Might Makes Right

I just realized I never posted the updated link to my new home. We moved again and while Typepad doesn't offer a re-direct, Blogger kindly allows me to keep this stuff up and move you forwards. So, if you're still looking for me here, get thee hence! Come to www.intellectualwhores.net/mightmakesright and get comfy there.

I've decided it's time to move on. Blogger is a nice quiet neighborhood, to be sure, but the lighting is bad and none of my furniture really fits. If you want to hang out, my new address is http://mightmakesright.typepad.com/might_makes_right/ It seems like a nicer spot. I have a new comments feature, so now all of you can be as opinionated as me. Sniff! I'm going to miss the old homestead. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

My thoughts are bit scattered tonight. The wind is whistling it's own little tune, the house is quiet and I'm on a bit of a kick. I'm having quite the conversation with my husband's friend, JL, who's stationed with him in Afghanistan. Now, ArmyBoy doesn't know this, but JL keeps me up to date on his moods and his health. He also feeds me covert intelligence about all the pretty things ArmyBoy says about me. So JL is one of my favorite people right now, not that he wasn't before. ArmyBoy is a bit of an introvert and doesn't admit people to his circle lightly, if at all. But, whether he knows it or not, JL is his friend and he's a darn good friend. I don't think either of them know how much I appreciate JL looking after ArmyBoy for me. JL is a bit old school in his thinking. Honorable, though I doubt he'd use the word to describe himself. In some ways, he reminds me of a soldier from another time. I could easily see JL in the red tunic of a Roman centurion or the fatigues of a World War II soldier. He's a bit hot-headed and his edges are rough, but his heart is strong. I admire that. I admire honesty, of words, of intentions, in anyone. I'd never say this to either of them. JL would get all fumbly and goofy, the way most strong men do when confronted with emotions and ArmyBoy would lift his supercillious eyebrow and argue with me. But, this is my site, so I get to be the boss. Hooray for me! Good men are rare in this world. Most have lost touch with the purpose of their existance. Some try to find it by making money, some try to lift themselves up by pushing someone else down. But, I am fortunate to be surrounded by the finest of men, who have somehow managed to carve a niche for themselves, not by violence or conquest or even force of will, but by being who they truly are. Men, good men, who live their lives by their own code of honor and take nothing they haven't earned. I am proud to know them. These are men I would entrust with mine and my sons lives, and in a way I have. You all have. Be grateful than, that they are such good men. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

Marcus Maximus gave me a lovely plug on his radio show, formerly known as the Caffeine and Nicotine Show, now known as the "Hey I showed up and they put me on air" show. So a big hug and a sloppy kiss to my favorite drunk. I have several bad habits. I drink too much coffee, I smoke a pack a day, I am constitutionally incapable of keeping my damn mouth shut, particularly if doing so would make my life easier and I have this utter obsession with picking at my emotional scabs. Those last two fuck me over every time. Here I am, married to a man whose job requires that he put his life at risk for the American way of life (and don't think for an instant that any of the millions of overfed overprivileged flabby butted sons of bitches who benefit bother to say thank you, either) and all I can watch are war movies. And not any of the heroic John Wayne/Clark Gable classic propaganda flicks. No, not this girl. I go for full on graphically violent war movies. Apocalypse Now, Black Hawk Down, Band of Brothers, all the deep and insightful epics of the genre. Those are my picks. Dead Marines? I think I've seen every damn Marine that has been blown to bits since the Marine Corps was formed. Why? Why torture myself with visions of death, dismemberment, the horrible brutality of cinematic warfare? Because I'm a sick and twisted individual. Because I'm hoping that Tipper Gore and her ilk are correct and repeated exposure to violence makes you numb to the real suffering of others. Because I'm an idiot who still prays that someday, somehow these movies will be nothing more than history projects for a generation that needs a dictionary to define what war means. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

It's Younger Son's first birthday. His daddy isn't here to wish him a happy one or help him blow out his candles or to smile when eats the wrapping paper on his presents. I should be depressed. And I am a bit wistful. But, in the end, Younger Son is happy and healthy (minus the fat lip he got yesterday) and ArmyBoy is safe. That is as good as it gets these days. So, I'm content. If you have a bit of free time, check out msnbc.com's Tech and Science section. Political correctness and Californian idiocy (as Captain Planet used to say, "With your powers combined!") have come together to demand that the computer terms "master" and "slave" be changed to something less offensive to their "ethinically diverse" workforce. No, seriously, go read it if you don't believe me. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

The fanatical Muslims despise America because it's all lapdancing and gay porn; the secular Europeans despise America because it's all born-again Christians hung up on abortion; the anti-Semites despise America because it's controlled by Jews. Too Jewish, too Christian, too Godless, America is also too isolationist, except when it's too imperialist. And even its imperialism is too vulgar and arriviste to appeal to real imperialists: let's face it, the ghastly Yanks never stick it to the fuzzy-wuzzy with the dash and élan of the Bengal Lancers, which appears to be the principal complaint of Sir Max Hastings and his ilk. To the mullahs, America is the Great Satan, a wily seducer; to the Gaullists, America is the Great Cretin, a culture so self-evidently moronic that only stump-toothed inbred Appalachian lardbutts could possibly fall for it. American popular culture is utterly worthless, except when one of its proponents - Michael Moore, Sean Penn, Susan Sarandon - attacks Bush, in which case he or she is showered with European awards and sees the foreign-language rights for his latest tract sell for six figures at Frankfurt. The fact that the best-selling anti-Americans are themselves American - Moore, Chomsky - is perhaps the cruellest manifestation of the suffocating grip of the hyperpower. -Mark Steyn, The Telegraph

If I didn't devote precious memory cells to this crap.

It's good to know I'm not the only one who's looking for something a bit more substantive from General Clark.

I just watched approximately 15 seconds of the smashing miniseries about the rescue of Pvt. Lynch. 15 seconds was all I could handle. I try not to shy away from the realities of the life I'm living, but I see my husband in every soldier's face. When I watched that show, I saw my husband broken and bleeding, captured by an enemy I don't understand. No one here talks about this, about the possibility that our husbands could die or worse, become P.O.W.'s. It is the big pink elephant in the middle of the room and we all do our damndest to tiptoe around that sucker. It's a dread you live with every day, a fear so awesome it is always coiled in the pit of your stomach. A knock on the door, an unknown number on your Caller ID, and that fear flares out of control because all you can think is that this is it, the worst has happened and some hapless soldier has the dubious honor of handing you an American flag and telling you that your husband won't ever be coming home. General George S. Patton said war is hell and I'm sure Mrs. Patton was standing right behind him muttering that it's hell on your nerves. We have no enemies to fight, not ones we can see. Our enemies exist in darkness, creeping out to torment us after the lights are out and the kids are asleep. No more chores to be done and in the quiet around us, time and our own fears mock us. How can you destroy what you can't see and are too afraid to imagine? We drink too much, smoke too much, fill our hours with busy work, anything to keep the bogeyman away. Perhaps we think that if we just keep moving, bad news won't find us. A moving target is harder to hit after all. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

I come from a complicated people. My family is Irish, although most of them have never seen Ireland. For anyone reading this who is sniffing in offense and muttering about my family being Irish-American or of Irish descent, but certainly not Irish, please step away from your computer and go find someone to smack you across the mouth. I would do it myself, but I'm pontificating. Wit is highly prized and as I've mentioned before, towering rages are not only common, but a valid form of communication. The familial language is mocking, sarcasm the sauce covering all dishes. Nowhere is there room for sorrow, or perhaps I should say, it's not discussed. Sensuality too is persona non grata. Life is a celebration yes, a raucous one, but there is no softness, no room for anything that might cloud the mind. I learned at a young age to push aside anything that might discomfit or disturb the rhythm of life. Which is not to say that my family is unfeeling, for they aren't. But, more that they feel so deeply that to push aside despair is the only solution. I am a poet, from a race of warrior-bards. The written word is less threatening, it's effect less immediate. To name an emotion, to speak of it, means the emotion has won the battle. Better still to push it aside, ignore it, and thus to conquer it. I was listening to Irish music today and heard a rhythm that set me to bellydancing. I almost fainted from shock. Sensuality in Irish music is almost unheard of. Irish music and dance are as controlled as their makers. The uillean pipes and the bodhran are suited to war, sweet melancholy, pubs and stories, but like so much else that came from Ireland's old sod, not the most eloquent at expressing true grief or deep and dark desire. It is only lately, in my generation, that I have seen Irishmen and women speaking with wistful fondness of their families and the traditions that they hope to honor without falling into the same pattern. I too work to honor my family, for all Irish families teach that only through the family is anything made real, anything made permanent. But, I also hope to shake the bonds I carry. So, I speak of my pain, move my body towards the sensual. However, I suppose that certain ties can never be broken. I married a Polack, whose Eastern European traditions of dark silences and sullen moodiness are as deeply entrenched as my own ones of denial and quiet despair. The more things change and all that. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

