tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50042938757344166352024-03-06T00:10:46.409-05:00Contemplations of an Army WifeContemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-14928122208773602412014-02-18T12:00:00.002-05:002014-02-18T14:43:58.623-05:00We Love You, Ron-O.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPnCpyWXvNDS_eDqnALXCeqw2pMMM5h6kM-NTRF2wggHH_aKZtiZMqzEt-t5UsYlaZGmMpA9QKUmewt2hTKdhR5-QhHWTBIups-H3YdgtTyyiHksfNcWn1omPkeMViYsEnl1wHPmmlKzk/s640/blogger-image-1341694765.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPnCpyWXvNDS_eDqnALXCeqw2pMMM5h6kM-NTRF2wggHH_aKZtiZMqzEt-t5UsYlaZGmMpA9QKUmewt2hTKdhR5-QhHWTBIups-H3YdgtTyyiHksfNcWn1omPkeMViYsEnl1wHPmmlKzk/s640/blogger-image-1341694765.jpg"></a></div><br></div>
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This morning, I woke up early. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The baby was crying, and needed to eat. I did what I always do…I opened up my phone,
and scrolled through Facebook. And the
first thing I saw was the thing that, although I knew was coming, had been
dreading just the same. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
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My dear friend, Ron, had finally been released from his
ongoing battle with cancer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br></div>
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I met Ron in 2009, and worked with him until we made our way
from Maryland to Colorado on a PCS. When
we moved back to Maryland, Ron was one of the small group of friends I was
excited to see again. As trite as
retrospect can be, I wish I’d seen him more.
Because Ron taught me things. He
reminded me of things I already knew, and he reinforced things I try to
practice in my day to day life. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br></div>
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I learned a lot of things from him…like how important it is
to have someone’s back, even when you want to stab them in it. Ron was a consistent open door, even when it
would have been easier to close it. He
stood against the masses when the masses were wrong, even when the weight of
those masses seemed like they should have been crushing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br></div>
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Ron did not judge.
Rather, he hugged. He
laughed. He smiled. When doing things for himself would have been
the easiest route, Ron took the hard route so that he could bring someone who
needed help on the same journey. It didn't
even matter what the journey was, really…it was just common knowledge that Ron
would extend his hand and heart and offer you a firm grip on both. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br></div>
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He’d been living with the disease for quite some time. It was rough, and it was agonizing. He allowed us into it. He never hid his pain, or masked his
difficulties. Rather, he opened it all
to us and drenched it in a such a positive way that it made us adore and admire the hell
out of him even more. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There are so many admirable qualities that Ron reminded me were
important to keep a hold of. And because
I was lucky enough to have him in my life for a little while, I will work a
little harder every day to keep those qualities from falling by the wayside of
everyday life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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The Army is not an easy way to live. It’s easy to lose track, to get too busy. It’s easy to become inundated with the day to
day. At home, at work…there are so many
ways to become enveloped in our own lives and forget the importance of those we
hold dear. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br></div>
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Thank you, Ron Kyle, for being a part of my life and the
lives of so many others. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br></div>
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Your presence will be missed. But your wonderful, kind, funny, thoughtful
and jiggy ways will not. Because they
will continue, my friend. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We love you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then, you know that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<a class="DiggThisButton DiggMedium" href="http://digg.com/submit?url=http%3A//mashable.com/2010/03/18/digg-social-news"></a>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-79051249286039953112014-02-03T11:01:00.004-05:002014-02-03T11:53:56.828-05:00Glow On. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflvDzNZzWaxqeG4bNxLhlgC9VjCq65zMLZjlVnO2sbTUKmG2G24-92t2eJPcXtFWMWUDc7FXRFeuMrX1CHdMYlc23UBCM-ClJMGz8N4GZY8I388I4OEfcu2xGFqiZYeY38jd8mWkmCos/s1600/polish+lanterns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflvDzNZzWaxqeG4bNxLhlgC9VjCq65zMLZjlVnO2sbTUKmG2G24-92t2eJPcXtFWMWUDc7FXRFeuMrX1CHdMYlc23UBCM-ClJMGz8N4GZY8I388I4OEfcu2xGFqiZYeY38jd8mWkmCos/s1600/polish+lanterns.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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I've noticed some rumblings today about the Coke commercial
from last night. Here’s my take: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one can take away your shine. No one is going to block your glow. And the more we learn to glow together, the
brighter things will be. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the thing: If
you are upset by diversity, there is a period of inner reflection that should
occur, and no one can start down that road for you. We ALL have struggles, and all have things we
aren't proud of…and all have things that we can be WILDLY proud of. The location we were birthed should not
factor into that pride. What language we
were taught during our formative years should not pigeonhole our
existence. What should be recognized is
the strength, courage and love of self and family that goes into being able to
pack up an entire home and move to another country in the fervent hope we can
give something better to our children.
To <i>their</i> children. To our family name. And there are places that, unfortunately,
those opportunities are not readily available. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But they are here. </div>
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<br /></div>
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And
improvement should not be taken for granted, no matter how it is dressed or what
language it speaks when it arrives.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one living currently built this country on their
back. We should be as grateful for what
we are given by being citizens of this country as those who have been the tired
and poor, yearning to breathe free. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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If we want people to earn their keep, we should earn ours. But instead of earning keep in America, we should earn our keep within humanity. <o:p></o:p></div>
<a class="DiggThisButton DiggMedium" href="http://digg.com/submit?url=http%3A//mashable.com/2010/03/18/digg-social-news"></a>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-87116909313437708442013-10-01T16:31:00.003-04:002013-10-01T16:31:38.008-04:00We've Worked Hard...Now It's Your Turn.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8pLXVZJAkUSzRFLKp57t5sE9vwbMAlkLdtJRN0jS35RI6QbUWJF448hEjVO-gMB3ELvzWt1ilmOnwOG2Rm6Wuj09Az6K546_lbykQuN9hz0vOA9D-g2aiA7hVh8zJP1a_CK4K2qGGYiA/s1600/test2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8pLXVZJAkUSzRFLKp57t5sE9vwbMAlkLdtJRN0jS35RI6QbUWJF448hEjVO-gMB3ELvzWt1ilmOnwOG2Rm6Wuj09Az6K546_lbykQuN9hz0vOA9D-g2aiA7hVh8zJP1a_CK4K2qGGYiA/s200/test2.jpg" width="114" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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I feel compelled, during this serious reign of ignorance and
insolence and insanity, to write something.
And I don't even really know what to write, to be honest. It is not likely that this information will
be new to anyone who reads it. Because everyone
knows <i>someone</i> affected by the
government shutdown. There are so many
directions to look, so many points to be made...so I'm just going to share my
story and my feelings. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband is a Staff Sergeant in the United States Army. I am a disabled Army veteran. I am seven months pregnant with our second
child, and I have two wonderful stepchildren.
Currently, my husband is out of the country, as are many others. If his return ticket had not already been
purchased, he would be required to remain out of the country until the government
reopened. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of the country is upset at the government shutdown. Congress' approval rating is at 10%. Hell, I currently like oral surgery and scrubbing toilets more than I like the government. Like many families, we are a household dependent upon two
incomes. My husband's earnings, thank
goodness, have been secured (albeit secured last minute). The Veterans Affairs office has said that
they are capable of dispersing one more round of payment, and after that will
be unable to make any more until the government is reopened. The same is being said of VA educational
benefits, I'm hearing. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A good friend of mine is now furloughed from his government
job. He has a wife and two
children. This morning, I read many
jokes on our local installation's Facebook page regarding the craziness ensuing
on other posts due to things like commissary closures and shifts in the capabilities
of silly, inconsequential things like Military Treatment Facilities and Armed
Forces academies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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We have worked without water and food. We have worked without showers. We have worked without sleep, and at times without
medical attention. A large number of us
have worked and lived below the poverty line and without our loved ones in
order to provide for this country. We
are students. Neighbors. Friends.
Daughters, sons, wives, husbands, and parents. We are members of every community spanning
the United States. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are not a family whose vacation to Yellowstone has been
interrupted. We are not a small business
whose loan has been postponed. We are a
cog in a vast group of people who have worked and will continue to work tirelessly
and selflessly. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And we expect the same in return. </div>
<a class="DiggThisButton DiggMedium" href="http://digg.com/submit?url=http%3A//mashable.com/2010/03/18/digg-social-news"></a>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-79692912612089521932013-09-01T13:07:00.003-04:002013-09-01T13:28:35.277-04:00Pinterest is Ruining My Nursery<div class="MsoNormal">
Shut up. This
minute...this <i>instant. </i>Just shut up. I get it.
I'm behind the Pinterest-is-runing-my-life power curve. I know that there are memes, websites and
social media posts out the wazoo commemorating this topic. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First there was the initial Rabbit Hole aspect. People (and when I say people, I mean me) spent
hours upon hours just looking at recipes, decor, clothing. It had everything from pinot noir storage to
puppies, and I was hooked. I neglected
Facebook, the news, homework...it was all the happy things in the world I
wanted to see, and none of that starving animal, Wall Street 1%, Presidential
race crap I was so tired of looking at.
I willingly allowed all of the intelligence in my life to be overwhelmed
and pushed to the wayside by watercolor paintings of Chanel purses, and didn't
regret a moment of it. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know now that I am not the only one stricken with this
affliction...in the time it has taken me to write this, six people have
repinned it. No joke. SIX. And
I know that I should just let my hormones simma down and get over myself. Which I would be happy to do, if I didn't
want so badly to make this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7SmREM4_9vFD0JF2Z8mnDI0piAwo9Az3a-MJB4Lea7ncd5csFZA0N0ax6IrmP3-25SJ66j3nFbZRoIyd3XUdHtoUq4mBQbTTq-dKsduDhEVJ22HCGwX5dhVtNvvEA_CdYTzjDXtM9bY/s1600/Pirate+crib+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7SmREM4_9vFD0JF2Z8mnDI0piAwo9Az3a-MJB4Lea7ncd5csFZA0N0ax6IrmP3-25SJ66j3nFbZRoIyd3XUdHtoUq4mBQbTTq-dKsduDhEVJ22HCGwX5dhVtNvvEA_CdYTzjDXtM9bY/s320/Pirate+crib+2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-media/product-gallery/B009YO7B4G/?index=0&ref=cm_ciu_pdp_images_0&ie=UTF8" target="_blank">The full set of which can be found here.</a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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I know, right?!?! You risk a friggin' mental EXPLOSION
looking at all this awesomeness. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So the timeline of this whole thing was relatively
simple...I decided to wait a bit to decorate until I really had a good idea for
the nursery. Partly because I didn't
want to be overly enthusiastic (particularly before we were sure of the
gender), and partly I wanted something super cool. Okay, mostly because I wanted something super
cool. Then, one day as we're wandering
La Boutique Target, the hubby says:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Hey,
how about pirates? Can we do
PIRATES?"</div>
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<br /></div>
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And my answer, as I'm sure you can imagine, was something the
eloquent and super classy along the lines of "Shit yes, we can!" </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Thus was born the pirate nursery quest. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the best idea (and most achievable) idea I've found so
far is this super bitchin' pirate ship crib.
At least I thought it was until this morning, when I clicked on the
picture and waited for the contributing website to load. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it never loaded. Why,
you ask? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because there was no cutesy website linked to this
picture...there was no "SusieshouseofDIY" or "Daisybabies"
or any other gag inducing dotcom crafty site associated with this picture. There was just a picture of <i>exactly</i> what I want to do for the last
of my womb-mates, and not one instruction on how to make it. I mean, sure, there's a picture. It even looks pretty simple and self
explanatory. Until you get to the bottom
of the rope thing. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seriously. Go
look. I'll wait. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
WHAT <i>ARE THOSE?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<a class="DiggThisButton DiggMedium" href="http://digg.com/submit?url=http%3A//mashable.com/2010/03/18/digg-social-news"></a>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-24557295604317189742013-06-30T16:32:00.002-04:002013-06-30T16:32:45.851-04:00She Fell Off Her Butter Crock, Ya'll! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWGkr7BAA73ZWBJs8Dv283rPZP9wYsFYGtZtAw9S1aNmpSVwkfq_duKtZcwidc_04Sy8sMqPIeVxxB2tft-3k6DWcJVGJN-F-hfxF4jjkS1FnRmAHukPn1TSbIzeHMeFWYksozBvHNWfk/s590/paula-deen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWGkr7BAA73ZWBJs8Dv283rPZP9wYsFYGtZtAw9S1aNmpSVwkfq_duKtZcwidc_04Sy8sMqPIeVxxB2tft-3k6DWcJVGJN-F-hfxF4jjkS1FnRmAHukPn1TSbIzeHMeFWYksozBvHNWfk/s320/paula-deen.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
www.dailycurrent.com</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know a wide range of people. Most of them are intelligent, and all have
their own opinion on subjects. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
GASP! I know,
right? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I preface this piece with this: I adore the people who read my stuff, and
respect their feelings and opinions. I
also happen to like Paula Deen. But that
doesn't mean that she is immune from my writing about her tragedies of late,
because I have been shoved into it by repeat Facebook posts on the
subject. So if the redemption of Paula
Deen is something you feel strongly about, I suggest you stop reading, because
it is likely that this will piss you off.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently I've become amazed (and frankly, slightly shocked) at
the number of people that are outraged by Paula Deen's swift, Aaron Hernandez style, immediate and
epic loss of business partnerships. Her
show being discontinued by Food Network, and release by JC Penny, Wal mart,
Smithfield and others has been raised to an almost Bono-level of awareness and
social media outrage. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The main theme trumpeted by the masses seems to be "She
made a mistake, guys! Come on, why should we punish her for a mistake she made
30 years ago?! She's losing everything! What an outrage!"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To which I have the following (repeatedly provoked)
responses:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Yes, Paula Deen made a mistake. Yes, it occurred more than two decades ago.
