prevent any cheating. Who the hell out of sheer boredom decides that it's a good idea to have a room full of men whipping out their dicks and literally measuring them?!? Apparently, my husband. . .
I'm a lucky woman.
During the invasion, as always, I contacted all the parents of my husband's boys and tried to keep them informed about what was going on. They all had my email and phone number and knew to call me if they had questions or needed help with anything. About four months into deployment in June 2003, I get a panicked phone call from one of the boys' stepmothers. The kid's mom had just gotten off the phone with some doctor and was freaking the fuck out. Her son had stepped on a landmine and had gotten hurt and she wanted to know what the hell was going on. She called his stepmother who then called me.
I had heard nothing about this from rear-d or my husband and, wanting to help, started making calls. No one knew anything about it and I'm getting a little pissed off. How the fuck can we have a guy step on a landmine and no one knows anything?!? My husband calls later that evening and I finally get the whole story.
Things were pretty quiet over there and the boys had a bit more down time than they had previously had. It's getting dark and they are getting bored, so they decide that it would be a good idea to get a game of tag going. OK. Whatever. Landmine boy is IT and chasing some other jackass around the corner of a tent, where there happens to be a clothes line strung up. The jackass runs under it, but landmine boy, who is like 6' 5", does not know it's there and didn't duck. He took it across the throat, got thrown to the ground and was knocked the fuck out for around ten minutes, which is why he got sent to the hospital. So I have to call the family and tell them that he didn't step on a landmine; he got "clothes-lined"!!!
But the best one I ever heard is from deployment number three. My husband and a bunch of the guys, bored to tears, decided to have a penis growing contest?? I shit you not. They each purchased a different male enhancement product and began taking/using them to see which would work the best. Before this began, they had to all present their penises for measuring and then had weekly penis checks to measure and record the results. These had to be done with witnesses to prevent any cheating. Who the hell out of sheer boredom decides that it's a good idea to have a room full of men whipping out their dicks and literally measuring them?!? Apparently, my husband. . .
I'm a lucky woman.
13 January 2011
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Coming in the Army, I didn't know what the fuck a First Sergeant or Squad Leader or CO was. Fuck. I figured I was doing good to be able to translate that 1800 was 6PM! Once I did start to figure out who the hell was who, I knew that you didn't want to piss off the First Sergeant who could ruin your life, the Squad Leader was your main boss, and the CO was the head honcho. All of them terrified me. But I also respected them and valued their opinion, and I'm just a wife. How much more must any soldier feel this about these men who are over them?
My hubby has long since passed the days of junior enlisted and has a bit more rank now, but he never forgot where he came from. I love his philosophy/rules about how to be a good NCO:
1. Never ask your men to do something you aren't willing to do yourself.
2. If a soldier needs your help, you fucking help if you can.
3. Sometimes you have to be willing to take it up the ass for one of your boys.
4. Never put yourself in a position where you can take anything from the men under you.
5. Don't ever start thinking you are better than the men you serve with.
Nice, simple set of rules that you can apply in not only the Army, but in life. And T lives by these ideals. But then he's old school Army. I think he has the right idea, though. His boys fucking love and respect and trust him and would go to hell and back if he told them to. He would do it for any one of them and they all know it.
And then we have our current CoC who are definitely not old school Army and who seem to have a knack for doing exactly what will make their subordinates (and their wives) hate, not respect and definitely not trust them, especially regarding this redeployment. Do they have a school for how to be a head asshole in charge?? 'Cause these bastards must have made the Commandant's List!
