When your four year old pulls out his Legos and announces that, “Together, you and me can build this giant wall”…. Try again, Micro-Donald. I’m not about that life.
When your four year old pulls out his Legos and announces that, “Together, you and me can build this giant wall”…. Try again, Micro-Donald. I’m not about that life.
If someone asks you to “Tell me about your family”, what would you say? Would the description be about your mom and dad? Maybe it would include stories of dinners together and yearly road trip vacations. Maybe there is no description that you can find that seems to “fit” as a description of the people that shaped your very being. Then, there is also the very real possibility that your description would fit into a not so neat little package about sibling(s) that you don’t like, a mom that you can’t be in the room with for longer than a few minutes, an great uncle that creeps you the fuck out but he’s family, right?
Wrong. So, so wrong on so many levels. Family is not genetic. Family doesn’t give you a bond with the bullshit urban legend of “blood is thicker than water”.
When someone asks about my family, first and foremost I talk about my husband and my children. Then, I go on to some of my friends that might as well have the same fucking last name or at least well matching tats. (lol) I’ve never felt like the group of people that I was born into was my “family”. I can’t remember a single time that I got a piece of exciting news and though, “Holy fuck! I need to call Dad!”. Nope. Has never happened. I don’t make the required phone calls on birthdays. I don’t do “Happy Mother’s Day” or the like.
When someone asks about my family, I am very quick to name off the very few people that I think of as my such. Some of them I have known since I was 13 and some of them I met last year. At this point in my life, genetics seem to take a back-burner while common interests, mutual respect and the ability to relate to someone fulfill that part of me that SHOULD yearn for a more traditional family unit.
At this point is normally where “family friendly” people will make a comment about their great relationships with their grandparents, preach the gospel that is all things sugar and rainbows about a genetic connection that I just don’t get. At this point, is most likely where you, the reader, is thinking “Oh my gosh! This is so sad! Everyone should have a strong connection to their family. Maybe it will grow in time.”
Key words, “in time”. I am 40 years old. My mortality is floating around in my brain and with three boys and a husband, “in time” for this mushy, cozy, lollipop licking picture of family life just ain’t gonna fucking happen. There isn’t going to be family reunions to meet up with cousins that I really don’t care to know. There isn’t going to be a magic wand to make that genetic code into something more than what it is.
With all of that being said, this does not mean that I care any less about my genetic family. But, I am at a crossroads in my life where I can allow a person in my life without really having that “bond” that society has told me that I should have with my immediate and extended family. It’s not there. It’s never going to be there.
There is no doubt that this post will hurt some peoples’ feelings and for that, I could say that I was sorry. But, I’m not. I’m not sorry because this is my honesty. This is me. When something happens worthwhile in my life, I don’t think “Oh god! I need to call Aunt Sally Mae!” and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. When something happens and I just NEED someone to talk to, I have my Tribe. I have my husband. I have people with whom I share many common interests and opinions and many that I have nothing in common with other than the ability to know that they’re going to be honest with me.
*Please note that my childhood, into teen angst and early adulthood was not that fucking horrible. I wasn’t beaten on a daily basis, I didn’t wear shoes with holes, my parents didn’t call me horrible names… by societal standards, I should be one of those cozy, family movie kind of people. But, I’m not. I never have been and I never want to be that person. Most people won’t ever understand and that is fine. These are the times where I like to revert back to the old faithful, “You do you”.
In closing because well, it’s 3:18am and I am finally ready to go back to sleep… DNA does not a family make. Love. Mutual respect. Honesty. The ability to listen. The ability to learn from another person. The gift of humility. The ability to put your own beliefs aside sometimes and just say, “I understand”, THAT is what makes a family. Not DNA.
The first time that I noticed music that I loved as a teenager was on the “classics” radio station in San Diego. It was Guns N Roses and the song was “Paradise City”. I know, I know. You’re thinking the same thing that I am, “There’s no fucking way that belongs on a CLASSICS station!”.
Then, you realize that you are a 40 year old woman, watching MTV Classic and wondering if Lauryn Hill lost her shit before the Fugees split or after the fact, how the fuck is Bret Michaels still alive, and finally allowing yourself to accept that REM(the band, not the cycle) was a college experiment gone terribly wrong and not the enlightened words of Mike Stipe after all. In fact, he was pretty dumb.
This may well be the most defining moment of my life thus far.