One (like me, for example) might even make the argument that she's a 66 year
old white woman from Albany, Georgia. Of
course she's racist! That was a time and place that all you were supposed to BE
was racist! Well, guess what, people? It is not 1953, and those things are no longer
appropriate or socially acceptable. End
of story, no more callers, we have a winner. And for those that are still racist (ie,
saying things like "Who <i>hasn't </i>said
something racist?!", bear in mind that you are not the very, <i>very </i>public face of companies with
stockholders to whom answers must be given.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Business
partnerships are made because they are mutually beneficial. When those
partnerships become less than such, they can (and probably will) become void.
Food Network didn't decide against renewing Paula Deen's show to personally
punish her. They did it because their ratings were projected to suffer by
keeping her show on the air. Stop acting
like food network discontinuing the show is the equivalent of a mother leaving
her infant on the steps of a church. It's unreasonable. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Paula Deen has one
truly marketable asset: herself. Ham and
biscuits are super great things, but like most TV personalities, her bread and
butter (and butter, and butter) are her grandmother-ly appearance and down-home
appeal. Unfortunately, things from her
past came back to haunt her. Remember
when Vanessa Williams had those devastating "artsy" photos surface
and lost her Miss America crown? Tragic
and unfair, but it still happened.
Why? Because what she had done,
right or wrong, did not reflect the values of the organization that employed
her. Now to my knowledge, there are no
nude Paula pics floating around. But you
can only call Al Roker "Chocolate Face" and tell Matt Lauer and
millions of viewers to kill you with a rock and such so many times before you
get dropped like a hot stone in the middle of a glass house. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
4. As of last year
(According to www.forbes.com), the Queen of Butter was worth a whopping $17
million. She will likely see more pay in
residuals from book sales and other various business facets in three months
than my husband, a Staff Sergeant in the Unites States Army, will see in a year's
paycheck. So a modicum of perspective on
the "Paula is losing everything, lets circle the wagons!" rally might
do some good. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Basically, Paula Deen has (hopefully) learned a very valuable lesson in corporate
marketing and brand survival in the form of her "Hey, Ya'll!"
Southern charm being replaced by a less charming, Today Show sobbing aspect,
and rapidly taking her from lovable to crucifiable in one fell drop of the
N-Bomb. I truly hope she lived at her level of means and has the
savings to retire on. Because at the end
of the day, nothing is guaranteed, and nothing lasts forever. </div>
<a class="DiggThisButton DiggMedium" href="http://digg.com/submit?url=http%3A//mashable.com/2010/03/18/digg-social-news"></a>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-25242162942784731682013-06-04T22:11:00.003-04:002013-06-05T17:34:42.469-04:00Dear Harford County Public School System:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpvctcLVuNp8dDrkGQFk_4yOSzmrLc3fFFYCEpe-SR1YZBg94wMMQA4cnVxhLCObCAc8-wDyvhXlKU6QyrsmgWJ1hNtu0p5p6nIaKW8uh8uoFA3pTqybi6CSOck-zLzkPq0Js7QcpFyqg/s1600/Andrew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpvctcLVuNp8dDrkGQFk_4yOSzmrLc3fFFYCEpe-SR1YZBg94wMMQA4cnVxhLCObCAc8-wDyvhXlKU6QyrsmgWJ1hNtu0p5p6nIaKW8uh8uoFA3pTqybi6CSOck-zLzkPq0Js7QcpFyqg/s320/Andrew.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #444444; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<br />
Dear Harford County Public School System,<br />
<br />
I am writing this in an attempt to open eyes to (what I fervently hope are) an archaic set of academic values, and to hopefully bring attention to the woefully under explained "Pre K" federal program. Although I am a bit emotional as I draft this, I hope that my goal of bringing the difficulties of the public school system to light may help other parents in the future. <br />
<br />
My son's birthday is October 6th, and he will be turning five this year. In April, I inquired about the Pre K program at a local elementary school. My question was met by several heads turning toward me, either scoffing or in disdain. As a new resident to Maryland, I was unaware of the federal status of this program, rather than it's being hosted by the public school system. My ignorance aside, the response I received was short and chilly: "You know this is an income based program."<br />
<br />
I use a period at the end of that statement because that is how it was spoken to me. No question, no offer of information. My inquisitive look at the secretary warranted only a glance at my appearance (which in some way, apparently, was indicative my financial superiority). Rather than fight what was clearly going to be a losing, uninformative battle, I reached out to a second local public school, and received more friendly, yet equally uninformative response. Having met with nothing but closing doors, my husband and I looked into the early admission requirements for kindergarten. <br />
<br />
According to your 2011-2012 Handbook:<br />
<br />
"For entrance to kindergarten, children admitted to the kindergarten program in the public school system shall be five years old on or before September 1st of the school year in which they apply for entrance. Exceptions to the age entrance policy are considered only in very extraordinary circumstances. The standards are rigorous to ensure that children are not frustrated by the advanced placement" (Harford County Public Schools). <br />
<br />
Duly noted. I understand that a child frustrated by advanced placement would be a distraction, both to the educators and to the children whose parents loved them enough to birth them on or before September 1st. Your handbook continues: <br />
<br />
"Although not encouraged, exceptions to the age of entrance policy are granted by Harford County Public Schools when it is clearly evident that the precocious four-year-old will be effectively served by a rigorous, standard-based curriculum in kindergarten...Exceptional abilities refer to your child being able to read the newspaper, magazines or books. For mathematical ability, word problems should be solved without prompting. Word problems indicate the child’s ability to construct abstract thought" (Harford County Public Schools).<br />
<br />
I was interested to find that my son, who can write and verbally spell his name, add, subtract, and regularly uses "hypothesis" (and varying other multisyllabic words) correctly in a sentence would likely be deemed incapable of entering kindergarten 36 days after the age cutoff because he lacked the ”extraordinary circumstances" and "precociousness" sought by way of the exceptional abilities that "refer to your child being able to read the newspaper, magazines or books". <br />
<br />
The Maryland state website for educational improvement Standard 1.0 General Reading Processes, however, lists the first task for kindergarten " PHONEMIC AWARENESS: Students will master the ability to hear, identify, and manipulate individual sounds in spoken words by the end of grade one" "General Reading Processes ~ Grade K ~ Reading/ELA Using the State Curriculum ~ School Improvement in Maryland.").<br />
<br />
So the questions I pose to you, Harford County School District, are these: <br />
<br />
As our child is currently unable to read and I am not a parent able to supply home schooling and our household income exceeds the (albeit federal) standard for Pre K, we are left with two options: paying between $500 and $750 per month for a private learning institution, or not providing our son with the academic curriculum and peer interaction crucial for his age. Does the fact that we are neither destitute nor rich mean our child does not deserve the education provided easily and unreservedly to others? <br />
<br />
And how is it, exactly, that the intention of the curriculum for state of Maryland clearly indicates the goal of teaching five and six year old children to read, while my four year old must regale his assessor with a piece from the Associated Press to warrant his entrance to kindergarten?<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Sandra Moyer <a class="DiggThisButton DiggMedium" href="http://digg.com/submit?url=http%3A//mashable.com/2010/03/18/digg-social-news"></a>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-3774091873031176122013-05-30T11:43:00.000-04:002013-05-30T13:38:03.192-04:00Shit My Kids Say<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy1vsYgG9nlOiw54ROgTpUXALZL0G5XvcIbu-dIsQ0I6suQO1T3YYFn1RY3Uy4XrLOT5eCr9ZN4YC-PQnJNHHIjRSuHLxO33WQ1HDKtQlXb7rG2jzeBvdpWtkVyRolnMTTc-Y1JkvlPjs/s1600/boys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy1vsYgG9nlOiw54ROgTpUXALZL0G5XvcIbu-dIsQ0I6suQO1T3YYFn1RY3Uy4XrLOT5eCr9ZN4YC-PQnJNHHIjRSuHLxO33WQ1HDKtQlXb7rG2jzeBvdpWtkVyRolnMTTc-Y1JkvlPjs/s320/boys.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently I realized that, as parents, we participate in and overhear an overwhelming amount of insane exchanges. Here are some of ours: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Daddy: What kind of
dinosaur is that? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Drew: A Tyrranosaurus
Rex. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Daddy: That's
right. And what's this dinosaur?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Drew: A Spiny
Tyrranosaurus. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Daddy: No, that's a
Stegosaurus. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Drew: Woah. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">*</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scene: <i>I see Drew climbing up the counter while
wearing his Buzz Lightyear costume. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: DREW! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Drew: It's okay. I have super climbing powers. <i> <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Olivia: Hey,
Sandy? What if we named the baby
Destiny? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mitch: That's the
kind of name that means you didn't go to college, <i>Olivia. </i>I know, what if we
name the baby Toby, Sandy? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Olivia: That's the
kind of name you name a dog, <i>Mitchell. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">*</span></b></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Drew: Mommy? Are you awake? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: (I say
nothing. I'm not stupid.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Drew: Mommy? Mommy?!
MOMMY!! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Jesus, Drew! What? !</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Drew: Um...do monkeys
wear hats? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And for now...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">The End</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<a class="DiggThisButton DiggMedium" href="http://digg.com/submit?url=http%3A//mashable.com/2010/03/18/digg-social-news"></a>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-90753830488684748062013-05-16T14:49:00.003-04:002013-05-16T14:49:50.078-04:00Dammit, Babies R Us! <div class="MsoNormal">
Recently, I stumbled across the hilarious marketing GENIUS
that are the Luv's "First Kid, Second Kid" videos. If you haven't watched them, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZgmbJso-2-o" target="_blank">here</a> you go. I'll wait. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are WELCOME. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I found this video because I was googling pregnancy
information. Why? Because it's been a long time since I needed
pregnancy information, and also because I'm knocked up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Surprise! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But don't get excited and shit. That is not what this blog is about, my
friend. Cutesy crap will come
later. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, I don't know if I'm noticing this stuff because it's
all new and super ridiculous, or because I'm pregnant and therefore offered a
skewed product sample. Anyway, I've
begun to compile a list of shit that, at no point, should be marketed to new
moms. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTFIuGeowUc5BIbeoUFuL_VjO82IV_FSPEjnrXgEUYAnt31SWuXbmMIH-KruO7-P9st3_BjO2yh_em8V_XvKufEl3FZiPUTTICQpaC_6mQANmVZ-T1mTG4dLtwCcRsM-cNcmZVY7r_0JE/s1600/Nuroo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTFIuGeowUc5BIbeoUFuL_VjO82IV_FSPEjnrXgEUYAnt31SWuXbmMIH-KruO7-P9st3_BjO2yh_em8V_XvKufEl3FZiPUTTICQpaC_6mQANmVZ-T1mTG4dLtwCcRsM-cNcmZVY7r_0JE/s1600/Nuroo.jpg" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /><!--[endif]--></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today's product is the <a href="http://www.toysrus.com/product/index.jsp?productId=19071306&gcsct=0ChMI4Nyu7JybtwIVB9nmCh0GIQAAEAI" target="_blank">NuRoo Pocket</a>...and this beauty was what
initially sparked my interest in writing a blog about taking advantage of new
moms. It boasts a variety of sizes,
stylish versatility, a supportive belt, skin to skin contact, a no-slip
inner pocket, and a model boasting a sneaky expression that makes you wonder whether she just stole someone's baby to shove into her wrap sweater. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Sandra", you ask, "Why are you such a
coldhearted bitch? Skin to skin contact
with a newborn is <i>important</i>!"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it is important, reader.
It absolutely is. And here's the thing: if you are reading this and justifying this
product in your mind (or out loud, for that matter) STOP READING MY SHIT. I promise you, we are not going to see eye to
eye on anything. Ever. So scamper off, because our journey together
is done. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, now that it's just us insensitive assholes, here we
go: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. This is <i>not </i>stylish versatility. It comes in teal or black, and this giant Waverly
print, karate-belt looking thing. Which,
as long as were on the topic of the "supportive belt", let's just go
ahead and address that your body comes equipped with supportive equipment to
hold your newborn ball of awesomeness.
They're called your fucking <i>ARMS</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Don't get me
wrong. I absolutely understand that skin
to skin contact is crucial. I fully support
breastfeeding, waist-up naked sitting with a blanket over you and your
munchkin...shit, even without the blanket.