My, how perspicacious of you! Yes, the little countdown clock to your right (No, silly, your other right) has been rewound. ArmyBoy's tour of duty has been extended by 90 days. So now, his fictional return date is May something. I say fictional because I don't believe the Army ever intends to return my husband. Damn government. You loan them something and they think they own it. Bloody bastards. In other news, it isn't snowing. Yet. So, that's a cause for celebration. My son can sing. Sort of. Another cause for dancing and confetti. I'm only slightly more bitter than yesterday. All in all, a fabulous evening. Progress has been made, children are sleeping and Al Gore is still not President. Sighs of contentment all around, eh? Actually, despite my curmudgeonly tone this evening, I'm becoming accustomed to this odd little life I have going. I raise my son, spend time with my friends, talk to my husband, and watch DS9 DvDs. A sad little routine has developed. As my old life becomes more distant and my new life further entrenched, I have a hard time mourning the past. I don't have the temperment to repine. It doesn't suit me and sadness doesn't sit well on my features. I make the best of what I have. My son is healthy and mostly happy, my husband is alive and well, and all our bills are paid. Ingratitude would be churlish, and being as I was raised to have good manners, I am grateful. But, human nature what it is, I do occasionally (once a day) wish for more. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

Younger Son woke up at midnight last night, with a very high fever. I'm currently on the phone with the doctor's office, attempting to figure out if he needs an appointment or if he's just fucking with me. We're also scheduled to visit the allergist today. Plus, J had a doctor's appointment this morning and dropped M.B. off with me so she can have her pelvic in peace. The nurse says that a small fever is pretty normal. She said to call back if it lasts more than two days. I started this entry at 9:00 a.m. It's now 10:30 a.m. Younger Son just crapped out in my arms after a soothing and if I may say so myself, stirring, rendition of John Mayer's "Why Georgia". Laugh if you must, but I listened to his No Room for Squares CD for most of my pregnancy and any one of those songs has the power to dredge my cranky Monster in Mr. Sandman's Sleepy Dust. It's a powerful weapon to have in the arsenal. Also, it's the first song that popped into my head as it's in heavy rotation on Netscapes streaming radio. I'm going to close this entry minus my usual flair and wit. I'm running way low on sleep, but as long as the caffeine holds out, I should survive. However, wit and flair are at a premium when I'm pushing through sleep dep. As that famous bitch Scarlet O'Hara is fond of saying, "tomorrow is another day" and maybe tomorrow, I'll get some sleep. In the meantime, I have coffee, cigarettes, and yes, Virginia, shopping therapy to help. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

Few quick updates: 4:00 a.m. wake up calls from Younger Son do not start my day off with a smile. I can only assume there was a bad dream involved. Of course, he's 11 months old. What could his nightmares possibly consist of, a worldwide formula shortage? Grr. I'm still stupidly in love with ArmyBoy. I tried really hard for a whole 24 hours to be nonchalant and bitchy and I failed. It must be love. I'd hate to think I was losing my touch. If you're the praying type, say a quick one for D and her husband. He's on a mission and those of us who believe in our bad feelings are worried. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

Had a fight with ArmyBoy today. Well, that's not completely accurate. We weren't fighting, we were sniping and I gave up on that fairly quickly. Arguments or even snipeuments about money not only bore me, but the whole concept doesn't translate well for me. Money is just a tool. You have it or you don't. If you have it, you spend it on bills or treats or whatever. If you don't have it, you find ways to manage without it. But, argue about it?Je ne comprende pas, monsieur. The only reason it puts me in a foul mood is that ArmyBoy says it's OUR money, but when we argue, all I can hear is "What are you doing with MY money that I have generously permitted you to use?" I'm not even mad about it anymore, which is scary. If I can't even muster up indignation for this, I wonder what I might consider worth my anger. The last time I stopped caring enough to get angry, I divorced my husband six months later. I don't know if this is the same or if I'm just tired of arguing in general. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

It's been an interesting Samhain. For those of you out there scratching your heads in befuddlement, Samhain (pronounced Sow-in) is what non-pagans call Halloween. To pagans, it's one of the most important religious holidays of the year, if not the most important one. I had my own solitary service, in honor of the Goddess who dies tonight and who will be reborn at Imbolc, which is February first. I say it was an interesting Samhain because I was given a glimpse of both the sacred and the absurd. As is custom, I remembered to name the dead, saying a blessing for those of my kin who have died. Naming the dead is how you honor them, for in my belief the only true death is to be forgotten. I also asked a blessing for the unknown dead and prayed that on this night, the gods who know their names remember them as well. I was pretty downcast afterwards, missing my Mom and all the others I've lost over the past few years. I was just starting to calm down when the phone rang. It was my little sister and I can only think that my mother heard me and sent me someone to comfort me and remind me that while I can't see her or talk to her, she's never far away. That small glimpse into the heart of what I hold sacred has buoyed my spirits immensely. Of course, with the sacred you must take a bit of the profane as well. I was just about to go to bed when I flipped on the History Channel. And what did my wondering eyes perceive but a show on the history of Halloween, starting with it's true and ancient form of Samhain. And on this show was a segment about the radical Xtians who have made a video entitled (I kid you not) Halloween: Pagan Invasion. It's all about spiritual warfare and reclaiming this night from the Devil. It's almost enough to drive you to drink. Why is it that if someone talks about removing the 10 Commandments from a courthouse or moving a nativity scene off the Post Office lawn, these same Christians responsible for the Pagan Invasion video are up in arms, raising the hue and cry, and sobbing on the local news about their right to religious freedom. But let a few kids put on an outfit that makes them look like Spidey while I stay at home to pray and reflect on my faith and all of a sudden, religious freedom flies right out the window. All of a sudden their moral fabric is being threatened because somebody has the unmitigated gall to believe in more than one God. I'm not angry or upset. I've been through this enough times to have passed on to resignation. Religion, by it's very nature, is supposed to be a comfort, a balm to heal your wounds, not a stick used to bash other people. I hear so much about the love of God, the saving grace of Christ, but all I see is a bloody sword. This goes equally to Christians, Catholics, Jews, and Muslims. Stop using faith as a weapon in your personal crusade to win the Holy Game of Freeze Tag. Use it as your gods intended it to be used, as a way to connect with them and to try to find a measure of love and grace in this extremely fucked up world. But, to those Crazy Christers who made the Pagan Invasion movie, I do want to say thank you. Thank you for reminding me why I chose paganism. Thank you for helping me to reaffirm my faith in my Gods. The Morrigan may be a goddess of war, but she never asks her followers to try to destroy the faith of others. Come to think of it, neither did Jesus, Yahweh, or Allah. Ah well, perhaps when I was reading The Bible, The Torah and The Koran (and yes, kiddies, I have read all of them) perhaps during my readings, my decoder ring was malfunctioning. Yes, that must be it. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

They are the bane of my existance. I am attracted and repulsed in one instance. I'm in the midst of one terrible novel right now wherein....well, I won't bore anyone with the plot. Suffice it to say, it's actually good for it's kind, but not good enough to be more than it is. And what it is is a torture device. I miss being married. I am positively downcast that my beloved husband isn't here right this moment. We aren't a very normal couple. We don't watch much television or go to the movies or do anything couplish. I read or write, he paints or works on his computer. But, we do it together. Even when we work separately on our respective tasks, we are together. I never knew much about the comfort of silence until I met ArmyBoy. I come from a loud, garrulous family which considers arguing to be a spectator sport. ArmyBoy is the antithesis of that. I am a babbling brook with waterfalls and rapids aplenty, but my loved husband is a deep lake, dark blue in color, right before the onset of winter. Icy and forbidding, with enough menace in him to make you think twice about dipping your toes in. But, the peace that is engendered by such still waters, no matter how dangerous they are, is remarkable. I love that about him. No matter how long we sit in silence, engaged in our own projects, I never feel alone. Quite the opposite in fact. Even sitting silently across the room from me, I can feel the warmth and weight of his love all around me. Which is why, I guess, the quiet is bothering me. It's not a friendly quiet. It is a deep and heavy silence, oppressive and unhappy. I'll be glad to have my old familiar quiet back. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

