Last week was one of those free HBO weekends, and I caught a movie based on a television show made popular by white women and gay men everywhere. In an effort to maintain my street cred, I won't disclose the title, but think pink cocktails and New York. Anywho, this movie depicted a woman throwing a fit because her hard-working husband didn't feel like hitting the club up on a Tuesday night. She cried when he bought her a flatscreen television as an anniversary present. She went on holiday with her girlfriends, made out with an old boyfriend, told her husband about it, and was surprised when he didn't pick her up from the airport. Personally, I was hoping he was at home, busily bleaching her couture, but, he was actually out buying her an enormous diamond ring. In this cinematic stink-bomb that portrayed so much of what I hate about Hollywood values, this irritated me the most. It's not so much the story; I understand that it's fiction, and I don't think the public would be interested in watching a movie about, say, my typical day of diapers and dinner prep. No, what leaves me in disgust are the unrealistic "romantic" expectations such screenplays evoke. Women are being bamboozled, and men are paying the price. Just so we're clear, fortysomething trollops are losers, no, you are not a Carrie, and chances are, your man is too busy living his life to plan sweeping, romantic gestures (as are you).
In the seven years we've been married, my husband has brought home flowers once. Is that bad? I think it's all a matter of perspective. In seven years, he's brought home one bouquet of flowers-- he's also brought home 225 paychecks. He's never written sonnets, surprised me with jewelry, or tattooed my name on his lower back. Yet, my SUV is detailed, my lawn is mown, and, as I write this, we're watching my Huskers lose while his Longhorns still have a quarter to play. Perspective. What's the big deal about flowers, anyway? If you ask me, flowers aren't used to bolster your relationship, flowers are used to make other women feel bad about theirs. Otherwise, all arrangements would be sent to homes instead of offices, and I'd never have to see another rose bouquet iphone pic on Facebook. Certainly, some folks like to buy such things for their significant others, and others genuinely appreciate the thought and beauty of flowers. This is fine. I'm just saying that an empty desk on your birthday doesn't necessarily mean your relationship is doomed for failure.
If you need or want specific things out of your guy, tell him. I know, it's crazy, he should totally be able to read your mind, but take it from a girl who woke up one Christmas morning hoping for a rock on her finger, and went to bed Christmas night with a stuffed hippopotamus and a chip on her shoulder-- spelling out your expectations is the best way to go. Every year, without fail, I get exactly what I want for my birthday. My secret? Every year, without fail, I send my husband a list of exactly what I want for my birthday. For those of you thinking, "But I want him to surprise me," reference the aforementioned hippopotamus anecdote.
Finally, let's be honest. If you're like me, you're more attuned to your significant other than he is to you. So, tell me, when's the last time you sat through a Dr Who marathon, or enthusiastically attended a car show, or even worse just because you knew it would mean a lot to him? I don't know about you, but I'm willing to forego hearts and chocolates if it means never having to discuss fantasy football in bed. Perspective.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
Please Don't Feed the Drama Queens
Merriam-Webster defines a Drama Queen as a person given to often excessively emotional performances or reactions. But I feel this cursory explanation only reinforces the negative connotation of the lifestyle. As a Southern, small-town girl, ex-debutante, ex-sorority girl, and current Army wife, I feel uniquely qualified to educate the masses on one of America's least understood groups: Drama Queens. Below, I have outlined a few little-known facts about these royals.
Drama Queens are born, not made. Regardless of what people might try to convince you, Drama Queendom is not a choice. Situations- huge, complicated situations - find real Drama Queens. If these people were not biologically engineered to handle such happenings, I would legitimately fear for their sanity. Not just anyone is a Drama Queen. Many young girls ages 12-22 will experiment with being a Drama Queen. I am unsure if this is an act of rebellion against non-dramatic parents, or perhaps an attempt to repel young males, but, eventually, most of these "Drama Princesses" will find that they are better suited to a mundane existence. However, true Drama Queens will find comfort in this tumultuous lifestyle; it will just feel right. If you find yourself among the few, the proud, the OMG!!, then congratulations! You will find yourself in elite company with the likes of former Senator John Edwards, screen and courtroom legend Lindsey Lohan, and that lady from my bank, who, I've never technically been introduced to , but has told me (in great detail) of her third divorce and questionable shoulder mole.
Drama Queens are just like you and me- except better. I believe that one of the reasons Drama Queens are looked down upon by the rest of us, is that we feel inferior. And, really, why shouldn't we? Drama Queens are more than you and me. They are altogether smarter, dumber, taller, shorter, faster, slower, happier, and sadder. Their lovers love them more, their haters hate them more. They are more patriotic and religious. They work harder, have longer hours, and regardless of who you are, their life is better than yours. Unless, of course, your life has recently hit a rough patch. In that case, quit your whining, because a Drama Queen has is worse.
Drama Queens are the natural prey of mother-in-laws, but are, nonetheless, remarkable mothers. I don't have an explanation for this one. All I know, is that despite being an exceptional human being (see above), a Drama Queen is always hated by her mother-in-law (or baby daddy's mama, as Drama Queens sometimes eschew marriage). This fact is particularly puzzling in light of how well Drama Queens parent. A pregnant Drama Queen is truly a magnificent thing. She is healthier and sicker than you ever were. She gains less weight, and loses it all approximately thirty minutes postpartum. She does not take the drugs, and even if she does, they will not work so, really, it's still totally natural childbirth. She will have the longest/shortest most painful delivery in the history of the universe- afterall, her cervix dilated to eleven centimeters. But it's all worth it in the end, as her child will most certainly crawl first, walk first, talk first, and generally be the smartest child on or off the planet. Her little darling's first birthday party will rival the Royal Wedding, and cute? Fugetaboutit. The rest of us pale in its glory. It's easy for we peons to become resentful of the constant gloat, but me must remember little-known Drama Queen fact #212: During Pregnancy, a chemical is excreted in a Drama Queen's brain that effectively erases all prior knowledge of mankind. So, you see, a Drama Queen will act like she is the first person to ever be pregnant and her offspring is the first child to ever be borne and grow up, because, to her, that is the case.
