What Goes Around...

Teenagers make it possible to understand why some animals eat their young. This is the apotheosis of true statements.

The day I became a mother, I was given an 11 year old girl and a 14 year old boy. I missed out on the diaper changing and the teething and the hourly feedings associated with infants and toddlers. I missed out on the bed wetting and crayon pictures on the walls. I missed out on finger painting and beginning math. I didn't have to read bedtime stories or help my kids practice forming their letters. Nope. Instead, I got HORMONES.

I got the "I'm going to sneak out of the house at night while the parents aren't home." I got the "It's so not fair." I got the "God. That's so gay." The stomping feet and of course, the infamous eye rolling were the bonus free gifts.

As I've previously mentioned, my kids are pretty good kids as far as kids go. Neither one uses drugs. Neither have been arrested and so far neither are sexually active. Well, at least not my girl, I hope. She's now 15.

My three dogs are incredibly spoiled. They are demanding and expect to get their evening walk. They do not tolerate being ignored and insist on their space in the bed with me. Whenever I make something in the kitchen, they know they will get some, if not all, of whatever I'm cooking. See, I cook for my dogs. Not for my children.

Here's why. My dogs appreciate my efforts.

One morning about 6 months after I married an instant family, I decided to make a sit-down breakfast. I scramble eggs, fried up bacon, made orange juice and even made biscuits. All was neatly prepared and put on the table with flair. There was ketchup, jelly, butter, salt & pepper, salsa and hot sauce. It looked and smelled great. The only reaction I received was, "Eewww. I don't like biscuits. I want bagels." And a thank you very much to you, too.

Evening meals weren't any better. I tried to get my family to sit at the table and eat a meal as a family. Let's just say, that was WAY more trouble than it was worth. The complaining, the poking, and the spitting out was too much to deal with. Each meal was an exercise. I was exhausted by the time it was finished.

One time, my son, he was 15 at the time, had a friend spend the night. The next morning, I got up and made a hot breakfast for myself; French Toast (my husband wasn't ready to eat yet. I would make him his standard breakfast, oatmeal and coffee later). I thought I would be generous and make the boys breakfast too.

"Hey, I'm making breakfast. Do you want some?"

"What are you making?"

"French Toast."

"Weelllllll, I guess." I noticed the nose curl/eye roll combination.

"What's the problem?"

"I don't really like French Toast."

"Fine. Have cold cereal then."

So, I made French Toast for myself and scrambled up the left over eggs for my dogs. My dogs eagerly awaited their breakfast and the second the paper plates hit the floor, they chowed down. They licked the flavor off paper plates and Annabelle even ate a bit of the plate itself. When I finally took the demolished plates away from them, they looked at me with those big brown eyes. Tongues hanging out, tails wagging and smiles on their faces. That's the reaction I like. It's much nicer than an Eewwww or nose curl.

Since then with my husband deployed, I have baked cookies for my dogs, made dog treats for my dogs, fried bacon for my dogs, scrambled eggs and chopped deli meat for my dogs. My children, well, they have learned how to fend for themselves. Good thing there are frozen meals available. My son, although he usually makes a sandwich, has learned how to make macaroni and cheese. My daughter makes the best hashbrowns. She's good with potato salad, mashed potatoes and makes very good red beans and rice. My kids won't starve.

On the rare occasion that I do decide to cook a meal and make enough for them too, I require their participation. Unfortunately, that participation comes with complaining and "Do I have to?" I keep reminding them of the story of Little Red Hen. Although they know the story and know the moral of the story, they don't see how it relates to them in their daily lives.

Before my husband deployed, he suggested I try explaining the reasons behind the rules and requests put on the children. Okay. As my children had to take a sack lunch to school once a week, I made sure there was plenty of assorted lunch items available for them. They were encouraged to make their lunches the night before so they wouldn't have to rush in the mornings. Because I didn't want them taking a coke for lunch, I made sure there were single serving sized Sunny Delight orange drink for them. I also had the large gallon size container in the refrigerator. Even though I explained to them the single serving size bottles were for their school lunches and the gallon container was for consumption at home, I would find empty single size bottles discarded around the house. This irritated me for two reasons; 1) they were specifically told not to use the small bottles and they were provided with the reasons behind the instruction and 2) they didn't pick up after themselves.

The whole explaining thing doesn't work, at least not on the boy. The girl, for the most part, has it figured out.

I have explained to my 17 year old son that when he vacuums the rugs, he needs to pull them back and get the bits of dirt and sand that have worked through the pile. I went a step further to explain that the grit is the rug's enemy because as people walk on it, the grit grinds at the fibers causing damage. Ultimately, the dirt in and under the rug will shorten it's lifespan. I thought I had made it clear. Did he comply? No. After a few weeks of vacuuming, I inquired as to whether or not he had been pulling the rugs back. Turns out, he hadn't been. When I pulled back the rugs, I was appalled at the amount of dirt/grit build up. His reason for not doing a thorough job, he "forgot."

So, when I discovered my son had spray painted some stencils on the tile floor in the basement, I asked him not to spray paint down there anymore. There is little circulation and the fumes build up and permeate through the house. Also, he seems to "forget" to pick up after himself and I'm tired of cleaning up after him. The biggest reason he was asked to not spray paint in the house is that he didn't protect the tile floor from the paint. When I picked up his mess, I was stunned to see a perfect outline in black spray paint on the tiles. So, last night, when he came up from the basement carrying stencils I asked if he'd been spray painting.

"Yes."

"Remember that conversation we had not too long ago about how you are not allowed to spray paint in the basement?"

"Yeah, but I only sprayed a little bit."

Yep, and I'm going a little bit insane, but I'll drink a little bit of this bottle of wine and maybe I'm have a little bit of self-control and kill you just a little bit.

And what would you spend for an experience like this? Wait, there's more.

My children have been told repeatedly over the many years of their young lives that they are not to have any friends in the house when parents aren't home. NO FRIENDS IN THE HOUSE. It's a mantra. Over the past couple of years a caveat has been added. For the son, NO GIRLS IN YOUR ROOM, EVER. For the daughter, NO BOYS IN YOUR ROOM, EVER. It has been said over and over and over.

I had to work the day after Thanksgiving. My children were home from school. You'd think I could go to work and leave my 15 year old daughter and 17 year old son at home alone for 9 hours. After all, my daughter is a bonafide babysitter and moms up and down our street entrust the lives and wellbeing of their elementary school age children with her. Surely, it would be okay for me to go to work and not worry about my house burning down or my kids doing something silly and against house rules.

Because the building were I was working that day was locked, people needing their identification cards entered into the database wouldn't be able to get to the office. Eventually, higher management cut me loose. I went home five hours earlier than expected.

Imagine my surprise when I found a car parked in my driveway. Imagine my surprise when I entered my home and was greeted with a teenage girl (not my daughter) in my home. Imagine my surprise when that teenager girl exited my son's bedroom.

After the girl was removed from my home, I questioned my son about his inability to follow house rules. Naturally, he "didn't know" why he'd broken the rules. He said he didn't think about it. Of course not. Teenagers don't think about anyone other than themselves. They are completely self motivated and certainly do not consider consequences of their actions. They live for the immediate, the here and now. What happens 20 minutes later or even the next day doesn't even cross there minds.

Now, how much would you pay? But wait, there's still more.

We live in a small military community. Community rules and regulations are overseen by the BSB Commander. Everything that has to do with housing and community operations is approved or disapproved by the Commander. When we moved to Germany, the BSB Commander at the first post had no objections to us having three dogs in military quarters. We had to have our dogs examined by the military vet and the dogs' temperaments had to be determined non-aggressive. My pups are the most friendly, loving pups and their temperaments were not a problem. We received permission to live in quarters with our three dogs although the housing regulations allow for a maximum of only two pets.

When we relocated to Schweinfurt, we advised the housing office of our dog situation. The housing office didn't have a problem probably because the Heidelberg BSB Commander didn't have a problem. Turns out, the Schweinfurt BSB Commander did have a problem with it. We didn't find this out until after we had taken possession of the quarters and all of our household goods had been delivered and unpacked. We were looking at two options; 1) move out and find suitable housing on the economy or 2) get rid of one of the dogs. Neither option sounded very good to us. The petitioning began. Letters of apology and special requests for waiver of policy were written. My neighbors were asked if they had objections to my dogs. It took a few weeks of begging, but eventually we received permission to remain in quarters with our three dogs. There were conditions to the waiver. At anytime our dogs were deemed a nuisance or dangerous, they would be removed. Additionally, all rules and regulations concerning the dogs were to be followed to the letter. Violations would result in the removal of the dogs.

Imagine my horror when I was informed last week that while my son walked the dogs one evening, he was observed failing to pick up poop. To make matters worse, the woman who witnessed my dog poop and my son casually ignore it and walk away yelled at him to pick it up. Instead of doing so, my son kept walking.

Everybody in this community knows whose dogs they are. There is only one family who has three dogs; one schnauzer, one westie and one scottie. There was no doubt whose dogs they were and my son let one poop and didn't pick it up. Nice.

Even though he's been told a hundred times to pick up poop, even though he's been told to make sure the dogs behave especially because the BSB Commander has the authority to remove the dogs, he pulls a stupid stunt like that. He reasoning behind his foolish decision, 1) he admits he was being lazy and 2) he "forgot."

These are just the recent challenges. Previous stunts include a night when he stayed out all night under the ruse of spending the night at a friends, but instead he went bar hopping (drinking age in Germany is 16) and spent the night in a photo booth at the train station. There was a night when instead of spending the night at an approved friends house, he participated in a co-ed slumber party with alcohol where the parent who not only approved of the event, but also wasn't home to monitor. Prior to that, there have been phone calls from parents reporting that my son encouraged a younger child to throw rocks at smaller children. There have even been reports of my son and a buddy venturing into the wooded area less than 100 yards from our row of quarters to light bonfires.

I can understand why a person would have one child. It would be a stretch, but I could even understand a second child. But when people have three, four and more children, I can't see a reason for that. I know why older folks encourage their adult children to have babies. It's revenge. It all boils down to misery loves company. Grandparents are laughing at their children. Pay back.

What in the States?

Think you know your homeland (USA) geography? Try this.

You Decide

A young woman was about to finish her first year of college. Like so many others her age she considered herself to be a very liberal Democrat and was for redistribution of all wealth. She felt deeply ashamed that her father was a rather staunch Republican, which she expressed openly.