While this is not specifically a military blog, I do address military issues from time to time. It can't be helped really. Right now, my life is shaped and directed by the United States Army. I live where I live because my husband is a soldier and we go where the Army tells us to go. This in turn affects my friends, my schooling, my job, the schools my children can attend, and the list could continue ad nausem, ad infinitum. But, I do try, as much as possible, to keep the military out of my blog. It's so much a part of the rest of our lives that I try to fill this space with things that will create a web of the familial and familiar for myself and for ArmyBoy. Today, however, I feel the need to vent a little about the United States Army. I'd like to start off with a rousing What the Fuck? I don't mind the deployments and the Warfighter exercises that keep my husband away from us for months at a time. Really, I don't. It's part of the life that we agreed to when he signed the papers. What I mind is the cheap and petty pay issues and quality of life issues that seem to pop up with increasing regularity. For those of you that aren't military spouses or in the military yourself, let me say that Hazardous Duty Pay (which is the money a soldier receives in recompense for being shot at) and Family Separation Pay (the money a soldier receives to compensate him/her for leaving their family behind so they can be shot at) is $450 per month. Averaging that out, assuming 30 days in a month, my husband's life and marriage is worth roughly $15 per day to the United States Army. Now, we don't get an hourly wage. The military pays you a set salary based on your grade and time in service. My husband is a junior enlisted soldier with six years between his time in the Marine Corps and his time in the Army. Our base pay is $876 before taxes. Now, right now we pay no federal or state taxes. We do pay Social Security tax (somewhere, some overweight baby boomer is calling her daughter-in-law collect to nag and sipping lattes at Starbucks on my dime), Medicare tax (again, somewhere, an aging hippie is asking his doctor about alternative medicines and whether or not yucca root work for his male pattern baldness on my dime) and so on. We make roughly $2500 a month, which is a decent amount of money for a famliy of three with low expenses. What really corks me, what has lit the fuse on my tampon is that Rummy and his hive of worker bees is fretting that the pittance we, and most other junior enlisted servicefolk, make is going to tip the already overloaded budget into the shitter. They want to decimate the special pay my husband is earning for putting his life, his health, his sanity, and his happiness on the line so that some overfed Congressman can afford his mortgage on the vacation home in Aruba he bought last year. Now, I realize that bitching about money seems petty. But, I have dozens of other examples of the shabby, shoddy treatment the Department of Defense is dishing out to thousands of soldiers, sailors, Marines, and airmen all across the world. Closing DoD run elementary, secondary, and high schools to save a few bucks comes to mind, as does the terrible treatment reservists are receiving at Fort Stewart. Some of them have been waiting literal months for the most basic of health care. And while I'm on the subject of shoddy treatment, I want to extend a great big fuck you to all those out there who have forgotten the military spouses. Yes, President Bush, that includes you. People speak of the soldiers, anything for the soldiers. Well, hi-dee-ho. My husband isn't the only soldier here. Most of the military spouses I know work twice as hard as the fine fighting men and women. We have to be both mother and father, and often, are each others second spouse. We joke with each other about being married to two people, our legal spouses and the military spouse that's taken his/her place. But, all joking aside, I have seen military wives and husbands work amazingly hard and perform acts of heroism that would shame any brave soldier. D and J are two women that spring immediately to mind. Both of them are faring outstandingly well as they fill roles that weren't listed on any contract, military or maritial. So, to all the legislators who are cutting pay and benefits while entering a pitiful attaboy into the congressional record, learn this, please. You are making life harder, not only for those soldiers, sailors, Marines, and airmen you cheer so vociferously, but for those of us left behind to soldier on alone and unnoticed. We don't want an attaboy or a medal or an interview on CNN. All we want is to see our spouses returned home safely and our lives to be left as unaltered as possible. Get your fingers out of our wallets, get your noses to the grindstone, finish what you started and than go back to your cushy offices and your "you scratch my back I'll scratch yours" pork barrel projects. This is a public service announcement. Thank you and have a nice day. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

Quiet day in the neighborhood, so I have very little news to report. I got ArmyBoy's letters today, yippie!!! We talk every day on the phone, so you'd think letters wouldn't be important to me, but in a sad Harlequin Romance novel way, they are. It's that whole he touched it and now I'm touching it combined with the feeling that he took to the time and cared enough to write something on paper for me that makes it important. I'm on the way to our brand new exercise class. We'll see how long it lasts. I'm lazy and everyone is trying like mad to fill every space on their dance cards, so this could go down in flames. But, you never know, it could be really popular. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

Fair warning to everyone: My house is not the place to be if you want to keep your fingers intact. We had an incident today and the less said about it the better. Now, moving on to funnier things. I got an email from Maximus today. The gist of the link that he sent me was that Fox News isn't really a news agency at all. It is, in fact, a forum for right wing demagoguery. Well, holy shit! I am amazed, amazed I tell you. Wait, wait, I spelled that wrong. I meant amused. Leaving aside the fact that Maximus is virulant, hippie left winger bleeding heart and I think nuclear bombs could be the solution to overpopulation and urban violence, the funny thing is I don't watch Fox News. Fair and balanced, my Aunt Petunia. Fox News makes me believe in a vast right wing conspiracy. It's entertaining, in the way the whole Siegfried and Roy tiger attack was entertaining, but I certainly don't watch it in the hopes of learning anything. If I vote for Bush, it won't because some news anchor told me I should. It will be because I believe he's the right man for the job. Which, for the record, I'm not sure. I'm waiting to see how General Clark performs, because right now, he's coming off like a trained pony at the circus. However, the election isn't until next year, so I have a few more weeks to decide. Well, you know me, I hate to procrastinate. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

For your reading pleasure tonight, a few random shallow thoughts from the mind of someone with a lot of free time. Again, I am forced to admit that I have run into an insuperable problem. Why is it that when I lived in a big city, the sound of sirens was soothing, a modern lullaby if you will, but now that I live in a small town, the sound of sirens makes me anxious? I don't understand the change, not at all. When we moved here, I complained vociferously, incessantly, that it was too damn fucking quiet. Now, I hear sirens and I'm up and looking around, trying to figure out where they might be coming from and attempting to identify which emergency vehicle it might be from the tone. Confusing. I have nowhere to go, no appointments to keep, no shopping to do, yet I'm positively aching to get my car back from the mechanic. Don't understand that one, either. Even if I had my car, where would I go? I have three dollars in my bank account. It's not as if I'm missing out on anything. If my car where here, it would be sitting in the driveway. But, I still can't wait to get my car back. One final thought, one I must confess I didn't think of myself, but which I find unbearably funny. Why do women get mad when men objectify them? Women do it themselves. How many times has a woman asked you, "Does this dress make me look...smart?" Think about it. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

Really, it does. I'm no Luddite (and no, I won't define it for you, lazy. Look it up.) but, sometimes the whole point of scientific experimentation seems to be to prove things that any rational being would already have accepted as true. Hell, sometimes it seems you don'te ven have to be awake to out reason these scientists. "This just in! Scientists announce water is wet!" But, the point of my rant today is a study done by the National Heart and Lung Association that says that the traits of hostility and impatience associated with Type A personalites can cause hypertension and heart attack. Wow. I'm stunned, amazed, flabbergasted even. Being a jerk is harmful? Who knew? How about doing a study on the blood pressure levels of the friends and families of these Type A's? I predict the results will be astounding. I predict the data will corroborate my theory that living with and interacting with jerks is bad for your health. This study could rock the very foundations of society. Of course, only the scientists will be amazed. The rest of us will smile, nod, and after the scientists have left, laugh heartily in their directions. But, we will wait till they leave. We wouldn't want to endanger our blood pressure by being jerks. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

I sometimes wonder if I'm not as good a mother to Younger Son as I was to Older Son. I have no problems handing Younger Son off to the Mother's Helper for his bath, whereas I felt bathtime was almost a bonding ritual for Older Son and me. So now I'm pondering whether my parenting is inadequate or if I'm just too lazy to do the scutwork of parenting. Of course, Army Boy would say that my Catholic roots are showing and I should book an appointment for a touch-up. Ah well... Had an almost breakdown with ArmyBoy today, but things were soon set right. Which, when I think about it, is odd and perhaps a symptom of distance related fondness setting in. We usually make it to tears and harsh accusations before things get set right. Maybe we're growing up and growing into our marriage. Hmm...Nah, must be the distance. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

You know, in all the funderful excitement of yesterday, I didn't really address the current crop of issues. Somehow, traumatic partial finger amputation just push those things right out of my mind. Talked to Maximus yesterday. He said that so far, he hasn't been able to pick up a slot at KBGA, so the Caffeine + Nicotine show is still on hiatus. Of course, that means that my portion of the show, which I'll call the New York Minute for reference purposes, won't be up and running anytime soon. Which is fine. I'm too busy painting and framing these days to write articles, although I anticipate that I will be writing again soon. ArmyBoy is in Qatar this week and hating every minute of it. I guess he's just not a resort type person. UPS guy just dropped by. ArmyBoy, your new hard drive is here! No, I didn't open it, I just looked at the return address. It's waiting for your return, all wrapped up and purdy. Also on my mind these days is a certain mental restlessness, brought on by lack of stimulus, I think. I'd call it the intellectual equivalent of the old disease wanderlust. I'm looking to expand my mental horizons, visit new places, as it were. Any ideas, send them to sevendeadlyfun@yahoo.com I will consider all non-pornographic suggestions. That about wraps up my rant session for today. I'll be back in the next day or so to let you know how it goes. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

Wow. Night from Hell, here I am. Let's see, where to start... Well after my 15 year old babysitter's confession of undying love, I am now officially known as Mrs. Robinson. Real cute. Thriling. I'm so not up for this. Than, a fun call to 911 because J's little boy M.B. got the tip of his index finger amputated by our door. Followed by an equally exotic and titillating 4 hours at the hospital. The fingertip is gone, no way it can be replaced. So, the poor baby has to go to an orthopedist this week. I'm adrenalined out right now. If the house caught on fire, I'd just sit here until somebody came and got me, I'm that shellshocked. I have to get up early tomorrow to take Younger Son to his well baby appointment. I wonder if you can call it a well baby checkup if the baby is sick? I love you. I"ll see you when you get home.