Drama Queens are natural predators. Please don't feed them. Drama Queens feed on, well, drama. Unless you went to a special school, or you know, any Southern Baptist church, you are woefully unprepared to handle them. Drama Queens are tricksy. They will tempt you with long sighs and woebegone looks, but do not, under any circumstances, ask why. And as is so often the case, the Internet, or more specifically, Facebook, has widened the predators' net. Drama Queens will lure you with cryptic status updates that allude to familial discontent, marital discord, or health concerns. They might even solicit advice. Please, do not be fooled! Remember, Drama Queens are smarter than you. They don't really need your advice; you can't contribute any suggestion that they haven't already thought of, implemented, and deemed useless.
Now that you understand a little more about Drama Queens, I hope that you can use this newfound knowledge to your advantage. Feeling a little down? Call a Drama Queen- there's at least one in every family. But please, don't misinterpret their looks of delight at your misfortune- they are only excited to share their wisdom. Drama Queens are voracious, if not sympathetic, listeners. And no matter your troubles, a Drama Queen has been there, done that better than you.
Drama Queens are born, not made. Regardless of what people might try to convince you, Drama Queendom is not a choice. Situations- huge, complicated situations - find real Drama Queens. If these people were not biologically engineered to handle such happenings, I would legitimately fear for their sanity. Not just anyone is a Drama Queen. Many young girls ages 12-22 will experiment with being a Drama Queen. I am unsure if this is an act of rebellion against non-dramatic parents, or perhaps an attempt to repel young males, but, eventually, most of these "Drama Princesses" will find that they are better suited to a mundane existence. However, true Drama Queens will find comfort in this tumultuous lifestyle; it will just feel right. If you find yourself among the few, the proud, the OMG!!, then congratulations! You will find yourself in elite company with the likes of former Senator John Edwards, screen and courtroom legend Lindsey Lohan, and that lady from my bank, who, I've never technically been introduced to , but has told me (in great detail) of her third divorce and questionable shoulder mole.
Drama Queens are just like you and me- except better. I believe that one of the reasons Drama Queens are looked down upon by the rest of us, is that we feel inferior. And, really, why shouldn't we? Drama Queens are more than you and me. They are altogether smarter, dumber, taller, shorter, faster, slower, happier, and sadder. Their lovers love them more, their haters hate them more. They are more patriotic and religious. They work harder, have longer hours, and regardless of who you are, their life is better than yours. Unless, of course, your life has recently hit a rough patch. In that case, quit your whining, because a Drama Queen has is worse.
Drama Queens are the natural prey of mother-in-laws, but are, nonetheless, remarkable mothers. I don't have an explanation for this one. All I know, is that despite being an exceptional human being (see above), a Drama Queen is always hated by her mother-in-law (or baby daddy's mama, as Drama Queens sometimes eschew marriage). This fact is particularly puzzling in light of how well Drama Queens parent. A pregnant Drama Queen is truly a magnificent thing. She is healthier and sicker than you ever were. She gains less weight, and loses it all approximately thirty minutes postpartum. She does not take the drugs, and even if she does, they will not work so, really, it's still totally natural childbirth. She will have the longest/shortest most painful delivery in the history of the universe- afterall, her cervix dilated to eleven centimeters. But it's all worth it in the end, as her child will most certainly crawl first, walk first, talk first, and generally be the smartest child on or off the planet. Her little darling's first birthday party will rival the Royal Wedding, and cute? Fugetaboutit. The rest of us pale in its glory. It's easy for we peons to become resentful of the constant gloat, but me must remember little-known Drama Queen fact #212: During Pregnancy, a chemical is excreted in a Drama Queen's brain that effectively erases all prior knowledge of mankind. So, you see, a Drama Queen will act like she is the first person to ever be pregnant and her offspring is the first child to ever be borne and grow up, because, to her, that is the case.
Drama Queens are natural predators. Please don't feed them. Drama Queens feed on, well, drama. Unless you went to a special school, or you know, any Southern Baptist church, you are woefully unprepared to handle them. Drama Queens are tricksy. They will tempt you with long sighs and woebegone looks, but do not, under any circumstances, ask why. And as is so often the case, the Internet, or more specifically, Facebook, has widened the predators' net. Drama Queens will lure you with cryptic status updates that allude to familial discontent, marital discord, or health concerns. They might even solicit advice. Please, do not be fooled! Remember, Drama Queens are smarter than you. They don't really need your advice; you can't contribute any suggestion that they haven't already thought of, implemented, and deemed useless.
Now that you understand a little more about Drama Queens, I hope that you can use this newfound knowledge to your advantage. Feeling a little down? Call a Drama Queen- there's at least one in every family. But please, don't misinterpret their looks of delight at your misfortune- they are only excited to share their wisdom. Drama Queens are voracious, if not sympathetic, listeners. And no matter your troubles, a Drama Queen has been there, done that better than you.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
All Hail the Power of my B
All hail the "power of the V". Ladies, are you pissed yet? You should be.
I went to a movie recently, and the theater showed a commercial before the film. Imagine this: The sun dawns over the horizon as a male voiceover announces, "It's the cradle of life." Mesopotamia? Epic battle scenes play as the man continues, "Men fight for it, die for it." SEC Football? "Some say it is THE most powerful thing on EARTH!" Oprah?? Then, suddenly, the scene cuts to a woman pushing her shopping cart down a grocery store aisle. She stops to examine a display of Summer's Eve feminine wash and cleansing cloths. The voice, now a chipper female, says, "So ladies... take good care of it! Summer's Eve- hail to the power of the V!" Immediately, two distinct sounds filled the theater- female gasps and male guffaws. I cannot begin to explain how enraged I was, but just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I see that the ads are now being nationally broadcast on television.