One day she was challenging her father on his beliefs and his opposition to higher taxes on the rich and more welfare programs. In the middle of her heart-felt diatribe based upon the lectures she had from her far left professors at her school, he stopped her and asked her point blank how she was doing in school.

She answered rather haughtily that she had a 4.0 GPA and let him know that it was tough to maintain. That she had to study all the time, never had time to go out and party like other people she knew. She didn't even have time for a boyfriend and didn't really have many college friends because of spending all her time studying and that she was taking a more difficult curriculum.

Her father listened and then asked, "How is your friend, Mary."

She replied, "Mary is barely getting by." She continued, "She barely has a 2.0 GPA and all she takes are easy classes. She never studies." To explain further, she continued emotionally, "But Mary is so very popular on campus. College for her is a blast. She goes to all the parties all the time and very often doesn't even show up for classes because she is too hung over."

Her father then asked his daughter, "Why don't you go to the Dean's office and ask him to deduct a 1.0 off your 4.0 GPA and give it to your friend who only has a 2.0." He continued, "That way you will both have a 3.0 GPA and certainly that would be a fair and equal distribution of GPA."

The daughter, visibly shocked by the father's suggestion, angrily fired back, "That wouldn't be fair! I worked really hard for mine. I did without and Mary has done little or nothing. She played while I worked real hard!"

The father slowly smiled and said, "Welcome to the Republican Party."

Bed Football

A little old couple prepares to go to bed. They no sooner hit the pillows when the old man farts and says, "Seven Points."
His wife rolls over and says, "What in the world was that?"
The old man replied, "It's fart football."
A few minutes later his wife lets one go and says, "Touchdown, tie score. "
After about five minutes the old man lets another one go and says, "Aha. I'm ahead 14 to 7." Not to be outdone, the wife rips out another one and says,"Touchdown, tie score." Five seconds go by and she lets out a little squeaker and says, "Field goal, I lead 17 to 14."
Now the pressure is on the old man. He refuses to get beat by a woman, so he strains real hard, but to no avail. Realizing a defeat is unacceptable, he gives it everything he's got, and he accidentally shits in the bed.
The wife says, "What the hell was that?"
The old man says, "Half time, switch sides."

Who's Your Buddy? Who's Your Pal?

I think anyone who has an email account has received a forward of a forward of a forward. Some are cute and some are serious. Some remind us to have a good day. Some remind us that we are loved. Some remind us to pray for those less fortunate. Some remind us to praise God. And some are just for laughs.

I received this one a couple of days ago and it really got me thinking.

TO THE WONDERFUL WOMEN IN MY CIRCLE

When I was little, I used to believe in the concept of one best friend, and then I started to become a woman. And I found out that if you allow your heart to open up, God would show you the best in many friends.

One friend's best is needed when you're going through things with your children. Another friend's best is needed when you're going through things with your mother. Another when you want to shop, share, heal, hurt, joke or just be. One friend will say let's pray together, another let's cry together, another let's fight together, another let's walk away together.

One friend will meet your spiritual need, another your shoe fetish, another your love for movies, another will be with you in your season of confusion, another will be your clarifier, another the wind beneath your wings.

But whatever their assignment in your life, on whatever the occasion, on whatever the day, or whether you need them to meet you with their gym shoes on and hair pulled back, or to hold you back from making a complete fool of yourself... those are your friends.

It may all be wrapped up in one woman, but for many it's wrapped up in several... one from 7th grade, several from high school, several from the college years, a couple from old jobs, several from church; on some days your mother, on others your sisters; and on some days it's the one that you needed just for that day or week that you needed someone with a fresh perspective, or the one who didn't know all your baggage, or the one who would just listen without judging... those are good best friends.

I thank my girlfriends, those who honor intimacy, those who hold trust, and those who hold me up when life is just too heavy! The special bond we share is unique. Thanks for the words we've shared. The prayers sent up. The laughs, the tears, the phone calls, the emails, the shopping, the movies, the lunches, the dinners, the talking, talking, talking and the listening, listening, listening....

It just so happens the friend who sent this relfection on friends to me is a friend I have experienced many adventures with. When I have some particularly out of the usual activity to do, she's the first person I think of.

So, when I finally had lost enough weight and thought I was looking pretty good, I decided to do something very special for my husband, the most amazing man in the world. I wanted to have a calendar made for him. Of course, I was to be the subject. I wanted tasteful, artistic, black and white boudoir photographs made. Well, being that I was going to end up naked infront of a stranger in a strange setting, I didn't want to go by myself. And since I was doing this as a gift for my husband, I couldn't very well likely ask him to come with me. So, I asked myself, "Who's your buddy? Who's your pal?" My friend, let's just call her "Samantha", was the only person I could think of who I would feel comfortable having there and who (and this is important) I thought would be willing to be there.

How does one ask a friend to go on a nudie picture adventure? Turns out, it was pretty easy. My friend, as I discovered, had already gone down that avenue. Well, GOLLY, GEE. Can I pick 'em or what?

Living in Germany lends itself to all kinds of sights and sounds. Let me just say that Europeans are far less selfconscious about their bodies than Americans. At public water parks, it's nothing to see folks change into their swimsuits right on the pool deck. Usually though, some spas and water parks have one or two days where patrons can enjoy the experience in their birthday suits. My friends and I refer to those days as "naked days." And naked days are co-ed. There is co-ed naked sauna, co-ed naked swimming, and co-ed changing rooms. Folks of all ages, shapes and sizes have no problem getting naked. As they say, when in Rome...

I wouldn't describe myself as a prude, but I usually don't get naked with a large group of people (It was a different story way back when I was in college and drinking heavily, but I've grown up since then) that I don't know. So, I prefer attending spas on regular days and not naked days. Even though regular days involve swimming attire, saunas are always naked, usually co-ed. You might think this sounds pretty cool. Let me tell you, it's NOT. Ever wonder what a 70 year old overweigh man looks like naked? How about an 87 year old grandmother? Come to a spa on naked day and you'll never wonder again. Even on regular days, you can see some of the most amazing things. Keep in mind, European men, even the particularly large and saggy men, love their speedos. On time I saw a 50+ year old man sporting a thong speedo. I very much wanted to take a picture of that. You would never see that in the United States. Who would have believed such a thing?

But, I digress. There is a spa that is approximately 30 minutes from where I live. It is also the largest spa in Germany and the prices are wonderful. They offer all kinds of skin treatments, massages, pools, water fitness, and assorted holistic treatments. One skin treatment in particular is called Moor.

Now, my friend, the one I'll call "Samantha", had been to the spa on a prior occasion and inquired about Moor. Most of the employees at the spa speak only German and my friend, the one I'm still referring to as "Samantha", speaks little German. Luckily another patron who spoke English was standing near by. He explained that the Moor is spread all over the body. It absorbs all the impurities and revitalized the skin. But what is Moor, my friend asks. The kind gentlemen replies, "It is.....how you say mud from the swamp?" My friend, who's from Arkansas, says, "We call that Swamp Mud." Alas, time was short and Samantha was with the "wrong" friend and didn't try the Moor. She saved that for another time and another friend.

A few days pass and I get a phone call. My friend,"Samanta", invites me to KissSalis, that's the largest spa in Germany. Of course I accept. A day of spa-ing for around $20 is a great thing.

On our way there, she starts telling me all about Moor a.k.a. Swamp Mud. Now, I have seen pictures of women covered in mud. It looks kinda cool and since I'm always up for a new and improved adventure and I'm with the "right" friend for the task, I agree. Little did I know...

Once there, we go up to the Moor Raum (the Swamp Mud Room). The attendant tells us we have to remove all jewelry and our swimsuits. Yes, the mud experience will be a naked thing. We are directed to a serving bar. It's similar to a salad bar minus the sneeze shield. In the bar, there are two large stainless steel pots. Removing the lid, reveals thick black mud. "Samantha" reaches in a grabs a handful of the Moor and begins rubbing it on her arms as if nothing is amiss. How she got past the initial waft of stink, I'll never know. As soon as I removed the lid from my stainless steel pot, my eyes started stinging and my sinuses immediately cleared out. Folks from a rural farming community will have a better understanding of the degree of stench. It didn't smell like just swamp mud. It smelled like a farm field immediately after turning over the soil and mixing in tons of barnyard fresh manure.

But we're being watched by the attendant and "Samantha" hasn't yet noticed it, so I reach in a grab a big ol' handful of the goo and start smearing it all over my body. I had expected the Moor to be more like a rich clay, but it was nowhere close to clay. This stuff was like dirt and black soil mixed with swamp sludge. By now, I'm squeezing my eyes shut and giggling. It's so horrible, all I can do it laugh. "Samantha" finally registers the smell. Her nostrils flare and her forehead curls.

"Dang. You smell that?"

"OH MY GOD, YES!!"

Now we are both laughing and crying at the same time, but we continue with the Moor experience. Who's your buddy? Who's your pal? One who can smear stinky swamp mud in your hard-to-reach places, that's who.

When our bodies are, quite literally, completely covered neck to toe in mud, we are directed to a stone, form-fitting bench. We lay back in a reclined position and are told to remain there for 15 minutes. That's when the attendant turns on the heat lamps.

We thought the smell was bad before. I just looked over at "Samantha" and started laughing.

"You stink."

"Ah, no. You stink. Hey, what's this?" she asks pointing at a hunk of some black substance clinging to her leg.

"Who knows? It could be some sort of muted worm. I don't even WANT to know. What's this?" I poked at a bit of something sticking to my stomach. I half expected it to move, but it didn't. I was too afraid to pick it off. I figured it might have popped and oozed its internal organs.

"Just leave it alone."

Her nose was curled up, as was mine. We both frowned as we continued to breath in the stinky swamp mud fumes.

Normally, the body will become climatized, accustomed to a smell after a few minutes. I read somewhere that within three minutes, smell receptors become overwhelmed with a particular smell and are no longer able to register it. Well, I can proffer that after 15 whole minutes, caked with Moor, under heat lamps, my smell receptors were still receiving and registering.

When the timer dinged and the heat lamps shut off, we were quick to hop up and dash to the showers. Even standing under a full-blast stream of water, that cooked on mud was not releasing its grip. The attendant provided a scrub brush. I'm not talking a delicate scrubby that one can pick up in the bath and shower department. I'm talking a scrub brush from the hardware store, one that you would use to scrub the patio or carport.

