Close Enough For Government Work

With our upcoming PCS to Alaska, we get lots of what the government refers to as "entitlements". Meaning - benefits the Army gives you to aid you in your trek to wherever they are sending you. Since Alaska is considered an overseas location, we're entitled to a lot to get us there. One of these entitlements is shipping our vehicle at government expense, so we don't have to drive it up there. Sounds good, right? Drop the car off at the port and hop on a plane, easy as pie. As my 2 year-old says, NOT. We've shipped cars through the government twice before - once on our way to Germany and once on our way back. And you thought they made doing your taxes hard? Ha.

First of all, it has to be very clean. I don't mean vacuumed and emptied of all fast food wrappers and dead french fries. I mean, CLEAN. Absolutely no dirt, whatsoever. A toothbrush would be a good investment when cleaning your car prior to shipping. The phrase "close enough for government work" does not apply in this case. Not only does it have to be sparkling clean, but your fuel level has to be at a certain level, and your tires must be clean. Difficult to manage when you have to drive around to get your gas level at the right place. In light of this, Chris decided to clean the car this weekend. When he said, "I'm going to clean the car out so you can go to the commissary later", I thought he meant he was going to take his TA-50 (Army crap) out of the back and maybe gather up all of his empty Monster cans. After about 2 hours he comes inside and says he needs my help with something - my muscles, to be specific.

Now, considering the fact that my husband's muscles alone probably equal half my body weight, I couldn't imagine what he could possibly need me for. I walked out to the garage to see all the seats in my car scattered in the driveway. Yep, he unbolted the seats from the car and took them out. He needed my help in maneuvering them so we could clean and vacuum and scrub the heck out of the carpet and the interior. It took 2 days.

So now my car is super clean. I don't think it was this clean when we bought it. The trick now is keeping it clean for the next month and a half or so until we ship it. So the kids are going to walk EVERYWHERE. :-)

Moving, Mouthiness and Mind Control

I always have high hopes of being able to blog every day or every other day. Lord knows I never have a lack of things to talk about. And then I remember that I'm an Army Wife, mother to two crazy little boys and smack in the middle of getting ready to PCS to Alaska. I barely have time to shower some days.

As I mentioned, our move to the Big White North is fast approaching. I'm not sure how it got to be the middle of September already but it's here, and if all goes well we'll be leaving Cali in two months. Which means I've had to seriously get my butt in gear. Alaska is not your average PCS (if there is such a thing as an average PCS), there is a lot more to think about and do to get ready. And we're not exactly prepared for sub-zero temperatures, considering we live in the Mojave Desert and we are still having triple digit heat in September. Coat? What's a coat? And it's not just us that have to get outfitted for the extreme cold, we have to take care of our trusty Ford Explorer, too. Can't have my baby freezing it's batteries off up there...

I've spent the last couple of weekends going room by room with garbage bags and sorting, purging and organizing all of our stuff. It's been great! I had so many bags filled with junk bound for the thrift store and the trash pile, it was taking over my garage. So yesterday I called for a bulk trash pick-up for today and we spent the evening piling everything outside. To include my beloved Lazy-Boy sectional sofa that Chris decided had taken enough abuse and needed to go.

I've also been dealing with an almost 5 year-old with a seriously bad attitude. Aiden seems to think it's okay to order me around and then have a total meltdown when I refuse to drop everything and do his bidding. It's been really frustrating to have absolutely everything turn into a fight lately. He's learning the hard way that disrespecting his parents has consequences. I'm just hoping that Jack is sitting back and taking serious notes, cause I really don't want to go through this again in a couple of years.

One thing about Aiden though - he has a very active and colorful imagination. I think his brain functions on a completely different level from everyone else. Scientists would love to study him, I'm sure. He also has an over-abundance of confidence. The idea that he can't do something has truly never occurred to him. Just yesterday I asked him where his brother had gotten off to, and he told me that he had taken over Jack's mind and made him hide in the closet. He told me this in the same nonchalant tone you might use to tell someone you're out of milk, or the clothes are done in the dryer. Where he gets this stuff, I have no idea. Chris told him it's not very nice to take over people's minds, they might not like that very much.

Anyway...Life is calling...again.