So, I went to Summer's Eve's website to post a complaint, but their position is that they are actually empowering women, and that, in fact, "it's about time vaginas were celebrated for their awesomeness." You've got to be kidding me. Tell me, Summer's Eve, what's so awesome about it? It's a body part that serves a specific purpose. Grand. So is my elbow. So are my ears, but I don't see Q-Tips hailing the power of the E's. Personally, I wish to celebrate the awesomeness of women's brains. How about hailing the power of the B? Lets, for a moment, put aside the fact that physicians agree your products are not only unnecessary, but possibly harmful. What's up with telling women our anatomy is awesome, but only if it's appropriately scoured with chemicals first. Face it, you are preying on the insecurities of women, and you must be destroyed.
The saddest women I know, are those who define self-worth by men's perceptions of them. You know the ones- you've probably got a few of them on your Facebook friends list. You don't know what (or if) they read, or how they feel about current events (American Idol and The Bachelorette don't count), but you've seen a bazillion pictures of them in crop tops, booty shorts, and bikinis, draped over a different guy in each one. It's like they want to brag about how attractive men find them. Well, congratulations? What does this adoration buy, exactly? Sex? So someone wants to have sex with them... again, congratulations, but you know what? Chances are, the most unattractive woman you've ever met has had sex; it's not that hard to procure. I want to shake these women, and tell them that they are so much more than a physical shell placed on Earth for male enjoyment! Not to mention the fact that these women are almost always trying to chase down the good ol' days. A thirty-five year old, no matter how good of shape she's in, cannot compete with a twenty-five year old. And you mid-twenties gals- you're going to be thirty-five so fast your heads will spin. Trust me. Please, ladies, find something real about yourselves to take pride in.
My mother taught my sister and me that gender is as arbitrary as hair color. She was always aware of society's seeming acceptance of sexism, so she did all she could to raise us as strong, independent women. Looks didn't matter in my household. I was told often that I was loved, smart, funny, capable, tenacious, etc., but I never, ever heard words like pretty, cute, thin, or any other physical qualifier (I might not have been all of these things, but my sister was, and she didn't hear them either). My parents didn't remark on these things, because they didn't matter then, and they don't matter now. Sure, every few years you will read about a study that finds "attractive" people to have better jobs and whatnot, but can you guess how many beauty queens are on Forbes' list of the 100 most powerful women? (Alright, there's that one Alaskan, but anyway)
Daniel and I are doing our best to follow this parenting model. I want my girls to feel self-assured and self-aware. I want them to assert themselves, and doggedly pursue whatever goals they set. I teach them that they can do anything they are willing to work for, and that confidence and determination are powerful. And yet, sadly, the fine folks at Summer's Eve want a woman to believe that her true power comes from between her legs. Nothing less, nothing more. So take care of it ladies, they assert, or men won't care about you anymore, and you will have no power left at all. So, friends, you can listen to Summer's Eve, or you can join my ranks of strong, self-thinking women. We are, afterall, way too intelligent to listen to a bunch of douches.
I went to a movie recently, and the theater showed a commercial before the film. Imagine this: The sun dawns over the horizon as a male voiceover announces, "It's the cradle of life." Mesopotamia? Epic battle scenes play as the man continues, "Men fight for it, die for it." SEC Football? "Some say it is THE most powerful thing on EARTH!" Oprah?? Then, suddenly, the scene cuts to a woman pushing her shopping cart down a grocery store aisle. She stops to examine a display of Summer's Eve feminine wash and cleansing cloths. The voice, now a chipper female, says, "So ladies... take good care of it! Summer's Eve- hail to the power of the V!" Immediately, two distinct sounds filled the theater- female gasps and male guffaws. I cannot begin to explain how enraged I was, but just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I see that the ads are now being nationally broadcast on television.
So, I went to Summer's Eve's website to post a complaint, but their position is that they are actually empowering women, and that, in fact, "it's about time vaginas were celebrated for their awesomeness." You've got to be kidding me. Tell me, Summer's Eve, what's so awesome about it? It's a body part that serves a specific purpose. Grand. So is my elbow. So are my ears, but I don't see Q-Tips hailing the power of the E's. Personally, I wish to celebrate the awesomeness of women's brains. How about hailing the power of the B? Lets, for a moment, put aside the fact that physicians agree your products are not only unnecessary, but possibly harmful. What's up with telling women our anatomy is awesome, but only if it's appropriately scoured with chemicals first. Face it, you are preying on the insecurities of women, and you must be destroyed.
The saddest women I know, are those who define self-worth by men's perceptions of them. You know the ones- you've probably got a few of them on your Facebook friends list. You don't know what (or if) they read, or how they feel about current events (American Idol and The Bachelorette don't count), but you've seen a bazillion pictures of them in crop tops, booty shorts, and bikinis, draped over a different guy in each one. It's like they want to brag about how attractive men find them. Well, congratulations? What does this adoration buy, exactly? Sex? So someone wants to have sex with them... again, congratulations, but you know what? Chances are, the most unattractive woman you've ever met has had sex; it's not that hard to procure. I want to shake these women, and tell them that they are so much more than a physical shell placed on Earth for male enjoyment! Not to mention the fact that these women are almost always trying to chase down the good ol' days. A thirty-five year old, no matter how good of shape she's in, cannot compete with a twenty-five year old. And you mid-twenties gals- you're going to be thirty-five so fast your heads will spin. Trust me. Please, ladies, find something real about yourselves to take pride in.
