I'm the weirdest kind of ex-pat.

Technically speaking, as a military dependent, I doubt I can even be classed as ex-pat. But pretend with me so I can feel a little more cosmopolitan as I sit here typing in my (new!) Elmo-themed pajama shorts.

I've been living in Germany for 5 years. And every time I come back to the states I feel a little overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the 15 different brands of Italian-style bread crumbs at the grocery store. Overwhelmed by the variety of billboards that can offer me all-night staying power or a reminder that God is listening within the same 5 mile stretch of highway. Overwhelmed by the sheer number of McDonald's restaurants I will pass during any one car trip. Overwhelmed by the diversity, really. There is just so much going on, so much of the time. This truly is the land of plenty in many respects.

I feel like a rube venturing to the big city for the first time, even though this is the place I once called home. I feel out of my element. I wonder how much life overseas has changed who I am and what values are most important to me. I haven't quite figured it out.

Back in the saddle.

Yesterday, Munchkin and I flew back to the states. To Texas, where much of my extended family lives.

It was actually a fantastic flight. We sat next to a woman from Spain, Ilona, who is starting a coveted post-doctoral position. She was so excited for the opportunity and to spend some time in the United States. She talked about how it had taken nearly a year for her to get all the paperwork together so it could happen. She fingered a thick folder full of papers as she told us it was done, she was on her way and she was ready.

Once we landed, we queued up for immigration. Ilona was kind enough to help me lug the dreaded car seat/stroller/50 lb. carry-on bag/child combination for what seemed like miles until we got to the line. And so, once it was our turn, it was only fair for us to wave her ahead. After all, I couldn't figure out where I had put our passports. Somewhere between extra diapers and the animal crackers, I think.

I'm guessing that the immigration official was not familiar with all of the student visa paperwork or perhaps Ilona wasn't sure exactly what papers she needed to show him. It was a thick folder of stuff. After a few minutes of failed communication, the official hollered, "I need a Spanish translator, please!"

And that's where it got surreal.

We were in the U.S. Citizen/Green Card/Permanent Resident line. The line that Ilona was told to go to (thank goodness, since she was carrying my car seat and we still had like a half mile to go) by another official when they split up visitors and residents. And apparently, the fellow in the line next to me thought the whole thing was taking too long. As the translator approached, he said, loud enough for everyone in the whole damn hall to here, "It's a crying shame when a resident of the United States of American can't speak English. Fucking Mexicans."

Then another woman piped up, "I know, right!"

I saw Ilona's face fall. I don't know if she totally understood the words but she understood the tone and that it was directed at her. How could you not? And it broke my heart that this woman who had worked her ass off to come to the States should be given this introduction the first time she steps foot in it.

So, I couldn't keep my big mouth shut.

I informed the gentleman (and I use that term loosely) next to me that the Constitution of the United States, the great document upon which our country was founded, made no mention of an official language. And over the past few hundred years, an amendment to make English the official language has been shot down every single time.

I then went on to explain that men much smarter than him -- because a smart man does not walk into an airport that employs a majority of individuals who claim Latino descent and start spouting off about "Fucking Mexicans" -- oppose the idea of an official language for a variety of reasons including impact to free trade, due process and equal protection under the law.

It's not like I expected the response to my outburst to be, "Wow, you've really given me something to think about!" The "fuck you" I got was about par for the course. But I didn't expect so many in the crowd to snicker when he did, as if his expletive really countered anything I had said.

Then I was called up to the immigration desk. I kept an eye out for Ilona at baggage claim but between a diaper change, corraling of bags and finding my ride, I didn't see her.

I hope that her new University welcomes her with open arms. I hope that these two years are all that she dreamed and more. I hope that she doesn't think that all Americans can be stereotyped. But most of all, I hope that the wonder of what comes next completely expunges any memory of a rude man in a baseball cap in line at U.S. immigration.

I don't usually do this, but...

I get all kinds of weird emails about this blog. People who want me to stump for a candidate, try a product or plug their book. I even got a marriage proposal once. He even might have been serious. Usually, I send them a nice, "Thanks but that's not my bag."

And when I received an email from the International Medical Corps a few weeks ago about their Top 25 American Express' Members project, "Saving the Lives of Malnourished Children." I did the same thing. I don't write all that often about social issues in Africa. But after I declined, I read up on them and was pretty impressed. Impressed enough, as an AmEx card holder, to vote for them.