Remembering

I couldn't let this day go by without a mention. It's been nine years since the unthinkable happened and yet I can hardly remember what it was like before. Our current generation of soldiers consists of a lot of men and women who weren't even in high school yet when 9/11 happened. As seriously old as that makes me feel, it's also heartening. Our youth are stepping up to the plate and defending this country as their parents and grandparents did before them. The threat is still there, but as long as we have brave men and women who are willing to sacrifice for a cause greater than themselves, I have faith that we will not fail.

And to all those who have fallen defending our freedom, I offer an old Irish Blessing:

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields and,
Until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand

Let us never forget.

Things I've Done That Probably Weren't That Smart - Part Two

A friend on Facebook posted something that reminded me of my first trip to Oktoberfest. You know, that little party they throw every year in Munich, complete with food, rides and lots and lots of BEER. The first time we went was in 2001, so that was...9 years ago? Holy crap, I'm getting old.

Being stationed in Germany in September of 2001 was an experience. The world changed drastically that Fall, as I'm sure all of you remember. Being in the military means you are pretty much patriotic by nature, but after 9/11 we became rabid. We also got a big case of cabin fever, seeing as how we were all locked down on Post. After a couple of weeks the lockdown lifted, and we were desperate to go somewhere. Still, seeing as how we didn't have a car yet (it was still on the boat on the way over since we'd only been in country for about a month), it was easier said than done. When a friend of Chris' suggested taking the train down to Munich for Oktoberfest we jumped at the chance. Well, us and about 10 of Chris' single buddies.

Let's do the math. Single joes + 2 hour train ride + beer + overwhelming patriotic fervor = trouble.

The most important thing the Powers-That-Be were pounding into us back then was Situational Awareness. Be aware of your surroundings. Be alert to possible terrorist threats and activity. At that time, there was a terrorist around every corner. Above all, when traveling in a foreign country, try not to announce yourselves as American soldiers. You don't need to invite trouble.

Yeah. Right.

By the time we got off the train in Munich, I was pretty much the only one who wasn't toasted. I don't like beer. We spent the next several hours wandering the Fest and gawking at everything. We ate pretzels the size of my head, watched a waitress in traditional Bavarian dress carrying 6 full beer mugs in each hand. If you've ever seen a German Fest mug, you know they hold a little more than your average Sam Adams. As in, one mug can probably hold an entire six-pack. The chick had some biceps. We also bought a bunch of retarded souvenirs and a huge gingerbread heart that said "I Love You" in German. Yeah...I really don't know why.

We all gathered in one of the outdoor seating areas near one of the huge beer tents. I don't remember which one...probably the St. Pauli Girl since it had a huge picture of a blond with considerable...assets. One of the over-muscled waitresses brought over a round of beers and the guys went to work on getting even drunker than they already were. One table over were a bunch of equally drunk German men who broke out into a rousing rendition of Deutschland Uber Alles. And yes, I know that's not the actual title of the song, but if I had said "Das Lied der Deutschen" you wouldn't have known what I was talking about.

Anyway. If you know anything about American soldiers, it's that they have pride. In themselves, in their buddies, in their ability to consume large amounts of malt beverage, and above all, in their country. Hooah! Combine the last two and add in a challenge and you have a recipe for disaster. Not to be outdone, when the Germans finished their drunken patriotic display, our guys had to do it better. They all took a big swig, stood up and started belting out The Star-Spangled Banner at the top of their heavily intoxicated lungs. If you want to keep a low profile, that is not the way to do it.

Afterward there was silence. I mean SILENCE. Not even the crickets chirped. I held my breath, waiting for the fight to start. This was sooooo not good. After ten seconds that lasted for hours, everyone at the surrounding tables stood up and started to clap. Then they started cheering. And finally, they offered the universal German welcome of extending their beer mugs and shouting "PROST!!!" I exhaled in such relief I thought I would pass out.

The guys laughed and shouted PROST! right back and it was all good. Everyone went back to their beers and eventually we headed back to the train station. Getting back home was a little more difficult than the trip down (probably due to the fact that everyone had lost their ability to focus and comprehend written language) and we got off at the wrong place and ended up having to spend the night in the train station in Augsburg. But that's neither here nor there.