My mother taught my sister and me that gender is as arbitrary as hair color. She was always aware of society's seeming acceptance of sexism, so she did all she could to raise us as strong, independent women. Looks didn't matter in my household. I was told often that I was loved, smart, funny, capable, tenacious, etc., but I never, ever heard words like pretty, cute, thin, or any other physical qualifier (I might not have been all of these things, but my sister was, and she didn't hear them either). My parents didn't remark on these things, because they didn't matter then, and they don't matter now. Sure, every few years you will read about a study that finds "attractive" people to have better jobs and whatnot, but can you guess how many beauty queens are on Forbes' list of the 100 most powerful women? (Alright, there's that one Alaskan, but anyway)
Daniel and I are doing our best to follow this parenting model. I want my girls to feel self-assured and self-aware. I want them to assert themselves, and doggedly pursue whatever goals they set. I teach them that they can do anything they are willing to work for, and that confidence and determination are powerful. And yet, sadly, the fine folks at Summer's Eve want a woman to believe that her true power comes from between her legs. Nothing less, nothing more. So take care of it ladies, they assert, or men won't care about you anymore, and you will have no power left at all. So, friends, you can listen to Summer's Eve, or you can join my ranks of strong, self-thinking women. We are, afterall, way too intelligent to listen to a bunch of douches.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
How I Spent My Summer Vacation
Daniel had the opportunity to spend the month of July attending a class at an Air Force base in Destin (stupid Air Force), so it seemed like the perfect time for a little getaway. The plan was for Daniel to arrive, as scheduled, on a Sunday, then I was to fly in on Tuesday. Before either of us could leave, there was much for us to do. I packed, I planned, and I made reservations. I lost five pounds, I found a bathing suit that didn't make me want to weep when I looked in the mirror, and I got my hair done. I waxed, I shaved, I plucked, and I sprayed. Daniel bought a new pair of goggles.
The waiting area at my departure gate in Shreveport was fairly crowded, so I sat relatively close to a couple who was waiting for the same flight. She was wearing a ring, he wasn't, and she was flipping through a bridal magazine, so I assume they are engaged. As I settled in to wait for the boarding call, I heard the woman whisper in a voice as big as herbehind hair, "Honey, am I hotter'n her?" I looked over each of my shoulders to see who she could possibly be referring to. As luck would have it, I was seated with my back against a wall, and in case there was any doubt she was talking about me, she was now pointing at me as well. I sat there, mouth agape, as her fiance assured her, over and again, that she was "way hotter'n" me. I immediately took a picture of the couple and sent it to two very impartial judges: my husband, and a dear friend who, technically, has never met me in person. Both were quick to guarantee me that these people were clearly deranged, and I departed Shreveport with my dignity relatively intact.
Once in Florida, my holiday really began. People often use vacation as a time to really let their hair down; they do things they would never do under normal circumstances. Some people get drunk, some people get tattoos, I wore flip-flops. I hate flip-flops. I mean I really, truly, loathe them. I hate the way they look, I hate the way they feel, I hate that stupid flippy-floppy sound they make as they slap against heels desperately in need of some pedicureal attention. I hate that it has become acceptable to don them to any/all occasions. I've seen them in offices and job interviews, at weddings and funerals. Try as designers may to fancy them up with leather, satin, or sparkles, they remain, to me, no different than the disposable pair given away with every pedicure at Happy Golden Nail. Face it, folks, the Emperor's got no shoes. All vitriol aside, I decided to borrow a pair from my sister and see what all the fuss was about. I still hate them, but at least now my criticisms come from personal experience. PLUS, I can now cross one more thing off of my bucket list (not wearing flip-flops, but crazily ranting about them in a semi-public forum).
All too soon, it was time to return home. I must have had some truly gnarly karma coming my way, as I was seated in the Obnoxious Children section of the plane. OH, and did I mention that I was, once again, seated within judging distance of my favorite engaged couple? Anyway, The children were all horrible- screaming, kicking, crying, yelling. I had my fingers crossed in hopes of a sudden change in cabin pressure. I had daydreams of wildly snatching every oxygen mask as it dropped from the overhead compartments. Rationally, I knew that these children had paid for tickets just as I had. I was wondering if they had as much right to behave normally, as I had to experience a quiet flight, when it hit me... No, literally, a metal Thomas the Tank Engine sailed from somewhere behind me and struck me in the side of my face. I turned around to congratulate the little beast who winged it- he clearly has a bright future in the San Quentin softball league ahead of him. His mother never looked at me, but simply held out her hand for the toy and muttered an apology. I was thisclose to tackling the Air Marshall and stealing his gun. I hear Florida doesn't look down on juvenilicide as much as it used to.
So that's how I spent my summer vacation. Overall, I had a good time. And although ridiculous things seem to happen to me where ever I go, I generally tell myself, "Well, at least I'll get a blog out of this."
The waiting area at my departure gate in Shreveport was fairly crowded, so I sat relatively close to a couple who was waiting for the same flight. She was wearing a ring, he wasn't, and she was flipping through a bridal magazine, so I assume they are engaged. As I settled in to wait for the boarding call, I heard the woman whisper in a voice as big as her
Once in Florida, my holiday really began. People often use vacation as a time to really let their hair down; they do things they would never do under normal circumstances. Some people get drunk, some people get tattoos, I wore flip-flops. I hate flip-flops. I mean I really, truly, loathe them. I hate the way they look, I hate the way they feel, I hate that stupid flippy-floppy sound they make as they slap against heels desperately in need of some pedicureal attention. I hate that it has become acceptable to don them to any/all occasions. I've seen them in offices and job interviews, at weddings and funerals. Try as designers may to fancy them up with leather, satin, or sparkles, they remain, to me, no different than the disposable pair given away with every pedicure at Happy Golden Nail. Face it, folks, the Emperor's got no shoes. All vitriol aside, I decided to borrow a pair from my sister and see what all the fuss was about. I still hate them, but at least now my criticisms come from personal experience. PLUS, I can now cross one more thing off of my bucket list (not wearing flip-flops, but crazily ranting about them in a semi-public forum).
