Are we THERE YET?!!

I knew, going into my relationship with Chad, that I would make a terrible army wife.

First of all, I hate catty women. Army wives are the WORST. I realize that in being a National Guard wife I have at least spared myself the majority of this cattiness as opposed to a wife of a full-time army man, but during deployments things can get a little annoying. One teensy little snarly e-mail to a woman trying to sell herself as part of the unit but in reality only selling CRAP.....and suddenly you're known as the unit bitch, even if nobody else has ever even met you. (The Army Wife Telephone Game, even if not always accurate, is more effective than any newsletter.) Oh well. Their loss, because ask me, I'm awesome. I just get irritated at people who somehow get their grubby little hands on the master e-mail list of all the army families in the unit and then try to take advantage and make a personal gain off of those who are in a bad situation: their husband out of the country or their kid needing a heart transplant. No, I will NOT buy your energy bars or your sports drinks.

Problem two with being an army wife: I don't respond well to being told how to live every little minute of my life. I suppose one could conclude that I have authority issues but I'M SORRY YOUR CHILDBEARING AND IN-VITRO ATTEMPTS HAVE TO ONCE AGAIN BE PUT ON HOLD BECAUSE WE NEED YOUR HUSBAND TO DRIVE AROUND IN THE DUST OVERSEAS FOR A YEAR doesn't sit well with me. It makes me bitter. Errr....more bitter. I also get slighty testy when other women try to pull their husband's rank over me. Um, excuse me? Am *I* in the army? No. So your husband's rank? It means NOTHING to me. Get OVER yourself and get your own identity.

Which leads us to issue number three: the woman whose sole identity is that of ARMY WIFE. (Even though I just read a few posts back and it seems that's all I ever talk about. Hmmm....) Get a hobby! Get a life! I'm sorry but I'm not JUST an army wife. (I'm a poet and don't know it!) There are other facets to my multiple personalites. I'm a mother. I'm a nurse. I have held the hand of a dying baby that is not my own. I am a dog lover. I'm addicted to Cherry Dr. Pepper. I ride horses on the weekends. I'm getting REALLY good at starting IVs on babies! I'm a terrible dancer. So excuse me when I don't only want to sit around and talk about Tricare. I don't wish to compare my relationship to my husband against you and YOURS. I barely even know you. Just because both of our spouses are slaves to Uncle Sam does not instantly make me your best friend. I'm not the most trusting of people so I'm going to have to warm up to you. And I'm betting you might need to warm up to me too. I'm kind of a pain in the caboose (even if I am AWESOME!) in case you've read this far and haven't figured that out yet.

So today? I sit and wait wait WAIT WAIT WAIT for some kind of word as to what TIME I can stop putting my entire life on hold, as I will do for the next 12-60 hours, and that my husband is finally in the country. Chad's on his way home for his annual leave, you see, and I'm not handling that wait like a mature grownup. I want to throw an all-out, kick-the-wall, flail-all-my-limbs tantrum complete with howling and tears until I get my way. I understand there are factors like unruly volcanoes and trivial matters like international security to consider, but could the government please be a little kinder to my minority - the extraordinarily crabby army wife - and get their act together so we can have some kind of timetable here? Something a little more specific than 'OH WE'RE LEAVING KUWAIT SOMETIME IN THE NEXT 24 HOURS AND THEN MAYBE WE'LL GO THROUGH GERMANY OR MAYBE WE'LL GO THROUGH SOME ASIAN COUNTRY AND MAYBE WE'LL EVEN MAKE A STOP IN AUSTRALIA! WOULDN'T THAT BE FUN, THEY HAVE KANGAROOS THERE!' I have not seen my husband for eight months. And the only person I can really take my anger out on regarding this lack of communication is the one I desperately want to see again, the one wearing the camo and goofy beret. I have already been talked out of simply killing him and collecting the life insurance because I'm so exasperated by this whole process (you can thank Aimee for that, Chad) so instead? I'll be the one at the airport terminal anxiously clutching a custom-made camouflage Build-A-Bear and a WELCOME HOME! balloon who will first slug her husband in the gut and then give him the enormous crushing hug and smooch he actually deserves. And I will blame my antics on someone else, because that's what I do best.

The army wives will have more Dixon's wife fodder just in time for their Girl's Night Out.

At least it wasn't a patient - aaaaand I just jinxed myself.

It's a bad month for anything glass around here. I've mentioned my klutz gene before. I spend at least ten minutes a day cursing gravity, walls that jump out from nowhere and my tendency to bruise easily. I've passed this on to my child, and even though it's against all laws of genetics (or NON-genetics) I've somehow passed it on to the dog. (She was spinning in an excited circle tonight and somehow misjudged the distance between her noggin and the wall - thunk!) I've broken three plates and bowls in the last three weeks. And today was ridiculous.