Last night the OHOTMU and I attended the FY-2017 Khaki Ball.
Call me a glutton for emotional punishment but, I have this disorder that makes me want to believe that despite mistakes that SOME people make, they are still inherently good people. No, I don’t WANT to believe it, I DO believe it. And, part of this disorder is realizing that I care and love some people more deeply than reciprocated.
Before August of 2015, I didn’t believe in the little “clique” that a CPO (Chief Petty Officer) wife has with other CPO wives when our spouses go through season together. Obviously, those being pinned with anchors form an unbreakable bond. That’s what the Chief’s Mess is about, brotherhood and sisterhood. But as a wife, you form bonds with the other wives (in my case, no hubby spouses) that others won’t or can’t understand. We go through the six weeks of having no spouse, we lean on each other, we work together, we cry and bitch and hold up the house during that time. It’s something that I can’t justly put into words. After Season is over, we may not always be the closest of friends but, there will ALWAYS be a special bond. If you’re confused, think of it as a sister love/hate relationship; “I can call my sister a fucking bitch but, if YOU call her a fucking bitch, I will cut you” kind of relationship. There will always be that pride of being the wife of a Chief. I met this beautiful woman when our hubs went through Season together. Long story short; shit happens, life changes, marriages dissolve and you STAND TOGETHER as sisters or something along those lines. But, then she was just gone. And, you know what? I miss her. Everyone makes mistakes. Some are larger than others but, we all make them at some point.
My heart hurts for the entire situation and I know that I should see it as I do with many other things and just not give a shit. But, I do. I care what happens to my friends and I don’t want anyone to hurt or to feel like they can’t come to me to listen.
Point of this is that last night, I had a complete BLAST with these beautiful and intelligent, funny women that I am lucky enough to call my friends. We laughed and acted silly. Talked true stories of boobs, duct tape, what we did for our husbands during their induction season but, my head and heart wouldn’t let me stop wishing that my friend was there. Wishing that she was laughing and bullshitting with all of us and making fun of me when I TRIED to do the Cha-Cha slide in a CIRCLE which doesn’t work, fyi.
Like I said, call me a glutton for emotional punishment. I don’t know if we were ever truly “friends” in her eyes and it is what it is. I just want her to know that she IS loved and missed and maybe one day we can reconnect when the time is right for her. Until then, I mostly just wish her peace. And love for herself.
And that was my pathetic mushy entry for the day. Thank you.
…it’s a phrase that my poor husband is all too familiar with after 13+ years together. And normally, it’s accompanied by showing him something that I really, REALLY want but, am too scared to say, “Regardless of what you think, I already bought this”. As of late, it’s been this thing called Lularoe. I don’t know, maybe you have heard of it? But, seriously.
Personally, I think that he should count his lucky stars that it’s no longer an obsession with Coach or that Louis Vuitton clutch that cost as much as our monthly mortgage payment, but rather a $25 pair of leggings. And most of the time, I get my leggings with some sort of discount applied. (Please note that I said, “Most of the time”.) And, while I’m on the subject of these leggings, I’ve even done the math on these bad boys. Trust me, it’s cheaper on him if I just buy the fucking leggings.
I digress though… in case you are one of the few that have been living on another fucking planet or have not been properly introduced to the wonderful world of LLR, allow me one paragraph to explain. At LEAST one paragraph.
LLR started (for me) as these severely overpriced leggings that a girlfriend of mine found. Yes, they are soft. Yes, they do feel like some sort of fabric that one would imagine a Greek god draping themselves in. I mean, if gods actually wore pants. And, up until she gifted me with a pair of these amazing pieces of loveliness, I was of sound mind when I would declare that, “…leggings are NOT pants”. Leggings are what WalMart shoppers wear when they are too lazy to put on actual pants. Yes. You actually read that correctly. There was a time that I would tell anyone, “Leggings are NOT pants” and ridicule those who did wear them as such.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. There are still the occasional times when I see that camel toe on someone and still think that they made a horrible mistake and why didn’t someone stop them. For the most part though, I simply nod and ask where they got that pair and if their consultant is local. Shipping gets expensive on this shit, yo. Gotta have the local hook up.
There is a whole other world of these women (and men, I’m sure) that have the same obsession that I do. And for once, I am afforded the luxury of claiming that people other than myself are crazier than a Southern granny on the porch in the hot Mississippi sun. These people wear their crazy with a sense of pride that I have for my sobriety of seven years. It’s a completely surreal experience when you come across these bitches. And trust, you will come across them if you want to get in on this action.
