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I just love this car!
Saturday, March 19, 2005
Friday, March 11, 2005
Over the next few months....
Although it's not official, it looks as if we will be moving to Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas this summer.
Yes, another year or two or three in Germany would have been very nice. Yes, a tour in Italy would have been super. But, Ft. Leavenworth is okay by me. There are plenty of places the Army could send us that are much, much worse. As a matter of fact, there is a job available in Kuwait and another in Qatar. Frankly, I'd rather live in the middle of Nowheresville.
The Ft. Leavenworth news is good. We were there previously and were pleasantly surprised. It was much better than we had expected. There are green rolling hills and lots of trees. The big bonus about going there is my husband, the most wonderful man in the world, was lucky enough to get Kansas City Chiefs season tickets. He is a HUGE Chiefs fan and a day at Arrowhead Stadium is a day at Valhalla. If only the Chiefs could have a winning season and go to and WIN the Superbowl, my wonderful husband would be the happiest man on the planet.
We have a few more months left here in Germany. Before we return to the States, we still have a few trips planned here. I simply have to get back to Poland. My extended family has put in a request for more Polish Pottery. That stuff is so expensive in the states. It is unreal. One little plate that cost $53 in a catalog, costs me about $8 in Poland. Granted, I have to drive about 5 hours to get there, but it's all worth it in the end.
I'd like to get my husband to Greece since the Africa trip has been sidelined. I recently discovered Kenya was been placed on the "Hot" list and is not recommended for Americans to travel there. It would be just my luck to go, get abducted and imprisoned. I can see it now. A video message of me pleading for the U.S. to come save me from my captors. I'd have my wrists zip-tied together and I'd say, "All I wanted was to see some wildebeest!" So, I think Greece will be a better option. It'll also be cheaper, but considering all the wonderful jewelry for sale, it just might be more expensive. One can never have too much jewelry.
The next few months will be a whorlwind. My son is about to graduate from high school and part of the extended family will be coming to attend the ceremony. Last minute traveling, last minute once-in-a-lifetime purchases to be made, coordinating two children and three dogs to visit my family in Colorado and my husband's family in California, getting my son settled in the college dorm, taking delivery of my car in Missouri (it's being shipped from Germany), finding a place to live in Ft. Leavenworth, unpacking and settling in, registering my daughter for school, filling out applications for employment. Phew! There is just soooooooo MUCH TO DO.
And....Thanks for all the birthday wishes. I did not receive a slim butt for my birthday. I did however, receive an ICE CREAM CAKE! All I want for Christmas is a slim trim butt, a slim trim butt, a slim trim butt.
Yes, another year or two or three in Germany would have been very nice. Yes, a tour in Italy would have been super. But, Ft. Leavenworth is okay by me. There are plenty of places the Army could send us that are much, much worse. As a matter of fact, there is a job available in Kuwait and another in Qatar. Frankly, I'd rather live in the middle of Nowheresville.
The Ft. Leavenworth news is good. We were there previously and were pleasantly surprised. It was much better than we had expected. There are green rolling hills and lots of trees. The big bonus about going there is my husband, the most wonderful man in the world, was lucky enough to get Kansas City Chiefs season tickets. He is a HUGE Chiefs fan and a day at Arrowhead Stadium is a day at Valhalla. If only the Chiefs could have a winning season and go to and WIN the Superbowl, my wonderful husband would be the happiest man on the planet.
We have a few more months left here in Germany. Before we return to the States, we still have a few trips planned here. I simply have to get back to Poland. My extended family has put in a request for more Polish Pottery. That stuff is so expensive in the states. It is unreal. One little plate that cost $53 in a catalog, costs me about $8 in Poland. Granted, I have to drive about 5 hours to get there, but it's all worth it in the end.
I'd like to get my husband to Greece since the Africa trip has been sidelined. I recently discovered Kenya was been placed on the "Hot" list and is not recommended for Americans to travel there. It would be just my luck to go, get abducted and imprisoned. I can see it now. A video message of me pleading for the U.S. to come save me from my captors. I'd have my wrists zip-tied together and I'd say, "All I wanted was to see some wildebeest!" So, I think Greece will be a better option. It'll also be cheaper, but considering all the wonderful jewelry for sale, it just might be more expensive. One can never have too much jewelry.
The next few months will be a whorlwind. My son is about to graduate from high school and part of the extended family will be coming to attend the ceremony. Last minute traveling, last minute once-in-a-lifetime purchases to be made, coordinating two children and three dogs to visit my family in Colorado and my husband's family in California, getting my son settled in the college dorm, taking delivery of my car in Missouri (it's being shipped from Germany), finding a place to live in Ft. Leavenworth, unpacking and settling in, registering my daughter for school, filling out applications for employment. Phew! There is just soooooooo MUCH TO DO.
And....Thanks for all the birthday wishes. I did not receive a slim butt for my birthday. I did however, receive an ICE CREAM CAKE! All I want for Christmas is a slim trim butt, a slim trim butt, a slim trim butt.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
It's My Party
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR KELLY! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!
How's this for a super party day? I'm spending my birthday substituting for Third Grade! Cool.
Actually, I really don't mind. I like third graders. They are fun. Plus, they like me and that makes the world of difference. The bonus for the day is that I am wearing my Tiara. Yep. I'm the QUEEN. Forget that princess crap. I AM QUEEN!!
All Hale Queen Kelly, The Beatiful, The Amazing, The Spectacular, The So-Full-Of-Herself.
All I want for my birthday is a smaller butt. Okay, diamonds are good, too. But a smaller butt would be ideal.
How's this for a super party day? I'm spending my birthday substituting for Third Grade! Cool.
Actually, I really don't mind. I like third graders. They are fun. Plus, they like me and that makes the world of difference. The bonus for the day is that I am wearing my Tiara. Yep. I'm the QUEEN. Forget that princess crap. I AM QUEEN!!
All Hale Queen Kelly, The Beatiful, The Amazing, The Spectacular, The So-Full-Of-Herself.
All I want for my birthday is a smaller butt. Okay, diamonds are good, too. But a smaller butt would be ideal.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
What a Difference a Day Makes
The most amazing man on the planet has returned home!!
I finally received the advanced notice telephone call indicating that my husband would be arriving in Frankfurt. Once I knew he was in Germany and safely on the ground, a tremendous weight lifted. I still had to wait nearly three hours before I could wrap my arms around him, but those three hours were calm and reassured. My husband was FINALLY home.
My mother was relieved. His mother was relieved. I was relieved and our children were relieved.
Life can now continue on its "normal" path. Ah, but what is normal? We still have no idea if we are moving in June/July or not. If we do move, we don't know where we'll go. Here I am trying to decide whether or not to plant flowers in the flower beds, or replant my potted plants into cheap plastic pots to give away to someone who'll be staying in Schweinfurt. Such tremendous decisions like that are what ails me now. That is such a blessing. I am no longer wondering what I'll do if my husband is killed or maimed. People who don't live with those kind of possibilities every day just can't understand what it's like to not have to think about it. Families of firefighters, police officers, vulcanologists, convenience store clerks, those people understand what it's like to worry incessantly. Unfortunately, I still worry. My dad is working in Baghdad. I try not to watch CNN too often. I can't help but wonder how close my dad is to the latest car bombing. Yes, Baghdad is a big place and the likelihood of my dad being hit is statistically nominal, but I just can't help that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
That brings me to my next topic: That sickening cramping in the pit of the belly. Three days before my husband came home, I had a horrible cramp in the lower right side of my abdomen. At first, I thought nothing of it. When the pain was sever enough to wake me from a deep sleep at 4:14 in the morning, I suspected appendicitis. So, naturally, I called my mother. Since she's in the states, it was still early evening for her. She said the pain that I was feeling is not the same kind of pain associated with appendicitis. She recommended two Tylenol 3 and go back to bed.
The pain didn't go away. It lasted all weekend long and into the beginning of the week. It wasn't because I was backed up. A laxative took care of that. My bowels were working and making all sorts of noises. That meant they were working. I was farting regularly so I wasn't swelling up like a hot air balloon. But the pain was not diminishing.
The LAST thing I wanted to deal with on the first night of my husband's return was abdominal pain.
It got so bad and had continued for five days, that I finally went to see a doctor. The initial exam was inconclusive because I had no fever. Hmmm...off to radiology. Unfortunately, that meant a different hospital. My sweet and wonderful husband spent his first day home in the emergency room waiting room with me. After several more hours, three sets of vital signs, a GIANT glass of sweet glow-in-the-dark radiation beverage and a CT scan, the cause of my severe abdominal pain is.....inconclusive. How's that for a diagnosis?
So, back home and decent dinner. Wouldn't you know, by this time, 144 hours later, no more pain. Naturally. Just another pop quiz. I'm still feeling discomfort, but nothing like the bend-over-and-want-to-die-cramping-white-hot-pain of the past several days.
It's just so typical of my life.
I finally received the advanced notice telephone call indicating that my husband would be arriving in Frankfurt. Once I knew he was in Germany and safely on the ground, a tremendous weight lifted. I still had to wait nearly three hours before I could wrap my arms around him, but those three hours were calm and reassured. My husband was FINALLY home.
My mother was relieved. His mother was relieved. I was relieved and our children were relieved.
Life can now continue on its "normal" path. Ah, but what is normal? We still have no idea if we are moving in June/July or not. If we do move, we don't know where we'll go. Here I am trying to decide whether or not to plant flowers in the flower beds, or replant my potted plants into cheap plastic pots to give away to someone who'll be staying in Schweinfurt. Such tremendous decisions like that are what ails me now. That is such a blessing. I am no longer wondering what I'll do if my husband is killed or maimed. People who don't live with those kind of possibilities every day just can't understand what it's like to not have to think about it. Families of firefighters, police officers, vulcanologists, convenience store clerks, those people understand what it's like to worry incessantly. Unfortunately, I still worry. My dad is working in Baghdad. I try not to watch CNN too often. I can't help but wonder how close my dad is to the latest car bombing. Yes, Baghdad is a big place and the likelihood of my dad being hit is statistically nominal, but I just can't help that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
That brings me to my next topic: That sickening cramping in the pit of the belly. Three days before my husband came home, I had a horrible cramp in the lower right side of my abdomen. At first, I thought nothing of it. When the pain was sever enough to wake me from a deep sleep at 4:14 in the morning, I suspected appendicitis. So, naturally, I called my mother. Since she's in the states, it was still early evening for her. She said the pain that I was feeling is not the same kind of pain associated with appendicitis. She recommended two Tylenol 3 and go back to bed.
The pain didn't go away. It lasted all weekend long and into the beginning of the week. It wasn't because I was backed up. A laxative took care of that. My bowels were working and making all sorts of noises. That meant they were working. I was farting regularly so I wasn't swelling up like a hot air balloon. But the pain was not diminishing.