All too soon, it was time to return home. I must have had some truly gnarly karma coming my way, as I was seated in the Obnoxious Children section of the plane. OH, and did I mention that I was, once again, seated within judging distance of my favorite engaged couple? Anyway, The children were all horrible- screaming, kicking, crying, yelling. I had my fingers crossed in hopes of a sudden change in cabin pressure. I had daydreams of wildly snatching every oxygen mask as it dropped from the overhead compartments. Rationally, I knew that these children had paid for tickets just as I had. I was wondering if they had as much right to behave normally, as I had to experience a quiet flight, when it hit me... No, literally, a metal Thomas the Tank Engine sailed from somewhere behind me and struck me in the side of my face. I turned around to congratulate the little beast who winged it- he clearly has a bright future in the San Quentin softball league ahead of him. His mother never looked at me, but simply held out her hand for the toy and muttered an apology. I was thisclose to tackling the Air Marshall and stealing his gun. I hear Florida doesn't look down on juvenilicide as much as it used to.
So that's how I spent my summer vacation. Overall, I had a good time. And although ridiculous things seem to happen to me where ever I go, I generally tell myself, "Well, at least I'll get a blog out of this."
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Tie a Yellow Ribbon... Round My Neck
I have several friends who welcomed back their husbands from a deployment this week. It made me think of my own experiences with deployment, and how I assumed my feelings about it were unorthodox. That is, until I started to open up about them. Turns out, I'm not such a weirdo (about this, anyway).
Deployment is an inevitability in today's military. At least, it has been for the nine years I've been a part of it. While all branches of the military deploy, for the purposes of this rant, I will only be dealing with real deployments. If your Airman gets sent to Diego Garcia for a four month vacation, this post ain't for you. Not to trivialize the Air Force deployment schedule, but, c'mon. If I sound bitter and jealous, it's because I am. Anyway, I'm talking about year-long tours of scenic Iraq and Afghanistan. I was fully prepared for them to suck, and, they do- but not for the reasons I was expecting.
My husband's first deployment was to Afghanistan. We were newly married and living in Germany. In fact, we spent our first anniversary surrounded by boxes, eating a candlelight dinner off of a footlocker filled with kevlar. It was hooah romance at its finest. The next day, we boarded planes headed in opposite directions; he headed East, and I headed West, back to Louisiana. There was the typical silly nonsense- racking sobs, promises to kiss our wedding picture every day, etc.* And I was a mess, too. I loved my life, I loved my marriage, and I remember wondering how I was going to make it an entire year alone. I shouldn't have worried. That deployment did suck, but, for me, the especially sucky part wasn't realizing that I couldn't function without my husband, it was realizing that I could- and that I LIKED it.
Once I got used to being alone, which was, admittedly, kind of strange, I started to see the beauty in deployment. I had no responsibilities, tons of disposable income, and no one to discuss my decisions with. It. Was. Awesome. We were able to keep in touch via phone and email, so it wasn't like we never got to communicate. We even had little games. Daniel would tease me by sending cheesy Army Wife sayings like "real love is trading in your pearls for his dog tags", and "I'm the pink in his world of camo", and I would send him pictures of me retching. We're romantical like that. The hardest part, by far, was the first month after his return. He came home, and, suddenly, I was expected to leave friends I loved, and a job I greatly enjoyed, in order to move back to a country that, frankly, wasn't my favorite in the EU. I felt angry and resentful, which, in turn, led to feeling of immense guilt. The life I made myself didn't matter; my soldier was home, and I felt the Army shoe horn prying me out of my Prada wedges, and stuffing me back into combat boots. The Army's main concern (rightfully) is the soldier. I can't tell you how many briefings, pamphlets, and the like I was given on how to ease the soldier's transition back into normal life. This was all great, but I would have been so relieved to hear that redeployment is hard for the family, too. After several weeks of reacclimation, we got our respective grooves back, and I felt better prepared to handle the next deployment. Wrong!
Deployment number two differed in a couple of distinct ways; Daniel headed to Iraq, and I had a deployment buddy. K was a four month old blob when her daddy left. He returned to a walking, talking ball of independence. K and I had our own schedule, our own way of doing things. She did not especially enjoy a strange man coming into the picture and bossing her around. To be perfectly honest, I didn't either. It took me a while to accept that he was every bit as much K's parent as I was. If I asked Daniel to help with K, but he didn't do things exactly how I would do it, I would immediately become irritated and take over. Rationally, I knew that his methods were perfectly acceptable, but I've never been accused of being overly rational. You changed her before giving her a bottle? Outside without a hat, really?? Forget Fallujah, Daniel should have been receiving hazardous duty pay at home. Thankfully, at this point in our marriage, Daniel knew how to speak my language. "Kitt, deal with it." That's not a direct quote, but you get the gist- I did, anyway. As before, things settled down, we settled in, and I settled for being second banana. K is nothing if not a daddy's girl.
Despite the things I enjoy about deployments- independence, less-than-regular leg shaving, and homecoming ceremonies (it's like having a front row seat for the most delightfully trash-tastic fashion show you've ever seen), I would prefer to keep my husband stateside. Of course, the Army rarely takes my preferences into consideration. If it did, our next move would be to Bali. I bet there's an Air Force base in Bali. Stupid Air Force. I don't know if another deployment is in our future. But I do know to take it as it comes, to expect the unexpected, and to keep the homefires burning- so as to easily burn all those cheesy Army Wife stickers.
*This episode may or may not have been amplified (read: fabricated) for comedic effect. To the best of my knowledge, Daniel does not have a wedding picture, and if last season's Longhorns didn't evoke racking sobs, a year-long vacation from me certainly wouldn't.