Things I've Done That Probably Weren't That Smart - Part One

Ever have one of those experiences that seemed like a great idea at the time and then you look back on it and think to yourself, WTF? Yeah, that's happened to me. A lot. Some of those times have been on my mind lately and I thought they might be good for a laugh. I promise I'm not making any of this up. My life is, on frequent occasion, stranger than fiction.

Dinner with the Russian Mafia

I would advise not attempting this on your own.

In May of 2003, we were stationed in Germany, and Chris was deployed to Kosovo for 10 months. A couple of crazy friends (you know who you are) and I decided to fly out and meet the guys in Sofia, Bulgaria for a 4-day R&R weekend. You may think that in itself is worthy of a WTF moment, but not really. It wasn't so bad. And yes, before you ask, we did manage to see more than just the inside of the hotel room.

The first night we all went out and consumed various strange meats on a stick (duck heart among them) and drank margaritas which I now suspect were made with pure grain alcohol. Where we ended up that night is far from where we started, but that is another story and I will NEVER TALK.

Anyway. The next night happened to be our third anniversary. Chris and I decided we wanted to celebrate by having dinner in an authentic Bulgarian restaurant so we could soak up some culture of the non-alcoholic variety. The six of us had hired a private taxi driver/tour guide for the weekend, so we asked him for some recommendations. He said he knew the perfect place and we hopped in the taxi and took off into the city. A word of advice. When traveling in a taxi (or bus or trolley car or any form of transportation) in Eastern Europe, close your eyes and pray. Do not look at the road. Do not look at the other cars. Do not try to figure out the traffic rules. Just pray. Hard. In as many languages as you know.

We ended up in a rundown section of Sofia in front of what looked to be an abandoned building. Not a good sign. Two very large men in dark suits met us at the curb. They were armed. Again, not a good sign. The taxi driver told us to go with these men, and when we were ready to leave they would call him and escort us back to the car. He told us that under no circumstances were we to leave before he came for us, and to not wait on the street alone.

Great.

We suddenly found ourselves at night in a rundown section of city in a country that was very recently communist, with only Boris and Ivan and their various pieces of hardware for company. Since we pretty much had no choice, we followed the two giants down a set of concrete stairs toward a ratty looking door. At this point, the thoughts in my head were all centered around one thing: We are SO gonna die. Well that, and the fact that I really shouldn't have worn heels. It would have been easier to attempt an escape. The door opened into....a truly fabulous gypsy-themed restaurant. It was huge and beautifully decorated and obviously doing very well. A waiter led us to a private table that was partially concealed in the bones of an old wooden gypsy wagon. It was fantastic. The food was delicious, the service was impeccable and it was truly an experience. There were also several other tables like ours that were filled with groups of very rich looking men who appeared to be conducting quiet business. The kind of business that you obviously needed to conduct in the basement of an abandoned building at night. Surrounded by armed guards.

After a floor show featuring traditional gypsy dancers we told the waiter we were ready to go. He called over our personal bodyguards, one of whom pulled out a cell-phone and called our driver. A few minutes later we were led out to the street and put safely in the taxi and driven back to our hotel. One thing was for sure. Bulgarians may drive like crazy people but I certainly wasn't going to be critiquing this guy's skills any time soon. Talk about connections.

The entire night held an air of the surreal. Probably because it was surreal and stuff like that just doesn't happen to regular people. On the ride back I kept looking at Chris and wondering, did that really just happen? Did I inadvertently drink another one of those battery acid margaritas and I am now hallucinating?

To this day, I think back on that very strange night and shake my head while asking myself a great big WTF!?

A Generation of Whiners?

When I first read this article, I got royally, seethingly mad. I'm talking spitting nails, where's my punching bag, Army Wife Up-In-Arms pissed. I forced myself NOT to write a rebuttal right away because I knew I would regret it. I told myself to let it simmer....

I'm done simmering.

Her basic gist is that military spouses today are a bunch of whiners and we need to grow up and "soldier on". In her day, we didn't have toy drives and TV specials and support for military wives. Apparently nobody gave a rat's petunia about her and her fellow wives, so why should we expect anybody to care now?