The LAST thing I wanted to deal with on the first night of my husband's return was abdominal pain.
It got so bad and had continued for five days, that I finally went to see a doctor. The initial exam was inconclusive because I had no fever. Hmmm...off to radiology. Unfortunately, that meant a different hospital. My sweet and wonderful husband spent his first day home in the emergency room waiting room with me. After several more hours, three sets of vital signs, a GIANT glass of sweet glow-in-the-dark radiation beverage and a CT scan, the cause of my severe abdominal pain is.....inconclusive. How's that for a diagnosis?
So, back home and decent dinner. Wouldn't you know, by this time, 144 hours later, no more pain. Naturally. Just another pop quiz. I'm still feeling discomfort, but nothing like the bend-over-and-want-to-die-cramping-white-hot-pain of the past several days.
It's just so typical of my life.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Only Time
As I grow older, I realize just how foolish I was in my earlier years. I remember being 15 and thinking I knew everything. My parents, especially my mother, were so retarded. They didn't understand anything that I was experiencing.
By the time I was 18, I was ready to take on the world. I was an ADULT after all, and a registered voter. The world was mine for the taking. Then came college. That meant freedom. I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I had no rules but my own. If I wanted to stay out all night, I could. If I wanted to consume many, many beers, I could. If I wanted to run around with "bad boys," I could. Then Chemistry 103.
Dr. Glanville, the needle to pop my fantasy bubble, loved "common knowledge" questions. These were questions that showed up on exams that were never discussed in lecture nor mentioned in the text. As the name implies, they were simply common knowledge. Everyone should know what acetylsalicyclic acid is. Apparently, I didn't know as much as I thought I did because I had no idea what the scientific name for aspirin is. The elemental make-up of the inside of the Alaskan Pipeline, even after all these years has evaded my common knowledge. As a result of my ignorance and inability to absorb chemistry, the 36% cumulative grade prior to the final exam slapped me in my honor roll face.
During college, all five years of it, I learned a bit more about life and the consequences of my actions. I began to realize that maybe I didn't know everything there was to know. The year after I graduated from college was a tremendous learning experience. With degree in hand and my whole life ahead of me, I packed my truck and drove across the United States. I ended up smack in the middle of Seattle, Washington and the height of the grunge scene. It was very cool.
Although I arrived in Seattle knowing not a soul, I did have a name and a phone number of a friend of a friend. Unfortunately, he was out of town when I rolled into town. I spent the first three days in a crappy hotel called "Candy Land." Before you ask, yes there were candy canes along the pathways and two giant ones crisscrossing right in front of the office door.
I could go on and on about the adventures enjoyed while in Seattle. Like the time some crazed home owner pulled out the shotgun, or the time when the crazy woman came into the bookstore where I worked, or the man who wanted to pay me $1000 to perform frottage, or the trip to Crater Lake, or the trip to Mt. Saint Helens, or, or, or. There were so many.
The point is that while living in Seattle in a mouse infested apartment, I learned that I wasn't the reason the sun rises and sets each day. I learned what it is really like to be broke and hungry.
After the best year of my life, I returned to Virginia and worked for the GOVERNMENT. I accepted a position as a Probation and Parole Officer. There are some crazy stories associated with that chapter of my life. Trust me when I say there are some very bad people in the world and sometimes ignorance is best.
During my power days, I was privy to the lives of some very unfortunate people. I saw how they lived every day. Some folks live and work in harsh environments. Life isn't always pretty. Sometimes life kicks you when you are down and then spits on you for good measure. There was this one fellow......but that's for another time.
Then the practice marriage, a cancer scare, three moves, a death and another death, a birth and a new man. He, the most wonderful man on the planet, my husband, came with two children and all the baggage associated with an ex-wife and an ugly divorce. Then, another health scare, a wedding, another move, and another move, and another move to a foreign country, a deployment, another health scare, another move and another deployment. Basically, life happened.
All of this life complete with the Wednesday night at 10:00 p.m. surprises that blindside you (My sister and I call them God's Pop Quizzes) resulted in the person I am today. Actually, I feel pretty good about myself (except for all the adipose tissue "FAT" building up on my body) and am enjoying life for what it is. I try not to take everything so seriously and have embraced the ability to life at certain situations where several years ago, I would have become angry.
The other day, I was sitting with a small group of twenty-something women. They were full of vigor and that I-Know-Everything-And-You-Can't-Tell-Me-What-To-Do attitude. Ah, I remember it fondly. I just sat there and smiled at them, laughing to myself. Oh, how little they know. There's just no reasoning with that mindset.
Then, I started thinking. Here I am at thirty-something and looking at these twenty-somethings and knowing they don't have a clue. I wonder, do forty-somethings look at me and think the same thing? I came to the conclusion that certainly they must. And with that, a burst of understanding, an epiphany, I am so looking forward to getting older. I want to come as close to self-acceptance as I can get. I want to be able to relax and enjoy the simply things in life. I want to appreciate all that I have taken for granted. I want to not worry so much about what people think. To me, it seems all those things come after time. I used to have negative connotations associated with aging, but not anymore. I think it will be wonderful.
By the time I was 18, I was ready to take on the world. I was an ADULT after all, and a registered voter. The world was mine for the taking. Then came college. That meant freedom. I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I had no rules but my own. If I wanted to stay out all night, I could. If I wanted to consume many, many beers, I could. If I wanted to run around with "bad boys," I could. Then Chemistry 103.
Dr. Glanville, the needle to pop my fantasy bubble, loved "common knowledge" questions. These were questions that showed up on exams that were never discussed in lecture nor mentioned in the text. As the name implies, they were simply common knowledge. Everyone should know what acetylsalicyclic acid is. Apparently, I didn't know as much as I thought I did because I had no idea what the scientific name for aspirin is. The elemental make-up of the inside of the Alaskan Pipeline, even after all these years has evaded my common knowledge. As a result of my ignorance and inability to absorb chemistry, the 36% cumulative grade prior to the final exam slapped me in my honor roll face.
During college, all five years of it, I learned a bit more about life and the consequences of my actions. I began to realize that maybe I didn't know everything there was to know. The year after I graduated from college was a tremendous learning experience. With degree in hand and my whole life ahead of me, I packed my truck and drove across the United States. I ended up smack in the middle of Seattle, Washington and the height of the grunge scene. It was very cool.
Although I arrived in Seattle knowing not a soul, I did have a name and a phone number of a friend of a friend. Unfortunately, he was out of town when I rolled into town. I spent the first three days in a crappy hotel called "Candy Land." Before you ask, yes there were candy canes along the pathways and two giant ones crisscrossing right in front of the office door.
I could go on and on about the adventures enjoyed while in Seattle. Like the time some crazed home owner pulled out the shotgun, or the time when the crazy woman came into the bookstore where I worked, or the man who wanted to pay me $1000 to perform frottage, or the trip to Crater Lake, or the trip to Mt. Saint Helens, or, or, or. There were so many.
The point is that while living in Seattle in a mouse infested apartment, I learned that I wasn't the reason the sun rises and sets each day. I learned what it is really like to be broke and hungry.
After the best year of my life, I returned to Virginia and worked for the GOVERNMENT. I accepted a position as a Probation and Parole Officer. There are some crazy stories associated with that chapter of my life. Trust me when I say there are some very bad people in the world and sometimes ignorance is best.
During my power days, I was privy to the lives of some very unfortunate people. I saw how they lived every day. Some folks live and work in harsh environments. Life isn't always pretty. Sometimes life kicks you when you are down and then spits on you for good measure. There was this one fellow......but that's for another time.
Then the practice marriage, a cancer scare, three moves, a death and another death, a birth and a new man. He, the most wonderful man on the planet, my husband, came with two children and all the baggage associated with an ex-wife and an ugly divorce. Then, another health scare, a wedding, another move, and another move, and another move to a foreign country, a deployment, another health scare, another move and another deployment. Basically, life happened.
All of this life complete with the Wednesday night at 10:00 p.m. surprises that blindside you (My sister and I call them God's Pop Quizzes) resulted in the person I am today. Actually, I feel pretty good about myself (except for all the adipose tissue "FAT" building up on my body) and am enjoying life for what it is. I try not to take everything so seriously and have embraced the ability to life at certain situations where several years ago, I would have become angry.
The other day, I was sitting with a small group of twenty-something women. They were full of vigor and that I-Know-Everything-And-You-Can't-Tell-Me-What-To-Do attitude. Ah, I remember it fondly. I just sat there and smiled at them, laughing to myself. Oh, how little they know. There's just no reasoning with that mindset.
Then, I started thinking. Here I am at thirty-something and looking at these twenty-somethings and knowing they don't have a clue. I wonder, do forty-somethings look at me and think the same thing? I came to the conclusion that certainly they must. And with that, a burst of understanding, an epiphany, I am so looking forward to getting older. I want to come as close to self-acceptance as I can get. I want to be able to relax and enjoy the simply things in life. I want to appreciate all that I have taken for granted. I want to not worry so much about what people think. To me, it seems all those things come after time. I used to have negative connotations associated with aging, but not anymore. I think it will be wonderful.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Have a Nice Trip. See You Next Fall.
The most wonderful man in the world called me last night. As my husband has been moved forward (to Kuwait) he has been unable to use the computer or a telephone as regularly as he had while in Iraq. Not being able to open my email and see a message from my husband nearly every day is quite deflating. But not nearly as deflating as the one-two punch he delivered last night.
Not only will he not be coming home this week as anticipated, he just might be delayed longer than the previously thought latest date. POOH! I guess it's my own fault. I had gotten my hopes up.
Over this past weekend with anticipation of his immanent arrival, I washed all the blankets and sheets. I did laundry for two full days. My house is clean, clean, clean. When he came home for R&R back in October, one of the first things he did was check the inside of the refrigerator. Unfortunately, I hadn't been as diligent about the refrigerator shelves or drawers as he would have liked. So, this past weekend, I made sure to wash out the drawers. It's a good thing, too. Did you know that old lettuce becomes stronger than plaster when refrigerated for three months? And epoxy-glue has nothing on month old, dried on fruit juice.
My Superman also has this thing about ice cubes. He needs lots of them on hand. As ice is really no big deal to me, I have let the ice tray empty. That is something I cannot have my husband see after all this time in the desert. Making Ice was added to my son's task list.
I wanted everything just right for my husband. Nothing was going to side-track me. Unfortunately, something did. While carrying a giant load of laundry downstairs, I took a tumble. No, I wasn't barefoot nor was I wearing slippery socks. I had on rubber soled boots. But, there I was slip sliding down a spiral set of concrete stairs.
Ever heard Eddie Murphy talk about his Aunt Bunny? In his skit, he tells how she tries to brace herself as she takes a tumble down the stairs. Lots of wailing, "Oh, Lord, please help me!!" That poor woman. I know exactly how she felt.
