The Missing Puzzle Peace

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I needed something to keep my mind occupied while I waited for the man to assess our house for packing.

I guess I wasn’t ready for the puzzle peace. I wish I was.

I wonder when I will be again.

I wish I knew how to fix this.

Just Like Pullin' A Double Wide With A Scooter.

I think my real mistake was bringing the f-ing coffee cup in here.

“But, Sandra…” You say. “You need the coffee!”

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.

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 stickers? 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.

“What, Sandra?” You ask, alarmed. “You CAN’T be moving again!”

I assure you, gentle reader, we are.

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….

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.

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.

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.

In the words of the beautiful, beautiful George Carlin, “Off you go…to Colorado!”

Representative Bobby Franklin, Can I Have Your Baby? An Open Letter Toward Anti-Choice Douchbaggery

Dear Representative Bobby Franklin,

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?

You did date them, right Bobby? I mean, you must have been personal with them at one point.

Because you seem to be really, really busy writing legislation about their peaches.

House Bill 1: “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.”

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:

“…by deleting the words "an induced termination of pregnancy" and replacing
them with "a prenatal murder”…"

“…so as to provide that prenatal murder shall be unlawful in all events…”

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 “Hello, Blue Ridge Mountains, I’ve got a mighty pretty little sister and one set of webbed toes!”? John Boy’s sister must have wanted it, right? She couldn’t have been a casualty of perversion.

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.)

Anyway, Betty Jo’s presumed lust for brother John dovetails nicely into your next Opus. Play it for me, Mr. Holland:

HB 14: A Bill to be Entitled-
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.

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?

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:

“Bobby, you ignorant slut.”

Can I Still Carry a Cute Trapper Keeper? (The Adult College Student)

There are a thousand things that make it inevitable, really.


Recently, my stepdaughter heard Yale mentioned on TV.
“What’s Yale?” She asked me.
“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.
“Oh, so really smart people go there?” She asked.
“Yes, usually. You could go to Yale, if you wanted.” I smiled.
“No, thanks. I just want to be a Mommy.” She twirled her hair. (No, she really did.)
“Well, you know lots of Mommies that are Mommies and do other things, like college and working.” I countered.
“Yeah, that’s okay. I just want to stay at home with my kids. I don’t want to work or anything.” She confirmed.
“Oh.”

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.

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.

Next up? A few days ago:
Husband: “So, do you want me to get out of the Army, or do you want to have another baby?”
Me: “I thought you were going to get out of the Army anyway.”
Husband: “I just think it’s more responsible if we’re going to have another baby, if I stay in and retire.”
Me: “You’re the one that brought having another baby to the table, and I got onboard. Now I have to choose?”
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.”

Yeah, you don’t need three box tops for the decode-r ring to figure out the underlying meaning in that conversation.

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?

Finally:
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.”
Me: “That seems fair.”
My dad: “English and Math degrees always get my attention on a resume. You could get an English degree standing on your head.”
Me: “Probably.”
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.”
Me: “Yeah.”

So it was decided.

The inevitability seems to be this:

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.

And I really, really want my kids to fill in the bubble on standardized testing that says their parents graduated college.

The true inevitability?

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.

Even if going back to school terrifies me.

I Like Free Stuff, Too, But Damn... (I Think It's Time For A Flood)

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.




“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.”

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.


“Toothbrush holder. 4 slots, one single rosebud decal. Fastest pickup gets them. State day and time in your email...all others will be deleted. “


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.



“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.”

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?

Oh, and “winnie the poo”?

Gross.


”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 “

Holy shit, dude.


”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!

xoxo

Amanda”

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.

xoxo


”HEllo... Does anyone have something I can mix cement in? “

I hear my jamie’s cage will be free soon.


“I have a box of 8 track tapes that have been in storage forever. Haven't had an 8 track player in years.”

You don’t say.


”I am looking for a mini horse for pet”

Oh, good. As long as it’s for a pet. If you were looking for a mini horse to play Gulliver, I might worry.



”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”

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.


“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”

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.

Why Should Raising Your Kid Require A Battle Hymn?

Is it just me, or does “The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” media infection set your nerves on edge?

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.

Recently, my husband came home from work and warned me:

“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.”

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?

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.

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 once) a fair trade for the child/parent relationship?

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.

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.

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.

What are you gonna do?

The Crossover Episode

I’ve been putting it off, writing this damned blog. I wish it were just for one reason. Unless you pile the stress, lack of time, daily grind, dog, cat, dirty kitchen, clogged vaccum and paralyzing fear on top of each other. Then you might be able to consider it one reason. And if you can compartmentalize like that, rock on. That’s a gift.

I’ve been putting it off for a few reasons, but now seems the best time. Partly because I’ve got lukewarm coffee, I’ve got candles burning, I’ve got my trip-hop in the background, the kid is in a Benadryl coma…but mostly, because I have to kick start this burgeoning creative outlet, or I’m going to crawl out of my skin.
Anywho, there are a few phrases that wives of servicemen hate to hear. The range of anger can vary, however, we’re pretty used to hearing the following:

“Don’t get mad, but…”
“But honey, YOU get to choose the next post!”
“The orders say….”
“Have you seen my flak vest?”

And, the mother of all phrases doesn’t actually have one phrase. It can be something as simple as:

“Honey, are you on the FRG phone tree?” (especially if it’s not near a holiday).
“Guess what? That poster board you’ve been saving? I know what you can use it for in a year!”
“Have you seen my flak vest?” (Trust me, this is ongoing.)
“We’re going to be able to save so much money!”

But those last few? They all mean the SAME DAMN THING. They’re getting’ on a plane. And they’re not going to Detroit, people.

And all of you reading this? You’ve just fallen into the Reclass/PCS/Deployment rabbit hole. You don’t have to read it. It’s probably going to be about two years of ricocheting thoughts, rants, tears, and fears. And I mean it, you really don’t have to read it.

But I’m going to write it, just the same. It's just who I am.

If you'd like to follow the journey, exit link right.