So, here's how to make absolutely fucking sure that Kate does not respect you and will, in fact, hold you in the same contempt she does a cockroach (if anyone really gives a fuck what I think):
a. Get sent back from Afghanistan to take over rear-d and announce this fact in front of everyone at a meeting thinking that it makes you sound bad ass when it really just announces that you are a fuck up that they didn't want in theater.
b. Tell us that they will call when they get the manifest and that the manifest is the final word on who is coming when, but then announce that you had a couple of soldiers that you didn't know were on the plane. So the manifest is just some more fucking paperwork that means jack and shit and you all are fucking incompetent.
c. And finally, after all the red tape every single wife/soldier has to deal with from the DoD on a daily basis and the reams of paper the Army wastes, telling me you don't know when who is coming home (especially not when you already know when the next fucking deployment will be) means that you are really fucking lazy pieces of shit who don't know what your job is or that regardless of how important you claim family is, you really couldn't give a fuck less about anyone but yourself and whose ass you need to kiss to make sure you get that eagle or next stripe.
You think after this cluster fuck of a redeployment that I could ever trust or respect you? I don't just not think so, I know so! In case you forgot, allow me to remind you:
RESPECT IS EARNED, NOT GIVEN!
My hubby has long since passed the days of junior enlisted and has a bit more rank now, but he never forgot where he came from. I love his philosophy/rules about how to be a good NCO:
1. Never ask your men to do something you aren't willing to do yourself.
2. If a soldier needs your help, you fucking help if you can.
3. Sometimes you have to be willing to take it up the ass for one of your boys.
4. Never put yourself in a position where you can take anything from the men under you.
5. Don't ever start thinking you are better than the men you serve with.
Nice, simple set of rules that you can apply in not only the Army, but in life. And T lives by these ideals. But then he's old school Army. I think he has the right idea, though. His boys fucking love and respect and trust him and would go to hell and back if he told them to. He would do it for any one of them and they all know it.
And then we have our current CoC who are definitely not old school Army and who seem to have a knack for doing exactly what will make their subordinates (and their wives) hate, not respect and definitely not trust them, especially regarding this redeployment. Do they have a school for how to be a head asshole in charge?? 'Cause these bastards must have made the Commandant's List!
So, here's how to make absolutely fucking sure that Kate does not respect you and will, in fact, hold you in the same contempt she does a cockroach (if anyone really gives a fuck what I think):
a. Get sent back from Afghanistan to take over rear-d and announce this fact in front of everyone at a meeting thinking that it makes you sound bad ass when it really just announces that you are a fuck up that they didn't want in theater.
b. Tell us that they will call when they get the manifest and that the manifest is the final word on who is coming when, but then announce that you had a couple of soldiers that you didn't know were on the plane. So the manifest is just some more fucking paperwork that means jack and shit and you all are fucking incompetent.
c. And finally, after all the red tape every single wife/soldier has to deal with from the DoD on a daily basis and the reams of paper the Army wastes, telling me you don't know when who is coming home (especially not when you already know when the next fucking deployment will be) means that you are really fucking lazy pieces of shit who don't know what your job is or that regardless of how important you claim family is, you really couldn't give a fuck less about anyone but yourself and whose ass you need to kiss to make sure you get that eagle or next stripe.
You think after this cluster fuck of a redeployment that I could ever trust or respect you? I don't just not think so, I know so! In case you forgot, allow me to remind you:
RESPECT IS EARNED, NOT GIVEN!
12 January 2011
To The Pain
In case you haven't figured it out by now, I have a rather twisted sense of humor and a deep abiding fondness for Monty Python, Mel Brooks, Boondock Saints and The Princess Bride. And last night's meeting and the complete and utter inability of rear-d to actually narrow down the window of homecoming to less than a fucking month has made me decide that the CoC's greatest joy in life is to torture wives to the point of insanity and leave them dangling over the abyss of death without striking the final blow that might give any of us some fucking peace!!! Like that infamous scene from the Princess Bride:
Prince Humperdinck: First things first, to the death.
Westley: No. To the pain.
Prince Humperdinck: I don't think I'm quite familiar with that phrase.
Westley: I'll explain and I'll use small words so that you'll be sure to understand, you warthog faced buffoon.
Prince Humperdinck: That may be the first time in my life a man has dared insult me.
Westley: It won't be the last. To the pain means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists. Next your nose.
Prince Humperdinck: And then my tongue I suppose, I killed you too quickly the last time. A mistake I don't mean to duplicate tonight.