I’ve actually seen some posts where I thought that if there wasn’t that pesky little detail of two women being seven states apart, they would rip each other’s throats out. Please allow me to remind you again that this is all in the name of LEGGINGS. But, yes. Name calling… backstabbing… ruin a marriage of 20 years worth of craziness. All bundled into one little pair of ‘buttery’ soft PANTS.
I have converted a few people myself. Don’t get me wrong. I. Love. These. Leggings. Fuck, just a couple of weeks ago, my psychiatrist was feeling me up and was like, “SOLD!” I have one friend that shall remain nameless, that when I see her she automatically feels my shirt or pants to see if they are LLR. I’m not actually sure how I haven’t converted her yet but, it’s only a matter of time. They always see things my way. 😉
Unless you are a millionaire or have no other person to justify your financial standing with, this next section is not for you. And if the truth be told, I should not be putting this out there for fear that my own OHOTMU will see this and be onto my game. But, here goes… because knowledge is power.
I can promise you that unless your SO is all up in your bank account or is just of the “nods his/her head in agreement” types (and in this case, it doesn’t matter anyway), one of these examples will work for you every time. And, there are some that I haven’t even tried yet. Some of the particularly amazing consultants will even make it so that your invoice says something along the lines of, “Congratulation on winning our free leggings giveaway!” Now those…THOSE are my kinds of bitches. Sold. Sold. Sold.
Now, I hate to end this so abruptly but I’m on my way to a friend’s house to see what LLR goodies she got in the mail today. But, if the OHOTMU asks… see #4 and #5.
***WARNING*** Some might read this as a “grinch-y” entry. It’s quite the opposite. I truly wonder and care deeply about some of these traditions and what the fuck people are thinking when they carry them out.
I think that about covers it for now. Pretty sure that there will be others as I grow older and grumpier but for now, I think that I have it covered. And, from my family to yours… sending holiday well wishes your way with as many fruitcakes and cups of eggnog as it takes to make it a merry one for you and yours!
…my 140lb Doberman decided that since I have been letting him sleep wherever he wants in the house lately that he needs to lift his leg on well, whatever. For the last couple of days, I have been walking up my stairs and smelling animal urine. I say ‘animal’ because I have cats, dogs and kids. But, I digress.
Last night, the smell was unbearable so, I started investigating. Litter boxes clean, no visible “accidents” from cat, dog or man-child and no trash can that was visibly dirty. So, at this point, I am thinking that one of the dogs in sleeping inside, had an accident in the middle of the night somewhere on the carpet.
Let me break away and lead into the progression of this story by pointing out that my entire downstairs is tiled and laminate. Not a speck of carpet until you hit the stairs but, noooooo. No. This animal just had to use the toilet on the mother fucking carpet.
Anyway, fast forward to later after the kids were in bed. I needed some craft supplies from the office so, I start looking around. All of my craft paper, scissors hell, all my shit is in boxes. Plastic Rubbermaid shit and drawers, okay? It’s not like I leave the shit hanging out or whatnot. So, I got to where I know that my stockpile of greeting cards, plain card stock, envelopes and notice that the lid to the container is just the slightest bit off. Whatever. My oldest kid is a goddamned klepto so he was probably in there looking for shit to steal, whatever.
Keep in mind that the smell of animal urine is still horrible. (As a matter of fact, so horrible that I actually went on to Amazon and ordered a carpet shampooer. No shit.) I grab the box of supplies and reach in to grab something and then, something wet. No, not something ‘wet’. It was something liquid. And this liquid has been absorbed into all of my paper items that are in this container.
In case you haven’t figured it out yet, it was mother fucking dog piss. DOG. PISS. All over my shit. Expensive ass card stock and some other random documents that were shoved in there for some reason. (Ah, yes. The klepto.) Did you misread that? No. No, you did not. Dog. Piss.
But, wait. No, it couldn’t get worse. Well, I guess it could. Famine and locust and shit could take over, Donald Trump could become President. Who knows?
What just happens to be in the very bottom of this piss puddle? Some of the things that my husband has acquired during his time in the Navy. Great. Just fucking great. Since I was wrist deep in dog piss, why not see what else there was in there? Oh, a hard drive? DOUBLE GREAT!!!