My first question is this - since when does allowing someone to do you a kindness, give you some attention or try to help you and empathize with you in any way they can, considered whining? I'm not asking for attention, I'm not asking for hand-outs, and I'm not asking for everyone to bow at my feet and tell me how strong I am. But if someone wants to give me a hug and tell me they're praying for me, I'm not going to say no.

I remember once I was eating dinner in a restaurant (who I was with and where I was have been lost somewhere in my brain...) when a gentleman a few booths away came over and told me that he had noticed the pin collection I was wearing - among them my "Proud Army Wife" pin, my Blue Star and my "Operation Iraqi Freedom". He told me he was grateful for my husband's service and said that he would like to pay for my dinner as his way of saying thank you. I was floored. I was certainly not expecting that. I was touched by his gesture and to say "no" would have been insulting to him. Same goes for the man at the Mail Boxes, Etc. who wouldn't allow me to pay for the package I was shipping to my husband for Christmas. "It's my pleasure," he told me. His way of saying Thank You, and Merry Christmas.

What Mrs. Sisk doesn't understand is that these toy drives and TV specials and support programs are not because the military spouses of today need them, they are the country's way of saying thank you. Things are different today then they were in times past. The war doesn't touch everyone and everything the way it used to. We're not turning out tanks from our cereal factories and we're not drawing lines down the back of our legs because the nylon has all been used for parachutes. Susie down the street may not have a single relative in the military, or even know where Kandahar is, but she sure as heck can make cookies. And if bringing a plate of chocolate chip to her neighbor, who just sent her husband off to war for the 4th time in 6 years makes her feel like she's giving back, who are we to say no?

A lot of folks think this country is full of dissenters that don't give a crap about the war and why we're over there. Maybe that's true. I personally think that there are more good people out there than we know about. They just speak with their actions and not their words. This country knows it owes a debt of gratitude to our Military that can never be paid. They are constantly putting their lives on the line, day in and day out, year after year for the sake of others. Yes, they get a paycheck. They have to feed themselves and their families somehow. But just because they are paid for their service doesn't make it any less honorable. The people at home who are putting on this show of support for the families are saying thank you in the only way they can. They're closing ranks around the spouses and children who are left vulnerable, telling the soldiers, "It's okay, we've got your back. Don't you worry about a thing. Come home safely and we'll make sure your family is here waiting for you."

I may not need the help to keep my family running, but I would never insult the wonderful people of this great nation by refusing their assistance. They are thanking my husband through me. I hope that I never become so jaded and cynical that I begrudge anyone who accepts help from someone else. Don't worry, I'm not going to start singing Lean On Me or anything, but there is nothing wrong with supporting each other. That's what America does - we take care of our own. It doesn't make us whiners, it makes us smart.

And as to the whole, "you're not sacrificing unless your husband comes home in a wheelchair or a box" thing - STFU.

And that's all I have to say about that.

The Past Ten Years

A week from today will mark quite a milestone for Chris and I - ten years of marriage! It also means something else for me...ten years as an Army Wife. Not only an Army Wife, but a true blue Infantry Wife.

I'll admit, it didn't quite turn out like I'd thought it would. We got married pre-9/11, in an Army that was not at war, and hadn't been for quite some time. Army life was not difficult then. Sure, you had the odd peace-keeping mission to Kosovo, and long field training exercises, but never did I think I would have to actually send my husband off to war. Then came September 11th, and the world came crashing down.

Then came the time that all Army Wives found out what they were truly made of. We sent our loves off to war, more than once. We sat by the phone for weeks, wishing it would ring and then also praying it wouldn't, because it was always bad news. We had babies while our husbands waited for news in a tiny little room in the Iraqi desert. We cried when our husbands came home, and we cried for those who didn't. Then we turned around and did it all over again.

It hasn't been easy, but there is something fulfilling about knowing that you CAN do it. You made it through, you've earned the right to call yourself a war wife, and stand with our Grandmothers and all those women who came before us. Sometimes you hear people say, "Oh I could never let my husband go off to war, I could never do that." Rather than get irritated at their lack of compassion, I just smile and say, "you're right...you couldn't."

Am I proud of who I am? You betcha. Would I change it? Never in a million years. They say that war will test a soldier's mettle, and it's equally true for those who stand behind them. While war would never be my first choice, it has helped to make me who I am.

Here's to the next decade.