Friday, August 01, 2008
Today's Sentence - 8/1
If there was a conversation about cock rings going on anywhere with anyone around post today, somehow I managed to find myself overhearing it.
An update on this week's troubles.
Mrs. X got a good scare. With a little help, she cleaned up her house. She cleaned up her act. She got her kids back as well as a prescription for some serious anti-depressant and anti-anxiety meds.
Sounds like a happy ending, I guess. But I don't feel good about it.
I can't help but think that the services available here -- now stretched thin by wounded soldiers -- can not provide the support that she is going to need moving forward. And there's only so much the FRG and her neighbors can do. She received a lot of help this week. It can't go on indefinitely.
So here's hoping that we don't find ourselves in the same boat with Mrs. X in 10 weeks. Or worse, that we hear from Mrs. X again after something happens to her or one of her kids.
Sounds like a happy ending, I guess. But I don't feel good about it.
I can't help but think that the services available here -- now stretched thin by wounded soldiers -- can not provide the support that she is going to need moving forward. And there's only so much the FRG and her neighbors can do. She received a lot of help this week. It can't go on indefinitely.
So here's hoping that we don't find ourselves in the same boat with Mrs. X in 10 weeks. Or worse, that we hear from Mrs. X again after something happens to her or one of her kids.
A new online addiction.
Earlier this week, a total-blast-from-the-past high school boyfriend (wait -- can you call someone a boyfriend if you only "went together" for like two weeks back in 8th grade and only ever held hands?) invited me to Facebook. Bored and on my third glass of wine, I joined up.
It's going to be a new addiction. I can feel it. Seeing so many people from these past high school and college lives feels like a voyeur's dream. I can see who married who, who had kids, who got fat, and -- even more entertaining -- who has had plastic surgery.
It's amazing what kind of shit people will post on social networking sites these days.
I'm not sure if the allure will last. Once your curiosity is piqued, can someone twittering about getting their nails done really hold the thrill that seeing their pre- and post-nosejob pictures can? Probably not. But it was something nostalgic and silly to do this week when I was ready to run screaming away from my own life.
And that's something, anyway.
It's going to be a new addiction. I can feel it. Seeing so many people from these past high school and college lives feels like a voyeur's dream. I can see who married who, who had kids, who got fat, and -- even more entertaining -- who has had plastic surgery.
It's amazing what kind of shit people will post on social networking sites these days.
I'm not sure if the allure will last. Once your curiosity is piqued, can someone twittering about getting their nails done really hold the thrill that seeing their pre- and post-nosejob pictures can? Probably not. But it was something nostalgic and silly to do this week when I was ready to run screaming away from my own life.
And that's something, anyway.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Suddenly, I don't feel so bad about the state of my house.
Last night, I got a phone call in the wee hours of the morning. The MPs had been called on one of our FRG's families. Not for a loud party, illegally parked car or a fight. Nope. Because of the smell.
This spouse, I'll call her Mrs. X for brevity's sake, had not cleaned her house since the soldiers deployed. She has two kids, both in diapers. She has not done laundry, taken out the trash or disposed of a single dirty diaper in nearly four months. She has not cooked either, opting to bring home take-out and leave the leftovers out on the furniture and floors to breed maggots and attract vermin. And she and her children somehow have lived in this mess for all that time.
When I arrived this morning, after the children had been removed from the premises, Mrs. X and a group of volunteers had been cleaning for nearly 10 hours. But I still found myself knee deep in garbage. The walls were covered with brown stains of unknown origin. The entire refrigerator door was writhing in maggots. There was a dead rat in the bathroom cupboard. By the time I left, more than 40 industrial-sized garbage bags had been filled and carried to the dumpster.
I have no idea how someone, let alone someone with young kids, managed to let things go like this. When I asked Mrs. X, she said that she just didn't realize so much time had passed. That it didn't seem that bad from the inside.
The worst part about all of this is that Mrs. X did not seem like that kind of person we'd have to worry about. She comes to meetings. She comes to events. She has a group of several friends that she sees regularly. She calls when she needs information about the Nurse's hotline or where to get a new ration card.