I would venture to say it's not the Moor that makes your skin feel revitalized. It's the scouring with the heavy duty scrub brush. After 10-15 minutes of scrubbing, most of the mud was finally off, but a brown, slimy film lingered. Scrubbing didn't really remove it. It just encouraged it to migrate to a different place on your body. Who's your buddy? Who's your pal? The one who'll take a pressure washer and a brillo pad to your hard-to-reach areas.

It took longer to get the gunk off than it did to smear it on and sit for 15 minutes. All of that for an additional three euro ($3.75). I'm glad I did it for the experience and for the well-earned right to say I did it. But, I can't recommend it and nor will I do it again.

There are many kinds of friends. There is the friend who'll encourage you to talk to the cute fellow, the friend who'll go shopping for hours with you while you try on hundreds of pairs of shoes, the friend who can call you at 3:00 in the morning, the friend who you'll bail out of jail and there's the friend you'd get arrested with. In my case, I have a friend who'll go take nudie pictures with me and one who'll go with me to cover our naked bodies with stinky swamp mud and sit under heat lamps.....wait...that's the same one!

Life is good. Get out and live a little.

To the Victor Goes the Spoils

Growing up with an older sister and a younger brother, trips in the car resulted in a battle for the front seat. My mother (the driver) usually settled the "Shotgun" arguments by claiming the eldest child receives the privilege of the front seat. Of course, when my older sister wasn't around, mom's rule was reneged and the new rule was the youngest kid gets the front seat. Being the middle kid, I was forever in the back seat. I ultimately won out because my siblings eventual moved away. I did too, but I moved back (on three different occasions, but those are stories for another time) and had the front seat all the time.

Now that I have two teenagers, the battle continues. Having played "Shotgun" for way too many years, I let my kids fight it out. When the looser starts in with "Hey, that's not fair." I reply with, "You snooze, you loose." I show no pity and no mercy. Although, I have implemented the rule that both competitors must be outside of the house/building to call "shotgun". I didn't realized there was a more elaborate rule system in place. Then, I visited this guy. I have previously mention Dead Serious - A Healthy Fear of Botulism when I commented on athletes with too much money. He linked to ShotgunGuide-Official Rules for Calling Shotgun. I have to say, I'm impressed and will definitely have to read up on the official rules. Personally, I'm partial to the Survival of the Fittest Rules (a.k.a. The Bastard Rules). I coulda been riding in the front seat all along.

Know What's Really Important

I took some time out of my day to share this meaningful message. I hope it does some good.

Pa never had such compassion for the lazy or those who squandered their means and then never had enough for the necessities. But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from him that I learned the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving.

It was Christmas Eve 1881. I was fifteen years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me because there just hadn't been enough money to buy me the rifle that I'd wanted for Christmas. We did the chores early that night for some reason. I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read in the Bible. After supper was over I took my boots off and stretched out in front of the fireplace and waited for Pa to get down the old Bible. I was still feeling sorry for myself and, to be honest, I wasn't in much of a mood to read Scriptures.

But Pa didn't get the Bible, instead he bundled up again and went outside. I couldn't figure it out because we had already done all the chores. I didn't worry about it long though, I was too busy wallowing in self-pity.

Soon Pa came back in. It was a cold clear night out and there was ice in his beard. "Come on, Matt," he said. "Bundle up good, it's cold out tonight." I was really upset then. Not only wasn't I getting the rifle for Christmas, now Pa was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly reason that I could see. We'd already done all the chores, and I couldn't think of anything else that needed doing, especially not on a night like this But I knew Pa was not very patient at one dragging one's feet when he'd told them to do something, so I got up and put my boots back on and got my cap, coat, and mittens.

Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn't know what.

Outside, I became even more dismayed. There in front of the house was the work team, already hitched to the big sled. Whatever it was we were going to do wasn't going to be a short, quick, little job. I could tell. We never hitched up this sled unless we were going to haul a big load.

Pa was already up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed up beside him. The cold was already biting at me. I wasn't happy. When I was on, Pa pulled the sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed. He got off and I followed. "I think we'll put on the high sideboards," he said. "Here, help me." The high sideboards! It had been a bigger job than I wanted to do with just the low sideboards on, but whatever it was we were going to do would be a lot bigger with the high sideboards on.

After we had exchanged the sideboards, Pa went into the woodshed and came out with an armload of wood---the wood I'd spent all summer hauling down from the mountain, and then all Fall sawing into blocks and splitting. What was he doing? Finally I said something. "Pa," I asked, "what are you doing?"

You been by the Widow Jensen's lately?" he asked. The Widow Jensen lived about two miles down the road. Her husband had died a year or so before and left her with three children, the oldest being eight. Sure, I'd been by, but so what? "Yeah," I said, "Why?" "I rode by just today," Pa said. "Little Jakey was out digging around in the woodpile trying to find a few chips. They're out of wood, Matt."

That was all he said and then he turned and went back into the woodshed for another armload of wood. I followed him. We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses would be able to pull it.

Finally, Pa called a halt to our loading, then we went to the smoke house and Pa took down a big ham and a side of bacon. He handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait. When he returned he was carrying a sack of flour over his right shoulder and a smaller sack of something in his left hand.

"What's in the little sack?" I asked. "Shoes. They're out of shoes. Little Jakey just had gunny sacks wrapped around his feet when he was out in the woodpile this morning. I got the children a little candy too. It just wouldn't be Christmas without a little candy."

We rode the two miles to Widow Jensen's pretty much in silence. I tried to think through what Pa was doing. We didn't have much by worldly standards.

Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of what was left now was still in the form of logs that I would have to saw into blocks and split before we could use it. We also had meat and flour, so we could spare that, but I knew we didn't have any money, so why was Pa buying them shoes and candy?

Really, why was he doing any of this? Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us; it shouldn't have been our concern.

We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded the wood as quietly as possible, then we took the meat and flour and shoes to the door. We knocked. The door opened a crack and a timid voice said, "Who is it?" "Lucas Miles, Ma'am, and my son, Matt. Could we come in for a bit?"

Widow Jensen opened the door and let us in. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The children were wrapped in another and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that hardly gave off any heat at all. Widow Jensen fumbled with a match and finally lit the lamp.

"We brought you a few things, Ma'am," Pa said and set down the sack of flour. I put the meat on the table. Then Pa handed her the sack that had the shoes in it. She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out one pair at a time. There was a pair for her and one for each of the children---sturdy shoes, the best, shoes that would last.

I watched her carefully. She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling and then tears filled her eyes and started running down her cheeks. She looked up at Pa like she wanted to say something, but it wouldn't come out.

"We brought a load of wood too, Ma'am," Pa said. He turned to me and said, "Matt, go bring in enough to last awhile. Let's get that fire up to size and heat this place up."

I wasn't the same person when I went back out to bring in the wood. I had a big lump in my throat and as much as I hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyes too. In my mind I kept seeing those three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother standing there with tears running down her cheeks with so much gratitude in her heart that she couldn't speak.

My heart swelled within me and a joy that I'd never known before, filled my soul. I had given at Christmas many times before, but never when it had made so much difference.

I could see we were literally saving the lives of these people.

I soon had the fire blazing and everyone's spirits soared. The kids started giggling when Pa handed them each a piece of candy and Widow Jensen looked on with a smile that probably hadn't crossed her face for a long time.

She finally turned to us. "God bless you," she said. "I know the Lord has sent you. The children and I have been praying that he would send one of his angels to spare us."

In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat and the tears welled up in my eyes again. I'd never thought of Pa in those exact terms before, but after Widow Jensen mentioned it I could see that it was probably true.

I was sure that a better man than Pa had never walked the earth. I started remembering all the times he had gone out of his way for Ma and me, and many others. The list seemed endless as I thought on it.

Pa insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left. I was amazed when they all fit and I wondered how he had known what sizes to get.

Then I guessed that if he was on an errand for the Lord that the Lord would make sure he got the right sizes. Tears were running down Widow Jensen's face again when we stood up to leave.

Pa took each of the kids in his big arms and gave them a hug. They clung to him and didn't want us to go. I could see that they missed their Pa, and I was glad that I still had mine.

At the door Pa turned to Widow Jensen and said, "The Mrs. wanted me to invite you and the children over for Christmas dinner tomorrow. The turkey will be more than the three of us can eat, and a man can get cantankerous if he has to eat turkey for too many meals. We'll be by to get you about eleven.

It'll be nice to have some little ones around again. Matt, here, hasn't been little for quite a spell." I was the youngest. My two brothers and two sisters had all married and had moved away. Widow Jensen nodded and said, "Thank you, Brother Miles. I don't have to say, "'May the Lord bless you,' I know for certain that He will."

Out on the sled I felt a warmth that came from deep within and I didn't even notice the cold.

When we had gone a ways, Pa turned to me and said,"Matt, I want you to know something. Your ma and me have been tucking a little money away here and there all year so we could buy that rifle for you, but we didn't have quite enough. Then yesterday a man who owed me a little money from years back came by to make things square. Your ma and me were real excited, thinking that now we could get you that rifle, and I started into town this morning to do just that.

But on the way I saw little Jakey out scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped in those gunny sacks and I knew what I had to do.

Son, I spent the money for shoes and a little candy for those children. I hope you understand."

I understood, and my eyes became wet with tears again. I understood very well, and I was so glad Pa had done it.

Now the rifle seemed very low on my list of priorities.

Pa had given me a lot more. He had given me the look on Widow Jensen's face and the radiant smiles of her three children.

For the rest of my life, Whenever I saw any of the Jensens, or split a block of wood, I remembered, and remembering brought back that same joy I felt riding home beside Pa that night.

Pa had given me much more than a rifle that night, he had given me the best Christmas of my
life.


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Sometimes I Need to Remember

Since I got married, I've been introduced to the world of the unemployed. It's been a nice experience once I got past the whole financial dependence issue. I enjoyed having my own money and not having to consult on major purchases. It was a difficult transition, but I've adjusted well. Now, I work for something to do and for the extra pocket money. Actually, the pocket money is diverted to a saving account that one day will be enough to afford a two-week safari in Africa.