Deployment is an inevitability in today's military. At least, it has been for the nine years I've been a part of it. While all branches of the military deploy, for the purposes of this rant, I will only be dealing with real deployments. If your Airman gets sent to Diego Garcia for a four month vacation, this post ain't for you. Not to trivialize the Air Force deployment schedule, but, c'mon. If I sound bitter and jealous, it's because I am. Anyway, I'm talking about year-long tours of scenic Iraq and Afghanistan. I was fully prepared for them to suck, and, they do- but not for the reasons I was expecting.
My husband's first deployment was to Afghanistan. We were newly married and living in Germany. In fact, we spent our first anniversary surrounded by boxes, eating a candlelight dinner off of a footlocker filled with kevlar. It was hooah romance at its finest. The next day, we boarded planes headed in opposite directions; he headed East, and I headed West, back to Louisiana. There was the typical silly nonsense- racking sobs, promises to kiss our wedding picture every day, etc.* And I was a mess, too. I loved my life, I loved my marriage, and I remember wondering how I was going to make it an entire year alone. I shouldn't have worried. That deployment did suck, but, for me, the especially sucky part wasn't realizing that I couldn't function without my husband, it was realizing that I could- and that I LIKED it.
Once I got used to being alone, which was, admittedly, kind of strange, I started to see the beauty in deployment. I had no responsibilities, tons of disposable income, and no one to discuss my decisions with. It. Was. Awesome. We were able to keep in touch via phone and email, so it wasn't like we never got to communicate. We even had little games. Daniel would tease me by sending cheesy Army Wife sayings like "real love is trading in your pearls for his dog tags", and "I'm the pink in his world of camo", and I would send him pictures of me retching. We're romantical like that. The hardest part, by far, was the first month after his return. He came home, and, suddenly, I was expected to leave friends I loved, and a job I greatly enjoyed, in order to move back to a country that, frankly, wasn't my favorite in the EU. I felt angry and resentful, which, in turn, led to feeling of immense guilt. The life I made myself didn't matter; my soldier was home, and I felt the Army shoe horn prying me out of my Prada wedges, and stuffing me back into combat boots. The Army's main concern (rightfully) is the soldier. I can't tell you how many briefings, pamphlets, and the like I was given on how to ease the soldier's transition back into normal life. This was all great, but I would have been so relieved to hear that redeployment is hard for the family, too. After several weeks of reacclimation, we got our respective grooves back, and I felt better prepared to handle the next deployment. Wrong!
Deployment number two differed in a couple of distinct ways; Daniel headed to Iraq, and I had a deployment buddy. K was a four month old blob when her daddy left. He returned to a walking, talking ball of independence. K and I had our own schedule, our own way of doing things. She did not especially enjoy a strange man coming into the picture and bossing her around. To be perfectly honest, I didn't either. It took me a while to accept that he was every bit as much K's parent as I was. If I asked Daniel to help with K, but he didn't do things exactly how I would do it, I would immediately become irritated and take over. Rationally, I knew that his methods were perfectly acceptable, but I've never been accused of being overly rational. You changed her before giving her a bottle? Outside without a hat, really?? Forget Fallujah, Daniel should have been receiving hazardous duty pay at home. Thankfully, at this point in our marriage, Daniel knew how to speak my language. "Kitt, deal with it." That's not a direct quote, but you get the gist- I did, anyway. As before, things settled down, we settled in, and I settled for being second banana. K is nothing if not a daddy's girl.
Despite the things I enjoy about deployments- independence, less-than-regular leg shaving, and homecoming ceremonies (it's like having a front row seat for the most delightfully trash-tastic fashion show you've ever seen), I would prefer to keep my husband stateside. Of course, the Army rarely takes my preferences into consideration. If it did, our next move would be to Bali. I bet there's an Air Force base in Bali. Stupid Air Force. I don't know if another deployment is in our future. But I do know to take it as it comes, to expect the unexpected, and to keep the homefires burning- so as to easily burn all those cheesy Army Wife stickers.
*This episode may or may not have been amplified (read: fabricated) for comedic effect. To the best of my knowledge, Daniel does not have a wedding picture, and if last season's Longhorns didn't evoke racking sobs, a year-long vacation from me certainly wouldn't.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
1,2,3,4 I Declare a Mommy War
Sorry, boys. This one's for the ladies.
Recently, a friend of mine used Facebook to post an article reporting that $3.6 billion dollars in medical expenses could be saved each year if the number of children breastfed for at least six months increased by 50 percent. It was like the shot heard 'round the world. Or, the post heard 'round her Facebook page, at least. Suddenly, she had twenty responses from women who were declaring allegiances and turning on each other faster than a group of Junior Leaguers at a Kate Spade clearance. All my friend was trying to do was report a statistic she found personally interesting. Instead, she became the latest casualty of the Mommy War.
The Mommy War is the ongoing battle orchestrated and fought by modern mothers who think that our way of raising children is best. We all fight under the guise of doing what's best for the children, but I think the end game for many of us is moral superiority. As much as I would like to claim neutrality here, I cannot. No, the real Switzerland in the Mommy War is inhabited by the childless. Some of these ladies may feel a pull toward one side or the other, but they mainly think (correctly) that we're all nuts. I know, because I used to live in Switzerland, too.
Sadly, I am admitting to being a participant in this conflict. It's not my fault; they include draft cards in those boxes of home pregnancy tests. It's like the worst cereal box prize ever. Seriously, though, you are expected to take a side the minute you see that stick turn blue. Caffeine during pregnancy? Doc or Midwife? Bradley or Epidural? Women are thrown on the front lines before you can say "Boppy". The two biggest armies are the United States of Crunch, and the Republic of Shut the Eff Up and Let Me Raise My Kid the Way I Want. For ease of reading, the latter will henceforth be referred to as "The Wrong Way". Whoops, sorry- they trained me as a sniper in boot camp. All kidding aside, the hits just keep on coming after labor. Breastfeeding, circumcision, vaccines, disposable diapers, organic foods, daycare... the road between hospital (or birthing venue of your choice) and home is littered with Mommy War landmines. Step carefully, my friend.