Westley: I wasn't finished. The next thing you will lose will be your left eye followed by your right.
Prince Humperdinck: And then my ears, I understand let's get on with it.
Westley: WRONG. Your ears you keep and I'll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out, "Dear God! What is that thing," will echo in your perfect ears. That is what to the pain means. It means I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever.
"Leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever. . . " Yep. That about sums up the way I feel after that farce of a meeting. And all the presenters up from smiling from ear to ear and telling us all how great it is that we have such a great turnout for this reintegration brief. Isn't it Hamlet who said, "that one may smile and smile and be a villain." Well, you fucking fiends, there's a great turnout because we all came wanting to know one thing: WHEN THE FUCK ARE YOU BRINGING MY HUSBAND HOME!!??!! So don't stand up there and grin at me and give a timeframe that encompasses a month and expect me to enjoy the shit sandwich you just handed me!!
So I have now moved from slightly depressed and nervous about homecoming to just fucking livid! Come on people. This isn't my first pony ride. I know how this works and don't try to tell me you don't have some kind of manifest for the flights already done. Accountability happens when the boys actually board but the Army doesn't make a move without having it planned, signed in triplicate, redone, reversed, hanging on the flagpole, and then jizzed on by all the NCOs. This is bullshit. So now I'm angry and still not sleeping and horny, and only God (and the not so forthcoming with the info CoC) knows when it's going to fucking end.
It's times like these when I'm really fucking glad that I have kids who need me, because I'm not sure that I would be able to refrain from attempting to beat the info I want out of people. Kind of hard to take of kids when you're behind bars. . .
Prince Humperdinck: First things first, to the death.
Westley: No. To the pain.
Prince Humperdinck: I don't think I'm quite familiar with that phrase.
Westley: I'll explain and I'll use small words so that you'll be sure to understand, you warthog faced buffoon.
Prince Humperdinck: That may be the first time in my life a man has dared insult me.
Westley: It won't be the last. To the pain means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists. Next your nose.
Prince Humperdinck: And then my tongue I suppose, I killed you too quickly the last time. A mistake I don't mean to duplicate tonight.
Westley: I wasn't finished. The next thing you will lose will be your left eye followed by your right.
Prince Humperdinck: And then my ears, I understand let's get on with it.
Westley: WRONG. Your ears you keep and I'll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out, "Dear God! What is that thing," will echo in your perfect ears. That is what to the pain means. It means I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever.
"Leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever. . . " Yep. That about sums up the way I feel after that farce of a meeting. And all the presenters up from smiling from ear to ear and telling us all how great it is that we have such a great turnout for this reintegration brief. Isn't it Hamlet who said, "that one may smile and smile and be a villain." Well, you fucking fiends, there's a great turnout because we all came wanting to know one thing: WHEN THE FUCK ARE YOU BRINGING MY HUSBAND HOME!!??!! So don't stand up there and grin at me and give a timeframe that encompasses a month and expect me to enjoy the shit sandwich you just handed me!!
So I have now moved from slightly depressed and nervous about homecoming to just fucking livid! Come on people. This isn't my first pony ride. I know how this works and don't try to tell me you don't have some kind of manifest for the flights already done. Accountability happens when the boys actually board but the Army doesn't make a move without having it planned, signed in triplicate, redone, reversed, hanging on the flagpole, and then jizzed on by all the NCOs. This is bullshit. So now I'm angry and still not sleeping and horny, and only God (and the not so forthcoming with the info CoC) knows when it's going to fucking end.
It's times like these when I'm really fucking glad that I have kids who need me, because I'm not sure that I would be able to refrain from attempting to beat the info I want out of people. Kind of hard to take of kids when you're behind bars. . .
Useless Information
My husband and I are terrible to play Trivia Pursuit with. People avoid it like the fucking plague. We'll sit up drinking to all hours of the night playing this stupid game trying to outdo each other. It's insane. We joke that we are both founts of useless information that's only good for playing that asinine game. What can I say? I know lots of really stupid shit that serves no real purpose. And I love it.