If you and your baby want to kick it au natural, I say do it. But understand this: unless you're Honey BooBoo's mom, your brand
new bucket of cuddles is going to be able to fit inside your shirt for exactly <i>six seconds</i>. Maybe ten seconds, if you were lucky enough
to birth a child under eight pounds. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Number three is,
in my opinion, the most important: At <i>no </i>point, should <i>anyone, ever</i> purchase <i>anything</i>
to hold a baby that has a NO SLIP INNER FUCKING POCKET<i>. </i> Because guess what? Unless you're Gorilla Glu-ing your baby into this
goddamn shirt, assume that "no-slip" means that a slip or two can
occur. And in case the instructor of the
parenting class didn't tell you, dropping your infant basket of giggles is
pretty much frowned upon. </div>
<a class="DiggThisButton DiggMedium" href="http://digg.com/submit?url=http%3A//mashable.com/2010/03/18/digg-social-news"></a>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-67259618461859104542012-01-29T19:59:00.002-05:002012-01-30T22:53:01.576-05:00...And Everything In Its Place<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv4yLrvAWyoTZpqz6irAe13MuzzkmCxJj491WzRACmvyREGrxeBjR-sKeKOHy8MsUc3y48PaG4DURk_wccbo-FTBE8XoWMyUiOYPXO91jbHutXw8VBYnWo9akKor4ia_fs3HT2hdImGIk/s1600/kitchen2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv4yLrvAWyoTZpqz6irAe13MuzzkmCxJj491WzRACmvyREGrxeBjR-sKeKOHy8MsUc3y48PaG4DURk_wccbo-FTBE8XoWMyUiOYPXO91jbHutXw8VBYnWo9akKor4ia_fs3HT2hdImGIk/s200/kitchen2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703223816299445698" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>It started with planning. Planning meals, planning events, planning homework schedules. The planning became a compulsion, a temporary world where (if the spreadsheet was done right and the colors complemented each other) everything made sense. Planning gave her a sense of power and a feeling of control. She liked the control. Control of the order in which the house was going to be cleaned, the number of loads of laundry that would be completed, or the vision of a sparkling clean and peaceful home. The order and plan varied by project, naturally. But the picture in her brain of the end result...that stayed the same. At the end of the day, there was always to be a spotless home, a warm cup of coffee, candles flickering with tropical scents, all her homework assignments complete, and the serene quiet that is only really yearned for by heavy metal roadies and mothers of toddlers. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""> Mediocrity became her arch enemy, and done well and half-assed became synonymous. Somehow, she felt that if their household was organized and her desired level of perfection attained, the feelings of peace and accomplishment would overshadow the emotions she fought tirelessly to ignore. The longing to have her husband home, the dull ache in her stomach as she waited for the phone to ring, and the fear that the phone would <i>not </i>ring, and that she could easily become one of the many that...well, you know. As long as their home stayed dust free and in precise order, the dust covered Afghanistan would somehow balance karmically and keep her husband safe. She knew the thought process was as senseless as some of the war casualties were, and she knew that if life were to change, the absoluteness of the situation wouldn't be altered or sugar coated by a clean bathroom floor or laundered curtains. But she scrubbed and washed, nonetheless, until everything shone and smelled pleasantly of bleached flowers. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""> Bit by bit, she worked her way through their home. Meticulously wiping, scrubbing, vacuuming and rinsing every inch of reachable space. Nothing left undone, for fear that it would mess up the order of the never ending task. Although two pets and the spastic three year old loin fruit rendered the task of cleaning down to little more than a vicious, lavender scented circle, she scoured every inch of the self-imposed first circle of Hell like each stroke of the sponge put a gallon of fuel into her husband's plane home.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""> The plastic doctor's kits and floppy brown slices of apple became par for the course, and were picked up daily without thought. Spiderman stretched proudly across the comforter that was tucked in neatly every day, and the dinosaurs knew better than to stay the night with the train sets or the puzzles. Once the task of righting the toddler-topia was complete, she would move to their room. Although it had long since felt like <i>her</i> room, she worked around it as though doing it wrong would make him uncomfortable. So she continued to fix the sheets on his side of the bed just the way he liked them. Sometimes she'd pretend that he would be there to sleep under them that night, and sometimes she'd allow the knowledge that she'd sleep alone again. In either event, she'd convince a smile onto her face and keep tucking, as though tucking the bedding tightly enough would coax her sanity to stay in place, too. She kept his soaps and razors in the shower caddy, although they were so light from being nearly empty that the bottles frequently fell down onto her head when the caddy was bumped. She put the t-shirts of his that she wore back in his bureau, even though she was the only one there to take them out and wear them. She left his cologne taking up space on the shelf, missing his scent but terrified that if she smelled it, the emotions would take over. So there it sat and there it would stay, dust free and full of the smell of the love she missed, encased in green glass and silent mocking. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""> Most days she was able to ignore the pain and loneliness. Even when their son cried relentlessly for Daddy. Even on those days, she was able to keep a brave face and provide comfort. But some days...some days, being human took hold. Some days she would cry relentlessly with the boy, and they would hug each other back into solace. But those days, the days when humanity flexed its awful grip, the glorious feelings brought on by cleaning, organizing, and perfection came to a screeching halt. The glorious feelings were then replaced by feelings of anxiety, discomfort, and fury with the marital dislocation. Most times, she was able to push them down so they weren't so overwhelming, so it was just enough to feel like things weren't the way they were supposed to be. Like when you pick up a pencil and your brain and hand don't agree, so the pencil takes flight. Easily remedied, but still askew and still all her fault. Still needing to be fixed, regardless of the situation the repair interrupted. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""> It wasn't all bad, though. The hard work and exhaustion, whether from algebraic equations or furniture polishing (or, more often than not, both) were rewarding. For each dish put away clean, each sheet smoothed and pillow plumped, each paper typed and resource cited, she checked off a block on her mental list that equated to keeping up her end of the bargain. She'd traded in her dusty boots and guns in favor of securing the home front, and she would be damned if their home ran like anything other than a Swiss timepiece. As long as he was away, she'd keep the world they'd built in order.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"">As long as nothing was out of place, in her mind, he was safe.<o:p></o:p></span></p><a class="DiggThisButton DiggMedium" href="http://digg.com/submit?url=http%3A//mashable.com/2010/03/18/digg-social-news"></a>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-55111931974001353722012-01-05T15:58:00.004-05:002012-01-05T16:14:39.383-05:00When Holiday Travelin' Bitches Be Crazy....<div><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">I have to be honest, guys. I respect the casual flier. Now, I'm not talking Wal-Mart Couture or anything. But decent jeans or sweatpants, hoodies, t shirts, sunglasses, sneakers, ponytails...you know, the kind of shit that you</span><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; "> </span><i style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">wish </i><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">you were wearing during travel, but never are. I love it. My standard uniform whilst flying is jeans, t shirt, hair in a bun, iPod, purse, and flippie floppies. I swing by a Starbucks, and my coffee, my iPod and I sit at the gate. You know, because there's nothing like drinking something with an octane rating and resting up to sit down for multiple hours. What can I say? I like coffee, and I enjoy sitting.</span></div><div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">Part of the funFunFUN of airplanes and airports are seeing people at what they <i>think</i> is their best. They've prepared, scheduled, squeezed the air out of space saving bags, and long term parked. They've caffed, they've coiffed, and they're ready to fly the friendly skies, bitch. Exhibit A:</span></p></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXCmt1ZBmni9vnzeAtKea9Cb-vkKG1xbCoeJD0YmQ78ic-7VHNMIZwOu79HmxrkzUAG92nFzyiSmckZiOXxzm5jMlxKQtnHXTJhgVYqhqomBqyOsPNo9T8RDQfmts_fCK2PI_UAbxk5tc/s1600/Gold+Jacket+1.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXCmt1ZBmni9vnzeAtKea9Cb-vkKG1xbCoeJD0YmQ78ic-7VHNMIZwOu79HmxrkzUAG92nFzyiSmckZiOXxzm5jMlxKQtnHXTJhgVYqhqomBqyOsPNo9T8RDQfmts_fCK2PI_UAbxk5tc/s200/Gold+Jacket+1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694257832714797314" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 196px; " /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">You think I googled that? Think again, baby. She and her shiny pleather aura of awesomeness were three rows in front of me. She was here, she was in lamineer, and everybody was going to have to get used to it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">Except me. I just snapped a picture and made a mental note. Because there's nothing I like more than a good ole fashioned verbal point and laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">What I do <i>not</i> like are surprises. I am an early arriver at airports. I abide by the three ounce rule, and make sure that everything is in its quart-sized zip lock bag. I adhere to the carry-on size and ratio. I take my laptop out of its case and give it its own security bucket. I don't wear belts or jewelry, so as not to take too much time and inconvenience my fellow travelers.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">They tell you that you can book seats ahead of time...one of the perks of buying the tickets early, I suppose. I know that it was supposed to be that way, too, because I looked at the seat numbers, and was pleased that we weren't tucked soundly in the ass of the plane like we were on the flight out. 12C and D sounded like super duper seats. After biting the bullet and paying the $50 to check two bags, I wrangled the backpack, small duffel, purse, and Spawn-on-a-String (or Drew on a monkey leash, if you prefer) through security and the small cafe. After securing Midget Bait (Twizzlers) and Mommy's Go Juice, we settled our butts on the ground near the gate. We sat, he with the iPad and I with my Parents magazine, munching Twizzlers and relaxing. The intercom bing-bonged, and I heard them page those poor saps...you know, the sad few always stuck in standby purgatory. I'm sure you can imagine the sadness I felt when our last name echoed across the thriving five-gate terminal. I shoved our shit back into our carry-ons and dragged the boy and his half-chewed Twizzler up to the podium, where we were handed two paper stubs. I glanced down, my gaze greeted by the seat numbers 4a and 5c.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">What...Tha...FUCK?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">What on United Airline's green, expansive, everloving earth was I supposed to do with THAT? As much as I'd enjoy a silent-ish plane ride minus my offspring, I'm fairly certain that the Mom handbook forbids placing your three year old with a stranger on a flight. I think it was in the same chapter as not leaving them on a city bus or allowing them to attend the Warped Tour at 12. Anywho, upon explaining the issue to the very sweet flight attendant, she rolled her eyes in sympathy and pointed to one side, instructing me to take two seats on one side, and then plead my case to whomever was actually supposed to sit next to my child. Thanks, United Airlines, for entrusting my child to someone who may or may not be required to update their living location every ninety days to their local law enforcement agency.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">We weren't seated long. Basically, just long enough to settle the boy and our carry-on circus. And then we were greeted by the sneer of what I'm pretty sure the guy on Nighmare Before Christmas looked like before he lost his skin to skeleton-ism. As he glared down his Burton-esque nose, I explained what the airline had done. As I stuttered the words, I looked at the stupid paper stubs, and realized that I'd gone a row too far. As I wrestled our entourage o' crap to the preceding row under the condemnatory gaze of Airbus McPissypants, we were lucky enough to discover his wife, Puffy McPissypants. Our introduction consisted of the same disapproving gaze in our direction, breaking it only briefly to look pointedly over her shoulder at the FOUR people behind her. In fact, she was so busy not-so-subtly indicating that we were holding up boarding that she didn't notice my leather and reproductive baggage trying to squeeze by her massive, flower-clad, Charlie scented corpulence.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">My apologetic motivation and stupidity tolerance waned. Well, they didn't so much wane as <i>disappear</i>, and were promptly replaced by visible irritation and my stern voice. I fought the urge to shout that her wrinkly popover cleavage was not only in my way, but also visual pollution. Sweetly, I explained that if she wanted us out of their seats, she needed to back up a bit and give us some room. She sighed heavily, and scooted back. I settled us down again and seethed. I seethed about the injustice of the cost of checked baggage, the injustice of being tired, and the injustice of the airline's carelessness in assigning a toddler a seat that was not parental adjacent. My silence was rapidly rewarded, though. As soon as they were seated, she began to nag at her husband. From family issues to her discomfort with flying (and flying <i>coach, perish the thought)</i>, she wove a verbal web of contempt and loathing that made her sound like nothing short of a lovechild of Dr. Laura and Salinger. Smiling at the slight victory, I hugged the boy and cracked the December issue of Martha.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">I shouldn't have smiled. My triumph lasted only as long as the tray tables were in an up and locked position.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">As soon as Puffy McMonsterbitch was allowed, she dropped her tray table and began to consume a Ceasar salad of comic proportions. Seriously. This thing was roughly the size of the bottomless Olive Garden salad bowl, and smelled like low tide on the Hudson. After she warthogged through it, she passed out snoring at a decibel that furthered the illusion that we were, in fact, tugboating through NYC.