Just got home from J's sex toys party. I'm exhausted. I"m currently chatting with D (to identify her for ArmyBoy, she's the one with curly hair who always has a drink in her hand.) about the toys she bought. I only found one of the items on our list. Apparently, we're too kinky for sexy toy parties. Lotsa scary vibrators out there. One of the women shoved a green one in my face and my reaction was immediate. I shouted and said, "If it's green, he needs to get a shot before it's in my face." Tons of drama surrounded this party. Well, more accurately, drama surrounded the babysitters employed so we could have this party. It's a long fucking story, but it's a killer. Suffice it to say my choice in babysitters or at least the sex of said babysitters along with another babysitter's boyfriend caused quite the uproar. I think it'll take a long while before things settle down. I have learned however who the narrow minded prigs are and who is really going to be there for me and support me. So, to recap for the ADD sufferers out there, I'm tired, I bought sex toys, and when ArmyBoy gets home I'm coming after him like a drunken football player with a virgin cheerleader in his lap. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

So, I have a few rhetorical questions and one pseudo-rant. Hey, it's late, I'm beat, take it and like it. Why is it that when I do laundry, my underoos are always hidden? I went to grab a clean pair from the dryer so I could take a nice hot bath and had to drag out the whole load in order to find the damn roos. Why? My undies are little, so shouldn't they be right where you can see them? Who lives in the dryer and why do they hide my panties? Also, why do I always pick dark quiet nights when I'm alone in the house to read a scary story? You'd think I'd pick a lighthearted comedy or perhaps a trashy romance to wile away my evenings but NOOOO! I picked a horror novel. So, now I'm too scared to sleep. Usually, I consider this a perfect excuse to think up new ways to keep ArmyBoy up (in a manner of speaking). However, no ArmyBoy to play with these days, so now I'm wide awake waiting for homicidal maniacs to invade my house. Now, the pseudo-rant. I used to nod sagely at those abstinance lectures, the ones that touted "Going without sex won't kill you, but having it just might". I see the rueful grins. You've heard them. Well, it's a damn lie. Lies and fabrications, all of it. If I don't fuck somebody (and by somebody I mean an impossibly gorgeous man with a huge cock who for some inexplicable reason hasn't had sex in a few years and tells me that he's a bit rusty, orally speaking and would I mind?) soon, I may very well keel over. And won't you all be sorry then? ArmyBoy, I love you. And yes, I'm faithful. Now and forever. But, is it too much to ask that you send me a naked horny Marine for Christmas? Preferably yourself, wearing nothing but a bow? (I see puzzlement on my five loyal reader's faces. ArmyBoy used to what I affectionately call Marine Meat.) So, I'm done ranting. Off to bed. I have an appointment with those homicidal maniacs to keep. They hate it when you're late. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

I get a sleazy moral thrill every time I reject the liquor store or the Valium that is on the top of the refrigerator (No, I never forget. It's always in the back of my mind.) But, regretfully I turn away loving the slimy tug of virtuosness that courses through me. I know somewhere from my childhood that temporarily anaesthetizing myself is the cowards choice and I have always prided myself on my strength. But, darling somedays I wish I could forget pride and just fall down into the sweetness of cowardice.

The new Mother's Helper is here and HE ROCKS! Of course, now comes the task of figuring out what to with myself for those two free hours. My god, I don't think I've had two free hours to just work in a long time. I could revise the Sir Wesley novel. I'm stuck on chapter two. I have no idea how to get the story of Wesley's mother's death out, not because it's death but because I'm at the crucial part of the Hero's Journey. It's annoying. I hate writing a modern myth. But, I'mma write it anyways. Fiction is just not my scene. I'm such a comittaphobe, that's why poetry is so fabulous. No long term committments. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

Number five on the Top Ten List of Signs You Need to Get Out More: Spending time wondering about the sex lives of the live people on children's shows Yes, I'm guilty. And they aren't even particularly hot or good looking. They're Aussies on a damn kids show, for goodness sake. But, in my defense, Younger Son has been watching this show exclusively all week. I'm getting sort of tired of the corny songs and outrageous dances. So, I started wondering what kind of sex life people who star in children's shows must have. I'm a sick human being. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

There are few mysteries in life, but I found one today. I only have one child but I have nine sippy cups in my dishwasher. Now, you may say that I babysat yesterday and that might account for the plethora of sippy cups. I did babysit yesterday but that adds two kids, only one of whom uses a sippy cup. Add also, I have only bought three sippy cups. So, great and wise reader, where the hell did the other six sippy cups come from? One theory may be that the same fairy who steals the socks from the drier pays you back in sippy cups. But, I have no proof. So, I'm stuck with six extra cups. Ane here's the real kicker. While writing this, I found two more. Anybody? Anybody? I thought not. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

We've come to the part of the show I like to call I'm Fucking Insane! It's probably my favorite part. Because, you see, I must be fucking insane. I keep asking myself whether it's genetic or if years of living with gamers and psychos has done this to me. I had a really good article written last night, but unfortunately my beloved husband suggested I get some sleep, primarily I think because we had a discussion just that evening about how atrociously I behave early in the morning. Although, it doesn't really need to be morning for me to wake up mean. I love to sleep. Some people say that but they don't mean it the way I mean it. They mean they like to get enough sleep to wake refreshed and ready for the day ahead. I mean that if given the choice I would sleep until the Apocalypse and might not even wake up for that. So I tend to be a wee bit cranky when awoken for anything less than a full scale emergency. I don't even like to woken for sex. If YOU want to go at it, fine. I see no need for me to be awake for the process. So, I went to bed early and as I was falling into slumber, a killer article landed smack on my lap. However, I was mostly asleep so I figured that I would just write down all my brialliant thoughts and ruminations when I awoke. Well, of course that was patently absurd. I can barely remember my own name and telephone number without IV infusions of coffee and nicotine. So the article is gone. All my ideas, radical and thought provoking, lost to the ages. All because my darling adored ArmyBoy suggested I get some sleep. Bastard. He's always doing that. Ruining my best plans under the guise of being sweet. I hate that. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

I got a call from Marcus Maximus the other day, bitching mightily about my lack of updates here. So, I figured I could carve out ten minutes or so to let the world know what I'm up to. This week's rant is called Married to Uncle Sam's Bitch. No more and no less than the truth, I am indeed married to Uncle Sam's Bitch. It has it's disadvantages, the biggest one of all being other wives. I read a blog the other day, which I won't name out of respect for the 5 people who read this and because why give free publicity? At any rate, this blog was simply a forum for the whining of a wife of an Army Reservist. Now, I'm all for complaining but do it with STYLE! Humor is the best ingrediant you can add to any whine. So, in order to save others from the fate of that poor poor pitiful wife, I made a quiz. This simple five minute test should tell you whether or not you're ready to be married to military. Tomorrow:A brief discussion of your results. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

You miss lots of things when you're seperated from your nearest and dearest for any length of time. Companionship, the friendly banter that is common is all marriages, the sweetness of just being in the same room together. All those things are eminently missable. But, right now, I miss sex. ArmyBoy has been gone for 52 days. 52 long days. I've been without sex for that long before, but not by much. There's always been some willing piece of flesh to scratch my itch with and I'm sure, if I was of a mind, there'd be one right now. Sadly, ArmyBoy has spoilt me for those tempting tidbits of my youth. I'm stuck being faithful out of personal choice and frankly, out of love and respect for the man I chose to make my life with. J is throwing a sex toy party on the 17th. I'm close to reconsidering my ban on inanimate lovers. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