What I do NOT love, however, is going to a "reintegration brief" and being asked to sit for an hour and a half while people spout more useless knowledge at me. Number one: this kind of information isn't good for jack or shit (and will not help in my quest for Trivial Pursuit Goddess) and Number two: none of this is why I fucking came to this meeting in the first place. I came for one reason and one reason only: to learn when the fuck my husband was coming home within a time frame of three to five days!
Here's a rundown of the meeting. First a lady informs us that incentive pays will stop when they get home and taxes will start coming out again. OMG. . . I had no idea (yes I'm a sarcastic bitch). Then we hear about PTSD and TBI--again for the millionth fucking time. And finally up goes the slide I've been waiting for. "REDEPLOYMENT" Yes. With a room full of women, all of whom are sitting quietly with bated breathe, the lieutenant announces that we will now have a ten minute bathroom break.
And there goes Kate out the front door to chain smoke as fast as she possibly can to avoid saying something she will later regret or attempting to rip off someone's balls.
Back inside, the meeting continues with how the welcome ceremony will go and bussing and all that happy crap. But the list of whom will be coming when is as fucked up as I have come to expect from this CoC. No company listings. Just dates on a screen followed by the battalion. No damned help there. And the LT will try to get a more specific listing from down range, but he doesn't think that that will be forthcoming so we're all just stuck with a time range of 20 days that they might possibly maybe hopefully fucking home by. Fuck you very much.
So an hour and a half later, and I all have to show for it is a general time frame encompassing a month when the hubby might be home, a repeat of info that I have heard a million times and will get to fucking hear again at the welcome home ceremony, and a really shitty attitude. It's like having sex when you're not in the mood--all that buildup with nothing to show at the end of it all. I'm still waiting for my climax!
What I do NOT love, however, is going to a "reintegration brief" and being asked to sit for an hour and a half while people spout more useless knowledge at me. Number one: this kind of information isn't good for jack or shit (and will not help in my quest for Trivial Pursuit Goddess) and Number two: none of this is why I fucking came to this meeting in the first place. I came for one reason and one reason only: to learn when the fuck my husband was coming home within a time frame of three to five days!
Here's a rundown of the meeting. First a lady informs us that incentive pays will stop when they get home and taxes will start coming out again. OMG. . . I had no idea (yes I'm a sarcastic bitch). Then we hear about PTSD and TBI--again for the millionth fucking time. And finally up goes the slide I've been waiting for. "REDEPLOYMENT" Yes. With a room full of women, all of whom are sitting quietly with bated breathe, the lieutenant announces that we will now have a ten minute bathroom break.
And there goes Kate out the front door to chain smoke as fast as she possibly can to avoid saying something she will later regret or attempting to rip off someone's balls.
Back inside, the meeting continues with how the welcome ceremony will go and bussing and all that happy crap. But the list of whom will be coming when is as fucked up as I have come to expect from this CoC. No company listings. Just dates on a screen followed by the battalion. No damned help there. And the LT will try to get a more specific listing from down range, but he doesn't think that that will be forthcoming so we're all just stuck with a time range of 20 days that they might possibly maybe hopefully fucking home by. Fuck you very much.
So an hour and a half later, and I all have to show for it is a general time frame encompassing a month when the hubby might be home, a repeat of info that I have heard a million times and will get to fucking hear again at the welcome home ceremony, and a really shitty attitude. It's like having sex when you're not in the mood--all that buildup with nothing to show at the end of it all. I'm still waiting for my climax!
10 January 2011
Depriviation
The usual deprivation wives talk about during deployment in the sexual kind, but I'm almost, almost past the point of caring if I ever get laid again. Insomnia doesn't begin to explain what's going on now. We are into the full on, fucking psychotic sleep deprivation and all the weird emotional issues that come from not getting the hormones that sleep releases into the body. Did you know that you can go fucking insane from lack of sleep? Legally insane. I know I have four kids, so I may already be considered insane before the lack of sleep thing, but I seriously think we are pushing the boundaries here. Two to four hours of sleep a night for a month do not a happy, competent, fully-functioning Kate make.