As of late, I've been working full time. One of the ladies at the Provost Marshal's Office took four weeks of leave. That's a pretty good paycheck for me. Kenya just got a little bit closer. But there is a down side to working full-time. Kids.

My children are 17 and 15 years old. And like most teenagers, they are blind to dirt. My house has suffered tremendously in my absence. Dust has caked on every surface, fingerprints have multiplied, dirty dog footprints tracked on the hardwood floors and the dust bunnies have unionized. I'm lucky to get my children to take out the trash and vacuum every other day. Anything more than that is a blessing.

After work, I have to get to the gym for at least an hour, else I'll balloon up. Wouldn't my husband be surprised when returning from Iraq and discovering his wife has mutated into Jabba the Hut? I certainly don't want that to happen. After the gym, I come home and try to take care of the mail and all the necessary paperwork that comes with running a household. Just sorting my mail, from his mail, deciding what he'll need, what I can take care of, and putting the bills in due date order, takes time. Then, I have to figure out which bills have to be paid in euros and which ones in dollars, do the conversion and balance the checkbook.

Add on top of that monitoring the children's behaviors and determining what rules they fractured during the day, feeding and watering three dogs, picking up general stuff, getting stuff put where it belongs and making sure there is bread and milk available sucks up most of my time. I save the bigger housecleaning tasks for the weekend. Wait....weekend....that gets filled toting my kids back and forth to all the places they need to be. My son, although he's 17, he doesn't have a driver's license because we live in Germany.

Single parents have a rough situation. I eagerly await my husband's return. I really need his help with rearing the children. I struggle to make the time to keep up to date with what's going on in their lives. It's difficult to do. Ultimately, something suffers in a single parent household. Be it the house, be it the parent's health, be it the children. There just isn't enough hours in the day to allow for everyone's needs to be met. It's an unfortunate situation.

Although I complain about my children being selfish and not contributing to the household as well as they should, they are pretty good kids. My son keeps reminding me that he isn't selling drugs, hasn't been arrested and hasn't gotten some girl pregnant. My daughter has straight A's in school and isn't pregnant. I am thankful for that. I know other parents out there who struggle with the day to day things and have children who are robbing people and breaking into homes. I can't imagine piling on court fines, restitution, court dates, probation officer appointment dates, meetings with school principals, phone calls from police, pregnancy and substance abuse on top of everything else. My children don't self-mutilate nor are they destructive. I don't have holes punched in the walls of my home and my children do come home at night.

I have to remember that my situation could be worse. I don't have it that bad.

Ever Wonder Why?

I read this several years ago and it stuck with me. It certainly is something to think about.

The US standard railroad gauge (width between the two rails) is 4 feet, 8.5 inches wide. That is an exceedingly odd number. Why was that gauge used? Because that's the way they built them in England, and the US railroads were built by English expatriates.

Why did the English build them like that? Because the first rail lines were built by the same people who built the pre-railroad tramways, and that's the gauge they used.

Why did "they" use that gauge? Because the people who built the tramways used the same jigs and tools that they used for building wagons which used that wheel spacing.

Whey did the wagon have that particular odd wheel spacing? If they tried to use any other spacing, the wagon wheels would break on some of the old, long distance roads in England because that's the spacing of the wheel ruts.

Who built those old rutted roads? The first long distance roads in Europe and England were built by Imperial Rome for their legions. The roads have been used ever since.

And the ruts in the roads? Roman war chariots first formed the initial ruts, which everyone else had to match for fear of destroying their wagon wheels. Since the chariots were made for or by Imperial Rome, they were all alike in the matter of wheel spacing.

The United States railroad gauge of 4 feet, 8.5 inches derives from the original specification for an Imperial Roman war chariot. Specifications and bureaucracies live forever. So the next time you are handed a specification and wonder what horse's ass came up with it, you may be exactly right because the Imperial Roman war chariots were made just wide enough to accommodate the back end of two war horses.

But there's more...

When we see a Space Shuttle sitting on its launch pad, there are two big booster rockets attached to the sides of the main fuel tank. These are solid rocket boosters, or SRBs. The SRBs are made by Thiokol at their factory in Utah. The engineers who designed the SRBs might have preferred to make them a bit fatter, but the SRBs had to be shipped by train from the factory to the launch site. The railroad line from the factory had to run through a tunnel in the mountains. The SRBs had to fit through that tunnel. The tunnel is slightly wider than the railroad tracks and the railroad track is about as wide a two horses' behinds.

So, the major design feature of what is arguably the world's most advanced transportation system was determined over two thousand years ago by the width of a horse's ass.

And you wonder why it's so hard to get ahead in this world.....

Only 22 Shopping Days Left

Now that Thanksgiving has past, the next big holiday is rapidly approaching. What to do about Christmas?

Being that I live in a military community where currently there is serious testosterone depletion, I participate with the FRG. That's the Family Readiness Group. Basically, the spouses of the soldiers form a cohesive group to bond together, especially during deployments. It's a great way to make sure everyone is kept up to date with accurate information as to what the soldiers are doing and planning. Additionally, the FRG keeps families active and involved with the community to help prevent isolation and the resulting depression. Both of which are an easy trap living in a foreign country where the language barrier just adds stress.

The FRG also recognizes the need to maintain a happy and joyous holiday atmosphere to ensure the children a "normal" Christmas under the circumstances. Thus, the 1-77 Armor Battalion FRG is planning a Christmas party. A few nights ago, at a planning meeting, an idea was tossed onto the table. "Let's just ignore the whole holiday."

This wasn't the first time I heard a spouse make a comment about preferring to forget the whole thing. Christmas, well holidays in general, a difficult when a parent is gone. When small children ask why, they have to be reminded that Daddy is away. He'll be home soon. Older children watch the news and know that Daddy is in a dangerous place. The whole situation isn't joyous. Mothers and some fathers too, not all soldiers downrange are men, are faced with "faking it" for the benefit of the children.

What about those spouses without children or adult children? Think they are in the Christmas mood? Germany is incredibly romantic during the holidays. There are Christmas Markets in just about every town. Lights and hot, spiced wine, roasting chestnuts, candied almonds, horse-drawn carriages, couples bundled-up holding hands as they stroll along the sidewalks. Venturing out by yourself while your husband is in the desert dodging bullets and praying the next exploding IED won't kill him just doesn't seem right.

There will be presents under my Christmas tree (the only reason I'll even put one up this year is because my children are forcing me to) for my husband. Those packages will remain wrapped and waiting for his return home. Our REAL Christmas will be when he comes home. We'll listen to Christmas carols and have a Christmas feast hopefully sometime in early spring. That's when my heart will be full of love and Christmas magic.

Please keep our soldiers and their families in your thoughts and prayers.

Dirty Joke

Two nuns were riding their bikes along a back street in Rome.
One nuns says, "I'm never come this way before."
The other nun whispers, "It's the cobblestones."

The most wonderful man in the whole wide world speaking at the CIB-CMB Ceremony in Iraq. He is so handsome. He makes me swoon like a little school girl.

Sydney and Jake are eagerly waiting a special treat. Jake is already licking his chops.

When the most wonderful man in the whole wide world came home, he was greeted by this sign.

Spud taking a break from playing with his tennis ball.

Bad Boy Babies and Playground Squabbles

I heard about another sports brawl instigated by a fan and finished by everyone else. Bench-clearing battles are in my opinion ridiculous. And this guy seems to agree. Seriously, if you make a billion dollars playing a game, then buck up and accept that some folks are going to call you names and call your abilities into question. I'll trade places, or moreover, my bank account, with a pro-athlete anytime. I'd even wear a sign on my back saying "I suck" and "I can't score on the court of off" as long as my boss continues to sign that paycheck. When it's no big deal to be fined $50,000 or even $100,000, then YOU MAKE TOO MUCH MONEY. Get over yourself.

And then, the special guest commentator played the race card. Oh, come on. Apparently black athletes feel oppressed that whitey is kept entertained like an emperor watching Christians meet a bloody death at the claws and fangs of starving lions. That's crap. How about Joe Schmoe spending a good chunk of his weekly take-home salary to watch multi-millionaires play a game and earn more money in an hour than Joe earns in a couple of months. If an athlete can't handle being called a looser or having someone shout out that their Granny plays better with one hand tied behind her back, then get off the damn court and get a real job. How about laying asphalt, or sorting tomatoes, or changing diapers, or spreading roof tar, or separating inmates trying to kill one another? Prison guards, okay Correction Officers have human feces and urine tossed at them (far more foul and insulting than a plastic cup or even a folding chair). They are called all kinds of vicious names and have their families threatened every day. And their reward for getting up and going to work, an annual salary less than what P. Diddy spends on a two-hour bar tab.

Let's just get real and put things into perspective.

The Spudinator

In September of this year, I embarked on an 18 day adventure in pup-sitting. Spud, a Boston Terrier, stayed with me while his mom when on vacation. As Spud can be a little grumpy, we made arrangements for him to meet and greet my three pups on neutral ground. There were no problems. Actually, my Miniature Schnauzer, Sydney, was thrilled with her special prize that was just for her. She's just assumes that all new things are for her.

Spud's mom does not have any children of her own and showers him with maternal love. Naturally, Spud appreciates all of the affection and has become so accustomed to it, he not only expects it, but also demands it. And the bed is his. He simply allows you to sleep in the bed with him. His mom explained to me that Spud will paw at your face until you pull back the covers to allow His Majesty to crawl under them. I had no problem with that. Sydney is the same way. She's a spoiled brat because her mom made her that way and will continue to allow her to be that way. Why should Spud be any different? It's all good.

I was also warned that Spud does not like to be picked up nor does he like to be bothered while sleeping.

At night, I sleep with all my windows open. It does tend to get a bit chilly and my Westie, Jake, will sometimes jump on the bed during the night to snuggle. Little Miss Annabelle, the sweet pup that she is with her nubby Scottie legs, isn't a good jumper and is perfectly satisfied curling up on her humongous dog pillow in the corner next to the bed. Her pillow is big enough for a Great Dane.

So, there I was, sharing my bed with three dogs; Sydney, Her Royal Highness, snuggled in all of the pillows at the head of the bed, Spud, His Majesty, under the covers stretched out taking up over half of available space, and Jake, The Prince, curled up in the crook of my knees. I have no trouble keeping warm even on the coldest nights. I have extra fuzzy bodies providing ample heat.