I'm watching Queer Eye right now. I love the Fab Five. Hysterical. Gay men on a mission, highly amusing, as usual. I'm getting more sensitive in my old age. I can't handle any references to abused or hurt children. We live such a sheltered life in the military. There is no crime. I leave my house unlocked, my car unlocked. I don't worry about it, because there is no crime. I never worry about strange noises in the night or sleeping with all our windows open. I'd say the worst that happens is a little domestic disturbance and thankfully, I haven't heard any of that since we've lived there. But, if I read about abused children, I go into paranoia overload. Maybe it's because I worry that I might be one of those terrible parents who beats their child for spilling their juice or something equally moronic. I come from an abusive family, so I know how bad it can get. I work hard every day to break the cycle of abuse and anger that I, as a psych major, know is my destiny. Sick, aren't I? We're back in our home state now. With your parents who, I might add, are working their little buns off to be polite and nice. I still have to grit my teeth occasionally, in order to not lose control of my mouth. If that's the worst thing that happens, I suppose I should count my blessings. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

Younger Son is big pimpin' it nowadays. When we went to the store this morning to pick up his monthly allotment of formula, no less that 10 women were fussing and cooing over him, offering to baby-sit or even adopt him. A few older Grandpa types chucked him under the chin and said what a handsome fella he was, but this was minor compared to the fluttering done by the women. It was mildly reminiscent of Elvis fans, only without the sexual overtones. The cult of the baby is a strong one. Luckily, he's an attention whore and I'm not much bothered by it, either. You should have seen it, though. He was working the crowd like a pro. We can guess where he gets that from, can't we? One of our neighbors who works at the store came up, as she always does and was smooching on him. She told me that every time she sees him, she thinks of you. She told me that everything about him, down to his smile, is exactly like you. I'm forced to agree and to wonder whether I was swimming in the gene pool the night he was conceived. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

"Patriotism is not a short and frenzied outburst of emotion but the tranquil and steady dedication of a lifetime."-Adlai Stevenson I wish I could think of myself as a patriot right now, I really do. But when you're looking down the barrel of another 5 months of lonliness and the possibility of a battery operated boyfriend is looming large, patriotism is not the first emotion that springs to mind. Although, I suppose anything that takes 4 double D batteries might make a girl hum a few choruses of Yankee Doodle Dandy. I just turned off the television. I turned it off because if I have to see one more motivational speech by our beloved Commander-in-Chief, I'm going to start considering a lead based diet. My main problem is the speeches themselves. Stop trying to motivate me. I realize that flogging dead cows is a sacred sport in Texas, but damn! Enough already with the bad Winston Churchill impressions. The stiff upper lip might be an admired characteristic in England but whining is the official American pastime. Right now, I need less motivation and more plans of action. Don't tell me that we aren't giving up, don't tell me we're going to stick around to finish what we started. I got it, I got it. Now, tell me how we're going to win and when we're going to be done. They say talk is cheap, but as I think about it, I think the price is going up. Inflation is a bitch, isn't it? The price of my patience is going up, along with everything else. Try my patience and lose my vote. Oh dear god. I think I just intimated that I might vote Democrat. I obviously need a hot bath, a stiff drink, a hard fuck, and a good night's rest. One out of four ain't bad. Better odds than the lottery, at any rate. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

I have tattoos but apparently I have one on the center of my forehead that I was unaware of until just recently. Did you ever see it? It says Encyclopedia Britannica. I realize that I'm known as the "smart one" but jumpin jesus on a fucking pogo stick, people! Do your own damn homework and don't IM me with stupid questions that you should be able to look up online. Seriously, I got an IM from a nameless friend yesterday asking me the percentage of voters eligible to vote in 2000 who didn't vote. I asked if he'd googled it. He said he'd been looking for an half hour. So how did I find it in five minutes? Even after I sent him the damn link he told me he couldn't find it in the information. Lazy fucking people. I don't mind helping , but I'll be damned if I'm going to do the work for you. Next time, I'm charging by the minute. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

Language is a tool. Language is a tool invented by women. So says one of the world's leading anthropologists and experts on gender differences. Her rationale is actually quite logical. Biologically, male and female brains are different. They produce different hormones and have evolved to do different things. Men are hunters, women are gatherers and tenders of offspring. You don't need language to kill things, but you do need language to raise children. Sexist or not, it makes a frightening kind of sense. Women are more skilled in the use of language and in the use of empathy. I only find this funny because we talked about something similar just today. I postulated that the world would run more efficiently and with far less conflict if women were the primary movers and shakers. Huh. Looks like anthropological and biological research supports me. Scary, isn't it? I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

You are beautiful, but now the whole world knows I didn't marry you for your spelling ability. Watched an interesting show this evening, called Boy Meets Boy. Sort of a gay dating show, but with the added surprise of straight guys thrown in. I love to watch men fall in love. It's so spellbinding. But, it also made me envious. I miss the love affair we had going. I miss laying my head in that spot between your shoulder and your neck, curling up and knowing I'm welcome there. Lying in your arms is just like coming home, the one place in the universe I know I belong. I'm getting sappy now, so it's obviously bedtime. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

It's amazing to me how many smells are linked to memories. I was making coffee just now and as I was cleaning out the old grounds, I suddenly had a vision of my mother. Not some hippie psychadelic thing, just a stray memory of my mother doing something remarkably similar when I was young. That whiff of still warm coffee grounds brought my mother back to me for one minute. I still intend to buy a bottle of her perfume to keep around. Liz Claiborne perfume, as funny as it sounds, just the smell of it brings back feelings of home and security for me. Every time I smell it, I see my mother getting ready to go to work, dressed up in a suit and looking so pretty with her face made up. Sometimes I think I rejected make-up because my mother only wore it when she had work to do and I think I associate it with my mother leaving. Of course, I could be overanalyzing things, as well. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

You know, I have been warned many many times against anthropomorphization. I do try to take these kind warnings to heart, but when you have the kind of luck with electronics I do, it's really hard to remember them. Each piece of electronic equipment has it's own distinct personality. Our DVD player...I love our DVD player. It is the Boy Scout of electronics. The little machine does what you want, when you want and in fact, if it had legs I think it might very well pop my popcorn for me. It is so sweet and helpful. Unfortunately, I don't think this naive innocence can last. The rest of our electronics make the Manson family look like the Osmonds. I exclude the washer and dryer because they are in another room and are thus immune from the evil influences of the rest of these scumbags, but the poor DVD player...it's only a matter of time. Our VCR has the personality of a lifer waitress...surly and uncommunicative. It might serve you and it might not...it really depends on how many anti-depressants and fulsome compliments you feed it. The CD player is no more and no less than a whiny child. It demands perfection and will settle for nothing less. It will play no CD that is not freshly minted and completely shiny clean. Any so-so radio station signal, especially if it's from a really good station that plays songs you can actually listen to without contemplating a full frontal lobotamy, is immediately rendered into white noise (although, all the country stations come in crystal clear, including a few that advertise themselves as The Station in Wichita for Top Country). It has a voracious appetite for tapes, especially irreplacable radio broadcasts made by those nearest and dearest to you. It can not hide it's contempt for me, not that it ever tries. But, the computer! Ah, the piece de resistance in my psychotic electronic family! My computer is lazy, bitchy, and completely without redeeming qualities. It reminds me of 13 year old girl having her third menstrual period. You know, the first two kinda take you by surprise, but that third one really cranks you off. You get a full head of menstrual attitude going by the third one and this computer is stuck there. It randomly changes settings on you, refusing to open links in the same window, even when expressely ordered to do so. It stops functioning for no apparent reason, just a personal computer work stoppage incident, whenever it feels tired or crampy or out of sorts. If you attempt to run more than one program at a time, it becomes passive aggressive with you and needs to stop and think about things for ridiculously long periods of time. I can not talk online AND listen to music, or write AND listen to music. Apparently, the computer considers this behavior both indecisive and offensive so it demands I do one or the other. I hate the computer. But, at least, it doesn't have a jealousy issue, like your Mac did. The Mac. The Mac hated ME. It considered itself your only true love and our relationship was nothing more than outright fornicating adultery. It refused to work for me, shutting itself down when I tried to use it. For you, however, it purred like a kitten and practically panted in anticipation when you started a new design. On second thought, not only did the Mac hate me, but I hated the Mac. We were never able to come to terms. I still hate it, because it broke with one year's worth of writing stored inside it's rusty innards. If not for that, I would have danced and sang with happiness. Tears of joy would have flowed down my face. The rival was vanquished. At least when you buy the new one, I will have a chance to assert my Alpha Bitch rights before it gets too attached to you. So, go ahead. Chide me for anthropormorphization. Chastise me for saying these appliances are out to get me. Tell me I need to get out more. But first, buy me a gun. I need protection when these crazy motherfuckers come for me in the middle of the night. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

There's a nasty storm blowing in. The animals are antsy, the baby is fussy, and I'm just plain worn out. One thing you're never told is how tired you get when there's nobody around to help you out. I was used to having a loving and supportive husband home every night. One thing I could never ever complain about was you and your role in this family. I hear so many women, even J, complaining about how their husband never does anything without being begged, bribed, or threatened. I don't know if it's some threat to their masculinity or if they just had poor male role models. I also don't care. You never give me cause to complain about those things. You are always right by my side, doing your fair share and sometimes, my fair share when I'm whipped. The edge of the storm just showed up. It's all cracking thunder, flashing lightening, ominous clouds, and crazy winds. This could be fun. Sorry you're not here to see it. I know how you love storms. Now, the rain is here. I'm going to go lay down on the couch with Younger Son and enjoy the show. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