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">There are a few morals to this story:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13px; ">Number one: Booking seats when you purchase a ticket does not guarantee said seats. Number two: When needing to vent on a plane, it's a good plan to have a charged laptop and the gift of wit. Number three: When traveling during the holidays and are surrounded by assholery and embossed gold jackets, just smile and think about the power of the internet and camera enabled cell phones. Because now that it's all said and done, I get to show y'all this shit:</span></p></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj66BF9xnMxYtSI3zKJU0bcpzJlfd7b8Zw4obFI780RihPNjUJ5vWAX3jmZthvoM_Ooug8OByWGxmFTIZFrFlfaf1svWlGn-UdQ8PUNyke9JaqEzvD1TqaSi39xukUVWiRCkS9L-PrqPv4/s1600/ceasar.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 151px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj66BF9xnMxYtSI3zKJU0bcpzJlfd7b8Zw4obFI780RihPNjUJ5vWAX3jmZthvoM_Ooug8OByWGxmFTIZFrFlfaf1svWlGn-UdQ8PUNyke9JaqEzvD1TqaSi39xukUVWiRCkS9L-PrqPv4/s200/ceasar.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694258794229524386" /></a><br /><div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 13px;">You're welcome.</span></p></div>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-65358271532817669602011-10-09T17:04:00.003-04:002011-10-09T17:09:30.477-04:00Organizing Your Military Home, Part One<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinfNYPTQEI9ZUh0IAV4DhJebxqN4hmvPm0Q95rn4DReRgt6tS110xNThnOdqapLQYoFe91rvm7fmQ4bc5wsvWe77XWXcgWX5VqajFTSOzg91FRqoYHiKWbhRzBF0RFyx5s7aZrLsoYJ_E/s1600/daddybear.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinfNYPTQEI9ZUh0IAV4DhJebxqN4hmvPm0Q95rn4DReRgt6tS110xNThnOdqapLQYoFe91rvm7fmQ4bc5wsvWe77XWXcgWX5VqajFTSOzg91FRqoYHiKWbhRzBF0RFyx5s7aZrLsoYJ_E/s200/daddybear.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5661601456647451538" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.25in">Fall has arrived, everyone!<span> </span>Things are apple and vanilla scented, stores are boasting everything from frozen turkey to Christmas trees, and neighborhood porches are encrusted with maniacally grinning orange gourds.<span> </span>It’s also getting chilly, which signals the beginning of the Great Winter Couch Potato Race!<span> </span>Rather than save your cleaning for spring, why not get some of it done now?<span> </span>Make some room for those holiday gifts, and decluttering will make the house <i>much</i> more bearable during those dark winter months.<span> </span>I promise.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span><span>1.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b>Set it up the night before.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">I know this sounds simple, and I know it’s something that a lot of people do.<span> </span>But taking it to an extreme is easier at night, and leads to a MUCH simpler morning.<span> </span>Need your morning cup of go juice?<span> </span>Preset your coffee maker.<span> </span>Kids scrambling in the morning to find their backpack stuffers?<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">Suck up the extra energy it takes to find all the homework and permission slips, and get it all in there the night before.<span> </span>Do the kids eat at home in the morning?<span> </span>Set out bowls, spoons, oatmeal packets, etc.<span> </span>For kids that can’t pick out their own clothes and get dressed (or for kids that will come downstairs in a tutu and cowboy boots if left to their own devices), set aside a drawer or use a cloth hanging organizer in the closet.<span> </span>Then, when folding the mountains of cartoon underwear and t shirts, set aside a week’s worth of outfits.<span> </span>Slide them into the drawer or organizer; and you’re set for the week! <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span><span>2.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b>Look at your coat closet.<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">Seriously.<span> </span>Open it up, tilt your head, and squint one eye.<span> </span>Pretend you aren’t you, but a neighbor/friend/family member.<span> </span>Okay, maybe not friend, because it is a cardinal rule in female friendship that you may not judge another Mom’s coat closet.<span> </span>Anyway, take a gander at it.<span> </span>How many coats are hanging?<span> </span>How many shoes are scattered around?<span> </span>Backpacks?<span> </span>Purses?<span> </span>Crayons, kites, neighbor children?<span> </span>Figure out what you need in that closet, and set it aside.<span> </span>What else is in there?<span> </span>Set aside the items that should be put away in other places.<span> </span>Be honest, we don’t <i>need</i> seven pairs of shoes per person in the coat closet.<span> </span>Or, if you do (and you have the type of door that permits it) buy a plastic shoe organizer and hang it on the door.<span> </span>Presto –change-o, floor space!<span> </span>Next, are there extra coats that are in there, but don’t get used?<span> </span>Perhaps they have been outgrown, or one of the munchkins decided they <i>hate</i> purple now.<span> </span>If you can use them again, pack them away.<span> </span>Now, I understand that letting go of things is hard.<span> </span>We love our children, and many times have emotional attachment to the memories that happened in the clothing.<span> </span>Repeat after me:<span> </span>“Getting rid of a <b><u>BLANK</u></b> does not make me a bad parent, and does not take away my memories!”<span> </span>Now pack that purple jacket in the donation box mentioned in the next tip, and move on!<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span><span>3.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b>Boxes, boxes everywhere….<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">Got some boxes?<span> </span>Cardboard, plastic totes, or footlockers?<span> </span>(We Military folk move a <i>lot</i>, so we all know about the empty boxes hidden away.)<span> </span>Grab a few empties, and designate some general purposes for them.<span> </span>Now that many of the Armed Services require members to arrive hauling every green and tan piece of equipment known to man, it is likely that there are many oddball pieces floating around.<span> </span>And, if you are like me, the stray pieces left after deployment packing were shoved into a closet.<span> </span>Unfortunately, out of sight, out of mind doesn’t work when the stuff ends up teetering precariously on a shelf of an often-used closet.<span> </span>Empty footlockers?<span> </span>Start by putting the equipment in there.<span> </span>If you’re feeling particularly froggy, you can separate the equipment from the clothing, separate it by seasonal use, and even label them with the contents.<span> </span>Voila, packing for the field no longer requires a prayer and a 10 digit grid coordinate!<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span><span>4.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b>Storage is a Mom’s Best Friend.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">Plastic bins are great for seasonal decorations, crafts, and clothing that aren’t immediately necessary.<span> </span>If you don’t have plastic totes <i>with lids</i>, I suggest acquiring some.<span> </span>They aren’t super cheap, but they are worth their weight in organizational <b>gold</b> when you’re getting your life streamlined.<span> </span>They can be found at any Wal Mart or Target, and occasionally on places like Craigslist and Freecycle.<span> </span>Keep your eyes open, and opportunities for these sweet, stackable babies will cross your path.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span><span>5.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b>Donate, Donate, Donate!<span> </span><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">Big cardboard boxes (like those left over from household goods shipments) are great for donations.<span> </span>Toys, clothes, jackets and shoes are <i>always</i> appreciated this time of year, as are decorations that no longer fit your home and costumes that no longer fit your ankle biters.<span> </span>Drop them off at any ARC, Salvation Army, or Goodwill, and they will be thrilled to have them.<span> </span>Or, if you are busy and selfish about your free time (like I am), the Yahoo group Freecycle allows you to create a free local account.<span> </span>Then you post your offerings, and people will come pick them up.<span> </span>Not at home when they’re coming, or don’t want strangers in your house?<span> </span>Close the box, slap a note on top and let them know it will be a porch or curb pick up.<span> </span>Easy peasy!<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span><span>6.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span></span>Dress your closets for success.</b></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1">I l<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I liked the snappy title of this, but it by no means applies only to closets.<span> </span>This is also for dressers, bureaus, and overflowing laundry baskets.<span> </span>We all have our “skinny” jeans, the shirts we don’t wear anymore, and the holey granny-panties.<span> </span>Start by going through and pulling out things you <i>just don’t wear</i>.<span> </span>I don’t care how much your BFF swore you’d be able to wear that mint-green bridesmaid dress again, she was wrong.<span> </span>Reach down and grab the inner seething you endured when you had to buy it, and set it free.<span> </span>Shoes that fit before you had your kids?<span> </span>I don’t care how much weight you lose, your feet aren’t going to shrink.<span> </span>Let your foot misfortune bring joy to someone else, and donate them.<span> </span>Purses from yesteryear?<span> </span>If they are too small to hold everything you need and aren’t dedicated to a specific outing (clutches for dress up occasions, for example) lose ‘em.<span> </span>After all that is gone, take out the things that you don’t wear often, and put them into a storage container, and put the storage container away from your closet. <span> </span>Wait thirty days.<span> </span>After thirty days, keep only the clothes you had to retrieve during the month <i>and actually wore</i>.<span> </span>If you didn't need anything, donate the box.<span> </span>Don’t open it, don’t double check.<span> </span>If you didn't get it out for a month, you don’t use it.</p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left:40.5pt;mso-add-space:auto"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Okay, we’ve gone through a lot of information.<span> </span>And just <i>thinking</i> about organizing everything in your life can be exhausting, let alone actually doing it.<span> </span>Take it a bit at a time, or get on a roll!<span> </span>However you choose to streamline your life, remember that your hard work will pay off!<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-16980954278680400792011-09-13T15:50:00.001-04:002011-09-13T15:57:32.074-04:00A House Is Not a Home<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfolgdhoBIqL5O9bM53e51_nrj2c-VVicHYzTdKsNMbTHuljldYO6O6hB7JvDZQSLoMVP6p1DxtywuWekJW2MT87Cm_wBEskyKgZebJgh0akHgUEmafkhVwfT8Cckf7q-j7tPGhXiq5pg/s1600/littlegirl.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfolgdhoBIqL5O9bM53e51_nrj2c-VVicHYzTdKsNMbTHuljldYO6O6hB7JvDZQSLoMVP6p1DxtywuWekJW2MT87Cm_wBEskyKgZebJgh0akHgUEmafkhVwfT8Cckf7q-j7tPGhXiq5pg/s200/littlegirl.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651935668795035986" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">There are days the panic starts to take over.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>You know it won’t last.<span> </span>You know it’s just a bad day, and bad days are bound to happen.<span> </span>They will creep in, unexpected, like a frost that heating off of your car makes you late for work.<span> </span>They will rear their tiny, ugly heads, like an English folk creature that won’t leave your kitchen until you provide the object it’s been looking for, or a cockroach that has taken up residence under your refrigerator.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Days that you wonder what you’re going to do, how you’re going to do it, and if it’s what you’re supposed to be doing.<span> </span>It’s so easy to ignore the big questions and just keep pushing forward, because momentum is good.<span> </span>It makes you feel like something is getting accomplished.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But at what point do the cold cups of coffee, and trips to the potty, and term papers start to become blurry and inane?<span> </span>At what point do you simply avoid reaching out for comfort or solace?<span> </span>Because when you really, really needed it from the one you’re working so hard to emotionally support, and it’s not returned.<span> </span>It’s not rational, not logical, not fair. <span> </span>And when you ask, you’re scoffed at.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Scoffed at.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">That bad day…that gnawing, aching pain that rests in your shoulders, your stomach.<span> </span>That bad day that makes you feel like you could crawl out of your skin.<span> </span>That bad day that caused a fight, and then the phone line stopped working.<span> </span>Stupid third world cell phones.<span> </span>Stupid Fights.<span> </span>Stupid bad days.<span> </span>Stupid that I didn’t say I love you before the phone died.<span> </span>Sorry I brought up anything to cause a fight.<span> </span>Sorry that unless you’re here, a house is not a home.<span> </span><span> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m sorry for my bad day.<o:p></o:p></p>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-41614337370480656502011-09-06T01:08:00.004-04:002011-09-13T20:01:42.037-04:00I Like Free Stuff Too, But Damn! (Colorado Springs Edition #1)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-duiTIglpLwnNZ2qMfPG7Z-7Kdq_AgWOJUJFBvlCm8hAx_CUAmGiyjgUM-jWtLnbE1ioIgacLoDXdoUcscIA-H_YKFCLOHPhbH0NVy9jS6vF8Yw_jh2RujoTGIoVceV6s_gHHjabUNg/s1600/voyager.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-duiTIglpLwnNZ2qMfPG7Z-7Kdq_AgWOJUJFBvlCm8hAx_CUAmGiyjgUM-jWtLnbE1ioIgacLoDXdoUcscIA-H_YKFCLOHPhbH0NVy9jS6vF8Yw_jh2RujoTGIoVceV6s_gHHjabUNg/s200/voyager.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649110854612856610" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Well, guys, it’s that time. I know I said I’d do this earlier, but I didn’t get around to it until now. Turns out, those degree thingies take work. Oy.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">And now? Onto the Freecyclers of my new city of residence, Colorado Springs!</div><br /><b>I'm looking for a bike so I can learn to ride. Something in good condition, since I know nothing about bicycles. I don't need anything huge.</b><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Like a circus unicycle. I’d much prefer something with a daisy encrusted wicker basket and a ring a ding bell. That’s what I wanted when I was FIVE, when my parents should have taught me. Douchebags.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><b>Want two carseats for tolddlers as well as a toddler bed with mattress if possible, also an old style school desk, white paint, end tables outdoor toys like swing set, also want a powerwheels truck or car that runs for my sons birthday next week.</b></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Oh, and then some party invitations, some kids to come to a party, a house to have the party in, and spellcheck. And for God’s sake, it has to be by my son’s birthday. Otherwise he’ll think I’m unprepared, and have nowhere to sleep. Or do his homework. Or swing. Or a power wheels vehicle to drive away from me in.</i></div></div><div><br /><b>OFFER: some pink and some purple toole (Fountain,CO) some small bits of pink toole some large parts ofpurple toole toole= see through lacey stuff like ballet dancers wear or decor around windows.