On my way down, somehow my right leg twisted behind me and my heel whacked me on the head. The inside of my knee hit every stair. The rail did nothing to stop my fall. I think it added to the number of bruises on my body. I crash landed at the bottom of the steps (on the concrete basement floor) and just knew my leg was broken.
"OW! OW! OW! OW!" was all I could say for several minutes. Perhaps my children would rush to my aid. NO. Perhaps my faithful and loyal dogs would investigate the tremendous clatter. NO. I sat there, alone in my agony. I could barely move. Then, my stomach joined the act. I thought I would vomit. That's when I just knew I was in serious trouble. I was afraid to try to get up.
Eventually, I did. Amazingly, nothing was broken, but I sure was bent. It's been four days now, and I'm still having troubles walking. It's now to the point where it hurts to move after I've been stationary for a bit.
Thank goodness I didn't really brake my leg. It would have been a royal pain in the buttocks to have a full-leg cast and crutches hobbling around. Can you see me trying to walk three terriers on crutches? What a sight that would be.
Not only will he not be coming home this week as anticipated, he just might be delayed longer than the previously thought latest date. POOH! I guess it's my own fault. I had gotten my hopes up.
Over this past weekend with anticipation of his immanent arrival, I washed all the blankets and sheets. I did laundry for two full days. My house is clean, clean, clean. When he came home for R&R back in October, one of the first things he did was check the inside of the refrigerator. Unfortunately, I hadn't been as diligent about the refrigerator shelves or drawers as he would have liked. So, this past weekend, I made sure to wash out the drawers. It's a good thing, too. Did you know that old lettuce becomes stronger than plaster when refrigerated for three months? And epoxy-glue has nothing on month old, dried on fruit juice.
My Superman also has this thing about ice cubes. He needs lots of them on hand. As ice is really no big deal to me, I have let the ice tray empty. That is something I cannot have my husband see after all this time in the desert. Making Ice was added to my son's task list.
I wanted everything just right for my husband. Nothing was going to side-track me. Unfortunately, something did. While carrying a giant load of laundry downstairs, I took a tumble. No, I wasn't barefoot nor was I wearing slippery socks. I had on rubber soled boots. But, there I was slip sliding down a spiral set of concrete stairs.
Ever heard Eddie Murphy talk about his Aunt Bunny? In his skit, he tells how she tries to brace herself as she takes a tumble down the stairs. Lots of wailing, "Oh, Lord, please help me!!" That poor woman. I know exactly how she felt.
On my way down, somehow my right leg twisted behind me and my heel whacked me on the head. The inside of my knee hit every stair. The rail did nothing to stop my fall. I think it added to the number of bruises on my body. I crash landed at the bottom of the steps (on the concrete basement floor) and just knew my leg was broken.
"OW! OW! OW! OW!" was all I could say for several minutes. Perhaps my children would rush to my aid. NO. Perhaps my faithful and loyal dogs would investigate the tremendous clatter. NO. I sat there, alone in my agony. I could barely move. Then, my stomach joined the act. I thought I would vomit. That's when I just knew I was in serious trouble. I was afraid to try to get up.
Eventually, I did. Amazingly, nothing was broken, but I sure was bent. It's been four days now, and I'm still having troubles walking. It's now to the point where it hurts to move after I've been stationary for a bit.
Thank goodness I didn't really brake my leg. It would have been a royal pain in the buttocks to have a full-leg cast and crutches hobbling around. Can you see me trying to walk three terriers on crutches? What a sight that would be.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
What Really Matters?
Number one on my list "Things I Must Do Before I Die" is go on safari and see wildebeest in their natural habitat. As far back as I can remember, I have always wanted to go to the Serengeti, Masai Mara and Ngorogoro Crater. Thinking about Kenya and Tanzania brings a calm serenity to my heart. It would be a dream come true to be able to go. Being that I now live in Germany, Africa is that much closer.
I looked into the cost of a few safaris. There are several to Kenya, several to Tanzania, several to South Africa. Usually though, there were limitations to one country or another. I had faith that before our tour in Germany ended, the safari of a lifetime would reveal itself to me.
Because I want this to happen, I was motivated to find a job that would ease the expense of the trip. It has taken me three years of substitute teaching to finally save up enough money for my husband, the most wonderful man in the whole wide world and me to Africa. That's three years one year of substituting at a high school and two years in elementary school. One year of adolescent attitude and two years of small children with glue and glitter. I have even spent several days with the pre-K group. I like to call them "pee-pee pants" because that sometimes happens during nap time. In addition to substitute teaching, I worked for Installation Access Control making sure soldiers and their families as well as authorized visitors had the proper identification to be allowed onto post. I did all of this not because I had to, for I am lucky enough to be supported by a fabulous husband. I did it because I wanted to earn the travel money myself. I didn't want my husband or my family to go without for my life-long dream.
Africa...Africa...Africa...
Recently, I came across THE SAFARI. It is exactly the safari I have always wanted. It covers both Kenya and Tanzania and includes the three places I want to see before I die; Serengeti, Masai Mara, and Ngorogoro Crater. The price was just right. I even went so far as to run out and get vaccinated for Typhoid and hepatitis A. I still need Yellow Fever and Malaria. I even put aside extra money to pay for the individual visas needed to enter each country. This is it. This is AFRICA.
Now....while all of this is happening, my wonderful husband has been suffering with probably the worst case of hemorrhoids of all time. He has agonized in his private hell for as long as I have known him, usually silently. On occasion when the flare up is particularly severe, he casually mentions his discomfort to me. His being in Iraq under stress and existing on a diet of MREs and mess hall food hasn't help his situation much.
His R&R time could have been more relaxing, but his hiney hole wouldn't let up. Instead of hanging out at home or receiving a massage at the local spa, my husband was in a doctors office bent over an exam table. When the doctor saw the extent of my husband's reason for scheduling the appointment, he exclaimed, "Holy Smokes! No wonder you are uncomfortable!"
The doctor advised my husband to immediately schedule an appointment for surgery and rectify the problem. My husband's only question was, "Can I be well enough recovered to go back to Iraq in a week?"
The doctor shook his head. To which my amazing husband responded, "Well then, I'll have to wait until I come back in the spring." That's a man. He chose to return to Iraq and continue the good fight even though he could have had the surgery to save his hiney hole from falling off delaying his return by 10 days at most.
So now, time for his return draws near. The returning soldiers are allotted a brief period of time to re-integrate back into the community before being allowed to take leave. The clock starts ticking when they physically return to Schweinfurt. This is all good, but for those returning later than the main body, their time gets pinched in the end. Everybody has to be back to work by mid-April.
My husband, the most wonderful man ever, my reason for waking up each day, is one of those late arrivals. Because he has been so miserable for so long, I have scheduled a follow-up doctor's appointment to have his hiney hole fixed once and for all.
The re-integration time period is mandatory. The doctor's only do surgery on Mondays and Wednesdays. He needs a bare minimum of two weeks of recovery time. Even if my husband were to get into surgery on the very first available Monday, the timing cuts it too close. I am just unwilling to take my husband to Africa with his hiney hole out of wack.
I explained the time line to him and he gallantly offered to postpone the surgery until after Africa. He has waited for so long. There is no way I am going to make him wait one second longer than necessary.
The safari will not be happening this spring.
To my absolute amazement, this isn't as disappointing as I might have thought. I love my husband so much, much more than I ever could have imagined loving another person, that canceling a trip of a lifetime in a minor set back. It pales in comparison to postponing a surgery that will alleviate his pain.
People claim that you know you love someone when their happiness means the world to you. I never experienced the extent that feeling until I cancelled my dream safari. I just wish everyone could know the feeling of true love.
I looked into the cost of a few safaris. There are several to Kenya, several to Tanzania, several to South Africa. Usually though, there were limitations to one country or another. I had faith that before our tour in Germany ended, the safari of a lifetime would reveal itself to me.
Because I want this to happen, I was motivated to find a job that would ease the expense of the trip. It has taken me three years of substitute teaching to finally save up enough money for my husband, the most wonderful man in the whole wide world and me to Africa. That's three years one year of substituting at a high school and two years in elementary school. One year of adolescent attitude and two years of small children with glue and glitter. I have even spent several days with the pre-K group. I like to call them "pee-pee pants" because that sometimes happens during nap time. In addition to substitute teaching, I worked for Installation Access Control making sure soldiers and their families as well as authorized visitors had the proper identification to be allowed onto post. I did all of this not because I had to, for I am lucky enough to be supported by a fabulous husband. I did it because I wanted to earn the travel money myself. I didn't want my husband or my family to go without for my life-long dream.
Africa...Africa...Africa...
Recently, I came across THE SAFARI. It is exactly the safari I have always wanted. It covers both Kenya and Tanzania and includes the three places I want to see before I die; Serengeti, Masai Mara, and Ngorogoro Crater. The price was just right. I even went so far as to run out and get vaccinated for Typhoid and hepatitis A. I still need Yellow Fever and Malaria. I even put aside extra money to pay for the individual visas needed to enter each country. This is it. This is AFRICA.
Now....while all of this is happening, my wonderful husband has been suffering with probably the worst case of hemorrhoids of all time. He has agonized in his private hell for as long as I have known him, usually silently. On occasion when the flare up is particularly severe, he casually mentions his discomfort to me. His being in Iraq under stress and existing on a diet of MREs and mess hall food hasn't help his situation much.
His R&R time could have been more relaxing, but his hiney hole wouldn't let up. Instead of hanging out at home or receiving a massage at the local spa, my husband was in a doctors office bent over an exam table. When the doctor saw the extent of my husband's reason for scheduling the appointment, he exclaimed, "Holy Smokes! No wonder you are uncomfortable!"
The doctor advised my husband to immediately schedule an appointment for surgery and rectify the problem. My husband's only question was, "Can I be well enough recovered to go back to Iraq in a week?"
The doctor shook his head. To which my amazing husband responded, "Well then, I'll have to wait until I come back in the spring." That's a man. He chose to return to Iraq and continue the good fight even though he could have had the surgery to save his hiney hole from falling off delaying his return by 10 days at most.
So now, time for his return draws near. The returning soldiers are allotted a brief period of time to re-integrate back into the community before being allowed to take leave. The clock starts ticking when they physically return to Schweinfurt. This is all good, but for those returning later than the main body, their time gets pinched in the end. Everybody has to be back to work by mid-April.
My husband, the most wonderful man ever, my reason for waking up each day, is one of those late arrivals. Because he has been so miserable for so long, I have scheduled a follow-up doctor's appointment to have his hiney hole fixed once and for all.
The re-integration time period is mandatory. The doctor's only do surgery on Mondays and Wednesdays. He needs a bare minimum of two weeks of recovery time. Even if my husband were to get into surgery on the very first available Monday, the timing cuts it too close. I am just unwilling to take my husband to Africa with his hiney hole out of wack.