Lo and behold, they made it to the Top 5 without any help from my puny blog. Mostly because it's a good project.

So, if you happen to carry an AmEx, check out the projects. Vote. Because $1.5 million could do a whole lot of good right about now.

Blogger book club?

Anyone really into this idea? If so, send me an email at nonessentialequipment {at} gmail {dot} com.

A first book could be Allison Winn Scotch's "Time of My Life." Especially since she was so great to do an interview for the blog.

If there's enough interest, I'd love to do it.

Still time to get your vote on!

Voting for this year Milbloggies closes tonight at midnight. Your humble servant is a nominee in the U.S. Military (Spouse) category, along with some other killer blogs.

So if you haven't done so already, get out the vote!

It's time to vote!

The nominations are in for this year's Milbloggies Awards. They are:

ArmyWifeToddlerMom;

The Life and Times of a Butterfly Wife;

SpouseBUZZ;

My Crazy Amazing Military Life;

And get this, ME!

For those of you who nominated me, thank you. I've got this whole Sally Field "You-Really-Like-Me" speech going on in my head. It made my day. But now you got to get over to Milblogging.com and vote.

I don't envy your decision. All four of my competitors rock.

Contemplating anonymity.

With a promotion approaching, CPT Dick is soon to be MAJ Dick. With that, he will be out of command and I will step down from FRG leadership.

A friend, who knows my super-secret identity, asked me if I plan to lose the anonymity on this blog once that happens.

It's interesting -- I really hadn't considered the idea until she mentioned it. Now I can't stop thinking about it. Part of me has always cringed a bit at being anonymous. Although it has been smart for this stage in both my and my husband's career, it has always struck me as slightly cowardly.

Most of what I write on this blog is stuff I am perfectly comfortable saying in public. But in the right arena to the right people. I don't tend to tell my mother-in-law she's crazy to her face, nor do I insult the only therapists available over here when I need them to still provide services to my kid. If I did go public, I'd have to revamp the blog a little. I'd have to remove some old postings (mainly the ones pertaining to said crazy mother-in-law) and I probably would avoid drinking and blogging. As much as I say that I have only one face, I have to admit that being anonymous has offered me a unique freedom to purge what's happening in my world without direct consequences.

So I'm turning the question over to you, dear readers. What say you? Do you think there is value in removing the mask at this point (you know, those of you who haven't already figured out who I am)? Or should I just continue the ride I started?

I feel pretty, oh-so-pretty. I feel pretty and witty and gay!

A few days ago, one of the Rear D soldiers stopped me to tell me I looked very nice. I was kind of floored by it -- I'm just not the type of girl that your average 20 year old stops to compliment. You know, I'm old and I have my large post-baby ass to contend with. So I did a mental checklist:

• Bra on? Check.
• Boob appropriately checked into bra? Check.
• Nipples in non-cold, locked-down position? Check.
  
• Bra type that supports against stripper-like jiggling? Check.
• Butt crack safely stowed in jeans? Check.

So I dismissed it. Probably just an ass-kisser. But then about 5 minutes later, a friend of my husband's complimented me, too. Told me my eyes shined. And as he said it, another person, a spouse, concurred. At this point, I wasn't taking any chances. I ran to the restroom to look at myself and figure out what the hell was going on.

There I was, reflected in the mirror. I was wearing my usual uniform of jeans, t-shirt and sneakers. My make-up was the old regular routine -- a little mascara and chapstick. So what was all the fuss about?

Wait. I forgot. I did do something different. I wore earrings. That's it. And I didn't even really put them on. I threw them on as a joke to entertain Munchkin as I sorted through my jewelry box and the piles of crap I never wear earlier that morning.

Earrings, people. Who'd a thunk it? Someone remind me of this next time I start obsessing over whether or not it's time to buy a pair of Spanx. It's always the little things.

Reasons I should not go shopping while having my period.

1. Forgot the carrots for the Japanese curry rice.
2. Was somewhat grossed out by all of the chicken in the poultry case.
   
3. Took advantage of the $1/bag sale on Doritos.
4. Found myself with a case of Snack Packs left over from the case lot sale.

(Make that half a case now).

No need to be concerned.

I've just been busy. This whole FRG thing is bleeding me dry -- we have a lot of young wives on their first deployment who just don't know how to cope outside of getting themselves drunk, laid or arrested -- and I am still trying to figure out how to find the best balance. Add to that some new work, a toddler with enough energy to power a small metropolis and a family visit and you have no time to blog.