I cleaned what I could and just shoved the container out in the garage of the cords and shit that I didn’t want to submerge in water. (Let the hubs handle that shit.)
There is no point to this post. None whatsoever. Just to vent and to look back when I read this later and smile because at some point there has to be some humor, right?
It’s been a long 7 months. It’s been a rough 7 months. At times, I didn’t think that I could make it through without my best friend but, I did it. WE did it.
Most likely, this will be the last deployment that we have to endure. Hell, I think that the boys had a better go of this whole time than either of us did. Tears and screaming… swearing and giving up only to pick back up and move on. Care packages and love letters. A Hawaiian vacation and then back to reality.
Last night, I invited some friends over for a very last minute “Welcome Home” get together. Food and drinks, cards and conversation. Everyone had a blast with Cards Against Humanity and I don’t think that I have laughed that hard in a long time. Then, as Gina, Krystal and I were cleaning up the cards, I hear this voice and I just stopped.
For a brief moment, I had forgotten that he was home. It was quite unnerving and then, just the biggest smile spread across my face. This time, it was not a dream. He really is home.
Now, with all that mushy and beautiful shit written, let me acknowledge that when a couple has been apart for 7 months, shit is bound to have changed on both ends. Right now, we are in this place of “i love you…I love you, too…” honeymoon-esque sex all the time. There have been little um, disagreements but no actual arguments or fighting. I would like to say that this is the greatest thing in the history of EVER and, it is! It really is. But, being a military spouse and having gone through seven deployments with this man, I can tell you with 150% truthfulness that this is all a phase. lmao Give us a month and we will be fighting over laundry, kids, money and anything else that comes with saying those vows in front of that preacher. And, I am totally okay with that. Watson and I are a testament as to what COULD go wrong DOES but, we both believe that the “for better or for worse” words that we promised so many years ago still are a guiding force in this life together. We put our marriage FIRST. And, yes. That totally means before the kids. Kids need happy and healthy parents to be happy and healthy. This is a fact. And for fuck’s sake, I have put these kids through the wringer with some of my shit. But, when I am happy, I can work towards making our marriage happy and then, our family unit happy. It’s a long process but, worth it in the long run.
People often ask me how I “do it” being a military wife. That they could NEVER be away from their spouse/partner for a week. Let alone, almost an entire year. They talk about how they aren’t strong enough to do what myself and so many other spouses do. They want to know what I do to pass the time. Well, if you are reading this and you have ever wondered this; we do this life because we have to. It’s not anything that makes us anymore special than the spouse of a welder or a banker. It’s simply put, life. This is the hand that life has dealt us. This life isn’t one that anyone sets out to live. But, military spouses are not any ‘stronger’ than any other spouse out there. It’s LIFE. It is what it is and although yes, we CHOSE to be with our partners, not all of us CHOSE this life.
I CHOSE to marry my husband. The military was just something that came along with the deal. I knew that if I wanted to be with Watson, his military service was a given. You deal with it, learn to go with the flow (which is hard for a control freak like me) and hope that moving is not in the cards every 3-4 years. lol
There are many benefits that go along with being a military dependent; everyone knows this. If you are a military spouse and you have negative shit to say about the little luxuries that the military affords you, get the fuck out. You truly have it made. But, I want it said and hopefully understood that no amount of those ‘luxuries’ are worth being away from the best friend that I could ever have. Not to mention the effect that it has on our children. Each month while Watson is deployed, there is something called, “Family Separation Pay” (there is probably some other name for it by Navy standards but, let’s just call it what it is). This family sep pay is about $250 a month, I think? But, I am here to tell you that $250 is not nearly enough to have to try and explain to a nearing 4 year old why his Dad isn’t there at night to kiss him and it definitely does not dry the tears. Nor is it enough to cover the amount of “daddy-ing” that I have to do when he isn’t around. Especially when I have two puberty driven boys that need their dad.
Wow. This was not meant to be this long and drawn out. But, it is what it is. Deployments suck ass. Period. Along the way, you hear people tell you that, ‘it gets easier’. No. No the fuck it does not. You just learn to deal. You learn to multitask in a MAJOR way. You find out who your TRUE friends are. You get into a groove that works and then, BOOM! It’s over and done with and there is a whole new set of rules to start learning since everyone has changed so drastically.