I explained the time line to him and he gallantly offered to postpone the surgery until after Africa. He has waited for so long. There is no way I am going to make him wait one second longer than necessary.
The safari will not be happening this spring.
To my absolute amazement, this isn't as disappointing as I might have thought. I love my husband so much, much more than I ever could have imagined loving another person, that canceling a trip of a lifetime in a minor set back. It pales in comparison to postponing a surgery that will alleviate his pain.
People claim that you know you love someone when their happiness means the world to you. I never experienced the extent that feeling until I cancelled my dream safari. I just wish everyone could know the feeling of true love.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
When's the Next Bus?
Over the past few days many, many soldiers have returned to our little community. They are weary, tired and very appreciative of Welcome Home hugs. I have made it a point to be available for Welcome Home ceremonies as the buses pull into town. For the most part, the buses are arriving on a three or four hour schedule. The Welcome Home ceremony lasts about 3 minutes. So, the huggers (folks like me who are there for support and not because our husbands are scheduled to arrive on that particular bus) wait and wait. But the waiting is worth it. Each soldier I hug and whisper "welcome home, I'm so glad you're back" into his ear, brings me one soldier closer to holding my husband. Besides, most of the soldiers I actually hug are young, single men who have no family waiting at the ceremony for them. They need a show of appreciation too and I'm glad to do it.
I am delighted to see them line up in formation and march into the building. They stand at attention, at ease, and then are dismissed. Pandemonium of hugs and kisses and tears of joy commence at the command "Dismissed". It really is a sight to see. Pride and love fill the room and I am thrilled to be a part of it. Even if it means sneaking cat naps throughout the night, at most getting three hours of sleep before the next bus arrives, I'm grateful. Although I haven't known any of the soldiers personally, I love each and every one of them. They are my family and just having them back feels good.
I am delighted to see them line up in formation and march into the building. They stand at attention, at ease, and then are dismissed. Pandemonium of hugs and kisses and tears of joy commence at the command "Dismissed". It really is a sight to see. Pride and love fill the room and I am thrilled to be a part of it. Even if it means sneaking cat naps throughout the night, at most getting three hours of sleep before the next bus arrives, I'm grateful. Although I haven't known any of the soldiers personally, I love each and every one of them. They are my family and just having them back feels good.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Hey, What About My Backyard?
Being that I live in Germany, I am limited to the television programming provided by American Forces Network (AFN). There is a broadcasting agreement between AFN and our host nation which does not allow for regular commercials to be shown. Instead, we get informative commercials, things like the history of our states and capitals and the growth and development of the United States. Although it is rare, sometimes a program with regular commercials slips through. Today was one of those days. While watching 20/20 (the use of video cameras in all facets of our society), I saw commercials other than the informative kind. Crayola, a financial investment company and several agencies wishing contribution for Tsunami relief.
Tsunami relief? Celebrities and assorted do-gooders have joined forces to solicit donations to help the survivors of the Tsunami that impacted Indonesia and other countries on the other side of the world. Makes me wonder. What agencies were developed and what celebrities banded together to support a campaign to collect money to aid those Americans impacted by the hurricane which wrecked Pensacola, Florida? That natural disaster left many people without homes and power and yet I did not see any humanitarian welfare agencies sponsor a concert to benefit those families. Perhaps, there were and me being in Germany kept me isolated from those efforts.
It just seems to me that other countries expect the United States to provide financial aid for every ailment under the sun. I don't recall Indonesia, any African country or southwest Asian country providing any funds to support the rebuilding of the California homes destroyed in mudslides. Those folks in Florida sure could have used an extra twenty bucks in the wake of their hurricane. Let's not forget the thousands of acres and homes and schedules disrupted by the fires that swept over Colorado and California. Although I don't have much sympathy for folks living in trailer parks in Kansas, Nebraska or Oklahoma (they're just asking to get blown away by tornadoes), I don't see any foreign nations rushing to their aid. How many euros have been contributed to the prevention of homelessness by France?
Let's talk about the fleecing done by Germany. The Army posts in Germany contribute to the local economy. Not only do Americans spend money in shops, restaurants, nightclubs and taxi-cabs, but also employ many, many German nationals. Military posts are provided with additional security (especially during deployments) by private security companies. Those companies bill the US government to pay for the guards monitoring the installations. Talk about getting fat off the backs of others. Germany bills the US at a rate double what the guard really earns. For example, the security company receives 20 euro an hour for a guard who is paid 10 euro an hour, of which 41% is taxed by the German government. Additionally, under the Standard of Forces Agreement (SOFA) employment opportunities which could be filled by American spouses and other dependents, are offered to local nationals. Certain positions are required to be filled by a German national. Being a military dependent precludes access to employment opportunities. Funny how that's against Equal Opportunity Employment rules in the United States.
It just seems to me that everyone wants American money and American help, but don't want to give or help in return. That is pretty crappy. Just consider how the local economy of towns nearby to military posts would be impacted if the US military decided to leave. Germany didn't want anything to do with Iraq and let's not forget about France. How bad would the euro suffer if there were no dollars being spent in Germany, Belgium, Italy, or France? Europe sure has embraced McDonald's and Disney.
Imagine the reaction by the UN if President Bush stood up one day and said, "Okay gentlemen, the United States is withdrawing all support from Europe and Asia. Effective immediately, Korea is on its own. No American help will be provided to Afghanistan. Former Eastern Block countries, you will have to solve your own problems. As a matter of fact, the borders of the United States of America are closed to all immigration. Effective immediately all American dollars currently being provided by our government will be stopped. All of those dollars will now be spent own within our own borders. We have enough problems at home that we don't need to sort out yours. Good luck to you and goodbye."
Personally, I'm tired of being taken advantage of. I'm tired of having to defend my nationality. I'm tired of being a dirty, rich capitalist American. Relationships should be give and take. I'm tired of my country always giving and everyone else taking.
Tsunami relief? Celebrities and assorted do-gooders have joined forces to solicit donations to help the survivors of the Tsunami that impacted Indonesia and other countries on the other side of the world. Makes me wonder. What agencies were developed and what celebrities banded together to support a campaign to collect money to aid those Americans impacted by the hurricane which wrecked Pensacola, Florida? That natural disaster left many people without homes and power and yet I did not see any humanitarian welfare agencies sponsor a concert to benefit those families. Perhaps, there were and me being in Germany kept me isolated from those efforts.
It just seems to me that other countries expect the United States to provide financial aid for every ailment under the sun. I don't recall Indonesia, any African country or southwest Asian country providing any funds to support the rebuilding of the California homes destroyed in mudslides. Those folks in Florida sure could have used an extra twenty bucks in the wake of their hurricane. Let's not forget the thousands of acres and homes and schedules disrupted by the fires that swept over Colorado and California. Although I don't have much sympathy for folks living in trailer parks in Kansas, Nebraska or Oklahoma (they're just asking to get blown away by tornadoes), I don't see any foreign nations rushing to their aid. How many euros have been contributed to the prevention of homelessness by France?
Let's talk about the fleecing done by Germany. The Army posts in Germany contribute to the local economy. Not only do Americans spend money in shops, restaurants, nightclubs and taxi-cabs, but also employ many, many German nationals. Military posts are provided with additional security (especially during deployments) by private security companies. Those companies bill the US government to pay for the guards monitoring the installations. Talk about getting fat off the backs of others. Germany bills the US at a rate double what the guard really earns. For example, the security company receives 20 euro an hour for a guard who is paid 10 euro an hour, of which 41% is taxed by the German government. Additionally, under the Standard of Forces Agreement (SOFA) employment opportunities which could be filled by American spouses and other dependents, are offered to local nationals. Certain positions are required to be filled by a German national. Being a military dependent precludes access to employment opportunities. Funny how that's against Equal Opportunity Employment rules in the United States.
It just seems to me that everyone wants American money and American help, but don't want to give or help in return. That is pretty crappy. Just consider how the local economy of towns nearby to military posts would be impacted if the US military decided to leave. Germany didn't want anything to do with Iraq and let's not forget about France. How bad would the euro suffer if there were no dollars being spent in Germany, Belgium, Italy, or France? Europe sure has embraced McDonald's and Disney.
Imagine the reaction by the UN if President Bush stood up one day and said, "Okay gentlemen, the United States is withdrawing all support from Europe and Asia. Effective immediately, Korea is on its own. No American help will be provided to Afghanistan. Former Eastern Block countries, you will have to solve your own problems. As a matter of fact, the borders of the United States of America are closed to all immigration. Effective immediately all American dollars currently being provided by our government will be stopped. All of those dollars will now be spent own within our own borders. We have enough problems at home that we don't need to sort out yours. Good luck to you and goodbye."
Personally, I'm tired of being taken advantage of. I'm tired of having to defend my nationality. I'm tired of being a dirty, rich capitalist American. Relationships should be give and take. I'm tired of my country always giving and everyone else taking.
Friday, January 28, 2005
On Behalf of the United States Army, We Regret To Inform You
My little community sent over 1/3 of its population to Iraq and many, many of those soldiers have either been wounded or killed. I have been extremely lucky in that I have only known one of those injured soldiers and better yet, I have not known any of the deceased soldiers. That's not to say that I don't know their friends and families. Each of the fallen has had an impact on our community, even the young 19 year old, single soldier with no wife or children. Although his biological family resides in the states, his Army family in Schweinfurt grieves tremendously. Without a doubt, his Army family remaining in Iraq and his extended Army family all over the world grieve at his passing.
By no means do I claim to be a close personal friend of the wounded soldier that I do know. I still know him. I have spoken with this man on several occasions. I know his wife. I know his son. I know the spouses of the soldiers who worked with him. I know friends and neighbors of the soldier and his family. This man and his family are part of my Army family and I grieve for them.
What hits even harder is that this man, this soldier is a nice person, a good man. He is a good soldier. Additionally, he is a physically impressive man. Big, masculine, gruff, macho, impervious, John Wayne type with the aura of indestructibleness. When he was wounded several months ago, the news was hard to take. His injuries were severe. A bullet ricocheted, entered his neck and did major damage to his mouth, throat, and neck. It was touch and go for awhile. Thankfully, he recovered.
Typical for so many soldiers, he wanted to go back to his men, his soldiers, his Army. He wanted to get back to Iraq. Once he recovered, although he did not have to return to Iraq, he went. Thoughts and prayers went with him.
Our little community was rocked this week. That same soldier, the one who had too close of a call, was hit again. An RPG found its target. He sustained severe injuries; head wound, open fracture to the hand and an open fracture to his leg. He survived, but lost his leg. His gunner sustained fatal injuries.
I can't even begin to entertain what his wife is going through. This is the second time her husband has escaped death. Even now, his prognosis is questionable.