I am all for women educating themselves, and making parenting choices that work best them. However, I HATE that we are brandishing our personal decisions in a way that makes other mothers feel bad about themselves. And, if I'm perfectly honest, I've both wielded the blade and felt its sting. Every time I go to a cookout, I bring my own food for Karolina. Then, when someone inevitably asks me why, I announce, loudly and proudly, that I don't allow my child to eat hotdogs. More often than not, I'm standing over the children's table filled with hotdog scarfing kiddos. Why? Why do I do that? I could just feed her at home before we leave. I could just fill her plate with other foods I'm okay with. But no, I strap on my bomb, push the button, and wait for my virgins. Now, before you start taking me off your Christmas Card list, let me say this: Neither of my children has ever been given ANY vaccines. See? I guarantee that some of you think that is incredibly irresponsible, and you would never put your child at risk like that.
The worst part about Mommy War, is that we declared it on ourselves. And it has gotten so out of hand, that otherwise sane, educated, rational women are utterly incapable of holding civil debate on these hot-button issues. Stating your opinion is viewed as an attack on the opposition. Period. We are taking the one thing that is uniquely female- motherhood- and using it to tear each other apart. We've gone from women's suffrage, to women's sufferage. So, this is it. I'm laying down my arms, waving my white flag, and signing the peace treaty. While I will continue to be a proud citizen of the United States of Crunch, I won't beat you down to see things our way. (Our borders are open if you want to stop by.) I will no longer announce my parenting decisions. I will remember that other mothers' choices, while none of my business, are made with love and in the best interest of the child. Nothing is more important than that. Besides, in the sage words of Axl Rose, what's so civil about war, anyway?
Recently, a friend of mine used Facebook to post an article reporting that $3.6 billion dollars in medical expenses could be saved each year if the number of children breastfed for at least six months increased by 50 percent. It was like the shot heard 'round the world. Or, the post heard 'round her Facebook page, at least. Suddenly, she had twenty responses from women who were declaring allegiances and turning on each other faster than a group of Junior Leaguers at a Kate Spade clearance. All my friend was trying to do was report a statistic she found personally interesting. Instead, she became the latest casualty of the Mommy War.
The Mommy War is the ongoing battle orchestrated and fought by modern mothers who think that our way of raising children is best. We all fight under the guise of doing what's best for the children, but I think the end game for many of us is moral superiority. As much as I would like to claim neutrality here, I cannot. No, the real Switzerland in the Mommy War is inhabited by the childless. Some of these ladies may feel a pull toward one side or the other, but they mainly think (correctly) that we're all nuts. I know, because I used to live in Switzerland, too.
Sadly, I am admitting to being a participant in this conflict. It's not my fault; they include draft cards in those boxes of home pregnancy tests. It's like the worst cereal box prize ever. Seriously, though, you are expected to take a side the minute you see that stick turn blue. Caffeine during pregnancy? Doc or Midwife? Bradley or Epidural? Women are thrown on the front lines before you can say "Boppy". The two biggest armies are the United States of Crunch, and the Republic of Shut the Eff Up and Let Me Raise My Kid the Way I Want. For ease of reading, the latter will henceforth be referred to as "The Wrong Way". Whoops, sorry- they trained me as a sniper in boot camp. All kidding aside, the hits just keep on coming after labor. Breastfeeding, circumcision, vaccines, disposable diapers, organic foods, daycare... the road between hospital (or birthing venue of your choice) and home is littered with Mommy War landmines. Step carefully, my friend.
I am all for women educating themselves, and making parenting choices that work best them. However, I HATE that we are brandishing our personal decisions in a way that makes other mothers feel bad about themselves. And, if I'm perfectly honest, I've both wielded the blade and felt its sting. Every time I go to a cookout, I bring my own food for Karolina. Then, when someone inevitably asks me why, I announce, loudly and proudly, that I don't allow my child to eat hotdogs. More often than not, I'm standing over the children's table filled with hotdog scarfing kiddos. Why? Why do I do that? I could just feed her at home before we leave. I could just fill her plate with other foods I'm okay with. But no, I strap on my bomb, push the button, and wait for my virgins. Now, before you start taking me off your Christmas Card list, let me say this: Neither of my children has ever been given ANY vaccines. See? I guarantee that some of you think that is incredibly irresponsible, and you would never put your child at risk like that.
The worst part about Mommy War, is that we declared it on ourselves. And it has gotten so out of hand, that otherwise sane, educated, rational women are utterly incapable of holding civil debate on these hot-button issues. Stating your opinion is viewed as an attack on the opposition. Period. We are taking the one thing that is uniquely female- motherhood- and using it to tear each other apart. We've gone from women's suffrage, to women's sufferage. So, this is it. I'm laying down my arms, waving my white flag, and signing the peace treaty. While I will continue to be a proud citizen of the United States of Crunch, I won't beat you down to see things our way. (Our borders are open if you want to stop by.) I will no longer announce my parenting decisions. I will remember that other mothers' choices, while none of my business, are made with love and in the best interest of the child. Nothing is more important than that. Besides, in the sage words of Axl Rose, what's so civil about war, anyway?
Sunday, June 26, 2011
I Am My Own Existence, Nothing More (and other existentialist crap)
How important is sense of self? I think that most people have an awareness, at least subconsciously, of the labels that define them. Teacher, husband, mother, son, friend- just a few of a million labels that we combine in a unique way and don like haute couture. Titles woven into my own fabric include intelligent, stay-at-home mother, and wife. Generally, I've been pleased with my personal ensemble, but last week, life pulled a loose thread and left me hanging bare like some sad, past her prime chick on a Girls Gone Wild video.