The PLAN was to leave the car running in the driveway while I rushed a few bags of groceries into the house, threw perishables into the fridge and then got my tooshie to a friend's for dinner. Opened the door to Chad's truck (I drove it today, honey, it still works!) and out hops a jar of suicidal spaghetti sauce. Ka-BLAM. Kapowie. Fell with a wet, red, tomato-ey THUD and exploded all over the driveway. The most pathetic part of this story is that this scene is a replay of last week's spaghetti-sauce-kitchen-floor-explosion. Same brand and flavor of sauce - in fact this jar was to replace that one. The only differences between that and this scenario was that this time I could hose it off the driveway quickly, there were no dogs around to sneak into the trash bag and make off with tasty sauce-flavored glass shards, and I managed this scene of destruction in front of nearly ALL OF THE NEIGHBORS, who were having a party next door, instead of the quiet privacy of my own home.

Rest in sweet peace, Three Cheese. Maybe I'll go with another kind of sauce next time.

Tonight's post brought to you by Tylenol PM

The six-month mark of the deployment. It's finally here. I'm halfway done. With this anniversary comes an entire new hand of emotions that I'm ill-equipped to deal with. One minute I'm thrilled, because this means that I have managed to make it through six months of single-momming it again a.) without burning down the house, b.) I've managed to keep my husband's truck running (we'll just not talk about the required jump-start at one point due to my complete lack of attention to it) and c.) everyone in my immediate vicinity is still alive. This is truly a miracle and leads us to discussion of our next emotion, the blind paranoia/irritation/rage at nearly everyone around me. Sometimes it's deserved (repeated passive-aggressive Facebook friend requests from my sister's ex's new wife aren't going to just earn a "reject request" from me, I'm going to openly make fun of her for being a psycho) but I suppose that I *can* admit to myself that everyone driving near the Gilbert area last Thursday probably didn't deserve to be flipped off. Except that guy that was actually driving the SPEED LIMIT in front of me on a one-lane road when I obviously need to get to Target right away. He was asking for it.

Chad is coming home for a few weeks, hopefully soon, so it finally gives me something to look forward to. This also means that he'll leave AGAIN and I won't see him for months again after that, but I'm trying not to dwell too much on that at this point. One mountain at a time!

I've also finally lowered my hours at work and that has helped decrease my bouts of crazy to about two shows a week. It's been a nice change. Emma's been able to stay with me more so that we don't have to deal with too much handing off to someone else while I'm working. She's been having some issues with not wanting to do homework, which is odd for my little bookworm/straight A girl. I've talked to her teacher, who assures me that fourth-grade girls tend to start being moody in preparation for the teen years, so I'm chalking up the homework issue to this and the stress of the deployment. I'm trying not to be too hard on her, since she still has all A's and only one B (in homework), is DIVIDING FRACTIONS IN FOURTH GRADE and just expressed an interest in reading To Kill a Mockingbird (uhhhhh, maybe not yet, dear) but I know I put too much pressure on her to be perfect. Sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe and just remember that she's a kid! I was still making cushion forts and playing with My Little Ponies at that age. And I turned out.....ok, not a valid argument. But she really is a great kid. I need to not take all my stress out on her, my poor only child.

I guess what I'm trying to say with this whole thing is that I'm feeling unstable and to everyone around me: I'm sorry.

Unless you're a slow driver.

And with the end of that rambling post I'm going to bed. Have to gear up for tomorrow's start of my *gasp* whole two days of work in a row for this week!

Before I married Army Man she even wore pink.

During the two-hour car ride back from Emma's school today (ok, it's not two hours but after staying up half the night because sleep and I are apparently mortal enemies, it feels like two hours!):

Emma: I think I'm finally turning into a lady.

Me: Oh really?

Emma: Yeah, you know how Mr. Able hates it when people fart in his class and says that we either have to just go outside or hold it?

Me: Uh..... you went outside today?

Emma: Nope. I held it. And I only burped once today! That's just *not* natural. In fact I think I've held it in a little too long......*maniacal giggling*

Me, rolling down the windows: *sigh*

How to put together furniture on your own! by Army Wife.

The front room of this house is far too bare. And I have an abundance of trashy novels, errrr, I mean fine literature, that needs shelving. So away to Target I went! I managed to enlist the help of a Target employee to roll some humongous five thousand pound boxes to my car and then it got reeeeally fun. Here are some step-by-step instructions on how to assemble your *own* Target bookcase, should your husband be too busy plowing over all of Iraq's livestock in his MRAP to help you with such a task:

1. Park purple Ford Explorer carefully in garage, taking care not to hit the side of the garage (again) since you only have six inches of extra space to play with between your husband's vehicle/$547monthlyfinancialobligationthatyouaren'tusingfortwelvemonths and the other side of the garage.

2. Open back hatch of Explorer and realize that you may have had a burly Target-man to help you get these things *into* the truck but there is no possible way that you can muscle these things out on your own without dropping them.