He didn't have to go back. He could have stayed here in Germany. I suspect remaining in garrison, while the troops endured wasn't an option for him. Hopefully, he'll recover from these injuries and be able to return to active duty. He is a career soldier. The military seems to be working with amputees and allowing good soldiers to stay good soldiers.
I haven't yet categorized how I feel. I haven't yet come to terms with the emotional impact. I had lunch yesterday with a friend who knows the family. I had lunch today with a friend who's close with the family. The news is just so horrible that it doesn't seem real.
My heart aches for this soldier and his family and their friends.
What do you say to your friend whose husband nearly died a few months ago and now has nearly escaped death again, minus a limb?
By no means do I claim to be a close personal friend of the wounded soldier that I do know. I still know him. I have spoken with this man on several occasions. I know his wife. I know his son. I know the spouses of the soldiers who worked with him. I know friends and neighbors of the soldier and his family. This man and his family are part of my Army family and I grieve for them.
What hits even harder is that this man, this soldier is a nice person, a good man. He is a good soldier. Additionally, he is a physically impressive man. Big, masculine, gruff, macho, impervious, John Wayne type with the aura of indestructibleness. When he was wounded several months ago, the news was hard to take. His injuries were severe. A bullet ricocheted, entered his neck and did major damage to his mouth, throat, and neck. It was touch and go for awhile. Thankfully, he recovered.
Typical for so many soldiers, he wanted to go back to his men, his soldiers, his Army. He wanted to get back to Iraq. Once he recovered, although he did not have to return to Iraq, he went. Thoughts and prayers went with him.
Our little community was rocked this week. That same soldier, the one who had too close of a call, was hit again. An RPG found its target. He sustained severe injuries; head wound, open fracture to the hand and an open fracture to his leg. He survived, but lost his leg. His gunner sustained fatal injuries.
I can't even begin to entertain what his wife is going through. This is the second time her husband has escaped death. Even now, his prognosis is questionable.
He didn't have to go back. He could have stayed here in Germany. I suspect remaining in garrison, while the troops endured wasn't an option for him. Hopefully, he'll recover from these injuries and be able to return to active duty. He is a career soldier. The military seems to be working with amputees and allowing good soldiers to stay good soldiers.
I haven't yet categorized how I feel. I haven't yet come to terms with the emotional impact. I had lunch yesterday with a friend who knows the family. I had lunch today with a friend who's close with the family. The news is just so horrible that it doesn't seem real.
My heart aches for this soldier and his family and their friends.
What do you say to your friend whose husband nearly died a few months ago and now has nearly escaped death again, minus a limb?
Monday, January 24, 2005
Actually It's the Son Who Knows Best
My son, he'll be 18 in June, is currently unemployed. Why a physically capable young man isn't working is something I just can't understand. I have encouraged him to get a job. Granted, most available positions in our community are fast food places, but one does what one has to in order to earn some cash.
Well, recently a Help Wanted sign popped up at Subway. This is a wonderful opportunity. It's less than a 10 minute walk from where we live. My son could ride his bike there in less than 5 minutes. He'd be able to ride his bike on regular streets with street lights. His last summer job was a 15 minute bike ride on a back rough road with no lights whatsoever. At night, it's very dark. But this Subway job sounds perfect.
I guess -job- is the operative word because my son has yet to rush right over there and pick up an application. Keep in mind, he wants to go to Holland for three days. I have no objection to him going on a short trip with his friend, provided that he pay his own way. Yikes! That condition put a damper on the getaway weekend plans. The train ticket alone would cost him over $100. Then he'd have to spend money on lodging (even a rat-hole hotel costs money) and he'd need to eat something. Since Europe doesn't require it's citizens to wait until the age of 21 to consume alcohol, I am perfectly aware my son has intentions to drink many beers and other assorted spirits. That certainly would cost money too.
Since this weekend in question is this coming Friday, I inquired to the status of the plans. He has decided that the trip would cost too much money and he can't afford it right now.
Then I did the logical thing....I suggested he get a job. And, don't forget, Subway is hiring. There is that Help Wanted sign clearly posted for all to see. I have no doubt my son would be hired on the spot. Our little community is about to be inundated with over 4,500 soldiers in the next couple weeks. Those soldiers are going to be hungry and Subway is the place to go. We don't have much of a selection and with the euro to dollar exchange rate being as lousy as it is, there is even less of an affordable selection.
Apparently, what sounds reasonable to an adult sounds utterly ridiculous to a teenager. He looked at me as if I were purple with golden tassels swinging from my candy cane horns. Getting a job wouldn't make it any easier for him to take a trip because he would have to work. Oh, of course, getting a job means you actually have to go to work to earn that paycheck that allows you to be able to afford to take trips.
According to the son, he'll never be able to go on a weekend excursion. He has no money so he won't be able to afford it. He can't get a job because then he won't have the time to take a trip. I guess the ideal would be for him to get paid to enjoy his leisure time. Silly me for thinking otherwise.
It must be nice to live in ignorance.
Well, recently a Help Wanted sign popped up at Subway. This is a wonderful opportunity. It's less than a 10 minute walk from where we live. My son could ride his bike there in less than 5 minutes. He'd be able to ride his bike on regular streets with street lights. His last summer job was a 15 minute bike ride on a back rough road with no lights whatsoever. At night, it's very dark. But this Subway job sounds perfect.
I guess -job- is the operative word because my son has yet to rush right over there and pick up an application. Keep in mind, he wants to go to Holland for three days. I have no objection to him going on a short trip with his friend, provided that he pay his own way. Yikes! That condition put a damper on the getaway weekend plans. The train ticket alone would cost him over $100. Then he'd have to spend money on lodging (even a rat-hole hotel costs money) and he'd need to eat something. Since Europe doesn't require it's citizens to wait until the age of 21 to consume alcohol, I am perfectly aware my son has intentions to drink many beers and other assorted spirits. That certainly would cost money too.
Since this weekend in question is this coming Friday, I inquired to the status of the plans. He has decided that the trip would cost too much money and he can't afford it right now.
Then I did the logical thing....I suggested he get a job. And, don't forget, Subway is hiring. There is that Help Wanted sign clearly posted for all to see. I have no doubt my son would be hired on the spot. Our little community is about to be inundated with over 4,500 soldiers in the next couple weeks. Those soldiers are going to be hungry and Subway is the place to go. We don't have much of a selection and with the euro to dollar exchange rate being as lousy as it is, there is even less of an affordable selection.
Apparently, what sounds reasonable to an adult sounds utterly ridiculous to a teenager. He looked at me as if I were purple with golden tassels swinging from my candy cane horns. Getting a job wouldn't make it any easier for him to take a trip because he would have to work. Oh, of course, getting a job means you actually have to go to work to earn that paycheck that allows you to be able to afford to take trips.
According to the son, he'll never be able to go on a weekend excursion. He has no money so he won't be able to afford it. He can't get a job because then he won't have the time to take a trip. I guess the ideal would be for him to get paid to enjoy his leisure time. Silly me for thinking otherwise.
It must be nice to live in ignorance.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
The Beginning of the End
The year of Operation Iraqi Freedom II is rapidly coming to an end. Our little community is beginning to see advanced party redeployment of soldiers. We are also beginning to see spouses returning from the states. Now that the soldiers are scheduled to come, those folks who couldn't make it on there own are returning to their homes from having been being taken care of by relatives.
Our community is also seeing lots of pregnant women who weren't that way when their husbands left. That sure will make for an interesting Welcome Home surprise. But, it's not just the wives who have found love outside their marriages. Several wives have received "Dear John" letters from their soldier husbands downrange. It seems that some female soldiers have been keeping some male soldiers warm at night. I guess bunkers must get lonely.
Personally, the whole situation is mingboggling. Do these people really think that their marriages will be better off for having violated the sanctity and trust of a marriage? What's even more amazing to me is that they were tempted in the first place.
I love my most amazing husband more than anything. He was deployed in February 2003 for Operation Iraqi Freedom I. He redeployed long enough to pack up our household, move to another post and prepare to deploy again for Operation Iraqi Freedom II in February 2004. He's been gone for most of our three year tour.
And yet, everything I do, I do with him in mind. Okay, maybe not everything. When I'm scrambling eggs or picking up dog poop in the yard, I'm not thinking about him. I'm thinking this sucks and that goes for both cooking and picking up poop. But every television show I watch, every time I think about a new piece of lingerie, every time I sign onto the computer, every time I walk the dogs, every night when I go to bed, every time I change my sheets, every time I check my mail, every time I purchased a new pair of shoes, and every miserable minute I spend in the gym, I'm thinking about him. Not even for a split second have I ever had the notion to partake in extra-marital activities. How could a woman entertain the idea of a sexual liaison while her husband is dodging bullets and IEDs? If I try really, really, really hard, I maybe can see how a male soldier might be interested in a fling downrange, but to send a "Dear John" letter home. What's that? Throw away a marriage and betray the person you love because you were too weak a person to stand up with morals for a year. That's just too ridiculous.
Actually, considering soldiers were able to receive a minimum of 14 days for R&R, spouses didn't have to be separated for an entire year. I had to wait just over 8 months to visit with my most wonderful husband. Is eight months too long to wait for a life time of happiness? Apparently for some people it is. The bigger picture is 8 months within a 30 to 40 year marriage is a blink of an eye. Could a romp in a stranger's bed or a romp on a cot in a tent really be worth it? I don't think so.
Honey....I hope you are reading this..... :)
Our community is also seeing lots of pregnant women who weren't that way when their husbands left. That sure will make for an interesting Welcome Home surprise. But, it's not just the wives who have found love outside their marriages. Several wives have received "Dear John" letters from their soldier husbands downrange. It seems that some female soldiers have been keeping some male soldiers warm at night. I guess bunkers must get lonely.
Personally, the whole situation is mingboggling. Do these people really think that their marriages will be better off for having violated the sanctity and trust of a marriage? What's even more amazing to me is that they were tempted in the first place.
I love my most amazing husband more than anything. He was deployed in February 2003 for Operation Iraqi Freedom I. He redeployed long enough to pack up our household, move to another post and prepare to deploy again for Operation Iraqi Freedom II in February 2004. He's been gone for most of our three year tour.
And yet, everything I do, I do with him in mind. Okay, maybe not everything. When I'm scrambling eggs or picking up dog poop in the yard, I'm not thinking about him. I'm thinking this sucks and that goes for both cooking and picking up poop. But every television show I watch, every time I think about a new piece of lingerie, every time I sign onto the computer, every time I walk the dogs, every night when I go to bed, every time I change my sheets, every time I check my mail, every time I purchased a new pair of shoes, and every miserable minute I spend in the gym, I'm thinking about him. Not even for a split second have I ever had the notion to partake in extra-marital activities. How could a woman entertain the idea of a sexual liaison while her husband is dodging bullets and IEDs? If I try really, really, really hard, I maybe can see how a male soldier might be interested in a fling downrange, but to send a "Dear John" letter home. What's that? Throw away a marriage and betray the person you love because you were too weak a person to stand up with morals for a year. That's just too ridiculous.