I believe the war in the Middle East is justified. I don't think that the proper course of action is to sit back and wait until you're bleeding before you begin to search for your Band-Aids. You should always know where your first aid kit is and that is the light in which I view this war. Had we done that in 1939, perhaps all those soldiers, sailors, and Marines would not be resting at the bottom of Pearl Habor. I mourn for each and every one of them and grieve for their families. I do the same for all the honored dead of all wars, including this one. But, that's not the point of this particular post. I believe in and support the actions taken by President Bush regarding the war on terror and the war in the Middle East. What I don't believe in, can not believe in, and will never support is the Department of Homeland Security. We Americans tend to take everything to excess and this is no exception. Bigotry and racism, once limited to those of a certain idiotic persuasion, is now a federally mandated security precaution. Vigilantes prowl the streets, attacking anyone who looks even remotely Arabic. There is even talk of identity papers, or ATM-like cards that will carry information about us, including our DNA. All in the name of Homeland Security. How much security can our homeland afford? Not economically, but in terms of the cost to our freedoms and our way of life. How far will we go to be safe? No one can guarantee safety, not now, not ever, not on this troubled planet. When will we feel safe enough? When America is an empire, with all threatening nations subjagated underneath her? When all Americans are cowering at the feet of the federal government, unable to speak out against it's actions, unable to dissent for fear of being labeled a terrorist or worse, "person of interest"? I support President Bush. More, I voted for him. But, I disagree with his actions on security. These actions do NOTHING to make us safe and are a threat to our liberty, our right to live free from the interference of our government, and a threat to our way of life. Would Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, or George Washington recognize the cut and paste version of the country they fought to bring to life? Or would they be deeply saddened by the insane change of course it has taken, so far removed from the dream of democracy that these men ,and the soldiers and militiamen who fought and died in the Revolutionary War, held dear? Who can say? I know I am deeply saddened by the sea change America has undergone, in the name of security. "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. --That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security." Not just pretty words. And not to be taken lightly. Think on it. "I am Ozymandias, King of Kings. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair." I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

I think that Army Boy has failed in his first attempt to post. But, I'll pass by that right now. My favorite story came to mind today when I was thinking about the email I sent you yesterday. I was talking to you over the phone one day and said, "It's not that I overspend. It's that you underearn. I live within my budget." And you replied, "I admire your ability to live on a measly half a million, but until we find a bank that offers 300% interest, try to keep your shopping under control." Well, according to Edelman Financial Group, not only do you underearn, but you underpay me as well. The Edelman Financial Group sat down to determine the economic worth of a wife and mother in today's economy. After deciding on what jobs wives and mothers did regularly, including Animal Caretaker, Psychologist, and Executive Chef (although interestingly enough, not Hooker, which I think should be included.) they figured out annual median salaries for all 17 jobs and totaled them up. The startling total? $500, 000 per year, not including Social Security, 401(k), or benefits packages.I told you you couldn't afford me. I want my back pay now, please. I love you. I'll see you when I get home.

I have a cup of coffee, I have a cigarette (trying but failing to quit), and I have two loud children running around my house screaming unintelligible invectives at each other. Actually, I'm not entirely sure they aren't just talking to each other about the havoc they're wreaking. I'll amuse myself by attempting to translate: M.B.: AhEhAhEh! ( I really like this!) Younger Son: AAAAAAAH EEEEH AAAAAAH Pbbt! (I know, I just hope my mom's head doesn't explode like it did yesterday when we pulled the video case over on top of ourselves) M.B.-Tob Ah Don AAHH! (We? That was YOU, buddy.) Y.S.-Mah AH EEEH Pbbt! (Than how come YOU got in trouble and I got a kiss? I was being generous, it was actually YOUR fault!) M.B.-ooh ah de? (Oh yeah, short shit?) Y.S.-REEEEE! ( Yeah!) M.B.-dadada dat mah eeeh? (Whatever. Think your mom will let me play with her lighter?) And so it goes, for about an hour now. The only way I've managed to avoid complete and total breakdown is by imagining such conversations in my head. Now, they're fighting over the precise ownership of the cable wiring. Watching several small children makes it tempting to revert to childhood myself (IT'S ALL MINE!!!! NOW GO AWAY OR I'M GUNNA TELL!). However tempting, it's not really an option so I'm stuck with amusing myself. Talked to Marcus Maximus yesterday. How dare you encourage him? He doesn't need any encouragement to read BAD porn to me and here you are, "Go Marc". Ugh. So to shut him up, I sent him an example of decent porn. However, I didn't write it as I can't write decent porn. So, I appropriated it from a free site I found years ago. But, now he's hooked, the perv. In fact, he demanded more and dirtier the next time. I sent him the link and told him to go at it. Well, it appears the children's conversation has moved from "This is fun" to "How can we kill ourselves today?" I'll pick this up when I'm no longer responsible for the safety of two children. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

Finally got to talk to you again. I'm sorry about missing you, but I just found out that it's your fault (or at least, the equiptment you're using) and not mine. I was home when you called, but I was on the phone. After a brief 20 minute phone call to MCI, it was determined that you're not beeping in when I'm on the phone due to a connection problem on your end (color me shocked and amazed). So, NAH! Took Younger Son swimming in the big pool down the street today. He was okay with it, not exactly thrilled but he enjoyed himself. The only problem we had was his insistance that he could crawl on water. I knew we were spoiling him, damn it! Now he thinks he's the Messiah! Actually, he's turning into to quite the humorous, if attitudinous, child. Always giggly, always at my feet "muhmuhmuhmuh". It's rather endearing. I may keep him after all. I'm almost finished with the third season of DS9. Nothing much new since we talked, other than I can now find out if Younger Son is allergic to chlorine (it will compliment his other allergies). Just to let you know, a '40's style bikini and a shaved head look sexy together. I looked like an ole school pin-up model gone punk. Faaaaaaabulous! I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

I'm writing like a fiend today. Marcus does that to me. He makes me think, works my brain into knots that I have to untangle or I'll go mad. I married you because you were almost like him, almost. You lack his severe issues of alcoholism, a serious fear of commitment and of course, pure insanity. But, other than that, you are his mirror image. You are even physical opposites, in the way a mirror never reflects your image but it's reverse. He's slim and wiry,with crisp dark hair all over his body. You are broad-shouldered, and tall with blonde hair and a smooth figure. Light side and dark side. We joked about that last night. Has anyone ever had a day when they wished they were single again? I do too, only I wish I were married again. It's not much fun to be missing a piece of your life. I should know. Mom died tomorrow. One year ago tomorrow, I lost one of the most important people in my life. I'm still not sure how people carry on after this kind of thing. I'm a poor loser. I feel utterly selfish, as if my needs are so much more important than anyone elses. You are off making the world safe for democracy-or capitalism, at any rate- and I am here, like some sort of prison guard, waiting at the gates. Holding down the fort is what some call it, but it feels more like I'm guarding the locked ward. Nothing ever changes here, and I know that if it were possible, if we lived in Utopia, you would be here too. But, damn it, I'm sick of going to bed alone, curling up around your absent form, searching for the hard angular planes of a body that fits into my soft curves just so I can get some sleep. I read a poem yesterday about how a man feels when he goes down on his lover. But, does he understand how it feels for her? To feel a foreign tongue, and rough fingers invade the sweet softness of her pussy, how she trembles at the first light touch that insists she spread her legs to welcome him? Do men understand how fierce we feel, how exultant we are when we feel the slight shudder that heralds our lover's orgasm? It's been only a short while since I've felt you shudder under neath me, but it already feels like eternity. I have an ocean of longing and hatred inside me. You made me complete, you made me hungry and hot and frightened and delerious. Now it's gone, and like some fucking junkie without her fix, I'm restless and can't settle to anything for long. I light up a cigarette and put it down. It's not the drug I'm craving, but I can't have what I want, so I'll settle for coffee and a cigarette. There, I feel mildly better. But, I'm still twitchy. Hmm... I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

I had a long conversation with Marcus Maximus last night. He doesn't mind if I use his name, I'm sure, as I'm giving him a heads up plug here (www.geocities.com/getinthevan2003GetInTheVan.html) It's a fabulous site, but I'm biased as he's my old lover. It was good to actually talk to someone again, as opposed to bullshitting about the baby, or ArmyBoy being gone, or how life is just peachy keen, thanks, fine, no problems here. The downside of having a tough as nails image is that when you feel weak, you're not allowed to show it. Nothing in this world is free so that's the price you pay for being a b*tch. Most of the time, it's pretty cheap but right now, it's breaking my bank. A note to ArmyBoy specifically: I'm going to start writing poetry again (I can hear your cheers from here). Talking to Maximus and reading an incredible bit of poetry on www.blackasmysoul.blogspot.com inspired me a bit. Well, I'm supposed to drive down to post today with J and the kids. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