</b></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Eh, thanks anyway. I just hung a ballerina from my curtain rod. It got the job done.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>P.S. Toole=YOU.</i></div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><b>OFFER: Pillows One standard size and one travel size pillow, both used.</b></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You’re fucking gross. Nothing about this is okay.</i></div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><b>WANTED: CRICKET PHONE (CENTRAL) Hello,Does anybody have a cricket phone??? Im going insane!!!</b></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Yeah. The Cricket store. They called to tell you that their phones are, like, three dollars and don’t require a plan. They said that they are basically the meth dealers of cell phones. But your minutes will probably expire when you’re in crazy phone-withdrawl lockdown.</i></div><br /><b>WANTED: 99 Ply Voyager parts (manitou ) Both visors w/brackets,drivers headlight assy., full size rim/spare, travel/stow gear,window sunscreens,tires, hubcap if match or 2 or 4. Thanks Freecycler</b></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>So, the bottom line is that I need a fuckin’ car. With matching hubcaps. Why a 99 Plymouth Voyager? Don’t fuckin’ question me.</i></div><br /><b>OFFER: 2 twin comforters (Springs Ranch ) I have two holey twin comforters. One is GI Joe and I think the other is blue and green. A dog we were watching got a hold of them. They are washed.</b></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Hey, I know a broad with some pillows you should link up with.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><b>WANTED: Recliner that swivels (westside )I am looking for a recliner that swivels in good condition for an elder. Thanks in advance!</b></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>An elder what? Tree? Person of importance in the Mormon church? One of those guys from the Matrix?</i></div><br /><b>WANTED: gps navigator (80923) get lost all the time.<br /></b><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You have no idea how much I believe that.</i></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><b>OFFER: organ (80132 monument) Lowrey organ, nice piece in very good condition and works, don't have specific information on it but can send pictures. Need to be<br />able to move it out yourself with at least 1 or 2 other strong persons, very heavy.</b><br /><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Okay, there’s not a single thing wrong with this post, aside from the fact that two people probably couldn't carry an organ. I just thought it was super cool.</i></div><br /><b>OFFER: pencils (80910) pencils - enough that I can't get my hand around them all. The erasers are hardened. When responding, please include a window of time on which day(s) you'll be able to pick up.</b></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Day(s)?!?! What the FUCK? Someone is going to need to make extra trips to pick up your crusty ass pencils? I know you said you couldn’t get your hand around them all, but is a Ziplock bag and some well-wishing for a single safe, pencil filled trip out of the question?</i></div><br /><b>OFFER: full sized futon matress ( rockrimmon) Also have a frame at seperate location<br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Bring unmarked bills. And NO COPS. If you don’t listen? The frame gets it.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><b>OFFER: box of books (union & boulder) I have a mid sized box of what appears to be Christian books.</b></div><div><b><br /></b><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>They appear to be Christian books? What, are they wearing masks?</i></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><b>WANTED: Wanted beekeeping supplies ( 80831) any beekeeping supplies.</b></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Like some fuckin’ bees.</i></div><br /><b>OFFER: manual breast pump & pads (80910 ) had a no show. good condition.</b></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You know why they were a no show? Because they came to their goddamn senses, and realized that they were supposed to be picking up a USED BREAST PUMP.</i></div><br /><b>WANTED: FeaTHERS, FEATHERS, FeaTHers, (central) Does anybody have any feathers?????</b></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Okay. I’ve racked my brain, and I’ve got nothin’. (Insert scene from Hook here, with Tootles searching for his marbles....)</i></div></div>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-63081465459375786532011-08-28T18:51:00.003-04:002011-08-28T18:58:52.238-04:00It's As Though The Candy Should Belong To Him....<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikT9-hYE3O1iXQVI8v87Am3zME5MYK-thOHVWwyfgJNVhzfkNanB2-LMOR1Dy0C2QlJvsBxxjGtRge1sH04kc4SwgVEqAn-qlNOvLj1AKe63enN6dOPFy-mm8okh2uXKQzrSRo7SGURi8/s1600/IMG_2387%255B1%255D.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikT9-hYE3O1iXQVI8v87Am3zME5MYK-thOHVWwyfgJNVhzfkNanB2-LMOR1Dy0C2QlJvsBxxjGtRge1sH04kc4SwgVEqAn-qlNOvLj1AKe63enN6dOPFy-mm8okh2uXKQzrSRo7SGURi8/s200/IMG_2387%255B1%255D.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646043975642082338" /></a>
<br /><p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I’m fully aware that this is the first blog I’ve written in, like, six months.<span> </span>It should probably be a piece riddled with beautiful, Soldier adulating prose.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Maybe next week.<span> </span>Today I’m pissy, I haven’t talked to my husband, and the underwire broke in my bra.<span> </span>The clouds keep coming in, and there's just a tiny bit of rain. Then the clouds part and we're back to the miserable hot that makes me grumpy enough to punch a kitten. <o:p></o:p></p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Despite the oven-like heat, the fall semester has started, which means a few things:<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I am already officially frustrated with the classes that I thought would come most easily to me.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Campus is swarming with every 17 year old flippy haired, patchouli smelling high school graduate in Colorado Springs (except for those going to <i>actual</i> colleges).<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I can now purchase candles and plug ins that make my house smell like baked goods. Fall and winter are the only two seasons where cinnamon, apple, or coffee scented things are allowed in my home. Otherwise, I'd gain another hundred pounds and you'd find me sitting in my closet, eating carrot cake mix out of the box. I'm just saying.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">We're almost ninety days into this CRAPCRAPMEGACRAP deployment. It feels like it's moving at a snail's pace (if the snail were on crutches and in high heels). But ninety days is three months, and three months is a quarter of the deployment down. I guess 25% isn't so small, percentage wise. Hells bells, those math classes are paying off.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">It also means that we're creeping up on the Midget's third birthday, and the first Halloween that he'll actually have some understanding of what's going on. It's a double edged sword, though, his understanding Halloween. Sure, he can walk on his own, he's old enough to pronounce “trick or treat”, and he's decided to dress as Daddy, which is the cutest EFFING thing I've ever seen. I know, I know, it really seems like any down side would be simply overshadowed by all of this, right? WRONG. <o:p></o:p></p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">“Why?” You ask? <o:p></o:p></p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Because, people, genetics are a BITCH.<span> </span>He loves all the candy I love, which means that I either have to sneak the good pieces out (hello, Reese’s, you delicious mofos) or actually <i>share</i>.<span> </span>I think it’s crap, to be honest.<span> </span>I thought that one of the simple pleasures of parenting a toddler was getting the good candy.<span> </span>I mean, I bought the costume, I’m the one taking him out in the cold and making sure he doesn’t get hit by a car or doesn’t end up on a milk carton. <o:p></o:p></p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span> </span>I think I may have found the only acceptable solution.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I’m telling him the good candy tastes like vegetables.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-43044946513272003912011-05-11T13:39:00.001-04:002013-04-26T16:41:55.753-04:00The Breezy Fireplace Conundrum<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6n_6OZhuRE-KATxzzXOm6xy-DrkshekMePMXROVg2VIpy7P7E2hZE85QDM82u55Za29OeTxnnRNqOkHSmam5O4L9qr-q2iSbSz_F_B-C_zOOImDoPknMhK3Xq-zDEiA_Qcrhyphenhyphenx-Mfsz4/s1600/outdoor-fireplace3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605514838672875202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6n_6OZhuRE-KATxzzXOm6xy-DrkshekMePMXROVg2VIpy7P7E2hZE85QDM82u55Za29OeTxnnRNqOkHSmam5O4L9qr-q2iSbSz_F_B-C_zOOImDoPknMhK3Xq-zDEiA_Qcrhyphenhyphenx-Mfsz4/s200/outdoor-fireplace3.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 144px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The new glasses felt funny on her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not bad, exactly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just something different that catches attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a different brand of margarine, or when a razor has dulled itself into nicks so small you don’t notice to wipe the blood away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She needed the glasses, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the years had progressed, her close quarters vision had become less effective, presumably due to the years of oddly colored computer screens that had burned through her retinas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there was going to be enough trouble getting that degree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No sense in being stubborn about visual necessities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sat, watching the red stripe shrouded reason for stretch marks simultaneously perform Batman and cow air assaults on unsuspecting couch pillows and dump trucks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she watched, she listened to the sound of the Air Force as their aircraft played amongst the clouds like seals in the waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wondered when the green tin can of <st1:city><st1:place>Americana</st1:place></st1:city> would come for her husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She thought of other families, and wondered what it must be like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To feel safe, to not be paralyzed by the fear that the news could easily hold information that could change life, instantly and permanently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The planes continued their afterburner frolic, and she watched smiled quietly at the juxtaposition of their roars with the light breeze toying with the sheer curtains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fireplace flickered, and she knew that she should close the window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow, though, the counter production didn’t matter as much as the peace that came from having a cool, rainy breeze while enjoying the flames.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was times like these that she felt alright.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Creative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thoughtful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><st1:city><st1:place>Normal</st1:place></st1:city>, even.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was times like these that let the potty training, the schoolwork, the cleaning and cooking and laundry fall to the back of her mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They lay there, dormant, if only intermittently so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon enough, the world would rear its ugly head once again, and she would be forced to remember that peace comes in small stretches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a beach cove or a vintage thrift shop, you don’t stumble across it every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As well as she understood that you must have bad to understand good, she just as fervently wished that the bad could come in smaller doses, if it need come at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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As the time of her muse slowly drifted back into her now chilled coffee cup, she again watched the red clothed diaper demon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time with affection, fear, and anticipation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was soon to be his only world…his yearlong, singular connection to those which created him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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The thought weighed heavy on her mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sighed, sipped the cold coffee, and willed herself to return to the world of overpriced community college textbooks and toddler urine carpet spots. As she slipped back into reality, somehow, the fireplace stayed lit, and the breeze continued to stroke the curtain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps she was distracted by those damned glasses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, perhaps, she wanted to stretch the peace just a bit longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-84438749761007906132011-04-23T15:45:00.001-04:002011-04-23T15:51:21.153-04:00But What If I Suck At It?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWG2EoPN3Or153JFmG2X9MibEJDeNVoThlLeBvE6Eyus3i6ADPlM6DqBWCckVOf_l5kWohWjaASAJ-YchUmrznrszbrWth-0OKJSn2JinMmioigfl-FhHJM-CWnowjBdHTh5FfUHc5SiY/s1600/picasso.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 167px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWG2EoPN3Or153JFmG2X9MibEJDeNVoThlLeBvE6Eyus3i6ADPlM6DqBWCckVOf_l5kWohWjaASAJ-YchUmrznrszbrWth-0OKJSn2JinMmioigfl-FhHJM-CWnowjBdHTh5FfUHc5SiY/s200/picasso.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598868719283178738" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">My time, of late, seems to be divided pretty equally between the vacuum, the Dollar Tree, and various school errands.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Throw in the occasional grocery schlep and the Diaper Demon’s constant whining for mommydaddycheesemilkieatiwantcatigobyebye, my schedule is pretty full.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I could probably even fill up a wall calendar with some to do’s, but...well, who wants to write crap like that on a calendar?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m not a huge fan of the “Me Time” phenomenon; at least, not in the weekly Mani Pedi, Coach VS Dolce eyewear debate way.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I try to take little bits of my day to chill out, you know, here and there.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s less “Me Time”, and more “Don’t Beat My Child Time”.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I find a few minutes here or there to grab a cup of coffee, watch fifteen minutes of Top Chef, or pretend to be using the bathroom (when I am, in fact, trying out my new can of Veet).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The mother of all my time outs, though, is working on my blog.