Actually, considering soldiers were able to receive a minimum of 14 days for R&R, spouses didn't have to be separated for an entire year. I had to wait just over 8 months to visit with my most wonderful husband. Is eight months too long to wait for a life time of happiness? Apparently for some people it is. The bigger picture is 8 months within a 30 to 40 year marriage is a blink of an eye. Could a romp in a stranger's bed or a romp on a cot in a tent really be worth it? I don't think so.
Honey....I hope you are reading this..... :)
Saturday, January 15, 2005
How Much Is That wildebeest In The Window
My absence from my blog is easily explainable. I bought Zoo Tycoon last week and have been building zoos ever since. It's incredibly addicting. I started building a zoo at 8:00 pm and was up until 2:00 am. Not only did I dream about what kind of fencing I needed to keep giraffe from escaping, I dreamed about making sure my zoo visitors had enough drink stands and restrooms to keep them happy. Then, my brain went into overdrive and I woke up at 6:00 am and was wide awake and ready to build more zoos. I decided that I needed to accomplish something that day, so I went to the gym for a little over an hour. Once I returned home, I jumped into the shower and immediately went back to the computer for more zoo exhibit building. I didn't even dry my hair. Not only that, but I also ignored the hunger pains. I told myself I'd get something to eat after one more exhibit was productive. I glanced at the clock and noticed it was 11:30 am. I had been building since 8:00 that morning. The next time I looked at the clock, it was 3:00 pm. Okay, just one more attraction, then I'll stop. My kid came home from school and I finally got off of the computer around 4:00 pm because I had a meeting to attend. If that's not obsessive behavior, I don't know what is. I will say that playing Zoo Tycoon has given me a new appreciation for zoo admission fees. I have yet to build a zoo where I can actually get into the black. Even starting with a half a million dollars, my zoos operate in the red. That's with charging $32.75 per adult and $6.00 for a hamburger. Never again will I complain about how much a day at the zoo costs. I'll be happy to drop $7.50 on a soda and $9.75 for a hotdog. Of course fries are $8.50. They need to be. It's all good.
I've been able to limit my crack-like zoo addiction somewhat. I make sure I get all of my household chores completed before firing up the D drive. Even so, I have talked myself into putting off grooming my dogs. The poor things were looking way too fuzzy. Rag-a-muffins, definitely. So, I broke down and shaved them today. And wouldn't you know, the temperature must have dropped 20 degrees since yesterday. Their little naked bottoms must be freezing. They sure get to their business quickly, though. No dilly-dallying. Pee pee and come back inside. Momma didn't raise no fools.
Anyway, between the Mahjong Towers II and the Zoo Tycoon, I haven't really done much since my last posting. Well, I take that back, I spent one whole afternoon in the Passport office. That was a nightmare. To live in a foreign country as a dependent of the military, one has to have a SOFA stamp in their no-fee passport. SOFA is not a comfortable couch. It's a Status of Forces Agreement stamp. That means we fall under a different category of long-term resident status. Some how when we ordered our passports (mine and our children's), the government neglected to stamp my passport, but stamped our children's. So, two years ago, when we first arrived in Germany, I went to the passport office and patiently suffered through the bureaucratic red tape and got a SOFA stamp. Well, sometime over the last two years, the regulations have changed and the paper SOFA stamp that was previously issued is no longer valid. It must be replaced by a new SOFA stamp.
So, off to the passport office. Unfortunately, that portion of the office doesn't open until 1300 hours (1:00 pm). The ID card portion opens at 0800. Luckily, when I do work, I sometimes fill in for the woman who works in the office next door to the ID card section. The women who work in that office know me and made an exception for me. They allowed me to sign the Sign In sheet several hours early. Technically, they aren't even supposed to put that sheet out until 1130. I was #2 on the list and they told me to come back no later than 1300. No problem.
Wrong, problem. Apparently, that list went missing. There were at least 15 people in the waiting room all claiming they had signed the list prior to the first person on the new list, who signed in at 1215. Pandemonium. Folks were not happy. I really did try to keep my patience. It lasted longer than it would have had I been a regular person and not a colleague. I finally received my SOFA stamp around 1500 (3:00). Definitely, the passport office is not run like a tight ship. That ship is so full of holes that even the rats have abandoned it.
And the new SOFA stamp? The one so important that it had to replace the old SOFA stamp. The only difference I can tell is that the new stamp is on a green piece of paper and is laminated. No wonder people roll their eyes and groan when they have to deal with government agencies.
By the way, the January edition of True Story is available at your local news stand. It's merely a suggestion that you run out an pick up a copy. Be sure to check out the editor's comments about the "Army Wife's Marriage Guide, Military Style". Since I wrote it and was paid for it, I think I've earned bragging rights.
----Scully, thanks for the kick in the pants to get busy and write something. I'm so glad you're watching out for me. ---
----Dead, you are correct in the used to. Perhaps, after I sell a few more manuscripts, you could become my editor. What is it that you do for a living, anyway? ---
I've been able to limit my crack-like zoo addiction somewhat. I make sure I get all of my household chores completed before firing up the D drive. Even so, I have talked myself into putting off grooming my dogs. The poor things were looking way too fuzzy. Rag-a-muffins, definitely. So, I broke down and shaved them today. And wouldn't you know, the temperature must have dropped 20 degrees since yesterday. Their little naked bottoms must be freezing. They sure get to their business quickly, though. No dilly-dallying. Pee pee and come back inside. Momma didn't raise no fools.
Anyway, between the Mahjong Towers II and the Zoo Tycoon, I haven't really done much since my last posting. Well, I take that back, I spent one whole afternoon in the Passport office. That was a nightmare. To live in a foreign country as a dependent of the military, one has to have a SOFA stamp in their no-fee passport. SOFA is not a comfortable couch. It's a Status of Forces Agreement stamp. That means we fall under a different category of long-term resident status. Some how when we ordered our passports (mine and our children's), the government neglected to stamp my passport, but stamped our children's. So, two years ago, when we first arrived in Germany, I went to the passport office and patiently suffered through the bureaucratic red tape and got a SOFA stamp. Well, sometime over the last two years, the regulations have changed and the paper SOFA stamp that was previously issued is no longer valid. It must be replaced by a new SOFA stamp.
So, off to the passport office. Unfortunately, that portion of the office doesn't open until 1300 hours (1:00 pm). The ID card portion opens at 0800. Luckily, when I do work, I sometimes fill in for the woman who works in the office next door to the ID card section. The women who work in that office know me and made an exception for me. They allowed me to sign the Sign In sheet several hours early. Technically, they aren't even supposed to put that sheet out until 1130. I was #2 on the list and they told me to come back no later than 1300. No problem.
Wrong, problem. Apparently, that list went missing. There were at least 15 people in the waiting room all claiming they had signed the list prior to the first person on the new list, who signed in at 1215. Pandemonium. Folks were not happy. I really did try to keep my patience. It lasted longer than it would have had I been a regular person and not a colleague. I finally received my SOFA stamp around 1500 (3:00). Definitely, the passport office is not run like a tight ship. That ship is so full of holes that even the rats have abandoned it.
And the new SOFA stamp? The one so important that it had to replace the old SOFA stamp. The only difference I can tell is that the new stamp is on a green piece of paper and is laminated. No wonder people roll their eyes and groan when they have to deal with government agencies.
By the way, the January edition of True Story is available at your local news stand. It's merely a suggestion that you run out an pick up a copy. Be sure to check out the editor's comments about the "Army Wife's Marriage Guide, Military Style". Since I wrote it and was paid for it, I think I've earned bragging rights.
----Scully, thanks for the kick in the pants to get busy and write something. I'm so glad you're watching out for me. ---
----Dead, you are correct in the used to. Perhaps, after I sell a few more manuscripts, you could become my editor. What is it that you do for a living, anyway? ---
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Subjunctive Guessing
After failing Chemistry and Statistics, I had to re-evaluate my scholastic choices. I had considered English, but a semester of Chaucer and a semester of Shakespeare did nothing to stimulate my interest. Instead, I opted for Sociology, just one step above Liberal Arts in the now-you-are-qualified-to-wait-tables category of higher education.
In spite of this decision, I have still maintained my love for grammar and sentence construction. Spelling is not among my strengths. Thank goodness for SpellChecker, even though it doesn't always work. Inasmuch, when I see blatant grammatical errors, I shake my head and give into the temptation to correct those errors.
"I could care less." Most people think this is a statement about how little they are concerned about a particular issue. Actually, the statement implies that it would be possible to care less, meaning you do, in fact, care. The proper usage would be "I couldn't care less." meaning you are already at the bottom of the caring barrel.
"He has a better car than me." No, actually, "He has a better car than I." The second part of the sentence is understood and therefore acceptable to leave out of the conversation. The whole thought is "He has a better car than I have." Including the second portion of the sentence clearly indicates "I" is the proper pronoun. It would be erroroneous to say, "He has a better car than me have." However, I'm certain a few Neanderthals would choose to speak in such a manner.
Subjunctive Tense. This is the surreal tense of a language. It indicates the "what if" factor and identifies the hypothetical. What if it were to rain today? The hypothetical aspect allows for the improper usage of the subject "it" with the verb tense "were". It a certainty, it is incorrect to say, "It were my job to rake the leaves."
By studying a foreign language, I have learned the grammar of my own language much better than attending high school English class. All that poetry reading has done little to improve my ability to communicate either by the written word or by the spoken word. I have yet to use "Tiger, tiger, burning bright" in day to day conversations. Additionally, I rarely have cause to discuss the finer qualities of Grecian pottery. That in itself precludes the need to recite Ode to a Grecian Urn. Now, math class did lend itself into my study of language in that I have wandered off on a tangent (not a cotangent or sine or even a cosine).
The reference books regarding the finer points of the English language usually have an example of the proper use of the subjunctive tense. One of the most frequent examples of subjunctive is the If I were you...
That's all fine and dandy when speaking of an activity. My latest English grammar text also uses If she were to go, there might be trouble.
I'm hoping the readers of this blog, namely Ken Wheaton especially, will be able to assist me in the follow conundrum. What pronoun is proper when the sentence, instead of using if I were you... uses a she or a he? Which is proper? If I were her... or If I were she... As I have been unable to find a reference book which specifies this particular situation, I have simply avoided the problem. I stick with If I were Johnny... and eliminate the pronoun completely.
The second grammar issue that gets under my skin is the Guess What.