3. Swear loudly, making sure that all impressionable neighbor children can hear.

4. Slide the boxes out and drop them. Curse again, using a new combination of words. (Variety is the key to properly using foul language.) With emphasis this time.

5. Prop front door open. Drag boxes by one end around the entire front of the house, through the door and into the living room. Thump your chest and grunt, asserting that you don't need a man!

6. Chase Boston Terrier for a block and a half screaming "SADIE DO YOU WANT A SNACKIE?!!" hoping that it will entice the little beast to just come back home. Shrug and trudge back home, shut the front door, and surmise that if someone else can catch her she's now *their* problem.

7. Open boxes with the exacto-knife that you stole from the shipping department at Mervyn's when you were eighteen.

8. Gather up the tools you will need, as illustrated:

9. Begin assembling. Put part ! into hole 95, place tray A near shelf 3.14. Lather, rinse, repeat.

10. Admire the pretty purple bruise that is forming on your forearm from when you slammed it in the car door earlier.

11. Take a macaroni and cheese/iCarly break, pausing to answer the door when the neighbor brings back your oh-so-loyal black and white dog. Make a mental note to make sure she's not wearing a collar with a return address the next time she makes a run for it.

12. Try to remember where you left off in the bookcase assemblage and realize that you put all the shelves in backwards and then punched screw-holes in the wrong side of the wood.

13. Hate on the Army for stealing your husband away for something as trivial as a war when OBVIOUSLY there are more important things he needs to be attending to at home.

14. Wait 5-7 business days for replacement wood shelves from Target customer service, who kindly Fedex you new ones for free when you innocently state that they were never included in the original box.

15. Try to remove screws from damaged shelving with manual screwdriver. Recall absence of functioning arm muscles, search through The Man Cave for power screwdriver, wait three days to hear from husband as to its whereabouts and when he finally tells you that the battery is dead anyway, purchase a brand-new PINK ONE. Post pictures of it on facebook and tag your husband in it, generously letting him know that he can borrow it when he gets home.

16. Finish bookcase. Admire your handiwork. Decide to ignore the small screw-hole that you accidentally made on the wrong side of the new replacement shelf.

17. Spend an inordinate amount of time blogging about the whole fiasco in lieu of making sure your kid has done her homework. Try to fix spacing between numbers and give up. The people who own and run blogspot's blogging websites must know something that you don't.

18. Come to the conclusion that you are going to order home delivery and setup of any and all furniture for the next seven months.

I'm sure Taylor's worried about that too, honey.

Today as we were driving to the post office to mail a ginormous box o' crap to Military Man Emma and I suddenly found ourselves talking about famous people. Emma's favorite flavor of the week is Taylor Swift, but apparently she doesn't approve of all of her activities: "Mom, the only thing about Taylor Swift's music videos is that she kisses a lot of different boys. She should really be worried about catching something. Like H1N1!"

Um.......

Eff you, 2009.

Christmas is over and it's time for dreaded 2010 resolutions. Except that I don't care to make resolutions since I most likely won't follow through with them, so here's a list of GOALS for 2010:

1. Get myself knocked up. In-vitro. Just once more. If it doesn't work, I'm throwing in the towel and getting a fainting goat. Take that, uterus! I'll have to wait for Military Man to return from Iraq for this one. I'm not taking on a month of shots in the ass, pregnancy, a nine year-old, two surgeries, a full-time night job and a deployment all at once. I'm sure some woman even more insane than me out there has done it, but I'm saying no thanks, even though what I need from him *is* still frozen in Tucson.

2. Remove size 13 kids socks stuffed into jeans before chucking them in the wash. White socks + dark blue load of laundry = exceeded sock budget.

3. Learn to sew.

*snort* Yeah, right.

4. Find a new house. One where I can legally have livestock. (Aaaand we're back to the fainting goats.) I would also prefer one that isn't haunted. Taking out the Mag 44 (is that what it was? not entirely sure) and laying it on the nightstand may have made me *feel* safer a few nights ago, but I'm fairly certain it won't work on ghosts. Plus - minor detail - I'd have to know how to actually use it.

5. Stop yelling at people in traffic. I know they can't hear me. Yet I still do it. This has topped the resolution list for the past few years. (See blurb about how I never keep resolutions.)

6. Quit smoking. Of course this would mean that I had actually taken UP smoking at some point in my life.....but I wanted to put one thing on this list that is actually attainable. So yay me! Already accomplished one goal and it's only the first of the year.

7. Abstain from changing a certain Boston Terrier's name to various swearwords. This one is going to be difficult, since I'm positive that Sadie will do more than a few things this year to deserve it.

8. Exercise! Um, this may also deserve a "yeah right" but really! I'm going to try. Ok, I'm not. Let's just be honest. Putting it on my list is enough effort all by itself.

At the close of 2010 we'll go back to this list and see how many I've actually done. This year is going to be a good one, I can just feel it.