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I love to write, you see.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No, seriously, I fucking LOVE to write.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Not about anything important, really.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I don’t think I could even be placed into a specific blogging group.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I don’t write enough about being a parent to be a Mom-blogger.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I don’t write enough about current events to be a News Blogger.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I don’t purchase anything regularly enough to be a Review Blogger.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mostly I just am inspired by a line, phrase, or picture, and the words start to flow.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And boyohboy, do I love when those words start to flow.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Problem is, without a specific focus, you can’t much expect for your writing to project itself.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There’s nothing instantly recognizable enough to attach itself to any one subject.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That places me squarely in the <st1:place><st1:placetype>land</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename>Weblog Ambiguity</st1:placename></st1:place>, of which I am not queen, princess, or jester.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Hell, I’m not even that handmaiden that gets to wear those kick ass low cut velvet Renaissance dresses.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Which is why the recent suggestion to begin a resume consulting business really set my gears to turning.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I hate that you did her resume,” she said to me one day (referring to a leader-by-title of ours).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I mean, she’s worthless, and now her resume is going to make her look kick ass.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was at that point that I began to feel the tug-of-war between <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">“Shit, she’s right!” <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></i>and “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Hey, wait a minute, my resumes kick ass?”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I guess it’s not too much of a stretch, really.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Blogging is just a way to creatively impose your opinion on unsuspecting victims, and there is little that I enjoy more than shoving my obnoxiousness into the great wide beyond (unless you count excessive commas, coffee, or reality television).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’ve noodled the idea around for awhile now, and this morning seemed the right morning to check some stuff out.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As the web tabs multiplied, I came to some startling realizations:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">You need a name for your company.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then you need a website.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What if your name is taken by another website?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Do you risk taking a .net or .org, or do you think of another name?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Should you take the bull by the horns, and look at making business cards, or is that getting too cocky (no barnyard pun intended).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Do you talk to people you’ve helped in this aspect before, and look to them for endorsement?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Is electronic communication the best way, or should you include paper copies?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Watermarks?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Trademarks?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And what if I end up sucking at it?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <span style="font-size: 10pt; " >Any accomplished (fully, quasi, delusional, or otherwise) entrepreneurs, please feel free to chime in.<span> </span>Seriously.<span> </span>Please.<span> </span>Chime in, like, NOW. </span>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-82588881601734907782011-04-21T15:45:00.006-04:002011-04-21T15:53:21.683-04:00Your Devil Better Not Wear Prada....<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-iwqUQm4PT37wR30drKWX7T0HpX6KCVCRxhm8THkdg1ys_BFe1KkDoQtKKNseDJvW0oX2M1_X6X1pezu16_pqActvihO7rCfIYsDpHSTU17scWm9-8ZVn7cbJit8wOjvJ2xvT7_KWeg/s1600/woman+writing.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-iwqUQm4PT37wR30drKWX7T0HpX6KCVCRxhm8THkdg1ys_BFe1KkDoQtKKNseDJvW0oX2M1_X6X1pezu16_pqActvihO7rCfIYsDpHSTU17scWm9-8ZVn7cbJit8wOjvJ2xvT7_KWeg/s200/woman+writing.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598127311552190898" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Recently, Jennifer Egan won a Pulitzer prize for her newest fictional work “A Visit From The Goon Squad”. While I am not a fan of works that are (in my humble opinion) some kind of love child that could have been spawned by a brief, drunken tryst between Palahniuk and Grisham, I am pleased for the praise that the writing of a novel should receive, particularly because women have not been as recognized in this avenue that I believe they should have. I am not, however, pleased with her interview with the Wall Street Journal. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The interview began benignly enough, with all the appropriate statements about how things are unreal, uncanny, and how she had to leave her lunch reservation because it was just all too much. The dialogue continued, filling the page mostly with the interviewer asking repeatedly how winning an award of this importance made the author feel, and Egan giving modest replies, like “nutty” and “fantastical”, and stating that now that her book has received such attention, she feels like an outsider, as if she should go back and reread it. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Seems pretty harmless, right?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The last question she was asked referred to the difference in how men and women “come off” in the media. Her outlook on the subject was not focused on the differences in voicing opinions from a gender based standpoint. Rather, it focused on women remaining quiet and aiming for the literary stars. She went on to compare “The Tiger’s Wife” by Tea Obreht, to Kaavya Viswanathan’s quasi-plagiarism of “How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life”. She called Obreht’s type a “young, ambitious writer”, and then blasted Viswanathan not for her plagiarism, but for plagiarizing works Egan considers to be “derivative, banal stuff”, and for utilizing the authoresses of “Chick-Lit” as role models for the written word.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; ">“My advice for young female writers would be to shoot high and not cower”, ended her article.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; ">I wonder how Egan would have felt if the Pulitzer Foundation had decided that her words were unworthy because…oh, I don’t know, they didn’t like her font? Or her chapter titling preferences were not theirs? The picture over the blurb-ography on the back cover was a bit too hippy-dippie? </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; ">Of course, the idea that a foundation dedicated to the existence, fostering, and praise of extraordinary works of art could be capable of (and willing to) degrade an author’s brainchild is insane.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; ">Additional insanity, in my opinion, is the idea that a woman so keen on the idea of female authors would tread so heavily across not only other published, award winning female authors, but also across those who read the above mentioned, and are just finding the best way to let the ink flow from their pens. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; ">Be it Jennifer Weiner, Peter Beagle, Norman Mailer, or the shadow writer for Nicole Richie, if it is inspiring to you, it is inspiring. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <span style="font-size: 10pt; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Whether your tastes lie with Kinsella or with Tolstoy, when you write, your words are your own, and let no one take your muse from you.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; "> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; "> </span></span>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-87751479836128381002011-04-12T17:14:00.002-04:002011-04-12T17:17:56.797-04:00Move It. There Is No "Lose It" Option.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwEG8qZli6ia7wiq6R2TgtuWLprv7aObCAtCljO0BTeaydKdf4UbLCCJrTM2H4JSEdphRvOgx8Q_2wYhb0cMQkXdyqoi03pfiGKKC_CdtJ-oreDrRC2x-eh0385-46N_LNzxrDn24m51g/s1600/pikes.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwEG8qZli6ia7wiq6R2TgtuWLprv7aObCAtCljO0BTeaydKdf4UbLCCJrTM2H4JSEdphRvOgx8Q_2wYhb0cMQkXdyqoi03pfiGKKC_CdtJ-oreDrRC2x-eh0385-46N_LNzxrDn24m51g/s200/pikes.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594809213311559714" /></a><br />I’ve stumbled over my typed words more than once today, trying to think of a witty way to start up this “We’ve Settled” blog. As my backspace key is getting a bit abused, I’m just going to get on with it. <br /><br />For those that have sipped the Zuckerburg cocktail, you were no doubt slapped about the face repeatedly with my pictures of the diaper demon (in various states of distress and/or shenanigan), Check-Ins in towns where Wes Craven is no doubt Coming Soon.<br /><br />If you don’t follow my status abuse or visual pollution, here’s your chance to catch up. <br /><br />First? Maryland is FREAKIN’ BIG. Seriously. I didn’t know it was that big, and that it’d take that long to get across. You look at a map, and you’re thinking “Oh, little Maryland. You’re so sweet and little. Would you like a lollipop or a balloon? How about a hug? Ohhh, you….”<br /><br />Stop it. Maryland isn’t little, and it doesn’t deserve a lollipop or a hug. It deserves a poke in the schnoz for being huge, having crappy roads, shitty drivers, and having the town of Hancock. Why do I have a problem with Hancock, MD, you ask? Google it. And when you’re done, send me the lollipop and balloon.<br /><br />The next few days consisted of: WestVirginiaPennsylvaniaWestVirginiaOhioIndianaIllinoisMissouriKansas. I’d like to offer nice tidbits about each place. I can tell you (without having spent any significant amount of time in any of these contributors to the good ole Stars and Bars) is that their part of highway 70 seems to run pretty straight, and their traffic is us usually not bad. We drove on through Wyandotte County, Kansas, which I hadn’t seen for a few years. Looking at it in the early spring with late winter tendencies brought the move to (and quick move from) Kansas City to mind. It was then (and pretty much only then) that I did a quick and silent shout out in gratitude that we were not being stationed at Fort Riley. My gratitude and smiles were short lived, as we quickly passed through Wyandotte County and were greeted with a sign stating that we were passing the last “Free Exit”. <br /> <br />Last Free Exit? What the French, Toast? My husband and I exchanged panicked Walkie Talkie transmissions as we struggled to search for loose change while navigating vehicles laden with a thousand pounds each. Vehicles jerked in and out of lanes as he yelled at me that I’d <span style="font-weight:bold;">LIVED <span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span>here, how could I not <span style="font-weight:bold;">KNOW <span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span>that there was a toll?!, as I screeched back that I’d never <span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">BEEN <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span></span></span>past Kansas City, and did he <span style="font-weight:bold;">SEE <span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span>the landscape? Why would I <span style="font-weight:bold;">GO <span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span>out there?” Our shriek fest was short lived, however, as we only needed press the button to retrieve our ticket, and pay at the off ramp. Three whole dollars later, we had washed our hands of our current Midwest highway debacle, and we continued through…well…nothingness. <br /><br />Our last travel night was spent in Oakley, Kansas. We were met there by a three story truck stop, and the first warm meal that didn’t come with a supersize option. We took the Prince of Processed Cheese swimming, and slept a little more easily than the previous nights. <br /><br />We woke early and drove through one of East Kansas’ famed April snowstorms. As I bobbed my head to Esthero, suddenly the clouds parted, and Pikes Peak came looming beautifully into view. <br /><br />About Effing Time.Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-31390247604364911802011-03-13T15:59:00.002-04:002011-03-13T16:33:10.061-04:00All The Whos Down In HooHoo Ville....<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkahG4Qyi48re5o26WbmKdvEAD_CqyTcYq9DZbvlDZ2_ypQMY73tciRMdHRpw-BZUl8-mVvggYtr2kSsup9JpML5nKxonuXPHveSdViWnE-g3MgAU1p_MQnnbsqQYaYepVNQuVi5ZsprI/s1600/rubberfist.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkahG4Qyi48re5o26WbmKdvEAD_CqyTcYq9DZbvlDZ2_ypQMY73tciRMdHRpw-BZUl8-mVvggYtr2kSsup9JpML5nKxonuXPHveSdViWnE-g3MgAU1p_MQnnbsqQYaYepVNQuVi5ZsprI/s200/rubberfist.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583656920251896178" /></a><br />I attended a party Friday night. It was a bachlorette party, and it was…shhhh…a party for <span style="font-style:italic;">dirty birdies</span>.<br /><br />Now, I know this sort of thing is old hat to most, but I’ve never been to one. I was kidding about the shhh, though. I think once you give birth, the majority of your bathing-suit-area couth kind of goes out the window. <br /><br />And that, my friend, is where the fun begins. <br /><br />The evening started off like most other Friday nights. I took the boy over to T’s, so that her groom-to-be could wrangle the McSpidermonkeys out of the house. There are very few commands our sons will not obey if they think there are Golden Arches in their future. As he walked out the door, a curly haired twentysomething walked through the door. She was in the chubby club, too, (of which I am the treasurer). That was a bit of a relief. Being talked to about masturbation and beginners bondage, well, that would just be humiliating if the speaker was skinny and gorgeous. Call me crazy, but that’d go from Anal Beads to Amway in 3.5 seconds. I’m just saying.<br /><br />As the guests arrived, we ate crackers and cheese while we watched the hostess hang up lingeree. She then brought out the hanging shoe holder full of the widest array of Lube’N’Tune products I’ve ever seen. Are you curious what they are? No worries, fellow gutter-mind-dweller. I will be soon be highlighting what will soon be either my favorite products, or the worst way to spend $77 I’ve ever encountered.<br /><br />As we all settled in, the hostest with the mostest brought out the first product I purchased, which we’ll call…um…Moochie. It’s a shave lotion that keeps razor bumps and ingrown hairs off of your cha-chadoodle! SHUT UP! I was sold.