Welcome home, Watson. I waited for you and I will always wait for you. Until the end of our time on this planet. I love you to Uranus and back…
I never thought that I would be 40. I mean, not that I thought I would be dead by 40 or anything like that. Just looking back on what I remember from my younger years and into young adulthood; I just never thought about BEING 40. And if the truth be told, I don’t feel 40.
People like to say, “40 is the new 30!” or whatever nonsense makes them feel less further on in the aging process but, not me. Believe it as gospel when I say that if my 40th year on this planet goes anything like my 30th year, I want a mother. fucking. refund. Period. Haha.
I’ve been doing this countdown since I turned 39. I even made a ’40 Before 40′ list to get handled before today. Yeah, about that. I ate a Pinks hot dog. I had my photo shoot with my tribe. I never met Dr. Dre. I never went horseback riding. There’s a ton of things that never came to fruition but, that’s okay. The things that meant the most did.
It’s really funny because I didn’t really go to bed last night FEELING that when I woke up, things would feel “different”. I don’t feel different; at all. In fact, I feel kind of jilted. Like, aren’t you supposed to be more grown up feeling at 40? Or, aren’t I supposed to magically have all my fucks in a row?
Now don’t get me wrong. My thoughts and opinions have grown, the connection and level of trust that I give to new people is at a completely comfortable level right now and although I complain on (almost) a daily basis, my life is pretty fucking sweet. Sure, I could have woken up this morning with a Maserati in the drive but that is just so, so… Basic. 😉
Seriously though, shit could be worse. I’ve learned in the last year. So many new things that I never thought deserving of my time to actually pay attention before. I’m still sober. I have my husband who is my best friend on this entire planet. There are three boys that I was lucky enough to grow inside my body and know every little movement and temperament even before they took their first breaths. I’m active with a wonderful cat/kitten rescue that is run by a woman that I look up to in a tremendous capacity and that I am lucky enough to call my friend. I have a home that many people would love to call their own, I have cars that get me where I need to be (most of the time) and food to feed all the two and four legged beasts under my charge. I have the most outrageously different, vast array of girlfriends that I am lucky enough to call my tribe. They know me, they love me and well, they’re stuck with me.
Now, all that mushy bullshit out of the way and onto the real talk.
It’s funny how the brain reacts to memories. Thoughts of people, places and events seem to pop up at the most unexpected moments. A few weeks ago, I was making rice and a memory of our kitchen from Winona, MS popped into my head and how that was the last time that I remember my mom making this rice pudding that was just to die for. I haven’t lived in that house in over 35 years. I haven’t been to Winona, MS in at least 20 years.
My great grandfather, Brewer, had this room on the back of his house. Everything was wood. The walls and the floors. It was COVERED with trash from decades of kids and grandkids, gardening tools, old bags of who knows what… and I was never allowed to go into that room. I still like to believe that underneath all the piles of stuff, there were hidden gems and cool stuff. Not just old broken toys and smelly old shoes.
I also remember that Brewer contributed to my love of all things bread, butter and sugar. Jasper was almost named ‘Brewer’ in honor of that old man.
I can recall so many things that I would love to write about but, I am just going to keep those for me. I share far too much most of the time so, those others will be just for me. =)
But, there are things that must be said.
1. People DO NOT change.
You cannot change a person by loving them more. You cannot change a person by bullying them into what you might think would be a better version of themselves.
2. Life is fucking cruel. No it’s not.
Events in your life have been cruel. People in your life have been cruel. YOU can be and have been cruel. But, ‘life’ is just a word. What’s cruel is that people don’t take enough responsibility for their life and their part in these ‘cruel’ situations. It’s called accountability.
3. Being happy by yourself comes before being happy with another person, another home, another well, anything.
Damn right that sounds selfish. It is. You have to be selfish to learn to be selfLESS.
4. People eventually show their true colors.
And it’s not always magentas and vibrant yellows. Watch out for the one that dull the colors of who you are. Or, that make you doubt another’s true colors.
Above anything else, LISTEN. It’s an amazing thing what can be learned by simply LISTENING. Such an easy thing to do but, such an incredibly hard concept to grasp.
I suppose that I could go on with some of my sobriety crap or cute kid stories but, pretty sure that we all have shit to handle and ain’t nobody got time for all of that. Much love and thank you to everyone in my life. There are those that were in my life for a reason, Thank you. There are those that were put in my life for a season(s), Thank you. And then there are those that are in this shit with me for the lifetime. THANK YOU. You deserve a fucking medal and a joint for going along this crazy ride. lol