Now I know the boys experience this shit as well. My husband was out somewhere in the back forty here at Campbell, working on day five of no fucking sleep, and attempting to do a bounding movement through the woods when he accidentally runs into his sergeant who has literally fallen asleep while walking. My darling husband hadn't seen him stop and walked right into the back of him. The reason he hadn't notice the sergeant in front of him was because he was too busy zeroing his weapon in on, I shit you not, the Trix rabbit swinging through the trees on a vine doing a Tarzan yell. Sorry rabbit. . .
Anyway, 0115 again finds me at my keyboard bitching to the world--after laying in bed for over an hour wondering why the fucking Benadryl hasn't knocked my ass out yet! Deployment never allows for much sleep. Between worrying about the hubby and him calling at the most asinine hours, I'm beginning to rank sleep as the Eighth Wonder of the World. And as deployment draws to a close, it's going to get a whole hell of a lot worse before it gets any better. In another couple of months, give or take a month or so, I'll get the call and then at least my reason for not sleeping will be sheer delight at knowing when this fucking deployment is finally going to fucking end!
And once he's home, don't call me for at least a week. I plan to be in a coma. . .
Now I know the boys experience this shit as well. My husband was out somewhere in the back forty here at Campbell, working on day five of no fucking sleep, and attempting to do a bounding movement through the woods when he accidentally runs into his sergeant who has literally fallen asleep while walking. My darling husband hadn't seen him stop and walked right into the back of him. The reason he hadn't notice the sergeant in front of him was because he was too busy zeroing his weapon in on, I shit you not, the Trix rabbit swinging through the trees on a vine doing a Tarzan yell. Sorry rabbit. . .
Anyway, 0115 again finds me at my keyboard bitching to the world--after laying in bed for over an hour wondering why the fucking Benadryl hasn't knocked my ass out yet! Deployment never allows for much sleep. Between worrying about the hubby and him calling at the most asinine hours, I'm beginning to rank sleep as the Eighth Wonder of the World. And as deployment draws to a close, it's going to get a whole hell of a lot worse before it gets any better. In another couple of months, give or take a month or so, I'll get the call and then at least my reason for not sleeping will be sheer delight at knowing when this fucking deployment is finally going to fucking end!
And once he's home, don't call me for at least a week. I plan to be in a coma. . .
09 January 2011
Do a Little Dance. . .
Make a little love. . . My husband called and gave me the best news I have heard all fucking deployment. And before you get your hopes up or even ask, I have no idea when the boys will be home. That is not my news. And even it was, I sure as fuck wouldn't be putting that up on here. Especially not after all my posts about OPSEC and not giving up on it now. But I seriously don't have any idea when they will be home beyond the rumors that have been running. Sometime this year, but at least we're in the right fucking year.
No. This news is the kind I want to shout from the rooftops, scream to the hills and ram right on down a certain mother-fucker's throat. This news is my favorite kind--the kind where you find out that someone who is a piece of shit is finally getting what they deserve. I love it when karma bites people in the ass. Hard. God, it just makes me want to fucking dance. But then, I am a bitch and bitches tend to enjoy hateful, hurtful things provided they are happening to people we don't like.
So despite the never-ending deployment, lack of sex, insomnia and various other fucked-up shit that I deal with every day, today I am in a good mood. And for no other reason than this: the mother-fucker is going to burn. And the very thought of this bastard going down in flames is almost orgasmic.
No. This news is the kind I want to shout from the rooftops, scream to the hills and ram right on down a certain mother-fucker's throat. This news is my favorite kind--the kind where you find out that someone who is a piece of shit is finally getting what they deserve. I love it when karma bites people in the ass. Hard. God, it just makes me want to fucking dance. But then, I am a bitch and bitches tend to enjoy hateful, hurtful things provided they are happening to people we don't like.