It all started because I was bored. I decided to either get my hair cut, or start graduate school. Having found no decent stylist in Leesville, I opted to hit the books. In true Kitt fashion, I chose a school, degree plan, and career path in roughly 12 hours. I had just over two weeks to submit my application, which was to include a qualifying GRE score. No problem. I've never been good at sports or mechanics, but I can rock a standardized test. I am, after all, intelligent. As far as I could see, the biggest hurdle was obtaining the proper identification to present the testing center; it had to have a recent picture and have my name listed as Olivia Hall Squyres. The problem was that my current driver's license still featured my maiden name, despite the fact that I've been married for eight years. Which leads us to...
The Mansfield DMV. It is the place to go for all of your vehicular needs. There is never a wait, and you will always know at least one of the employees. Usually, this is a minus, but when dealing with a soulless demon institution like the Department of Motor Vehicles, it's always better to have an in. Anywho, I went to get my new license, and was told I needed an official copy of my marriage license from the courthouse. Ten minutes later, I was staring at my marriage license in disbelief. I had signed it, my pastor signed it, my witnesses signed it, that homeless guy down the street signed it, everyone signed it. Except Daniel. I took it back to the DMV and asked if I could still have my name changed to Squyres. "Sure," the lady said, "but you should get that checked out. I don't think you're really married, and that's a shame 'cause it was a real beautiful weddin." Oh, and PS about the Mansfield DMV- they have truly excellent lighting. I look younger in my new picture than I did in the one taken 9 years ago. That alone was worth the absolution of my marriage.
So who am I? I'm not a wife, so I'm a girlfriend? I have to say, I'm bitter. I was bamboozled into thinking he bought the cow. Meanwhile, all of his dairy has been supplied gratis. And I'm no longer a stay-at-home mother, so I'm an unemployed baby mama?? What am I going to do? I guess I could get a job and provide for myself, but my brother-in-law pointed out that I probably qualify for government assistance now. This sounds much better to me! Great- now I'm a Democrat. And another thing- I've been spending all these years adhering to our monthly budget, but it's quite possible that my current disposable income is less than what Daniel's monthly child support payment would be. I wants my money, and I wants it now. I can't believe he didn't sign the marriage license, but he signed both birth certificates. Sucker!
Back on the market, I figured acing the GRE was even more important. I have young coeds to charm. I had plenty of people encouraging me to study, but truthfully, I've never had to study for that type of test in my life. I mean, I may be a common-law hussy, but I'm no idiot, right? Long story short... I'm an idiot. I don't know if that test legitimately kicked my butt, or if my newly acquired persona influenced my testing ability, but trust me when I say Harvard won't be knocking down my door anytime soon. Truthfully, my score did qualify for my chosen program, but it was nowhere near my personal expectations. I haven't received my score on the writing portion yet. If I crap out on that part, I'm shutting Kittastrophe down and taking up bird watching.
Kitt HallSquyres... Baby Mama, Live-in Companion, Simpleton, Snarky, Humbled.
It all started because I was bored. I decided to either get my hair cut, or start graduate school. Having found no decent stylist in Leesville, I opted to hit the books. In true Kitt fashion, I chose a school, degree plan, and career path in roughly 12 hours. I had just over two weeks to submit my application, which was to include a qualifying GRE score. No problem. I've never been good at sports or mechanics, but I can rock a standardized test. I am, after all, intelligent. As far as I could see, the biggest hurdle was obtaining the proper identification to present the testing center; it had to have a recent picture and have my name listed as Olivia Hall Squyres. The problem was that my current driver's license still featured my maiden name, despite the fact that I've been married for eight years. Which leads us to...
The Mansfield DMV. It is the place to go for all of your vehicular needs. There is never a wait, and you will always know at least one of the employees. Usually, this is a minus, but when dealing with a soulless demon institution like the Department of Motor Vehicles, it's always better to have an in. Anywho, I went to get my new license, and was told I needed an official copy of my marriage license from the courthouse. Ten minutes later, I was staring at my marriage license in disbelief. I had signed it, my pastor signed it, my witnesses signed it, that homeless guy down the street signed it, everyone signed it. Except Daniel. I took it back to the DMV and asked if I could still have my name changed to Squyres. "Sure," the lady said, "but you should get that checked out. I don't think you're really married, and that's a shame 'cause it was a real beautiful weddin." Oh, and PS about the Mansfield DMV- they have truly excellent lighting. I look younger in my new picture than I did in the one taken 9 years ago. That alone was worth the absolution of my marriage.
So who am I? I'm not a wife, so I'm a girlfriend? I have to say, I'm bitter. I was bamboozled into thinking he bought the cow. Meanwhile, all of his dairy has been supplied gratis. And I'm no longer a stay-at-home mother, so I'm an unemployed baby mama?? What am I going to do? I guess I could get a job and provide for myself, but my brother-in-law pointed out that I probably qualify for government assistance now. This sounds much better to me! Great- now I'm a Democrat. And another thing- I've been spending all these years adhering to our monthly budget, but it's quite possible that my current disposable income is less than what Daniel's monthly child support payment would be. I wants my money, and I wants it now. I can't believe he didn't sign the marriage license, but he signed both birth certificates. Sucker!
Back on the market, I figured acing the GRE was even more important. I have young coeds to charm. I had plenty of people encouraging me to study, but truthfully, I've never had to study for that type of test in my life. I mean, I may be a common-law hussy, but I'm no idiot, right? Long story short... I'm an idiot. I don't know if that test legitimately kicked my butt, or if my newly acquired persona influenced my testing ability, but trust me when I say Harvard won't be knocking down my door anytime soon. Truthfully, my score did qualify for my chosen program, but it was nowhere near my personal expectations. I haven't received my score on the writing portion yet. If I crap out on that part, I'm shutting Kittastrophe down and taking up bird watching.
Kitt Hall
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