Forgive me.

What have you been up to?

Did I say I was voting for Hillary?

Crap.

Now I have no idea who to vote for. Frankly, I don't feel that any of the candidates right now could have my total support.

It feels just like 2004.

A devastating loss.

No, no, CPT Dick is just fine. Even though I think I might have to kill him for accidentally washing and drying my new cashmere sweater after I told him ten times TO NOT PUT THE BLUE SWEATER ON TOP OF THE HAMPER IN THE WASH. But apparently, I'm not supposed to be mad because he was helping out. If I don't like the way he does it, then don't ask for help.

(I need to pass on that logic to some of his soldiers, me thinks).

Anyway, I suffered a devastating and crushing loss last weekend. Not the sweater either (though it was expensive and made my boobs look great). My laptop died.

I took it straightaway to the computer fix-it guy. And when he booted it and said, "this is odd," in a strained voice I knew that everything was gone. I'd have to rely on my back-up drive.

But when I took it down off the shelf to keep handy for later use, Munchkin decided it would make a great hockey puck. By the time I found the main piece under the couch and the USB bit broken off and behind the TV, I had a mild panic attack. So, bye-bye back-up.

I'm not ashamed to say I cried a little. Okay, maybe I sobbed like a grade school girl who has learned that her new kitten has to be put to sleep.

I've spent the last week going through my sent box, trying to retrieve what I can from attachments. But it's been slow going and more than a little depressing. I had three years of work on that laptop. God knows how many half-finished essays that might have one day been finished and sold. A lot of photos. And all the new Lost episodes I haven't gotten a chance to watch yet.

Technology should not merit so much heartache.

Just a silly old love song.

As part of our unit's farewell ceremony, I've been asked to create a slideshow complete with photos from the past year and personal messages. It's to be set to music. Only problem is, I'm having a lot of trouble figuring out what music to use.

We have a very diverse unit. Lots of different ages, races, religions and preferences. There's no way to please everyone. But I would like to stay moderately hip. But honestly, do you know how hard it is to find songs that aren't too happy, aren't too sad, don't talk about drugs, drinking, adultery or breaking up or God? It ain't easy, I tell you. It ain't easy at all.

But I came up with a couple choices (the slideshow will take about 15 minutes -- so 3-4 songs). I thought Rihanna's "Umbrella," though played out, would fit. Foo Fighters' "Next Year" is always a popular choice. And that country dude who sings "That's what it's all about."

But I don't know. The choices feel lame. Any suggestions from the peanut gallery? I'm taking anything but Toby Keith requests.

I think my paper towels are mocking me.

Yesterday, after Munchkin puked up popcorn and apple juice all over the floor, my feet and the couch, I noticed something. My paper towels were decorated with motivational messages. Apparently, as I used half the roll to clean up the mess, not only was it "my day," but it was "my time to shine" and "the best time to smile" and "to live, laugh, learn and love."

It's never good when your paper sundries are mocking the kind of day you are having. Next time, I'm buying generic.

Failure.

I'm not so good at failure.

I don't know if I mentioned it but I applied for an academic fellowship a few months ago at a fairly esteemed school in England. Honestly, I sort of applied on a lark. The fellowship was for mid-career journalists and I just barely met the eligibility requirements. I figured I'd be dismissed right off the bat.

But I wasn't. I was selected as a finalist and flown to England to interview. And that got my hopes up. Way, way up.

You know, as military wives, no matter how prolific a career or education we had before marriage, just by nature of the beast, so much of our lives becomes about our husbands. I know I've fought such a thing tooth and nail and yet here I am, living in this tiny corner of Germany, raising our child, leading my husband's FRG, volunteering my time for his unit, attending all of his events. There's not much time for my stuff. And what time there is, isn't very glamorous. I can't remember the last time I achieved something that was all about me. So you know, the idea of having my own thing, something new and different, something to do during the deployment, and, yes, I admit it, something prestigious, was so damn appealing.

But I found out yesterday that I didn't get it. It was a kind rejection. It encouraged me to apply again after gaining more experience. And you know, maybe I will. But right now, this news mixed with the looming deployment makes me wonder if I'm doing enough for *me* on a regular basis.

I don't know the answer.

Knee deep in work.