<br /><br />By the way, I’m going to use different names so I don’t provoke any copywrite shenanigans. We’ll just say that the hostess of this soiree works for a pyramid organization that rhymes with Mumbler Smarties. <br /><br />Anywho, product two in my bag of goodies was available in stick or tub form, to not only make your headlights shine on high beam, but also to make them taste like either raspberry or watermelon. And, if that wasn’t enough, IT DOUBLES AS A CHAPSTICK. I bought raspberry in a tube, and it rivals every lip balm I’ve ever owned, to include color, shine, smell and taste. <br /><br />Next up is a loose powder container of yummy body dust, scented like (seeing my theme?) raspberry. So I’ll smell good, taste good, and get to look like a fairy? Where do I sign?<br /><br />Number four was a roller tube of a perfumey kind of substance that works with your body chemistry, and contains pheromones. The hostess said that in blind testing, women that wore the product were hit on three times as much as the women that weren’t wearing it. Don’t misunderstand. I am a very happily married woman. But a wink or an ass check out every once in awhile would be a kick ass proverbial high five. Yeah, I know that she was probably lying out of her (what she referred to throughout the party as) “back door”. Just put me on the next flight to River City, Iowaaaayyyy, and sign me up to buy my kid a fluglehorn.<br /><br />Five? Five I’m not going to get super descriptive with. I’m just going to put out that it changes temperature with breath and friction. Oh, and it’s carmel flavored. <br /><br />All in all, as silly as this all was, this party was the most funI’ve had in a long time. It was enjoyable, quiet, calm, and pretty f-ing funny. Some things were just a bit more intense than I would ever consider (the words “Japanese motor” were bandied about more than once), and some just looked downright painful. All in all?<br /><br />If you’re ever having a f***erware party, consider this my immediate and affirmative RSVP, baby.Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-83124823720609036442011-03-10T15:17:00.001-05:002011-03-10T15:19:20.168-05:00The Missing Puzzle Peace<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7rnugDhhIE1Y3gbE8KAQMwzhZPAasCbhNmuh-jYkiRhH2o_sZ5X_O57E-sl75nZn2TGjnIrxp9dpQAnm83g_Bv7Ng-NZJOEHJ7efiCihGxldgUprO8OVqbrzsA8BALhKrvj3E36PtDz4/s1600/2098.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7rnugDhhIE1Y3gbE8KAQMwzhZPAasCbhNmuh-jYkiRhH2o_sZ5X_O57E-sl75nZn2TGjnIrxp9dpQAnm83g_Bv7Ng-NZJOEHJ7efiCihGxldgUprO8OVqbrzsA8BALhKrvj3E36PtDz4/s200/2098.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582548439103619170" /></a><br />One of them hates Thomas Kinkade. Thomaskinkadepainteroflight, she calls him. I did a puzzle of his once, when we were roommates in Virginia. It glowed in the dark. That’s when I first found out she hated his paintings. I found one of his works online once. I thought it was pretty, and put it up on my social network page. Another of the she’s told me about his DUI in Monterey. <br /><br />I haven’t done a puzzle in years. I mean, a puzzle that has more than six pieces and a moo cow on it. Putting them together was peace for me once. She got me into them when I came home for a visit from Afghanistan. It was hard to be peaceful or still, and focusing on the hundreds upon hundreds of tiny splashes of color somehow took some of the pain away, made the post trauma less stressful. I like the feeling of accomplishment when you're done. I also like that there's a picture on the top of the box. Just prop it up, and you know what the outcome is supposed to be. I haven’t done a puzzle since I left from that visit. I guess it just doesn’t feel right…like I don’t deserve the peace, I guess. Like I haven’t earned it, or that there’s too much to do to feel peaceful. The house never seems clean enough, but the energy to take it apart and clean is just beyond grasp. And if the energy is summoned, the job isn’t ever done well enough. The kitchen floor might be clean, but I didn’t clean behind the fridge. Or I could have mopped the bathroom. Or there’s a pile of clothes in the bedroom that needs to be folded. <br /><br />Reprieve comes in small doses. In the form of uptake inhibitors, coffee, cleaning, music, or TV. I look at my son, and hope that he never feels this kind of anxiety, or pain, or fear of being alone. I think the alone is the worst part. Being alone is hard, but being around people is harder. Thinking that stupid conundrum has made me tear up a bit. Not in a bad way, really, just in a confused sort of way. Sort of like there’s an answer that everyone else has, but I didn’t buy the right handbook. The boy is so young, and I hate to think that he’ll ever feel the helplessness of being unable to stop the pain, or the fear. The fear of being left alone. The fear of being the boring one. The one with the issues. The fat one in the wedding pictures. The one that yells too much at her kid. The one who has a husband gone, and can’t handle it. The one that can never focus on anything. The one that won’t join a book club and is afraid of junior college at thirty, because she can’t concentrate on a movie, let alone two years of school. <br /><br />I stopped writing for a minute to light my candle. It smells like sweet pea. Another of the she’s got it for me, because she knows I like sweet pea. The smell makes me feel peaceful sometimes, like if things smell flowery and pretty, that they will look and feel flowery and pretty, too. It usually doesn’t work that way, though. I wish it could. I needed to get more coffee, too. I feel like if I can get enough coffee, I can get up and move through the gloom. Then maybe this feeling wouldn’t wash over like a wave. Sometimes it’s a little wave, and I can ignore it. Sometimes it’s a tsunami, and I just have to pretend it isn’t there. I tried a few times to go to a place where other people hurt, too. You stand up in a room of absolute strangers, and talk about what you feel makes you vulnerable. I can’t seem to make it work, though, because sometimes I feel so vulnerable that talking about it makes the lump in my throat act like a mute in a trumpet. Then the tears come. Then people want to hug you, or be encouraging. Who wants encouragement when you’re talking about what a loser you feel like? It’s like the band playing while the Titanic went down. No one enjoyed the music, and the cello just ended up waterlogged in the end. <br /><br />I’m afraid even while I’m writing this. It started as a blog about my friends. I’m lucky to have them. They’re an amazing group of she’s, and I’d be in a state of loss without them. Some are new-ish, and some have been here…well, forever. We’ve dressed up, driven through the hills, eaten junk food, cuddled, lived together, spent every day together, and stood solid as mothers, as wives, as daughters, and as friends. And somehow, despite all of this, I wonder why they’ve stood next to me. It feels like “It’s A Wonderful Life”, but the creepy “without him” world should have won out. I can’t even tell if I’m writing this for bravery’s sake, or a cry for help, or just to be self serving. The tears and the words just keep pouring out, and I’ve always been a bit of a slave to both.<br /><br />I needed something to keep my mind occupied while I waited for the man to assess our house for packing. <br /><br />I guess I wasn’t ready for the puzzle peace. I wish I was. <br /><br />I wonder when I will be again. <br /><br />I wish I knew how to fix this.Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-66208421312761942772011-03-08T17:55:00.003-05:002011-03-08T18:02:20.129-05:00Just Like Pullin' A Double Wide With A Scooter.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6o8x1Jxw8VeL7YPjMsLxGfpGN_Gt5R9ZrFV3IG72B9nDX5b1ErpArCmjchyAOb1XqqqfuWWTesLhb2T3HYjYAnjo0FFiDfZqHtDvzduKYjz7vW4zxft6fVrVF6SErN1yB1_P2GUawIbY/s1600/ft-carson.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6o8x1Jxw8VeL7YPjMsLxGfpGN_Gt5R9ZrFV3IG72B9nDX5b1ErpArCmjchyAOb1XqqqfuWWTesLhb2T3HYjYAnjo0FFiDfZqHtDvzduKYjz7vW4zxft6fVrVF6SErN1yB1_P2GUawIbY/s200/ft-carson.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581847837404419490" /></a><br />I think my real mistake was bringing the f-ing coffee cup in here.<br /><br />“But, Sandra…” You say. “You <span style="font-style:italic;">need </span>the coffee!”<br /><br />You’re right, reader. You are ever so right. But the coffee and the laptop? Just a plain bad idea. It's like giving a seal a ball and a fish, and then expecting him to do a little algebra. That algebra just isn't going to get done when there is fun afoot.<br /><br />So here I sit, on the floor of my step-chick’s room, bored with going through Barbie camping gear and miniscule stickers. Can you imagine? Bored with <span style="font-style:italic;">stickers</span>? Who (or what) the hell have I become? Procrastination is SO much easier than actually packing my fourteen hundred square feet of absolute insanity. I should really quit whining, though. I don’t have to pack it this time, and fourteen hundred square feet really isn’t all that big. I just have to get rid of the loads of crapcrapcrapMEGAcrap we don’t need so that the packers can make sense of my shenanigan-filled house. <br /><br />“What, Sandra?” You ask, alarmed. “You CAN’T be moving again!”<br /><br />I assure you, gentle reader, we are. <br /><br /> Although this time, we’re not leaping four hours north. We are going to Griswoldit across the US, with the final destination beckoning us as the land of Rocky Mountains, beer, and that hotel they filmed The Shining in. And for the fifth time in as many years, we are packing up the house, midget, and cat, and driving our happy asses to a house we’ve never seen, in a state we’ve never lived in. It’s cool, though, for a few reasons. Wanna know what they are? I’ll bet you do….<br /><br /> On post housing this time around? SUCK. Balfour and Beatty? I’d like to find your mothers, and then punch them squarely in their noses for participating in the creation of such ineptitude. How on this expansivegreenearth are we number 107 on your wait list? We were number 107 in October. OCTOBER, Balfour and Beatty. It’s March. I may not have been the best relocation specialist this post had ever seen, but I could damn well move a wait list more than NONE in four months! Dumbasses. It’s fine, though. I’ve learned my real estate and rental lessons. We’ve found a house that’s pretty, has a basement, comes with a washer and dryer, and costs a third less than what we’d have paid you. You like apples, right? Well, how do you like THEM apples? So there. <br /><br /> Next up? We’re driving an Explorer and a pickup, rather than a pickup and a flingin’ Cobalt. More room to bring crap we’re going to need, like plates and paper de toilet. Bonus, I I’ve gone through the house, and begun getting rid of the supermegacrap that we really don’t need. It’s a bit of a slow process, but I’ve found that caffeination helps. The Prince of Poo seems to think that he is helping by bringing me one…Army…Man…at…a…time (and then telling me it’s Daddy, and making me kiss each one). He also likes to help by rearranging the carefully separated Craigslist boxes, and putting the items I’ve so carefully sorted back in their original locations. Seriously. Locations all over the house. We’re talking under sinks, into closets. All this from a kid that can’t seem to grasp the concept of picking up his toys and moving them into the adjacent basket. It’s cool, though, because there seems to be some comic relief in watching him dance around talking to his toy soldiers, and then trying to sneak them into his room. <br /><br /> Moving on…I’m not working anymore. I left the Pit of Despair…er…office last week, and have been doing some resting, some cooking, some cleaning. I feel pretty flingin’ smart for posting the items I want to set free on Craigslist and Freecycle, rather than dragging them and the Sultan of String Cheese to the drop off point at Good Will. For some reason, Good Will is never happy to see my shit, and they seem to feel that they’re doing me a favor by taking it. And I’ve gone into the store…our shit is a lot nicer than the stuff in their store. At least I’ve not tried to hand them a stained ‘70’s fondue pot or half of a yellowed doily. Plus, the responses on Craigslist and Freecycle are either polite and friendly, or they’re just colorful enough to make you snort and giggle. And, when I want to take a break from separating and cleaning? I’ve got four words for you: Coffee and Top Chef. <br /><br /> In the words of the beautiful, beautiful George Carlin, “Off you go…to Colorado!”Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-74927942373981424292011-03-05T12:09:00.002-05:002011-03-05T12:15:19.279-05:00Representative Bobby Franklin, Can I Have Your Baby? An Open Letter Toward Anti-Choice Douchbaggery<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb3Ao8v5EimbvXzFS9dkGCFNLtJb47PZtJQLrPpoDUPDVGcAr-_JtKshYV64C-sDYtDOIPDSsIN25FK5InPTICZIFOfDkO_hha9ASNAmggFJwtI6pklCtaf6a80-1Dr7Iy_nGTQoqPVlM/s1600/georgia-state-rep-bobby-franklin-wants-to-make-miscarriages-abortions-punishable-by-death.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb3Ao8v5EimbvXzFS9dkGCFNLtJb47PZtJQLrPpoDUPDVGcAr-_JtKshYV64C-sDYtDOIPDSsIN25FK5InPTICZIFOfDkO_hha9ASNAmggFJwtI6pklCtaf6a80-1Dr7Iy_nGTQoqPVlM/s200/georgia-state-rep-bobby-franklin-wants-to-make-miscarriages-abortions-punishable-by-death.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580645624291318498" /></a><br />Dear Representative Bobby Franklin,<br /><br />How did you date all the women in Georgia? Aren’t there, like, a lot of women in Georgia? Seriously, it’s a pretty decent sized state. And, from what I hear about them, some are pretty damn cute. You know, Southern Belle and all that. How did you get through them all? And at such a young age? <br /><br />You did date them, right Bobby? I mean, you must have been personal with them at one point. <br /><br />Because you seem to be <span style="font-style:italic;">really, really busy</span> writing legislation about their peaches.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">House Bill 1: </span> “The State of Georgia has the duty to protect all innocent life from the moment of conception until natural death. We know that life begins at conception.”<br /><br />This latin-fulled nugget of epic proportions must be your baby. Ha. Get it? I have to say, this is one of the most beautifully worded revocations of personal choice and human rights I’ve ever read. In fact, allow me to highlight my faves:<br /> <br />“…by deleting the words "an induced termination of pregnancy" and replacing<br /> them with "a prenatal murder”…"<br /><br />“…so as to provide that prenatal murder shall be unlawful in all events…”<br /><br />What happens if I fall, Bobby? Or I was raped? What happens when John Boy up in those georgeous Georgia hills wakes up and yells <span style="font-style:italic;">“Hello, Blue Ridge Mountains, I’ve got a mighty pretty little sister and one set of webbed toes!”</span>? John Boy’s sister must have wanted it, right? She couldn’t have been a casualty of perversion. <br /><br />At least there’s a bit of reprieve here. Miscarriage doesn’t count. I mean, just “…so long as there is no human involvement whatsoever in the causation of such event.” (Just when we thought the Medical Examiner on CSI couldn’t investigate anything creepier.)<br /><br />Anyway, Betty Jo’s presumed lust for brother John dovetails nicely into your next Opus. Play it for me, Mr. Holland:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">HB 14: A Bill to be Entitled-</span><br />Rape victims are not “victims”, but “accusers”. Oh, and who else aren’t victims? Children that pick up the phone to heavy breathers or foul mouthed pervs. People that have been stalked, whether it be regular old stalking, or aggravated. People that have been domestically abused. None of these people can be referred to as “victims” until the asshat that committed the “alleged” crime is convicted. <br /><br />I’m beginning to sense a pattern with you, Bobby. I’m starting to think that maybe, just maybe, you think that rather than writing this, I should be keeping my filthy mouth shut and not thinking about Roe or Wade, while standing in front of the dishwasher in bare feet. You know, because then I’d be two thirds of the way into your warped domestic, crucifix encrusted, the-wife-is-the-helpmate suburban rung of hell. I’m also starting to think that you are harboring the conception that if something comes near my vag, it’s because I’m a big ole’ ho, and I wanted it there. Do you want a belay device, since my nether regions are so vast and cavernous that apparently, you can spelunk in them? <br /><br />Detective Olivia Benson is crapping her pants right now, Bobby, and Ice T is ready to punch you in the face, talk about your mama, and then put you in a cell with Jorge the Jersey Man Lover. And I’ll only have four words for you when he woos you with his Shank ‘O Love, courtesy of the great Dan Akroyd:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">“Bobby, you ignorant slut.”</span>Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-84044860139683124952011-01-24T14:09:00.002-05:002013-02-03T21:06:08.823-05:00Can I Still Carry a Cute Trapper Keeper? (The Adult College Student)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQaX-bBe_EL8HbB8kPH2LswZuXoLD0xNPKK34T2OSPkWd297wBoPuHI1BVXTMw8RJuo2Za9magvWB9s5LbX7QHH4H0tc2-3zjO6h6deIJwmwuo8jnKY6Gr1qe9Dre7IYBzJ1HZWW4pV8/s1600/trapped.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565832600261118082" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQaX-bBe_EL8HbB8kPH2LswZuXoLD0xNPKK34T2OSPkWd297wBoPuHI1BVXTMw8RJuo2Za9magvWB9s5LbX7QHH4H0tc2-3zjO6h6deIJwmwuo8jnKY6Gr1qe9Dre7IYBzJ1HZWW4pV8/s200/trapped.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 198px;" /></a><br />