As guess is a verb and the subject is the understood you, the sentence Guess what should be a statement or a command, thereby ending in a period. Unfortunately, every children's book I have ever read (and that's a vast amount) uses Guess what as a question ending with a question mark. Guess what?
If someone were (hypothetical usage of the subjunctive tense) to say Guess what, the response to that is usually, What? Questions are normally answered by a statement, not another question. Statements directing someone to do something may generate a question to clarify. For example, Joe says, "Tell me something." Timmy asks, "What?"
Isn't that basically what Guess what is saying? Tell me something.
What, by itself is a question. What? What do you want? What is that giant black thing crawling on your shoulder? Even if a possible ending is added, for example, Guess what I did today at school, it is still a command. You tell me what I did today at school. That is definitely not a question. It would sound ridiculous to make it a question. You tell me what I did today at school? Clearly Guess what is deserving of a period. Why do my editors continue to place a question mark at the end of my dialogue when I use a period? Huh? Why, Ken why?
In spite of this decision, I have still maintained my love for grammar and sentence construction. Spelling is not among my strengths. Thank goodness for SpellChecker, even though it doesn't always work. Inasmuch, when I see blatant grammatical errors, I shake my head and give into the temptation to correct those errors.
"I could care less." Most people think this is a statement about how little they are concerned about a particular issue. Actually, the statement implies that it would be possible to care less, meaning you do, in fact, care. The proper usage would be "I couldn't care less." meaning you are already at the bottom of the caring barrel.
"He has a better car than me." No, actually, "He has a better car than I." The second part of the sentence is understood and therefore acceptable to leave out of the conversation. The whole thought is "He has a better car than I have." Including the second portion of the sentence clearly indicates "I" is the proper pronoun. It would be erroroneous to say, "He has a better car than me have." However, I'm certain a few Neanderthals would choose to speak in such a manner.
Subjunctive Tense. This is the surreal tense of a language. It indicates the "what if" factor and identifies the hypothetical. What if it were to rain today? The hypothetical aspect allows for the improper usage of the subject "it" with the verb tense "were". It a certainty, it is incorrect to say, "It were my job to rake the leaves."
By studying a foreign language, I have learned the grammar of my own language much better than attending high school English class. All that poetry reading has done little to improve my ability to communicate either by the written word or by the spoken word. I have yet to use "Tiger, tiger, burning bright" in day to day conversations. Additionally, I rarely have cause to discuss the finer qualities of Grecian pottery. That in itself precludes the need to recite Ode to a Grecian Urn. Now, math class did lend itself into my study of language in that I have wandered off on a tangent (not a cotangent or sine or even a cosine).
The reference books regarding the finer points of the English language usually have an example of the proper use of the subjunctive tense. One of the most frequent examples of subjunctive is the If I were you...
That's all fine and dandy when speaking of an activity. My latest English grammar text also uses If she were to go, there might be trouble.
I'm hoping the readers of this blog, namely Ken Wheaton especially, will be able to assist me in the follow conundrum. What pronoun is proper when the sentence, instead of using if I were you... uses a she or a he? Which is proper? If I were her... or If I were she... As I have been unable to find a reference book which specifies this particular situation, I have simply avoided the problem. I stick with If I were Johnny... and eliminate the pronoun completely.
The second grammar issue that gets under my skin is the Guess What.
As guess is a verb and the subject is the understood you, the sentence Guess what should be a statement or a command, thereby ending in a period. Unfortunately, every children's book I have ever read (and that's a vast amount) uses Guess what as a question ending with a question mark. Guess what?
If someone were (hypothetical usage of the subjunctive tense) to say Guess what, the response to that is usually, What? Questions are normally answered by a statement, not another question. Statements directing someone to do something may generate a question to clarify. For example, Joe says, "Tell me something." Timmy asks, "What?"
Isn't that basically what Guess what is saying? Tell me something.
What, by itself is a question. What? What do you want? What is that giant black thing crawling on your shoulder? Even if a possible ending is added, for example, Guess what I did today at school, it is still a command. You tell me what I did today at school. That is definitely not a question. It would sound ridiculous to make it a question. You tell me what I did today at school? Clearly Guess what is deserving of a period. Why do my editors continue to place a question mark at the end of my dialogue when I use a period? Huh? Why, Ken why?
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Perfect Practice Makes Perfect
I was able to successfully play a low G, low A, B, C and D. Transitioning to E caused problems and by the time I hit F, my lips gave out. I spent over an hour trying to master the scale and it's apparent I need more practice.
Mary Had a Little Lamb sound more like Mary Took Her Lamb to Slaughter. But, hey, it was recognizable. I was thrilled that I had managed as well as I had. In my delight, I called my mother. She's responsible for this new adventure. Unfortunately, she wasn't home so my musical attempt has been forever recorded on her answering machine.
Later, when I called her back. She reassured me that I was loved. That, and I needed to practice a whole bunch more.
Mary Had a Little Lamb sound more like Mary Took Her Lamb to Slaughter. But, hey, it was recognizable. I was thrilled that I had managed as well as I had. In my delight, I called my mother. She's responsible for this new adventure. Unfortunately, she wasn't home so my musical attempt has been forever recorded on her answering machine.
Later, when I called her back. She reassured me that I was loved. That, and I needed to practice a whole bunch more.
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Pipes, Grace Notes And Dying Ducks
| Although my birthday isn't until March, my mother sent my birthday present with the Christmas presents. She enjoys making me suffer with temptation. I think she has a bet going about how long I can stand it before I give in and open the birthday presents. Turns out, I lasted longer than she did.
She called me the other night wanting to know what I thought about the present she sent. I didn't have any idea what she was talking about. We had squealed with delight over the phone about the gifts we had exchanged. I was at a loss. She said it was in a rectangular box. Oh, well there is a rectangular box marked "Happy Birthday." She told me to open it. Having been given permission to open my birthday present three months early, I ripped off the paper with gusto. To my surprise, it was something I have wanted for several years. A piping chanter kit! You might ask yourself, what's a piping chanter and why does it come in a kit? Well, it's the beginner practice pipe for bagpipes. I have wanted to learn to play the bagpipes and now I have the beginner's learning pipe. Yippie! The beauty of it is that my neighbor's won't even mind. The beginner's pipe does NOT include the bag and therefore has little volume. I quickly put it together and break open the instructions. I cover the holes and blow. It's a good thing it's supposed to sound like a dying duck. I think I might be a natural. Actually, what I was doing was squeaking very well. Anyone who has ever played a reed instrument will know about the squeak. Anyone who has ever listened to a beginner on a reed instrument will know about the squeak. I squeak well. But, hey, it was my first attempt. My second attempt wasn't much better. By the twentieth attempt, I accomplished a low G. Eventually, I managed the scale. I am so proud of myself. After the scale, I decided to turn the page. My heart sank. The first song on the playlist is Amazing Grace. Not Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, not Mary Had A Little Lamb, but Amazing Grace. I noticed these little tiny notes floating around that didn't make much sense. I'm no music wizard, but I can count how many beats to a measure and these guys weren't adding up. Back to the instructions. Turns out bagpipes are an instrument of continuous sound. There is no way to play a note louder than another or to differentiate between notes by taking a breath. "To enable true musical expression in pipe music short notes or grace notes are played throughout a tune to punctuate the music giving emphasis to certain notes or dividing two notes which are the same." Things just got harder. My son is thrilled with my new hobby. Now I can't complain about his lack of guitar playing ability during his practicing. As I blew my squeaks instead of tones, he just laughed. The dog, however, did not. She fled in terror at the sounds of the earth's destruction and took refuge under the desk in the other room. |
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Never Can Have Too Many Shoes
The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. I admit it. I am a shoe junky.
I first began to suspect my fascination with shoes when I was a senior in high school. There was a store called The Wild Pair in the mall where I worked. I frequently visited the store but never bought. My mother would have had a heart attack had I worn some of those shoes home. That, and I always thought I was too fat to wear stilettos. I mean seriously, the whole point of stilettos is to make your leg appear long and lean. When your legs are fat, round and calves blend into ankles resulting in Cankels, no stiletto in the world will slim that mess down. Besides, balancing a large body on such a tiny stem is just plain dangerous.
There are certain shoes that a 16 year old girl should not wear regardless of how fat she is. Thigh-high patent leather boots and/or pumps with ankle straps are women who can at least gain access to establishments where that kind of footwear is accepted.
Now that I am older and slimmer (it's still a major issue for me) I can wear "those" shoes. Over this past summer, while in England, I bought a pair of thigh-high patent leather boots. I took a risque picture and sent it to my husband. He liked it and that was worth the price of admission. I even managed an excuse to wear them on one other occasion; Halloween. (see previous photo) Granted, thigh-high leather boots are not going to the movies shoes, but I'd love to try it. Of course, I'd need the super short skirt to go with them. Now my concern is that I am too old to pull off that look. Matronly women don't do micro-mini skirts and thigh-high boots.
My fascination with shoes has grown into an addiction over the past two years. There is a shoe store here in Germany called Deichman's. It is the Mecca of shoes. Whenever I enter that store, I hear harps and a choir sing. I also love that it's a self-serve place. No need to have an employee run back and forth to the store room. I can shop like a crazy woman. The very first thing I do is take off my shoes. I don't want to waste time putting on and taking off my shoes. Too many precious gems to try on.
They have ankle bootlets, pumps, strappy pumps, ankle strap pumps, mid-calf boots, knee-high boots, hitching boots, comfortable boots, fashionable boots, sandals, rhinestone encrusted party shoes, stilettos, shoes with buckles, shoes with steel heels, slippers and even the matching bag for most of the shoes. Being that I'm in Europe, the shoes are about 6 months to a year ahead of stateside fashion. Those "bowling" shoes were here long before they became popular in the states.
Deichman has a fabulous selection and the prices are affordable. That probably has been the single most factor to my addiction. With each new pair of shoes, there are 5 more just waiting to come home with me. I'd feel guilty buying 3 or 4 or 5 or 6 pair at a time, so I generally stick to just one pair about once a month. Just because I'm not buying all the shoes I'd like, doesn't mean I'm not trying on every single pair in the store. The store clerks have rolled their eyes at me more than once. I guess it's a good thing that my German isn't very good, else I'd be able to understand them when they comment on the crazy American woman acting like she's never seen a pair of shoes before. --Oh Great Shoe PooBah, I am your humble servant.--
As the Christmas shopping season is over and it's now time to rejoice and celebrate in the after Christmas clearance sales, my co-worker suggested I go to the Victoria's Secret website and check out the shoe sales. Oh my. That's like dangling a popsicle in front of a 5-year old on a hot summer day. There were three strappy stilettos that caught my attention. But which one to get? I have to limit myself to just one. Which one? Which One? Which ONE?
Just then a soldier walks into the office. Who better to ask for an opinion than a man? A female- companion starved soldier who's been in Iraq for the last 10 months to boot.