Spuuuuuuud, Spuddie, The Spudinator, The Spudster enjoys his sleep and is most definitely NOT a morning dog. One morning, as my alarm went off, there was an audible protest from his side of the bed. Even after I finished with my shower and getting dressed, Spud remained snuggled deep under the covers that he had bunched into a big pile. When I suggested that it was time to get up, he looked at me as if I had lost my mind. "You've GOT to be kidding. No way am I about to get up and expose my royal belly to the frigid elements." With much persuading and cajoling, I convinced Spud to go outside and do his business. Quick to finish and return to the comfort of the house, he immediately jumped onto the cushy chair. He was too tired to even eat a treat. And don't think I didn't cater to him. I did. I got him a blanky and tucked him in. It didn't take long before he was snoozing.

Remember the warning, Spud doesn't like to be bothered when he's sleeping? Well, let me tell you. Spud loves to snuggle as he's dozing. While under the covers, he would press his body next to mine and nudge my arm over him. No problem. It's like sleeping with a warm teddy bear, except as soon as he falls asleep, he remembers you're touching him. Then he freaks out.

He snorts and snarls and makes an attempt to bite the offending hand. His bites are more of fleshy nips because his lips are so thick, his teeth don't come anywhere near making contact. Then when he realizes he is not being attacked, he snuggles back down. Of course, when he falls asleep, he goes bizzerk. It's difficult to fall asleep when every few minutes the horrific, vicious sounds and the lip chomping jerk you awake. One night in particular, Spuddy freaked out three or four times before I had had enough. "Okay, psycho dog, you have to move." He didn't go willingly, but he did move out of the body contact zone.

The next morning, he knew I was less than pleased about his nighttime antics. He eased over to me, sat down and looked up at me with those big brown eyes. It was obvious he wanted to make up and win forgiveness. How could I possibly resist? I invited him into my lap. Kisses and pets for everyone and all was better.

Want to Know How Stupid You Are? Ask a Teenager.

If you ever find yourself in a situation where you are lacking information, as a teenager. They know everything about everything. It's a wonder that a teenager isn't the President of the United States. It's a wonder a teenager isn't the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court especially since they know everything about fairness and justice. It's a wonder that the principal of every school isn't a teenager. Afterall, who knows better how to mold and guide children that a teenager?

Did you know that a teenager knows everything about operating a motor vehicle even though they don't have a driver's license? Yep, they sure do. And the younger the teenager, the more they know on the subject.

It is simply amazing. I really didn't need to complete high school or complete a college education. All I had to do to ensure my survival in our society was to have children. I just can't imagine how I managed all those years without a teenager in my life to tell me everything I ever need to know.

They know how to speak foreign languages.

They know where everything is in every foreign city and know the best way to travel to any desired location. Sometimes, just for fun, a teenager will read a map and navigate the longest possible route to a destination simply because that's the best way to go.

They know every ingredient in every meal prepared in every restaurant. They especially know the taste and texture of every food ever prepared in any way.

Teenagers also have magical powers. Did you know that they can simply generate money whenever they desire? Heaven knows why adults go to work. Naturally because money just appears at a whim, teenagers don't need a job.

All basic luxuries afforded in a household are provided because going without would generate an annoying situation. All vehicles always have a full tank of gasoline. All refrigerators are always stocked with only the most delicious foods that do not require any preparation. All cookie jars are always full with only the most favorite of all cookies even though the favorite changes practically on a daily basis. All electronic devices always work and there is always electricity. The caveat to that is the electric company has no need to receive payment for providing that electricity. That is just something they do simply because teenagers must have electricity. All trash cans magically empty. All cars are always clean. All toilet bowls are always sparkling clean. All floors are always free of dust bunnies and rugs never need to be vacuumed. It's a wonder how Hoover stays in business.

Best of all....When teenagers have their own children, they will never be required to do any chores around the house. They will always be treated fairly and get to do what they want.

Gee, I never knew I was such an oppressive slave-driver with the IQ of a gnat. Thank goodness I have TWO teenagers to help me get through my day. I couldn't possibly manage without them.

Quarters, Melting Lightbulbs and no Beauty Sleep

Before I got married, I had a full-time job. Okay a few. Consecutively. Although even further back in history, I did have several part-time jobs concurrently. But that is beside the point. When I married my husband, I married the Army and that meant frequent relocations to exotic parts of the world, like Kansas. Frequent moves require frequent job changes and so my career in the criminal justice world came to a screeching halt. Government positions require a lengthy application process and sometimes the delays can reach up to 6 months and that's being selected the first time out. So, our first duty assignment in Kansas, was to last a mere 12 months. Certainly not long enough to even attempt to land a government position. It sure would have been nice though. Leavenworth, Kansas is like Mecca to folks who make a living in punishment and corrections. Prisons as far as the eye can see. Federal, state, private, juvenile, female, work camps....it's all there.

Alas, it was just not to be. I ended up becoming a substitute teacher. It wasn't so bad. I even got to the point where I enjoyed being called to work. I mostly worked in the town of Easton. It's a small rural community where everyone knows everyone. It didn't take long to learn all the children in the area from kindergarten all the way through the Senior class. Had our assignment been longer than 12 months, I might have even considered switching gears from corrections to education.

Those 12 months zipped by and we received orders to head across the pond to Germany. My husband's initial job in a three year tour was 1 year in Heidelberg. Civilian jobs are difficult to come by in a military community and overseas compounds the problem. Local nationals fill a significant portion of available positions. I could easily have obtained employment with AAFES (the military's department store) or the commissary. Neither one of those places appealed to me. I've done my fair share of retail and besides, I wanted to have free time for traveling and shopping. So, back to being a substitute. The system required a separation application per school. As the high school was across the street from where we lived, I opted to only work there.

Those 12 months didn't zip by as fast as the previous 12 months. The whole deployment to Iraq and being left behind with two teenagers made every day feel like an eternity. But, time passed and we moved to Schweinfurt. We were to be there for the remaining 2 years of our tour. The schools in that area require a substitute work in only one school. So, the elementary school being a brisk 7 minute walk away, I chose to work there. Plus, I took a second job, also part-time, filling in at the Provost Marshal's Office generating installation passes to local nationals, visiting family members and soldiers. The pay schedule is the same for both positions and between the two, I can work frequently. I am the Super Substitute.

As of late, I am working full-time filling in with the installation pass position. One of the employees took extended leave. That means a great paycheck for me. It also means the end of my leisure time for a few weeks.

Back in the day when I was a career woman, I went to bed early. I do not function well on less than 8 full hours of sleep. I prefer 9. As a result of my sleeping patterns, I rarely was awake after 9:00 p.m. Now that I am a mom of two teenagers, getting to bed before 10:00 p.m. is no longer an option. It's a good thing they are old enough to take on some of the household responsibilities while I'm working. It's nice to come home and find that the trash has been taken out and the carpets have been vacuumed and the poop in the yard has been picked up. That means I only have a million things to do instead of the million and three. It does take off some of the pressure.

I woke up this morning extremely tired. I hit the snooze button 3 times and still had to fight to pull back the covers and force myself out of the bed. I just needed two more hours of sleepy-time. Even my dogs didn't want to get up. When I did finally drag my half-comatose, sleep-deprived body out of the warm, snuggly bed, I said to myself, "I don't know how single-parents do it." Holding down a full-time job, taking care of the household and all the responsibilities that come with it, plus rearing children. Phew! It's exhausting work.

Luckily, the physical maintenance of my home is aided by the military. We live in government quarters. That means when the washing machine breaks, I call in a work order and a fix-it man comes out. If the foundation leaks when it rains, I call in a work order and a fix-it man comes out. If the trees get too overgrown, I call in a work order and a fix-it man comes out. Same with clogged rain gutters, running toilets, malfunctioning stove/oven, and leaky faucet. There are perks to living in quarters.

I had planned on getting to bed early last night, by 9 p.m. at the latest. I had bathed and was in my pajamas relaxing watching tv when the electrical malfunction happened. At 8:45 p.m., a movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned to see what it was just in time to see a lightbulb hit the floor. Simultaneously, the other bulbs in the fixture went out. Hmmm. That's not something you see everyday. My investigation revealed a melted lightbulb. The metal screw part of the bulb was still securely fastened in the socket. The bulb itself had melted off.

As all the other bulbs (six total) went out, I figured the fuse blew. I checked the circuit breaker and discovered no flipped switches. Hmmmm. The light switch on the wall showed the overhead light to be in the on position and the circuit breaker showed that there was power to the light switch, but there was no light. Hmmmm. I start to think fire hazard. So, at 9:00 p.m. when I should have been crawling into bed, I was on the phone calling in a work order.

The housing office was closed, naturally, and the phone was answered by the fire department. After hours calls are forwarded to them. I explained my situation. The emergency service technician agreed this was a potential hazard and it could not wait until the next day to be called in for a 24 hour wait.

By 9:15 p.m. I had an electrician in my dining room dismantling my light fixture. He, too, was concerned that the circuit breaker had not triggered. After 20 minutes and two searches for a dropped screw, a tiny screw, the problem was solved. German light switches have a fuse inside the switch. That fuse blew. A simple replacement of the fuse and all was better. As for the melting bulb. Apparently, that's fairly common. The electrician was not at all concerned about that and told me that does happen. In all of my life, I've never known a lightbulb to melt out of the socket, but I could be wrong.

So, off to bed by 10:00 p.m. and of course, I'm too wound up to sleep. It took another 45 minutes before my eyelids couldn't take it anymore. No beauty sleep for me. And now, I'm just too pooped to pop.

Hey check out The Subway Chronicles. http://www.thesubwaychronicles.com

Do Not Read Beauty Magazines, They Only Make You Feel Ugly

Remember the article that was morphed into a commencement speech and then into a song, Wear Sunscreen? Of all the fabulous advice mentioned therein, a profound statement was Do Not Read Beauty Magazines, They Will Only Make You Feel Ugly. It is so true.

While working out at the gym, I do read magazines while suffering on the exer-bike. I find it to be a must as it takes my mind off of the agony. I will admit the magazine selection in my gym is a bit behind the times, but not nearly as bad as most doctors' and dentists' waiting rooms. But that is beside the point. The one I read recently (okay yesterday) really got under my skin. So much so, that as one who doesn't write to newspaper editors and/or magazine editors, I was compelled to voice my opinion to not only the editor and all the readers of that particular magazine, but also to the internet.