There are a thousand things that make it inevitable, really. <br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Recently, my stepdaughter heard Yale mentioned on TV. </span> <br />
“What’s Yale?” She asked me. <br />
“Well, Yale is a really good college. It’s one of those colleges you want to go to if you’re going to be a doctor or lawyer.” I answered.<br />
“Oh, so really smart people go there?” She asked.<br />
“Yes, usually. You could go to Yale, if you wanted.” I smiled.<br />
“No, thanks. I just want to be a Mommy.” She twirled her hair. (No, she really did.)<br />
“Well, you know lots of Mommies that are Mommies and do other things, like college and working.” I countered.<br />
“Yeah, that’s okay. I just want to stay at home with my kids. I don’t want to work or anything.” She confirmed.<br />
“Oh.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">There the conversation paused, because it was at that point I learned (unfortunately) that I was out of all stomach acid reducing medication in my home had mysteriously misplaced itself. </span><br />
<br />
This conversation sparked more thought that she’ll ever know. You can’t for ONE MINUTE tell me that woman at home vs. woman at work (with the exception of Ivanka) isn’t a learned behavior. The majority of her time and adult influences are not spent or gained at our house. Without trying to sound snide, draw your own conclusions.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Next up? A few days ago:</span><br />
Husband: “So, do you want me to get out of the Army, or do you want to have another baby?” <br />
Me: “I thought you were going to get out of the Army anyway.”<br />
Husband: “I just think it’s more responsible if we’re going to have another baby, if I stay in and retire.”<br />
Me: “You’re the one that brought having another baby to the table, and I got onboard. Now I have to choose?”<br />
Husband: “Well, maybe you need to start looking at getting your degree again, so I we can have the baby and I don’t have to go on any more deployments.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Yeah, you don’t need three box tops for the decode-r ring to figure out the underlying meaning in that conversation. </span><br />
<br />
So I have these transferrable credits, right? The Army didn’t give me bunches, but they did provide me with about fifteen semester hours toward various culinary degrees. Good Eats, right?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Finally:</span><br />
My dad: “Putting a culinary degree on your resume and not working in that field looks like you wanted to cook, and then changed your mind.”<br />
Me: “That seems fair.”<br />
My dad: “English and Math degrees always get my attention on a resume. You could get an English degree standing on your head.”<br />
Me: “Probably.”<br />
My dad: “I thought when I went to college that I couldn’t study something that came easily to me, because it would make it less valuable. That was a dumb way to think.”<br />
Me: “Yeah.”<br />
<br />
So it was decided. <br />
<br />
The inevitability seems to be this: <br />
<br />
I want to have another baby. I want to make my husband proud. I want to be a financial supporting partner in this family, rather than being the “wife that works”. I want my daughter to look at me and see me as a role model because of accomplishments other than the child bearing variety. I want my sons to look at our life, and realize that joining an armed service isn’t the be all, end all. Or, if they are going to, that they at least begin through an Academy of sorts, rather than at an entrance processing station. <br />
<br />
And I really, really want my kids to fill in the bubble on standardized testing that says their parents graduated college.<br />
<br />
The true inevitability?<br />
<br />
It’s all for them. They deserve everything we can give them, and they deserve our tireless efforts to be the best parents we can be. <br />
<br />
Even if going back to school terrifies me.Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-29004413505607784772011-01-23T21:29:00.002-05:002011-01-23T21:35:46.204-05:00I Like Free Stuff, Too, But Damn... (I Think It's Time For A Flood)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82kznirKf4eL_bt7uLb3yxKlN5eDDH3UGKbOhlFY6pcBx9Ed4USn7toHgNV_7WDsX2t7QuvTAH-4JPo9c15kk0fTe8QllD_uH3q5hpt21SsWV111ziYVwa687JPhSjXb0qRCVD0KavH0/s1600/6toes001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 145px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82kznirKf4eL_bt7uLb3yxKlN5eDDH3UGKbOhlFY6pcBx9Ed4USn7toHgNV_7WDsX2t7QuvTAH-4JPo9c15kk0fTe8QllD_uH3q5hpt21SsWV111ziYVwa687JPhSjXb0qRCVD0KavH0/s200/6toes001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565575565710897874" /></a><br />Hello All! (Well, all four people who will read this, anyway.) I’ve been slacking on my blogging lately, I know. It’s just been busy in my ‘hood of late. So for my funny, ranty blog, you get another FoFree blog! And if this isn’t enough fun for you, later on I’ll light some sparklers and do some kicks. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“i am renovating a house and need a shower, a kitchen sink, cabinets, and carpet. im would love anything that is functional. thanks from 21921, elkton.”</span><br /><br />See, here’s the thing…it doesn’t sound like you’re renovating a house. It sounds like you’re building one. You may want to rethink the reno…just for now. Maybe start with something small, like building a toybox or something.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“Toothbrush holder. 4 slots, one single rosebud decal. Fastest pickup gets them. State day and time in your email...all others will be deleted. “</span><br /><br /><br />Yeah, I know for sure I wouldn’t want to wait around for days and weeks on end for someone picking up my funky ass old toothbrush holder. I might respond, but only if the dentu-grip is still stuck in the bottom. But if I forget to put the date and time, I’ll certainly meet with the disappointment of being deleted. Shit. <br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“Offer: 6 pez dispensers. I know some people collect these. There is a which, a pumpkin, a panda, a lady bug, winnie the poo and cinderella. Must take all if you want any.”</span><br /><br />What if I don’t have room for all six? What if I only wanted the which? (Witch which?) Does the lady bug have spots? Who the hell has a panda Pez dispenser? <br /><br />Oh, and “winnie the poo”? <br /><br />Gross.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">”i have a cockitail who ever wants it please contact me aslap i cant afford him anymore please let me knopw aspa i want him gone this wook hes on his last bit of food my jamie i want him gown before with in the next day ty “</span><br /><br />Holy shit, dude. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">”My mother in law would love to have another ferret and I was hoping to have one for her for Christmas we would also need the cage and accsoroes for it she would also love to have another female kitten with extra toes! Your help would be much appreashiated! Thank you all again! Have a happy and safe holidays!<br /><br />xoxo<br /><br />Amanda”</span><br /><br />Amanda, I absolutely understand your want to please your mother in law. But before you take the path to Chernobyl to find these animals, might I suggest finishing third grade? Also, stop wishing kittens to have extra body parts. I'm pretty sure that people who wish kittens to have extra parts have a special rung in hell. That’s a BIRTH DEFECT, you fucking idiot.<br /><br />xoxo<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">”HEllo... Does anyone have something I can mix cement in? “</span><br /><br />I hear my jamie’s cage will be free soon.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“I have a box of 8 track tapes that have been in storage forever. Haven't had an 8 track player in years.”</span><br /><br />You don’t say.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">”I am looking for a mini horse for pet”</span><br /><br />Oh, good. As long as it’s for a pet. If you were looking for a mini horse to play Gulliver, I might worry.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">”I have a little lady that is in need of a ride to hockey practice. if someone is involved in the ****** **** high school field hockey and is going past south queen st and has room i will pay for gas?? thanx for reading”</span><br /><br />Also, thanks for kidnapping my little lady. They should do a Sixty Minutes on this broad, and then call Child Protective Services. At least you can’t call her a cheapskate. She is willing to pay for gas. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“I Just got a new puppy for my boyfriend and i am looking for supplies such a toys, crate, or leashes or collars for him, thanks”</span><br /><br />Girlfriend, didn’t the checker stop you at PetSmart? Did she tell you that real puppies aren’t like the cute, battery operated back flippy puppies? Did you at least get food? And the food is going to need a bowl. Oh, make sure you water it. Shit, that needs a bowl, too. If you go to buy two bowls, you’re going to need your wallet. Oh, you might need a car. Jesus, it’s like an MC Escher painting. There’s no beginning or end.Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5004293875734416635.post-42098036067412187342011-01-23T13:49:00.003-05:002011-01-23T13:59:39.079-05:00Why Should Raising Your Kid Require A Battle Hymn?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQvdqEJQHyGdwktT2JE81VRsY-gk9rGz6BXUeVFAY6tU6mSXuGQjEWY2KnYm7vbKpARnIfemJe0MSntXmni9YIGOvKZCr149xinNGliVVg_-AiUcxFjDJBHqPJ_QHBK1CpZ6ld9ITS8MQ/s1600/livcook.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQvdqEJQHyGdwktT2JE81VRsY-gk9rGz6BXUeVFAY6tU6mSXuGQjEWY2KnYm7vbKpARnIfemJe0MSntXmni9YIGOvKZCr149xinNGliVVg_-AiUcxFjDJBHqPJ_QHBK1CpZ6ld9ITS8MQ/s200/livcook.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565455864444539010" /></a><br />Is it just me, or does “The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” media infection set your nerves on edge? <br /><br />Now, I don’t mean to be judgemental, I just have a bit of a hard time understanding the lifelong personal benefits of “Old World Discipline”. We’re pretty progressive ‘round these parts. So progressive, in fact, that when my sick kid balked at his pancakes this morning and wanted a lollipop, I gave it to him. Quit judging me. I bet you put syrup on your kid’s pancakes. I was just smart enough to cut out the carbs and maple flavored handprints on my IKEA couch. <br /> <br />Recently, my husband came home from work and warned me:<br /><br />“If you’re in the PX or Commissary and the boy acts up, don’t discipline him. The Army is going around posts making sure that people aren’t abusing their children. If you swat him or yell in public, I can get in trouble at work.”<br /><br />Is there a happy medium here? Up to what point is appropriate and “effective” child rearing a matter of personal, familial, or cultural opinion? Should my slapping my kid’s hand in the grocery store for screaming and grabbing candy be a “punishable” offense? And, if yes, who should be made punishable? Assuming I am a lollipop giving, hand slapping harpy, why should my husband be reprimanded for having the misfortune of having children with me? <br /><br />While it’s clear that this woman is pleased to be at an educational and social stature that she views to be both intellectually and socially superior, I can’t help but feel that she’s lost out hugely. Not only as a mother, but also in the simple joys of life. I’m sure that saying I find a published, accomplished Yale professor “pitiable” will highlight me as slightly ignorant. I mean, I have no college education, I have yet to be published on anything other than public forums (and am the only one doing the publishing), and my children do not yet excel at anything other than dancing and singing raucously while making a gigantic mess. Despite those points, I wouldn’t trade my son running up to me and hugging me as tightly as his tiny arms allow, for no reason that I can see. I can’t imagine my stepson not wanting to color or read with me, snuggled on the same IKEA couch. I think I might fall apart without my stepdaughter wanting to cook with me, or spend time simply hanging out and talking. <br /><br />Obviously, being pushed to be “stereotypically successful” can be sporadically beneficial. But at what cost? Does this person think this is fair for her children? How many times have you heard of the criminal and derelicts “they weren’t hugged as children” or “those are ‘mommy’ issues”? Is hearing your kid flawlessly fingering Mozart or Basie (assuming they are allowed to have fun <span style="font-style:italic;">once</span>) a fair trade for the child/parent relationship?<br /><br />Before you get too worked up, this is not a book review. To be honest, I have about as much intention to read this book as I have to read…well, anything else with the word “hymn” in the title. I have a bit of a hard time finding it acceptable to equate a culture knows for it’s strictness to marketed child abuse. While I’m sure it can be rewarding watching your child excel so immensely at a task, I find it counterproductive to society as a whole to publicly laud the berating and emotional beating of our loinfruit. <br /><br />I suppose that if your goal is to raise the prodigal child (and possible subject matter expert on the Triad of Sociopathy), then the “Battle Hymn” is an acceptable route. <br /><br />Me? I’ll take cupcake baking messes, hugs, and explaining what “Under the name of Sanders” means. But, then again, my kid shakes his ass to Count Basie and Drowning Pool. <br /><br />What are you gonna do?Contemplations of an Army Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01476973281204426846noreply@blogger.com3