When asked, he said he needed a closer look to be able to tell if the shoes were good.
What did he mean? A closer look?
"If you look at them and say, 'they're okay' those aren't good. If you look at them and say, 'Yeah Buddy!' or 'Hellllllooooo' then they're a good pair."
He agreed, but needed to check out the buckle situation.
Guess which pair he picked.........Pair #2. He said with a grin.
And that's all she needed to make a decision.
As he left the office, he said, "Looks like somebody lucky is going to be enjoying those shoes."
He's right. My most wonderful, amazing husband. He'll get to enjoy all of the shoes that have found a new home in my closet while he's been gone.
I first began to suspect my fascination with shoes when I was a senior in high school. There was a store called The Wild Pair in the mall where I worked. I frequently visited the store but never bought. My mother would have had a heart attack had I worn some of those shoes home. That, and I always thought I was too fat to wear stilettos. I mean seriously, the whole point of stilettos is to make your leg appear long and lean. When your legs are fat, round and calves blend into ankles resulting in Cankels, no stiletto in the world will slim that mess down. Besides, balancing a large body on such a tiny stem is just plain dangerous.
There are certain shoes that a 16 year old girl should not wear regardless of how fat she is. Thigh-high patent leather boots and/or pumps with ankle straps are women who can at least gain access to establishments where that kind of footwear is accepted.
Now that I am older and slimmer (it's still a major issue for me) I can wear "those" shoes. Over this past summer, while in England, I bought a pair of thigh-high patent leather boots. I took a risque picture and sent it to my husband. He liked it and that was worth the price of admission. I even managed an excuse to wear them on one other occasion; Halloween. (see previous photo) Granted, thigh-high leather boots are not going to the movies shoes, but I'd love to try it. Of course, I'd need the super short skirt to go with them. Now my concern is that I am too old to pull off that look. Matronly women don't do micro-mini skirts and thigh-high boots.
My fascination with shoes has grown into an addiction over the past two years. There is a shoe store here in Germany called Deichman's. It is the Mecca of shoes. Whenever I enter that store, I hear harps and a choir sing. I also love that it's a self-serve place. No need to have an employee run back and forth to the store room. I can shop like a crazy woman. The very first thing I do is take off my shoes. I don't want to waste time putting on and taking off my shoes. Too many precious gems to try on.
They have ankle bootlets, pumps, strappy pumps, ankle strap pumps, mid-calf boots, knee-high boots, hitching boots, comfortable boots, fashionable boots, sandals, rhinestone encrusted party shoes, stilettos, shoes with buckles, shoes with steel heels, slippers and even the matching bag for most of the shoes. Being that I'm in Europe, the shoes are about 6 months to a year ahead of stateside fashion. Those "bowling" shoes were here long before they became popular in the states.
Deichman has a fabulous selection and the prices are affordable. That probably has been the single most factor to my addiction. With each new pair of shoes, there are 5 more just waiting to come home with me. I'd feel guilty buying 3 or 4 or 5 or 6 pair at a time, so I generally stick to just one pair about once a month. Just because I'm not buying all the shoes I'd like, doesn't mean I'm not trying on every single pair in the store. The store clerks have rolled their eyes at me more than once. I guess it's a good thing that my German isn't very good, else I'd be able to understand them when they comment on the crazy American woman acting like she's never seen a pair of shoes before. --Oh Great Shoe PooBah, I am your humble servant.--
As the Christmas shopping season is over and it's now time to rejoice and celebrate in the after Christmas clearance sales, my co-worker suggested I go to the Victoria's Secret website and check out the shoe sales. Oh my. That's like dangling a popsicle in front of a 5-year old on a hot summer day. There were three strappy stilettos that caught my attention. But which one to get? I have to limit myself to just one. Which one? Which One? Which ONE?
Just then a soldier walks into the office. Who better to ask for an opinion than a man? A female- companion starved soldier who's been in Iraq for the last 10 months to boot.
When asked, he said he needed a closer look to be able to tell if the shoes were good.
What did he mean? A closer look?
"If you look at them and say, 'they're okay' those aren't good. If you look at them and say, 'Yeah Buddy!' or 'Hellllllooooo' then they're a good pair."
He agreed, but needed to check out the buckle situation.
Guess which pair he picked.........Pair #2. He said with a grin.
And that's all she needed to make a decision.
As he left the office, he said, "Looks like somebody lucky is going to be enjoying those shoes."
He's right. My most wonderful, amazing husband. He'll get to enjoy all of the shoes that have found a new home in my closet while he's been gone.
Thursday, December 23, 2004
SANTA CLAUS: An Engineer's Perspective
Alas, as I have a degree in Sociology, I can't guarantee the engineering accuracy of the following calculations. But as a sociologist, I can say that science leaves no accounting for Christmas Magic. Come on people. Those who BELIEVE, RECEIVE.
There are approximately two billion children (persons under 18) in the World. However, since Santa does not visit children of Muslim, Hindu, Jewish or Buddhist religions, this reduces the workload for Christmas night to 15% of the total, or 378 million (according to the Population Reference Bureau). At an average (census) rate of 3.5 children per house hold, that comes to 108 million homes, presuming that there is at least one good child in each. Santa has about 31 hours of Christmas to work with, thanks to the different time zones and the rotation of the earth, assuming he travels east to west (which seems logical). This works out to 967.7 visits per second. This is to say that for each Christian household with a good child, Santa has around 1/1000th of a second to park the sleigh, hop out, jump down the chimney, fill the stockings, distribute the remaining presents under the tree, eat whatever snacks have been left for him, get back up the chimney, jump into the sleigh and get on to the next house. Assuming that each of these 108 million stops is evenly distributed around the earth (which, of course, we know to be false, but will accept for the purposes of our calculations), we are now talking about 0.78 miles per household; a total trip of 75.5 million miles, not counting bathroom stops or breaks. This means Santa's sleigh is moving at 650 miles per second--- 3,000 times the speed of sound. For purposes of comparison, the fastest man-made vehicle, the Ulysses space probe, moves at a poky 27.4 miles per second, and a conventional reindeer can run (at best) 15 miles per hour. The payload of the sleigh adds another interesting element. Assuming that each child gets nothing more than a medium sized Lego set (two pounds), the sleigh is carrying over 500 thousand tons, not counting Santa himself. On land, a conventional reindeer can pull no more than 300 pounds. Even granting that the "flying" reindeer could pull ten times the normal amount, the job can't be done with eight or even nine of them --- Santa would need 360,000 of them. This increases the payload, not counting the weight of the sleigh, another 54,000 tons, or roughly seven times the weight of the Queen Elizabeth (the ship, not the monarch). 600,000 tons traveling at 650 miles per second crates enormous air resistance --- this would heat up the reindeer in the same fashion as a spacecraft re-entering the earths atmosphere. The lead pair of reindeer would absorb 14.3 quintillion joules of energy per second each. In short, they would burst into flames almost instantaneously, exposing the reindeer behind them and creating deafening sonic booms in their wake. The entire reindeer team would be vaporized within 4.26 thousandths of a second, or right about the time Santa reached the fifth house on his trip. Not that it matters, however, since Santa, as a result of accelerating from a dead stop to 650 m.p.s. in 001 seconds, would be subjected to centrifugal forces of 17,500 g's. A 250 pound Santa (which seems ludicrously slim) would be pinned to the back of the sleigh by 4,315,015 pounds of force, instantly crushing his bones and organs and reducing him to a quivering blob of pink goo. Therefore, if Santa did exist, he's dead now.
I recently watched a nature program about the naturally growing mushroom in Lapland. Turns out the reindeer crave them and seem to enjoy the "far-out" effects. The indigenous people have also taken to snacking on the mind-altering mushroom for the hallucinogenic visions; particularly the ones were everything appears to be floating. It's easy to understand where the idea of "flying" reindeer came from.
There are approximately two billion children (persons under 18) in the World. However, since Santa does not visit children of Muslim, Hindu, Jewish or Buddhist religions, this reduces the workload for Christmas night to 15% of the total, or 378 million (according to the Population Reference Bureau). At an average (census) rate of 3.5 children per house hold, that comes to 108 million homes, presuming that there is at least one good child in each. Santa has about 31 hours of Christmas to work with, thanks to the different time zones and the rotation of the earth, assuming he travels east to west (which seems logical). This works out to 967.7 visits per second. This is to say that for each Christian household with a good child, Santa has around 1/1000th of a second to park the sleigh, hop out, jump down the chimney, fill the stockings, distribute the remaining presents under the tree, eat whatever snacks have been left for him, get back up the chimney, jump into the sleigh and get on to the next house. Assuming that each of these 108 million stops is evenly distributed around the earth (which, of course, we know to be false, but will accept for the purposes of our calculations), we are now talking about 0.78 miles per household; a total trip of 75.5 million miles, not counting bathroom stops or breaks. This means Santa's sleigh is moving at 650 miles per second--- 3,000 times the speed of sound. For purposes of comparison, the fastest man-made vehicle, the Ulysses space probe, moves at a poky 27.4 miles per second, and a conventional reindeer can run (at best) 15 miles per hour. The payload of the sleigh adds another interesting element. Assuming that each child gets nothing more than a medium sized Lego set (two pounds), the sleigh is carrying over 500 thousand tons, not counting Santa himself. On land, a conventional reindeer can pull no more than 300 pounds. Even granting that the "flying" reindeer could pull ten times the normal amount, the job can't be done with eight or even nine of them --- Santa would need 360,000 of them. This increases the payload, not counting the weight of the sleigh, another 54,000 tons, or roughly seven times the weight of the Queen Elizabeth (the ship, not the monarch). 600,000 tons traveling at 650 miles per second crates enormous air resistance --- this would heat up the reindeer in the same fashion as a spacecraft re-entering the earths atmosphere. The lead pair of reindeer would absorb 14.3 quintillion joules of energy per second each. In short, they would burst into flames almost instantaneously, exposing the reindeer behind them and creating deafening sonic booms in their wake. The entire reindeer team would be vaporized within 4.26 thousandths of a second, or right about the time Santa reached the fifth house on his trip. Not that it matters, however, since Santa, as a result of accelerating from a dead stop to 650 m.p.s. in 001 seconds, would be subjected to centrifugal forces of 17,500 g's. A 250 pound Santa (which seems ludicrously slim) would be pinned to the back of the sleigh by 4,315,015 pounds of force, instantly crushing his bones and organs and reducing him to a quivering blob of pink goo. Therefore, if Santa did exist, he's dead now.
I recently watched a nature program about the naturally growing mushroom in Lapland. Turns out the reindeer crave them and seem to enjoy the "far-out" effects. The indigenous people have also taken to snacking on the mind-altering mushroom for the hallucinogenic visions; particularly the ones were everything appears to be floating. It's easy to understand where the idea of "flying" reindeer came from.
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