The particular magazine which motivated me to express my disapproval just so happens to be my favorite beauty magazine, GLAMOUR. Okay, the issue (May 2003) focused on the importance of loving oneself, regardless of age, weight or quality of skin. Page after page was dedicated to women without killer supermodel bodies and how real men love real women's bumps, lumps and curves. One page proclaimed it was time to worship the female form, complete with a picture of Rubens' The Three Graces immortalizing the voluptuous shape of his wife. A 2002 Serena Williams "This Body Rocks", the pin-up girl of 1942, Betty Grable "The hottest shape of the day" and a 2002 Kate Winslett "Great at any weight" appeared on this page.
A four-page spread highlighting curvacious women like Jennifer Lopez, Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, Queen Latifa, Beyonce and Catherine Zeta-Jones celebrated healthy women with ample feminine shape. Immediately following that more-woman-to-love, body-confidence feature, six pages of freckled-face girls reminded readers that beauty isn't defined by perfect monotone, porcelain, china-white skin.

Now anyone who has read my blog knows I am extremely body-image conscious, borderline obsessed with my appearance. It would be perfectly reasonable for me to delight and rejoice in this real-women-have-hips-and-breats issue of my favorite beauty magazine. Unfortunately, it was the intermitent fashion spread of ultra-thin, Ethiopianesque, flawless skin women showing of "Body-Proud" beach bodies in teeny-weeny bikinis that wouldn't even cover my butt crack much less one of Queen Latifa's breasts, that riled me so. Right after the four pages of beautiful plump women and the six pages of freckles, one could read all about "Suits You Fine!" complete with six pages of eight photographs of a woman so skinny that she gives new meaning to rail-thin. What kind of message is that?

The Message from the Editor asked, "Are we loving our bodies yet?" How can we when Polo Jeans Co. features a beautiful fat-roll free brunette with blemish-free skin? The Botox Cosmetic advertisement encourages dramatically reducing those age lines that are wonderously admired by a husband in his article "33 years of Loving my Wife's Body". Throw in Loreal, Revlon, CoverGirl, Jockey, Redken, Dior, Paul Mitchel, Proactiv, Citizen, Matrix, Kenneth Cole, Elizabeth Arden, Ralph Lauren, and of course Victoria's Secret and it's not difficult to see why women are so mixed up about what's considered beautiful.

If the women portrayed in the advertisements are the definition of beauty, then there is simply no way I will ever be considered beautiful. I guess it's a good thing I went to college and received an education. I certainly would never be able to make it on my "good" looks.

I do have to mention the advertisers peddling their wares using "real" people. GAP showed women of color and full cheeks enjoying summer tunics. Dockers Eyewear featured red hair and freckles, full cheeks and dark skin behind sunglasses. Biore came close. Their advertisement, although using a model without zits or blackheads to sell their cleanser, did distort her image to illustrate a "real" search for clogged pores. It's a shame that I can only physically relate to those women running fresh and free on the beach after using Midol. In addition to Midol, I can be comfortable inside my own skin while using Playtex Gentle Glide tampons.

If only I could learn from other peoples' experiences. I would never experience a sun burn, argue with my siblings, or read beauty magazines. Perhaps, reading biographies about charismatic people would be a more inspiring and empowering exer-bike read. That way I would be ensured to come home feeling energized and confident instead of fat and ugly.

Living the consequences

I spoke with my Dad last night. I told him about this fabulous party I have been invited to attend. Fabulous is a relative term. To some people, attending a formal military event where of the hundred guests there you recognize only one or two as you have spoken with them at other formal military banquets and standing around holding a beverage exercising as much graciousness as you can muster doesn't qualify as a fabulous party. Yet to me, it is exciting to get as dressed up as possible and check out what all the other ladies in attendance are wearing. All the men look the same is their dress blues. It's the military's version of the Oscars, but without the paparazzi or the billion dollars worth of diamonds.

Anyway, he asked where the party is being held. Turns out the party is in Heidelberg, about two hours away. Teassing, my dad asked if I would be walking as I apparently was not allowed to drive. Ha! My license has not been suspended....yet. I will be able to drive to the holiday reception....weather depending.

Since I am a smart woman (not necessarily the best driver in the world), I have decided to not risk driving back at night when the weather has the potential to be yucky. So, I plan on getting a hotel room in Heidelberg and staying the night. Just so I won't be lonely, I have invited my friend, Svita, to join me. Hopefully, we can make the event a two day fun trip. She's never been to Heidelberg. The day after the banquet, I can take her to see the city and the famous Heidelberg Castle. We'll have a great time.

Ridgid Rules

Well, I decided I would go ahead and own up to the whole flashing incident. As I have a guilty conscious, I needed to get the infraction out in the open. Let me tell you, the news wasn't good. I'm going to face some serious consequenses.

Running a red light is a serious violation of German traffic law. The amount of the fine depends on how long the light was red when the white line was crossed. If the light was red for less than one second, the fine is 40 euros. That's about $48. If the light was red for longer than one second, the fine increases dramatically up to 140 euros. About $190. But wait, there's more. Running a red light is an automatic liscense supsension of 30 days. Can you believe that? Although not swift, the consequences are severe.

The German liaison for the Provost Marshal's Office kidded me for violating German law. He said the severity of the infraction is payback for having invaided their country. Crazy Germans. I love them, but man, are they ever regimented and structured. He said the excuses for violations are never-ending. To my credit, I completely admitted to running the red light. I didn't even attempt to make an excuse. Besides, excuses have zero effect on the regulations. There is still a fine and a license suspension regardless of why the infraction occurred. Basically, you're screwed.

Depending on how long it takes for the German authorities to serve me with notice of the violation, the consequences could take a few months before realized. As I do work at the Provost Marshal's Office, my service won't take as long as other violators. They know me. In a nutshell, I'm screwed.

Now, if you're thinking I could simply continue to drive during that 30 days while my license is suspended, forget it. No way, no how. I would surely get caught. Of that, I have no doubt. Besides, my guilty conscious would never allow me to do it. I would be sick to my stomach the entire time. And with my luck, I'd get caught. The consequence for driving on a suspended license in Germany is license suspended for five years. Heaven knows what would happen if caught driving on a five year suspended license. Probably incarceration for 6 months, maybe flogging, maybe worse.

I've never had my license suspended. This will be a new experience. Life is such an adventure.

Getting Flashed

Many times I have wondered what it would be like to be flashed. How would I react? I suspect I would look and be amazed at the idiocy of the person showing off his pee-pee. Perhaps, I would point and laugh. Think that would be just the reaction the flasher was going for? I suppose not.

Well last Friday, I got flashed. Unfortunately, it did not involve the viewing of a naked man. The traffic camera got me.

Not only did I get caught running a red light, but also I was caught with both of my children in the car. I could say it wasn't my fault, but that's not entirely true. See, I was traveling a tad too fast anyway. I saw the light turn yellow. I simply misjudged the distance and the speed at which I was traveling.

Actually, I was paying more attention to my children than the traffic signal. We were singing and dancing in the car. This is such a rarity that I was not about to shut it down by slamming on the breaks and force everyone to lurch forward. I could have stopped, but simply chose not to. And for that, the blinding light from the traffic camera flashed. Busted!

My son, who was sitting in the front seat, was surprised that I had violated a law. He pointed at the camera, when FLASH, another picture was taken.

Law breaking is not something I do on a regular basis. It causes me too much guilt. This incident made me feel bad. I would have felt bad had my children not been witness to the violation. It was compounded by them being there.

My son said I was going to be in trouble. What would Dad say? Dad was going to be so mad at me.

Ah, no. He's not my dad. He's my husband. I'll tell him what happened and he'll tell me to pay it.

The thing about camera traffic cops is that the tickets take forever to arrive and that's only if the camera had film in it. The flash will still work, taking unrecorded photographs of violators. Perhaps, I was lucky and the incident was not recorded and I won't receive a ticket in the mail. But, with my luck, I know that is not very likely. I'm going to get a ticket. When? Hopefully, we will have moved away from Germany when the dreaded reminder of the fractured law arrives. It will be a non-issue by then. But, we'll probably extend here and the ticket will arrive.

Then, I will have to take it to the Provost Marshal's Office and explain to my collegue what I did. Yep, I, too, work at the Provost Marshal's Office. Would you like a bit of salt with that pride? It'll help you swallow it.

Green Disco Witch and Impromptu Siesta Mexican. Spoooooooooky.

My spectacular pumpkin.

Here I am diligently working to create a Halloween masterpiece.

Svita's first time carving pumpkins. She did a great job.

Happy Halloween

Halloween is my favorite holiday. It can be celebrated for the entire month of October. Thirty-one days sure beats the twelve days of Christmas. Plus, folks become extremely clever when considering a costume.

The first costume I got my husband into was King Neptune. I was a mermaid. The event was a silent auction with the theme of Under The Sea. My sweet husband proclaimed that he had been mislead because he and I were the only ones dressed up. Actually, I had never said it was a costume ball type event. We were the living decorations for the evening.

Halloween was just a few days later. I threw a great party and invited our close friends. My husband is such a good sport about dressing-up. That year, he put on tights and a green puffy shirt. He was my Robin Hood to my Maid Marion. I have to admit we looked fantastic. Anthony and Cleopatra were there. A Bad-Ass Biker came with his wife, Charlotte's Web. By pure coincidence, two Priests showed up with their trampy Catholic School Girls. The White Trash Couple came as did a Giant Pink Fairy. There was a Pirate and a Dominatrix. Naughty Nurse and Dirty Old Man were there too. Everyone had a wonderful time.


The next year, we were living in Kansas. I planned a Grand Halloween Party. Because so many people were invited and we had such tiny quarters, I decided to go with an open house format. The food had improved from the prior year. I got more into the holiday. I served jello shot brain, fingers, witch's cheese-dip cauldron, snake sandwich and Frankenstein cups. It looked wonderfully yummy. Kirby, still willing to wear a costume, donned a Court Jester outfit complete with jingle bells on the floppy hat. I was a sexy story-book witch.

Throughout the evening, several reverse couples came. The husband came as the woman and the wife came as the man. I can only imagine the conversation at the store when a rather large, beefy man asked for a pair of size 12 pumps. Dilbert arrived with his witch wife. A couple arrived wearing togas. We had hippies, construction workers, Minnie Mouse, and a fantastic Old Folks couple. The Wicked Witch showed up with her husband, Dorothy. Everyone had such a wonderful time that once they arrived, they didn't leave. The open house theme turned into a jam-packed party.