So despite the never-ending deployment, lack of sex, insomnia and various other fucked-up shit that I deal with every day, today I am in a good mood. And for no other reason than this: the mother-fucker is going to burn. And the very thought of this bastard going down in flames is almost orgasmic.
06 January 2011
A Letter to my Husband
**Please take note. My husband is really being nice to me thus far, but that is subject to change at a moment's notice at this point in deployment. Homecoming-- So close and yet so fucking far. This is the letter that I really wish I would have had the balls to write in prior deployments when my beautiful loving husband turned into Mr. Edward "Eat Shit and Die" Hyde. So far, so good this time around. He's being just wonderful and I love him very much. Hope it stays that way, because Mr. Hyde is a prick.
Babe,
I really do love you, but today I hate your fucking guts. Today you are being a Class A Asshole. I know that the end of deployment brings with it the bi-polar emotional tornado, but if you don't quit taking out your frustrations on me, you will not be getting laid when you get home. And as much I really want to fuck your brains out and finally have an orgasm, at this point I would rather die of sexual deprivation than let you in my pants. The world may be going to hell in a handbasket as far as you are concerned but that is not my fucking fault, so I strongly suggest that you get your head out of your fourth point of contact and remember just who it is that you are screaming at.
I am your wife. I am raising your kids on my own, paying your bills, keeping this house running smoothly, and making sure your boys' wives/families are good all the while wishing you were home and that I was getting some ass. I do not fuck around. I do not let your shit go to shit. Even with you 10,000 miles away, my world revolves around you. The few phone calls I get are precious beyond words to describe, so being told that I'm a bitch (even though I freely admit to being one) and then hung up on is not acceptable behavior. If you really think that I am that fucked up and life is that terrible, I can make that happen.
Be safe. The enemy does not deserve to have the pleasure of killing you. I reserve that right.
Fuck you very much,
The Bitch
Babe,
I really do love you, but today I hate your fucking guts. Today you are being a Class A Asshole. I know that the end of deployment brings with it the bi-polar emotional tornado, but if you don't quit taking out your frustrations on me, you will not be getting laid when you get home. And as much I really want to fuck your brains out and finally have an orgasm, at this point I would rather die of sexual deprivation than let you in my pants. The world may be going to hell in a handbasket as far as you are concerned but that is not my fucking fault, so I strongly suggest that you get your head out of your fourth point of contact and remember just who it is that you are screaming at.
I am your wife. I am raising your kids on my own, paying your bills, keeping this house running smoothly, and making sure your boys' wives/families are good all the while wishing you were home and that I was getting some ass. I do not fuck around. I do not let your shit go to shit. Even with you 10,000 miles away, my world revolves around you. The few phone calls I get are precious beyond words to describe, so being told that I'm a bitch (even though I freely admit to being one) and then hung up on is not acceptable behavior. If you really think that I am that fucked up and life is that terrible, I can make that happen.
Be safe. The enemy does not deserve to have the pleasure of killing you. I reserve that right.
Fuck you very much,
The Bitch
05 January 2011
Full Bitch
I am a bitch. I freely admit it. I'm also a pain in the ass and a worry wart. But lately, I've been moving into full bitch mode and I can't seem to get myself out of that gear. People are just so fucking stupid sometimes!! The boys are coming home. Yippee skippee! When is anyone's guess and the Army sure as fuck isn't going to violate OPSEC just to make me happy. Bastards. But then we have the boys calling home and rumours are running and Facebook is blowing up with stupid fucking comments about when they are leaving and I want to choke the life out of these stupid motherfuckers who don't think the Taliban can count!!! Are you trying to get my boys shot down on the airstrip??
And then there's the whole thing about getting the barracks prepped for the single soldiers. You know, putting basic toiletries, towels, sheets and shit in their rooms so they don't have to make a mad dash to Walmart immediately upon arrival home just so they can sleep in comfort and get clean after 12-24 hours of travelling. Maybe it's bitch mode talking again, but I just don't feel like the FRG is quite on the ball about this as they were last time. Or maybe it's that we just finally got an email telling us the date that we can get in the barracks to get them prepped. Or maybe it's that I learned that yesterday they were decorating up at the battalion and no one I know knew a damned thing about it. I wouldn't have liked to have been able to help with that or anything. . .