It makes me wonder who else I should be worrying about. And that pile of clutter on my dining room table? Is that the start of something more sinister?
This spouse, I'll call her Mrs. X for brevity's sake, had not cleaned her house since the soldiers deployed. She has two kids, both in diapers. She has not done laundry, taken out the trash or disposed of a single dirty diaper in nearly four months. She has not cooked either, opting to bring home take-out and leave the leftovers out on the furniture and floors to breed maggots and attract vermin. And she and her children somehow have lived in this mess for all that time.
When I arrived this morning, after the children had been removed from the premises, Mrs. X and a group of volunteers had been cleaning for nearly 10 hours. But I still found myself knee deep in garbage. The walls were covered with brown stains of unknown origin. The entire refrigerator door was writhing in maggots. There was a dead rat in the bathroom cupboard. By the time I left, more than 40 industrial-sized garbage bags had been filled and carried to the dumpster.
I have no idea how someone, let alone someone with young kids, managed to let things go like this. When I asked Mrs. X, she said that she just didn't realize so much time had passed. That it didn't seem that bad from the inside.
The worst part about all of this is that Mrs. X did not seem like that kind of person we'd have to worry about. She comes to meetings. She comes to events. She has a group of several friends that she sees regularly. She calls when she needs information about the Nurse's hotline or where to get a new ration card.
It makes me wonder who else I should be worrying about. And that pile of clutter on my dining room table? Is that the start of something more sinister?
Monday, July 28, 2008
Can someone explain to me...
...why the new Major promotion list for the Army Competitive Category is delayed? Anyone? Anyone?
It's driving me more than a little crazy.
It's driving me more than a little crazy.
Sell your testosterone elsewhere. We're all full up here.
Sarah blogged on SpouseBUZZ about how she likes to pass deployment time by watching testosterone-filled movies. Though I'll admit to throwing 300 on every once in a while to look at lots of half-naked hotties, I find myself watching another sort of movie when CPT Dick is away -- the chick flick.
And during deployment times, the sappier the chick flick, the better.
I tend to store up stress. So much so that there is probably a Rubbermaid logo stamped on my ass - you know, under the wide load sign. And when you carry around that much worry, you need a release. My release is to cry.
I'm not a crier by nature. I tend to take most of life with a stiff upper lip. So I watch these movies about love lost and found, love dying and renewed, the man who got away and the woman who left -- these totally predictable and maudlin films -- so at the end of them all, I can let myself tear up and get it all out.
I realize that it is pretty ridiculous. But all it takes is a good cry after watching Shirley MacLaine tell those nurses that it's 10:00am and Debra Winger needs her pain medicine, goddammit, to reset my internal stress meter. It's what works for me.
And during deployment times, the sappier the chick flick, the better.
I tend to store up stress. So much so that there is probably a Rubbermaid logo stamped on my ass - you know, under the wide load sign. And when you carry around that much worry, you need a release. My release is to cry.
I'm not a crier by nature. I tend to take most of life with a stiff upper lip. So I watch these movies about love lost and found, love dying and renewed, the man who got away and the woman who left -- these totally predictable and maudlin films -- so at the end of them all, I can let myself tear up and get it all out.
I realize that it is pretty ridiculous. But all it takes is a good cry after watching Shirley MacLaine tell those nurses that it's 10:00am and Debra Winger needs her pain medicine, goddammit, to reset my internal stress meter. It's what works for me.
Exit lights, enter night.
Take my hand. Off to Never, never land.
Or La-la land, in this case. Never knew James Hetfield had it in him to be frickin' preppie.
Another part of my childhood now ruined.
Or La-la land, in this case. Never knew James Hetfield had it in him to be frickin' preppie.
Another part of my childhood now ruined.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
In a funk.
Woke up in a funk today. I'm still mulling whether I should keep on as FRG leader or just get the hell out of dodge. And for whatever reason, the question has me reconsidering everything about this deployment -- whether I should have stayed in Europe, what more I should be doing for Munchkin, what more I should be doing for me.
It's not a fun internal conversation. Maybe it will get more so once I add in the tequila.
It's not a fun internal conversation. Maybe it will get more so once I add in the tequila.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