What nobody tells you about being a military spouse: 1. You cease to be a person in your own right. I am now Spc. ArmyBoy's dependant, with Sponsor ID number 1234656789.I used to be Mrs.Armywife, no ID number, no nothing. No one cares about what you think, feel, or want. It's all "Sponsor's name and ID number please." At least they say please. 2. Time has no meaning. This applies to everything from problems to answers. IF you can get through to someone willing to take time out of sitting around doing nothing to assist you, their is no definate time frame in which the problem will be responded to or a solution given. Get used to spending inordinate amounts of time explaining and re-explaining your problem, being transfered to different departments, and sighing in frustration as you are told, yet again, that you can't handle this, it has to be done by your Sponsor. Reference number one above. 3. Timeframes are guesses. If you are told your spouse will be deploying within a certain date range, you might expect that, as people who live in the real world do, they will be leaving in between those two dates. Uh-uh, guess again. You no longer reside in the real world, you reside in Military Land where random things happen whenever the hell the military thinks they should happen. Owe the military money? Be prepared to have it taken out of your paycheck 2 years or more down the road, because of a "clerical error". This happens so often to military families, I'm starting to wonder if the training school for Finance has a subsection entitled "How to make clerical errors". I'm sure they do, along with an Army Regulation Book that tells them the correct way to make clerical errors. 4. More on Army Regulations. The Army has regulations for everything, including the way you and your spouse are allowed to engage in sexual intercourse(for the record, it's missionary position only, with your legal spouse, under the covers, with the lights out). If you think I'm making this up, go ahead and ask around, look it up. It's really, truely a regulation and anything else is considered sodomy, which is illegal in the Army. These no nonsense, idiotic regulations will govern every aspect of your life, including when and where you may vacation, how often your spouse must cut his/her hair and what type of haircut it will be, where you live, what type of dwelling you may live in (If you don't live in Government Quarters, which aren't so spiffy but are free, than the Army must approve your lease and location. They can even restrict who you rent/buy from.), and how many animals you can own. Be prepared to get excited about things only to be experience a major malfunction when your military spouse tries to explain to you why whatever you're excited about not only can't happen but is against Army Regulations (this one can be fun if you enjoy watching your spouse get panicked and frustrated. note: not for amateurs). There are about a dozen other things I can think of off the top of my head that no one tells about when you sign up to be a military spouse. Your tour of duty lasts as long as you are married to a soldier or until one of you loses your mind and screams "I bleeping hate the Army! When can we go home???" Unfortunately, you aren't in Kansas anymore Dorothy (or Ohio, Louisiana, Maine, repeat for all the states that don't have bases for your branch of service but which you personally have lived your entire life and would like to return to as quickly as possible). They tell you about deployments, but no one can really describe to you the mind-numbing sameness of your days when you only have small children and other left-behind spouses to share them with. No one can adequately define for you the sheer lonliness that losing your spouse brings. No one but another military spouse can understand why the car breaks, the cat dies, the kids teeth start tp rot, their feet all start to grow like they have yeast in their shoes, and the washer starts walking out of the laundry room all on the same day the very instant your spouse (who normally helps you deal with these types of things, either by fixing them or fixing you so that you don't wind up in a locked ward) leaves for six months to a year. It's rather like being a POW or a hostage. The only people that understand are people who've dealt with it themselves. Even your spouse won't understand, because he/she has a job to do, a job they at least tolerate if not outright love. They don't understand that your life is on hold, you're just putting in time until you can return to your "real" life back home. No one will tell you these things, no one will understand them, and you'll be too crazy, frustrated, bored, and lonely to analyze them. Once it's over, it won't matter. Until it's over, there's nothing you can do to fix it. You just have to try to live in a holding pattern. Trust me, you'll actually start to get good at it. That's the scariest part of all. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

I hate this. It literally, officially, unequivocally stinks. The Army stinks, war stinks, and most of all, this whole situation stinks. We got to talk today for the second time since you left. The connection was so bad half of our conversation was "What? I didn't hear you?" and the other half sounded as if someone was attempting to use the phone line to simultaneously send a fax and dial up a modem. Yes, it really was THAT bad. It was so bad in fact, that after about 2 minutes of this, I started to wail and scream and sob uncontrollably, in front of people, something I never do. I didn't even cry in front of people when my mother died, that is how much I detest losing my cool for a live studio audience. The reason I lost my mind is that the first time we talked was a "morale call". Those last approxiamately 5 minutes, give or take a few. Now, those 5 minutes weren't terrific, given that we were connected via DSN, some archaic form of telecommunication whereby you hear yourself before the other person does. It goes something like this: "Hello?" (pause, echo of yourself saying Hello) (longer pause as the other party finally hears you say Hello) "Hi! It's (static) me!" Repeat for 5 minutes. Annoying yes, but well worth it to hear your beloved's voice. However, when you only have 5 minutes, the last thing you want is some terrible satellite phone connection cutting in and out. So, I became a soggy mess. Luckily, you had more than five minutes this time. You had so much time I got to talk to one of your teammates, too. He reported that you are indeed behaving yourself, except for long complaints about how much you miss your wife. I like that. I miss you too. I'm a wreck. I'd say I was depressed, except depressed people have more energy and leave the house more than I do. Hell, shut-ins leave the house more than I do. Also, if I was depressed I'd have to see a therapist and possibly take medication, two more things I do not need. I'm thinking of another piercing. I've already shaved my head. Yes, I'm completely bald...well, buzzed at any rate. I didn't Bic it because that's alot of effort for something that's going to grow back in a month. Good thing you think buzzed is sexy...bad thing that you're not here to enjoy it. I miss you...Oh, I said that already. Heffa is coming up to keep me company, which is nice. I miss all my friends back home. I miss having a life and stores that are less than 30 miles away. Younger Son is adorable and actually makes great company when I'm not tired, which is most of the time. I'm rambling now. I'm going to go take a cool bath and try and get some sleep. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

Last night was rough. Older Son went to Ohio with his father. You and I spent most of the day and the night picking up the emotional garbage strewn around the house. You're leaving soon...as in SOON. I'd say when but you've drilled operational security into me a little too well. My mouth hurts from oral surgery and I can't take any pain pills for fear of passing out while I'm home alone with Younger Son. I hope your battalion lets you come home early today. I'd like to spend just a little more time with you before you leave. I know you feel the same. It's so funny. You yelled at me not to hop a plane to the Middle East and now, you're wondering if there's any way I can make it over there so you can see me. Lover, we've been through worse. We'll make it through this. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

Only a few more days till you leave. GRR. There is still so much that needs done. I now understand what caused hundreds of thousands of women to follow in the wake of those massive armies of yore. History records them as prostitutes, washerwomen, or ghouls hoping for plunder from the dead. I'm betting they were women whose husbands had forgotten to do the chores before they galloped off to war. Women who couldn't bear for their husbands to go somewhere without them, without knowing they were safe. I don't know why we think we can keep our military spouses safe if we're there. But, we do. At least, I do. You told me the other night, "No phone messages saying you hopped a plane to the Middle East. This isn't like going to Georgia." I guess since I spontaneously decided to come visit you during school in Georgia, you thought I might do the same thing while you were deployed. If we had no kids and I could figure out how to get away with it, I probably would. I speculated on leaving the boys with my brother and joining a civilian relief organization, but you started glaring, so I quit. Speculating out loud, that is. Speaking of annoyances, I'm sick and tired of that "Where is the love" song. In fact, I'm sick and tired period of all these pop and rap stars parading their anti-war viewpoints across radio waves. People like Jay-Z carry guns and have bodyguards who will shoot you if you scuff their Adidas. But, Deity of Your Choice Forbid the American Government take up arms to defend the country. OH NO, that's just WRONG. Please. Call me when you change your name to Martin Luther Ghandi Jay-Z, m'kay? I have no problem with most of these long-haired, Starbucks drinking, hippie peaceniks. But, hypocrisy gets on my nerves. Most of it is guilt induced proselytizing, anyways. "I have money, and cars, and a wonderfully excessive American Dream going here. It's so unfair. What did I do to deserve this? Why don't all those poor Afghanis, Iraqis, Africans, (insert oppressed people of choice) have what I have?" It's okay for Eminem to take out some guy for sleeping with his wife, but soldiers, Marines, and sailors serving their country better put those weapons down. Oh well, I'll stop ranting now. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