The Halloween after that was spent in Heidelberg,Germany. It wasn't just any old Halloween filled with passing out candy to Trick-or-Treaters. We spent that year's holiday at Frankenstein's Castle in Darmstadt. Mary Shelley had visited the castle ruins and was so moved by the experience that she created the story, Frankenstein.

Today, the castle is nearly gone. There is a couryard, a small bridge, some walls, a staircase and a tower remaining. The folks who run the castle have done a tremendous job at keeping Frankenstein alive. One can also enjoy murder mystery dinner theater there as well as a wedding reception.

The good folks at the castle celebrate Halloween with a two-week long haunted house. It is nothing like any haunted house I have ever attended. When walking up the dark roadway approaching the castle entrance, visitors notice the ambulance parked at he gate plus several medical personnel walking about. This is a precautionary measure as some people become so frightened they might have a heart-attack.

Visitors enter the castle grounds in mass. No lines here. Crossing the arched bridge, it become obvious the idea behind this haunted house is a free-roaming tour of the grounds. And monsters galore. Every possible scary monster, demon, beast and nightmare are present and lurking about. They approach visitors and follow visitors and even corner visitors. Any indication of fear is an invitation to the creatures. They torment the frightened and some are compelled to gently touch the weary. And a brief mention of the costumes. SPECTACULAR! They aren't your five and dime store cheap costumes. They are the genuine article up to the best Hollywood modern day standard of theatrical make-up. The best I've ever seen. It's readily apparent the money earned from ticket sales is put back into the make-up and costumes.

The following year, we had moved, again and now were in Schweinfurt, Germany. I decided to throw my traditional Halloween party. Several decorations had been added to my ever growing Halloween box and I now had three very large and well-stuffed containers of Halloween costumes/decorations to choose from. I even expanded my Halloween food items. I served the witch's cheese-dip cauldron, vertebrae, eyeballs, spider cake, graveyard brownies, and witch's brew.

I went over the top with my costume. I was Cruella DeVil. Naturally, my husband was my dalmation. Our guests arrived. We had the Black Widow and her corpse husband. Black and white stripped inmate with his Police Officer wife. Orange County jumpsuit inmate and his abused wife. King Tut and Nefertiti. Doctor Evil and his trampy sidekicks. A clown, an empty roll of toilet paper, a ghost, Mother Nature, Big Breasted Naughty Nurse Nancy, two Army helicopter pilots. A Cowboy and his Indian wife. A very large muscular black man came as an Army wife, complete with short black dress, stockings, heels, cropped curly blonde wig and an Army wife handbook. I don't think I ever laughed quite as hard as I did when he arrived. We also had a witch, a couple of pumpkins and the killer from Scream. Another Halloween and another great party where everyone had a terrific time.

This year, the year of the deployment, was a bit different. Without my husband and all the husbands of my friends, a party just didn't appeal to me. Really, who wants to come to a Halloween party without their significant other? So, most of my Halloween items stayed in the boxes. I did bring a few things out and shared my costumes with some other folks who needed them to dress up at the elementary school.

This year I made a new friend. She's from Ukraine and has never celebrated Halloween. She had never carved a pumpkin and had never experienced Trick-or-Treat. It is difficult explaining Trick-or-Treat to someone who has no knowledge of the event.

"What if you don't have candy?" she asked.

"You have candy. You must have candy."

"What if you run out?"

"You don't run out. Some folks do, but that's frowned upon. You do what you can to make sure you don't run out."

"What do they dress up as?"

"Anything they want."

"Why?"

"Uhhh, because."

I finally gave up and told her she would have to carve pumpkins at my house and spend Halloween with me and experience Trick-or-Treat first hand. See, in our military community, every child comes to my neighborhood to Trick-or-Treat. Never in my whole life have I seen so many Trick-or-Treaters. Literally hundreds. They line up five to ten people deep at the door waiting for their turn. I have a large cauldron that I use for the Halloween candy. Last year I went through two cauldrons full of candy. I started to panic. Luckily, I had some Halloween pencils on hand and had just enough to get me through the alloted 2-hour Trick-or-Treat time. This year, I was better prepared. I had tons of candy, plus Halloween pencils, plus Halloween theme toys. And believe me, I needed every bit of it.

My friend, Svita, carved her first pumpkin a week before Trick-or-Treat. I know she was pleased because when she had finished, my daughter and I were still working on ours, she asked if we needed any help. I gave her another pumpkin and she nearly squealed with delight. She got creative too. She turned a scar on the pumpkin into an eye patch. Very clever.

When it came time for the Trick-or-Treaters, Svita came to my house with no idea of what to expect. She had dressed in nice clothes wanting to present herself the best she could. Well, we ended up sitting outside because the stream of children is non-stop. As it was cold, I gave her a Mexican blanket to wrap up in. Then, I had a brilliant idea. I got her a sombrero and she instantly turned into a stereotypical Mexican on siesta.

During the furious endeavor to put candy in the ever open bags of Trick-or-Treaters, Svita giggled to herself. I also delighted in the wonderful costumes and festive mood. By the time it finally ended, three cauldrons of goodies later, Svita was tickled with this Halloween tradition. I think I have converted another.

Happy Halloween!!!!

More is More

Back in January 2001, I started monitoring my weight and body fat. At 130 pounds and 18% body fat, I thought I looked pretty good. I worked-out on a regular basis with my husband and I was comfortable in a swimming suit. I even actively participated in water aerobics and got a job as a lifeguard. Unfortunately, all that was to change.

When we moved to Germany, the swimming and water aerobics ended. The military post in Heidelberg does not have a pool. The closest thing to a pool in the German community is a water park of sorts. It's possible to play in a wave pool or water jog in a whirlpool. Swimming laps while dodging splashing children is impossible. So, to compensate, I spent more time in the gym and increased my cardio work-out. I maintained my appearance fairly well, but noticed the numbers on the scale begin to rise.

Shortly after moving to Schweinfurt in July 2003, I was still comfortable enough with my appearance that I did something I never would have done had I felt on the larger side. I posed for very tasteful artsy type photographs. I can't say I was please with the results. Some photos were better than others and some where just yuck. However, my husband liked them and that's all that mattered.

But, that body disappeared. In January 2004, I started a notebook to record my weight and body fat. My initial measurement was 135.5 pounds and 23.2% body fat. Yikes! What happened to the slim trim swimmer of 18% body fat? Each month, I record another measurement. For the most part, there was little fluctuation in weight and body fat.

In late January, I had surgery and had my ovaries removed. It's amazing what happens to the female body when there no more estrogen is being produced. The hot flashes were terrible. My children complained the house was too cold and begged me to close the windows. I have to admit, it was cold for normal people. So I only kept the windows in my bedroom open. My room became the frozen tundra and you could see your breath. Yet, I only wore shorts and t-shirts and still was a hot sweaty mess. The first few months after surgery, I had to change my sheets at least twice a week because of the night sweats. Sleep was difficult as I frequently woke up because of the sweat dribbling down my face and neck. In a word, YUCK. Luckily, my husband didn't have to experience the initial stages of forced menopause as he was in Iraq dealing with his own issues.

By April, I began to notice that my pants didn't quite fit properly. I was perplexed as I had been working out and eating in typical fashion. Nothing wanting to obsess over it, I kept on doing my normal thing until summer.

Summer vacation plus a week in Greece and a week in London equals extra pounds. Vacation pounds usually melt away quickly after returning to the daily grind. But, in my case, this didn't happen. Those pounds stayed and multiplied.

By September 27, I weighed 144 pounds and was over 24% body fat. Thoroughly disgusted with myself, I hit the gym. My husband had returned home on R&R and we spent most of the time in the gym. He pushed me to lift more weight and more reps. Okay, I agreed to do whatever necessary to get ride of the post surgery/no estrogen/vacation pounds. He advised me to eat a small meal every three hours and eat more protein. Okay, I complied.

During the two weeks he was home, I lost one pound. Yep, only 1 pound. Once he left to return to Iraq, I kept up the work-out schedule and even started running more. I ended up losing three additional pounds rather quickly. I was pleased with my progress.

Where do I find myself today?

More. That's where. I work-out more. I lift more weight. I complete more reps. I do more lunges than I ever imagined I would. I do more versions of lunges, which cause much more pain. My body hurts more. I eat more frequently. No more three meals a day. I have 6 snack size meals a day. One of those is a smoothy that contains more protein than a turkey sandwhich. All of this and I have gained a pound. I now weigh 141 pounds. Okay, you would think this isn't so bad because it should be muscle weight. Alas, not for me. All this more has added up to MORE body fat. As of this morning I am 25.5% body fat. On my hips, butt, thighs, and upper arms I am carrying around 36 pounds of pure fat! Is is possible to be more discouraged than I am now? I think not.

A Cornucopia of Thoughts

On my way home from the gym, I thought about posting comments about GYM JERKS. Then, I turned on the television and was sucked into the remade movie of Brian's Song. That spun up all kinds of thoughts I was compelled to post. As I sat down at the computer, I opened my email and discovered I was accepted to allow advertisements to be displayed on my blog.

Yep, I sold out for cash. Hopefully, you will notice an advertisement at the bottom of the page. Each time you clic on it, you help support this page. As the current readers of this page, I strongly encourage you to help a girl out and clic away.

Anyway, back to the gym jerk. So there I was, using the giant exercise ball and a foot rack to do multiple sets of sit-ups. In between sets, I walked about 5 yards away to the hanging station to do the abdominal leg lifts. Keep in mind, my water bottle, towel and workout gloves remained next to the giant exercise ball. Wouldn't you know, some jerk and his workout partner plopped themselves right down on the mat and kicked my exercise ball away. Completely ignoring my "saved" space. Come on, people. My water bottle and sweat towel are clearly reserving that space. So, I kindly asked if I could trade them spaces. I didn't think this was too much to ask because there was a second mat for them to sit on and do there doubles sit-ups. That led to a big discussion about how the particular mat my giant exercise ball had been on is thicker than the other mat and his tailbone rubs the ground the wrong way. What? I only had 20 more sit-ups to do. I spent more time convincing them to move than it would have taken me to do the damn sit-ups in the first place. Then, the gym jerk commented that I was spending too much time talking to folks in the gym rather than working out. How dare he?!? Just for your information, I was discussing the finer points of alternative lunges with another woman. We certainly weren't exchanging recipes or stain removal techniques. Obviously he doesn't read Women's Health magazine. It matter-of-factly states that women prefer socialized exercise. Yes, I do enjoy talking while at the gym, but I'm not there for social hour. For goodness sakes. Would discussing lunges techniques with a personal trainer or even the gym jerk himself cramp his style enough to kick my giant exercise ball off the mat? Reviewing gym etiquette might do him some good.