Once again, I've taken on a bit more than I can chew. I know I've been fairly absent these last weeks without notice and I apologize. Chalk it up to deadlines, rewrites and having to travel on business to London the day after a plane crash. I'm trying to keep my head above water, but between Munchkin and CPT Dick's imminent departure and all of the FRG crazy that goes with it, I'm not doing such a great job.

Hope everyone else is finding balance a little easier in 2008.

Some clarification.

I've gotten a few hurt emails over my Kissing Hank's Ass post. I put it out there without any comment to see if it would stimulate discussion but found instead that I offended people.

So, let me explain why I posted it.

Have you seen that Tom Cruise video? His defending Scientology video has made the rounds of the Internet over the past week, as well as a few funny parodies (here and here). And the blogosphere has overwhelmingly responded with comments about how crazy he is and attacks on Scientology.

Now, I'm no saint. But I find some of these attacks a little below the belt. If you are going to go after Scientology, go after it because of its desire to cut people off from friends and family that are not Scientologists or because it charges you to join. I'm with most folks that it is little more than a cult. But is it really fair to condemn because these folks believe that an alien lives inside them? This is their faith. Why is it any more unbelievable than a guy who can turn water into wine? Or that morality is an instinct? Or that if you kiss Hank's ass, you can win a million dollars?

I think that it is something to think about. All of these belief systems, when taken out of context, have an element of the unbelievable. And that's where faith comes in. Whether it be in God, man's capacity for suffering, science, Thetans or the rules written on Karl's letterhead.

That's why I posted it.

January at the gym rant.

I really wish that there were two gyms in January. One for people who actually work out year round and one for the folks who only attend for the first couple weeks of the year after making a resolution they know full well they'll give up on as soon as it gets hard.

Our gym has been packed -- packed, I tell you! -- with throngs of January work-out ne'er-do-wells. Every morning, as I've made my way to the cardio fitness room to jump on a treadmill or elliptical, I've found that I've had to wait 10-20 minutes for people to finish their routine. And most of those people? They are hogging the equipment, going over the 30 minute time limit, moving as slowly as humanly possible.

It drives me insane.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for people getting out there and getting a little exercise. It's just that I want them to actually mean it if they are going to get in the way of my routine. Most of them are wearing expensive work-out gear, drinking high-calorie sports drinks (did you know that your bottle of Gatorade holds 2.5 servings at 200+ calories a serving? Yeah, you've actually consumed more calories during your work-out than you burned. Well done), sucking that performance goo out of packets, and kvetching about how they just can't lose weight no matter what they do.

February cannot come too soon.

I kept my promise.

I did.

I went laptop-free for a whole 10 days. It didn't seem that bad once I got over the initial shock of leaving it behind -- a few cups of very strong tea helped with the shakes I got when I realized that I had no way to access the free (!) Wi-fi at the airport. I spent the 10 days much as anyone would while visiting family. I visited. I ate too much. And I snuck onto my in-laws' desktop when I was drunk enough to handle dial-up.

Like a faithful companion, my laptop was there waiting for me when I got home. And though I can't say that I totally missed it while I was gone, I hugged it for a whole 8 minutes after walking in the door.

Which, coincidentally, was the amount of time it took to boot up after such a long shut down period.

But anyway, I'm back. Hope everyone had a very happy holiday!

Let this be a lesson to you.

My grandmother, the most opinionated woman on the planet, liked to use stories in the paper or rumors she heard in her small town to illustrate to us grandchildren all the ways that we could fuck up our young and ignorant lives.

"Honey, that boy down the road died when he didn't wear his seatbelt. Wasn't even his fault. He was just driving down the road and when another car pulled out of a driveway, BAM!, he died instantly. Let this be a lesson to you."

"She ran around with all kinds of boys when she was just 16. And when she got pregnant, she had no idea who the father was. Now she's on welfare and she has four kids by just as many fathers. Let this be a lesson to you."

"He partied all through college. And guess what? He didn't graduate. All that money, all that opportunity just squandered and for what? Nothing. Let this be a lesson to you."

You get the idea.

Because of a few incidents this week, I've found myself in this Mama Bear role with a bunch of people. Getting wild at the bars, hanging out in the barracks, driving without a license, your basic young-wives-bored-guys-gone-behavior. And I gotta tell you, I must be turning into my grandmother because it was all I could do not to follow up my little lectures with her signature phrase.

When did I get so old and crotchety?