Maybe it's just me , but I feel like homecoming for these boys should be such an incredible experience that as they look back on it years from now, they could almost jerk off because it was so fucking good. These men are HEROES and deserve nothing less. The CoC can go jump off a bridge if they don't like it for all I care, but my boys had better be taken care of to the nth degree. That means rooms done, lots of alcohol (because if you're old enough to fight, you're fucking old enough to drink in my book) and all the pussy they want. Maybe that's crude, but oh well.
The bitch is on the loose and that's what this bitch really thinks.
And then there's the whole thing about getting the barracks prepped for the single soldiers. You know, putting basic toiletries, towels, sheets and shit in their rooms so they don't have to make a mad dash to Walmart immediately upon arrival home just so they can sleep in comfort and get clean after 12-24 hours of travelling. Maybe it's bitch mode talking again, but I just don't feel like the FRG is quite on the ball about this as they were last time. Or maybe it's that we just finally got an email telling us the date that we can get in the barracks to get them prepped. Or maybe it's that I learned that yesterday they were decorating up at the battalion and no one I know knew a damned thing about it. I wouldn't have liked to have been able to help with that or anything. . .
Maybe it's just me , but I feel like homecoming for these boys should be such an incredible experience that as they look back on it years from now, they could almost jerk off because it was so fucking good. These men are HEROES and deserve nothing less. The CoC can go jump off a bridge if they don't like it for all I care, but my boys had better be taken care of to the nth degree. That means rooms done, lots of alcohol (because if you're old enough to fight, you're fucking old enough to drink in my book) and all the pussy they want. Maybe that's crude, but oh well.
The bitch is on the loose and that's what this bitch really thinks.
04 January 2011
In Hell
Welcome to the final months of deployment, when insomnia, mood swings, anxiety and the deployment drunk really start kicking our asses. They are coming home relatively soon--when exactly is still fucking OPSEC--so why the fuck is all this shit so damned hard to overcome?? We should be out dancing in the fucking streets, making appointments to get things waxed, cleaning out houses, and generally making plans for raping our husbands. What the hell is going on that no one is sleeping, everyone is a nervous fucking wreck, depressed, drinking or smoking more and just generally in a "I don't give a fuck" mood??
I'll tell you why. Because although the end is in sight, it isn't really in sight. There is no end date to this fucking deployment. There is no circle on the calendar to count down toward. There's just rumors and vague hints from a husband who is 10,000 miles away. I don't know about you, but without a hard timeline to plan around, it's just impossible to be really truly excited. I'm starting to think I have an anxiety disorder because one second I'm actually happy about this homecoming and the next I'm fucking depressed over a deployment that never seems to end and then I'm just fucking psychotic wondering if I'm going to have enough time to get everything done before he gets home. What should be the happiest months of deployment are just plain old fucking bullshit!!
If you're feeling like this, you are NOT alone. I am right there with you, same place I've always been in the last stretch of a deployment. In pure and absolute HELL!! When does this feeling go away? Maybe when you get the call and maybe when he gets off the plane. It's different for all of us. My best advice for surviving these last weeks/months? Find a friend who will give you a good swift kick in the ass and get you moving.
As much as I hate hearing it, we are nearly there. Don't slack off now. We are Rakkasan wives and we are kicking this deployment's ass!! Say it with me, my lovely harem:
FUCK YOU, DEPLOYMENT!!
I'll tell you why. Because although the end is in sight, it isn't really in sight. There is no end date to this fucking deployment. There is no circle on the calendar to count down toward. There's just rumors and vague hints from a husband who is 10,000 miles away. I don't know about you, but without a hard timeline to plan around, it's just impossible to be really truly excited. I'm starting to think I have an anxiety disorder because one second I'm actually happy about this homecoming and the next I'm fucking depressed over a deployment that never seems to end and then I'm just fucking psychotic wondering if I'm going to have enough time to get everything done before he gets home. What should be the happiest months of deployment are just plain old fucking bullshit!!