Monday Monday. Younger Son is eating his toast with applesauce (no butter or anything else fun, come to think of it, due to his milk allergy), Older Son is still sleeping, and I'm finishing up my imaginary shopping trip. I'm thinking of a cherry sleigh futon to replace the couch, only minus the futon mattress "I just got out of college" look. I could make up some cushions pretty easily, I think. Paint that hideous armoire and there you go. Well, that and a slipcover for the chair. I'm tired. Not real tired, just plain, old "I have two kids" tired. Talked to most of the family over the week-end, after straightening out MCI. Nothing new at home, except some flooding. Trying to get ahold of J to regale her with Younger Son's lastest milestones. I'd feel bad if I didn't know that I'll get a 20 minute song and dance routine on her offspring in return. It's the way mommy friendships work. Amusing, I think. We sold off the kids to J the other night so we could have a quiet last night together type thing, complete with the main component, QUIET. However, after a whiz bang bed bouncing session and a nice dinner, we just stared at each other. I even asked, "What did we do for conversation before we had kids?" Neither one of us could remember. Likewise, I don't know if J and I ever talk about ourselves at all. We talk about our husbands, our sex lives (or lack thereof, depending on the situation), our kids, our houses. But, not about ourselves. I'm starting to wonder about me. I used to stay out at coffeeshops until 6 a.m. dishing drama and discussing everything from string theory to operatic themes to why Picard is cooler than Kirk but Sisko beats them both. Now, my conversation runs the gamut from Diapers to Teething and back again. I'm sure that I used to be an interesting person. I wonder whatever happened to that? Well, enough moping. I love you and I'll see you when you get home.

I just have a few minutes before I take the kids to J's. Another doctor's appointment. Test results and the like. Fun, fun, fun. I don't know why, but we're being banged again...only this time, it's hard, it hurts, and there's not even the comfort of a reach-around. 12 month deployments, the government is running out of money for all the pet projects it started, and now, they're talking about taking away combat tax exclusions and hostile fire pay. I'll go Gomer-ish for a second, "Surprise, Surprise, Surprise". War is expensive, it's a proven fact. Throughout time, war is always more expensive than peace or Ben&Jerry's. The Pharoah Hatshepsut hated war, in fact, became known as an ultrasmooth, ultraslick diplomat, because she saw war as wasteful and costly. The ancient Egyptians knew it, why haven't we figured it out? Now, I'm no peacenik, free love, hookah smelling hippie. I'm neither for nor against war on principle. I have situational ethics, so I'm not bothered by clearly justified military actions. But, how in the H-E-double hockeysticks are we going to get into a two front campaign, continue to supply troops for the peacekeeping mission in Bosnia, AND comtemplate sending troops to Liberia, but complain we have no money? Priorites, people! I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

It's Tuesday. I don't know why, but Tuesday is so much worse than Monday. Maybe because I enjoy new beginnings and Tuesday isn't the start of anything new. It's just more drudge. Younger son got his shots yesterday. Another workout for his already supremely impressive lungs. I'm starting to think he'll be a singer instead of a musician. A career in opera is looking more likely with every scream. Ants have invaded our back stoop, scurrying into the house, with their audacious plan of building an anthill by the back door. J just came over, with her offspring. He and Younger Son had fun tearing up the house until Younger son abruptly fell asleep, almost in the manner of a narcoleptic. Older Son is outside destroying some local bit of flora and fauna with his "club". So, I'm all by myself (yay!) listening to Bill Bryson's "I'm a Stranger Here Myself" A little comedic relief before the deluge. J reported the latest deployment rumor, in which a friend of her husband (or was it a team member of a friend of her husband?) said that they will be deploying to one country for 6 months, come home for 2 weeks of half-days, followed by 2 weeks of leave, to be immediately followed by a deployment to yet another country for 6 more months. Also under discussion was the possible repeal of combat zone tax exclusions and hostile fire pay for certain overseas posts. J states rather authoritatively that we will not be affected, as the government (giggle, giggle) can't take it away once they give it. In effect, since you're already receiving it, it won't affect you, only those deployed after you. After a hearty guffaw, I informed her that this is the Army and they can do whatever they jolly well please, irrespective of the law. She didn't take this well. I'm mentally redecorating the house. Only mentally, as we can't afford it quite yet. And anyways, all the things I want are out of stock. I'm thinking nautical blue for the bedroom and the bathroom with perhaps, a deep red for the living room. The kitchen will be getting a French Provincial treatment, and possibly a few tasteful nudes. I'm definately purchasing a few Betty Page photos for the downstairs bathroom. I'm too excited by mental redecorating. I need a new hobby. Speaking of new hobbies, J is trying to talk me into joining the Y with her. I'm considering that as well, as she says they have Yoga and T'ai Chi classes. I'm more into bellydancing these days, but I might, for fun. I have another doctor's appointment tomorrow. Oldest Son has just stomped out of the house, having been denied money for pop. So, I'll end this, and go put out the brushfires flaring up around the house. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

So, all the SRC stuff is finally finished (I think). I'm starting to cook for tonight's going away get together. I went to the FRG pre-deployment briefing (alone!) last night. I was so mad about having to drive down to base again that I almost got something pierced. I know, it's a silly way to redirect my almost gargantuan temper, but it works for me. The FRG meeting was about pointless. JAG, the Red Cross, Finance, and Housing all did their thing, which I've heard a million times before. I have my power's of Attorney, you have your will, who cares? Sorry, but I'm not a team player. That's why you're in the Army and I'm not. I hate this faux sense of community. Our spouses get shot at together and that's supposed to make us all feel warm and chummy? Ugh. Well, I suppose it's better than the big middle finger we get almost every other time. I just prefer to pick and choose my friends and aquaintances. Your new deployment window is set, I know roughly where you're going to be, I know roughly what you'll be doing. I just don't know how I'm going to react. It was different when you went to Fort Gordon for school. Yeah, you were gone annd I was alone, but I didn't have the baby (well, I did but he was easier to take care of in utero) and I was home with Heffa and my bro and all those folks that make life easier and more enjoyable. I just realized that I'll be home on the anniversary of the day Mom died. Home, by myself, not too far away from where her ashes are scattered. Cheery thought, but one that can't be avoided. I'll stop into the nursing home to see Daddy, make nice with your parents, maybe even go out and buy a book, but I'll still be thinking that you're gone and so's Mom. In reading all the war blogs that have popped up over the last year (some good, some not so) one common thread seems to be running through all of them. An almost determined cheerfulness in the face of hardship and privation. Yes, I know, the hardships and privations experienced by we overfed, overindulged, thoughtlessly selfish Americans are laughable compared with those facing the Afghanis, Iraqis, and others. But, where is it written that tragedies must be comparable? In other words, why must I feel bad for feeling bad because others feel worse? The problems suffered by man cannot be placed on a global scale to be weighed, measured, and balanced. Life is viewed dimly, through our own personal filter. The suffering of others, no matter how tragic and despairing they are, cannot be seen with the same eyes as our own suffering. This is something liberals of all stripe fail to realize. You cannot balance the books, so to speak, by depriving or shaming one group so that everyone suffers equally. Life is not a zero sum game. One of my favorite choral pieces is O Fortuna from Carl Orff's Carmina Burana. I love it because it's words ring so true. Fortune is fickle, a revolving wheel in which we are moving from top to bottom. Just as life is not static, neither are joy and misery. Anyone who tells you different is shamming you. But, I enjoy and even celebrate this cheerfulness. Unlike you, my darling Gothapottamus, I am not inclined to enjoy emotional states of despair. I am, as are so many others these days, determined to be happy no matter what. Even if I have to fake it. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.

It's noon here. I just got back from the doctor's office. More asthma medication, an EKG, bloodwork, two referrals, and a scheduled echocardiogram later, I'm still breaking down. We have our deployment briefing tonight. The kids are noisy, as usual. Thank goodness, our usual babysitter is so tolerant. If it weren't for her.. I have to say, despite all my fears about what the military would mean to our life, things are going surprisingly well. Yeah, we're broke and you're leaving for 6 months to a year, but we're intact. Still crazy, still in love, and still very much the Dynamic Duo. Heck, I worried what kids would do to our lives. Comparatively speaking, the military hardly makes a dent. I worry alot, never out loud. I worry how I'm going to manage all those long trips home and back without help, how I'm going to find time to shower and clean the house, or even get out of bed without knowing the cavalry is charging home at 6:00 p.m. to relieve me for 15 minutes. I worry how you'll be with no air conditioning in your tent and nothing to do but brood. You're a champion brooder. I'd say if brooding was an Olympic event, you're America's gold medal contender. I worry how the baby will react to you when you come home, if you come home. That big if always weighs on my mind. J.J. says if she sees a man in Class A's coming up to her door, she's locking it and calling me to deal with him. Who do I call, though? But, I knew this was part of the package when we (not you, we) signed the contract. We get a chance to travel, fulfill our goals, and raise our kids, all on the government tab and in return, you just have to be willing to die. I love you. I'll see you when you get home.