Black Ops

Enough bitching. Everyone is pissed about redeployment and me bitching about it doesn't do one damned bit of good. So fuck it.

One thing I've learned in all my years in the Army is that we wives get random phone calls at ridiculous hours from our husbands wanting stupid shit. Like the phones calls from Iraq when my husband tells me he needs as many stuffed Pooh bears as I can find. And a Harley Davidson tee shirt and mug. Oh, and a Barbie doll who is fully clothed. WTF?!? The Barbie is for a little Iraqi girl he fell in love with and plans to kidnap. The HD stuff is for their translator. And the Pooh bears? He wants a collection to pass out to the Iraqi babies because "no child should grow up without a Pooh bear." Whatever.

No big deal. I can send packages like a motherfucker. It's when I get a call at dusk from my husband who is in the field somewhere in the back forty telling me he has a mission for me and that no one can know about it. A black op. OK? What the hell does he want this time? Easy. Go to the store. Buy a cube of Mountain Dew. A cube of Pepsi. Honey mustard pretzels. Candy bars. A two liter of Dew and a USA Today newspaper for Daddy W. Fine.

Load up the kids, ages two and three. Go to the store and fight with the kids to buy all this shit. Then drive out to the back forty, get lost twice, finally find where I need to be and start checking the wood line for a platoon of soldiers in camouflage. In the dark. Yeah. I finally gave up. The kids are screaming. I'm tired. I can't find them. I'm going home. So I turn around and begin the hour long drive back home.

And then out of the woods comes this little boy, in camo with face paint on, who jumps in front of the van waving like a jackass to get me to stop. Fuck me. I'm surrounded! Six guys throw open the door of the van, grab the stuff. My husband yells, "Thanks. Love you!" the door slams shut and the bastards are gone!

Mission accomplished.