If you're feeling like this, you are NOT alone. I am right there with you, same place I've always been in the last stretch of a deployment. In pure and absolute HELL!! When does this feeling go away? Maybe when you get the call and maybe when he gets off the plane. It's different for all of us. My best advice for surviving these last weeks/months? Find a friend who will give you a good swift kick in the ass and get you moving.
As much as I hate hearing it, we are nearly there. Don't slack off now. We are Rakkasan wives and we are kicking this deployment's ass!! Say it with me, my lovely harem:
FUCK YOU, DEPLOYMENT!!
03 January 2011
An Observation
Something I keep noticing in the Army. Those who throw their rank out the most often are those who are the least worthy of wearing that rank. Fuck 'em! "Well, I'm a whatever rank" doesn't mean shit to me. If you need to tell me what rank you are to try to earn my respect, you have just failed miserably. Go fuck yourself, because you are no longer worthy of my time and you sure as fuck don't deserve my respect just because of your rank. You want my respect? Show some integrity and take care of your boys. That will earn my respect. Your stripes, rockers, bars, leaves and eagles don't automatically entitle you to shit.
And asking me what rank my husband is, after I have already introduced myself as Kate? I obviously don't give a fuck so why the hell should you? I don't wear my husband's stripes. He worked for them, not me. I am an Army wife, obviously, since I'm on poste at battalion or brigade. Does my husband's rank really fucking matter? What are you trying to say: unless my husband holds a certain rank, you can't be bothered to waste your time on me? Or do you want to know, thinking that if my husband is low enough ranking that I will be in awe of you and let you in my pants?? Number one: no and hell no. Number two: I'm not that stupid. Number three: I actually respect and love my husband. And number four: Go fuck yourself.
Assholes who are this concerned about rank are the assholes who will fuck a good soldier over without thinking twice about it. Or these bastards will try to take advantage of a situation to advance themselves or prove what a hot shot they are or get into someone's pants (bad memories of being on the trail and COs fucking supply sergeants with the promise of more rank). Rank is not the defining quality of a soldier. And it sure as hell doesn't mean that you must be hot shit. I can form my own opinion. I am not a simpleton. I want to know you, not your fucking rank.
And hopefully, all my wives know that I couldn't care less what rank their husband is. If you need help or have a question, I'm here. The way some people act, you would think that I should ask and if the husband is lower than mine, I should tell the wife to kiss my ass. The day that I start worrying more about rank than people, please drag me out into the street and shoot me.
And asking me what rank my husband is, after I have already introduced myself as Kate? I obviously don't give a fuck so why the hell should you? I don't wear my husband's stripes. He worked for them, not me. I am an Army wife, obviously, since I'm on poste at battalion or brigade. Does my husband's rank really fucking matter? What are you trying to say: unless my husband holds a certain rank, you can't be bothered to waste your time on me? Or do you want to know, thinking that if my husband is low enough ranking that I will be in awe of you and let you in my pants?? Number one: no and hell no. Number two: I'm not that stupid. Number three: I actually respect and love my husband. And number four: Go fuck yourself.
Assholes who are this concerned about rank are the assholes who will fuck a good soldier over without thinking twice about it. Or these bastards will try to take advantage of a situation to advance themselves or prove what a hot shot they are or get into someone's pants (bad memories of being on the trail and COs fucking supply sergeants with the promise of more rank). Rank is not the defining quality of a soldier. And it sure as hell doesn't mean that you must be hot shit. I can form my own opinion. I am not a simpleton. I want to know you, not your fucking rank.
And hopefully, all my wives know that I couldn't care less what rank their husband is. If you need help or have a question, I'm here. The way some people act, you would think that I should ask and if the husband is lower than mine, I should tell the wife to kiss my ass. The day that I start worrying more about rank than people, please drag me out into the street and shoot me.
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