Now for Brian's Song. I remember watching the original version way back when I was in elementary school. It was just too sad and I had to cry, and cry, and cry. Personally, it was much too emotional for elementary school children. Since that painfully sad day I have never watched the film in its entirety. If I happened to stumble upon it as I flip through the channels, I quickly passed it by. It's simply too, too sad.

The remake with the fellow from ER is just as sad. Big crocodile tears streamed down my face and I asked myself, "Why am I watching this?" I knew it would make me cry and yet there I was trapped and suffering through it. In the final few minutes of the film, Brian tells his wife he loves her. He cries as he says it over and over and over. Watching it through the tears, I wanted to tell my husband that I love him. But, I can't, at least not tonight. He's in Iraq.

While he was home on R&R, I made sure to tell him I love him about a million times a day. It's important for me to tell him and it's important for him to hear it. There is no way he can even suspect that he's not the most loved man on the planet. On the occassions when he is able to call, it's the first thing I say to him. I want to make sure he hears it before the phone cuts out. I also write it in every email and letter I send to him. I even write it all over the outside of any care package I send to him.

The best advice I can give is to live your life as if each day were your last and let those you love know it.

Big hugs to all,
Kelly

Continuing the Deployment

This morning at 0416, I kissed my husband good-bye. That last kiss was so soft and warm and full of love. It has to last for the next four months. As soon as he turned to walk toward the bus that would take him to the airport, I felt that ripped apart empty feeling and started sobbing. I'm not talking a few tears. I'm talking gut-wrenching sobbing. The kind that hurts all the way down to the bone.

The first time my super wonderful husband deployed (March 2003), he was gone for four months. The second deployment (February 2004) was to be for a year. It was a long and lonely eight months before he was able to come home on R&R. We shared 16 amazing days together. But for a few hours here and there, I remained by his side. That man is my anchor. Alas, all good things must come to an end and he had to depart again for Iraq. If everything goes according to plan (which somehow never seems to happen when operating within the military time-table) I shall be able to embrace my precious man again sometime in the spring of 2005.

These deployments are such a test of inner-strength and character. Military spouses are forced to cope with a plethora of challenges. Long-term separation is just one of them.

Shortly after 1st Infantry Division left Germany for Iraq, I sat down at the computer and wrote about the emotions swelling within me reflected by the tension building within my community. Personally, I thought the result was pretty good. I shared it with some other wives and they agreed with the sentiments. Eventually, the good folks in Golden, Colorado (my home away from home) requested an insider's view-point about the going-ons in Irag and the impact on the families of the soldiers. I sent in what I had written. I was please to see my words appeared in the Heart of Golden Newsletter. The response I received was overwhelming.

I wanted to post it here. Hopefully, folks outside of Golden, Colorado will read it and perhaps a few eyes will be opened about what it means to love a soldier.


"DEPLOYMENT AND THE ONES LEFT BEHIND"

Baghdad. Tikrit. Fallujah. What do these words mean? As an Army wife, these words are much more than cities in Iraq. These words mean a long-term separation from my husband. These words mean rearing two children alone. These words mean yet another anniversary at a table for one. These words mean a Father’s Day without a father. These words mean a community reduced by more than a third practically overnight.

These words also mean fear. The fear of “What if?” What if today is the day I answer my doorbell and discover an Army Chaplain and a Commander waiting to tell me my husband will not be coming home? What if the news isn’t that my husband was killed, but rather severely injured? What if today my best friend opens her door to greet a Chaplain and Commander? These are thoughts that although aren’t consciously entertained, they lurk in the dark recesses of the minds of military spouses.

The differences between military and civilian families are many. Recently, one of those differences was noticed by my 14 year old daughter. The television show Survivor is a favorite in our household. On a recent episode, the players became emotionally overwhelmed at the possibility that after 28/29 days they might win the opportunity to spend some time with a loved one. My daughter looked at me and said, “Come on. Thirty days away from their family? That’s just a training exercise.” She was absolutely correct. These players were beside themselves with tears and sobs after a mere four weeks. Try four months.

Four months. That’s how long my husband was in Iraq last year. He returned just long enough to pack up our household and move to another post and job assignment. Once there, he received word that he would deploy with the new unit in seven months. That seven months was not seven months of going to work at 8 o’clock and coming home at 6 o’clock. That seven months was a week in the field here, a month in the field there, a week away here and a month gone there. The time in garrison (at home) still was not a regular work day schedule. Off to work by 0600 (6 a.m.) for PT (physical training), maybe some time off for a lunch break, back to work, maybe some time off for a dinner break or call home to have dinner brought to work, and maybe, just maybe be home by 2100 (9 p.m.). All of this hard work and dedication was rewarded with two weeks of leave time in December to enjoy before deploying for a year.

In two years time, my husband has been deployed twice. The reality of it is that I am not the only wife who has had to say good-bye this often. There are hundreds if not thousands of wives who have been separated from their husbands more than they’ve been with their husbands. Just the other day, I spoke to an Army wife of three years. Her husband has been deployed and/or in the field for 30 months of their marriage. Being married to the military means reaching deep down inside yourself and gathering up all your inner strength and telling yourself that everything will be okay. A military spouse is the definition of independence. A military spouse is resourceful. To borrow military phraseology, a military spouse must improvise, adapt and overcome. As a group, we get through each deployment a bit stronger, a bit braver and a bit more resilient. And when the news of yet another training exercise and/or deployment comes, we remind ourselves that we love our soldiers and everything that they do and everything we do is worth it. Freedom isn’t free. It comes at a greater cost than most people can ever imagine.
---06 May 2004-----

Using my free time

Having my super spectacular husband home for the last two weeks has been simply wonderful. He has taken so much pressure off of me that it's hard to believe that I was as stressed as I was. Having to parent every day, all day is extremely exhausting. Having a partner to deal with some of the challenges of teenagers is a God send. To put it mildly, it really does take two parents to rear children.

Granted, my children aren't running around smoking pot, injecting heroin, breaking into people's homes and stealing cars. But, they are a handful none-the-less. The ability of teenagers to be completely selfish is so understated in all the child development books. I truly wish that when they marry and have children of their own, they have children just like they are. That way, my fabulous husband and I can sit back and laugh at their misery.

Have I mentioned how wonderful my husband is? Well, Mr. Wonderful is out and about with our two children today. They are having some much needed alone time together. Just father and offspring. This opportunity allows the children to enjoy the time with their father and it gives him an opportunity to instill some of the same messages that I have been diligently trying to engrain into their heads. Perhaps if both parents say the same thing, they will grasp that we aren't just making stuff up as we go along. This outing also provides me with some alone time. Naturally, I have used it to post on the blog and to play computer games. What I really should be doing is creating.

Just the other day, I received in the mail, my assignment #1 back. I have to use the character I developed in #1 to draft a 750-1000 word fictional tale. Late at night, when I'm trying to fall asleep seems to be the most opportune time for my brain to kick into overdrive and full steam ahead with plot development. That and a little help from some ideas I found in a book called The Writer's Block. There are some great ideas in that book. I have not yet started the project, but I have thought about it. I have a good start forming in my head. It'll be enough to give life to the blank piece of paper. I just hope that the story can tell itself within the word limit.

Can it get any better?

I have found a few moments by myself. My husband, Mr. Spectacular, is off purchasing a Homecoming Dress with our daughter. I chose to stay behind to give them a chance to have some alone time together. That and I had NO desire to go on this particular shopping mission. Having seized some alone time for myself, I decided to reminisce about the day my husband arrived home on R&R.

I woke bright and early on the morning of the 29th of September. I was up and ready long before the sun. This first order of business was to call staff duty at 0535. They advised the plane had landed safely in Frankfurt, Germany and the transport bus was on its way. The estimated time of arrival: 0600.

I arrived at battalion headquarters at approximately 0545 and patiently waited for the bus. It finally showed up at 0610. Usually, I can't spot my husband in a crowd of soldiers because they all look alike, but on this particular morning, I spotted him. I eagerly waited for him to sign some paperwork and collect his bag from the cargo hold of the bus. The four or five minutes I stood there waiting seemed like forever. I just wanted to run to him and squeeze him with kisses. But, I had to maintain control and wait.

Let me just say, the wait was worth it. YIPPIE!!

So, later that morning, we drove up to Wurzburg and visited with the BMW folks. After a test drive and a few decisions regarding options, we bought a MINI Cooper S for me! Right now the order is for a red MINI with white roof, mirrors and bonnet racing stripes. The decision on the color is bothering my husband. He has asked several times since the 29th if I am sure I really want the red. Wouldn't I be happier with the green? I have suggested that the color of the car isn't a deal breaker and that if he really wants to change the color, we certainly can do that. However, I reminded him, Kansas City Chiefs door panel logos wouldn't look as good on a green car. He agreed.

You would think that getting my husband home after EIGHT VERY LONG AND LONELY months plus buying my favorite car would be enough. I thought the day was moving along quite nicely. Ah ha, but wait, there's more.

During a check of my email, I opened a message containg the best news. True Story magazine wants to purchase and publish one of my stories!!! I let out a whoop of joy that lasted a whole 10 minutes. I have been trying for over two years to get something published. I have kept all of the rejection letters I have received during that time in a notebook. That notebook is bulging. Naturally, I printed out the most wonderful email for framing along with a copy of the soon to be arriving check they are sending. Notice I said copy of the check. You're damn right I'm spending it. I earned it.

The only way to top the day would be if the Publisher Clearing House folks rang my doorbell and gave me a million dollars. Since I seriously doubt they would travel all the way to Germany to give me a million dollars, especially since I haven't filled out the entry form. So the million dollars; that's NOT going to happen.

It's all good, though. I don't need it. I'm happy enough right now.