While I've Been Fasting...

I'm a Facebooker. I love it. I love keeping up with old friends, always having something to gossip pray about, and using it as an educational tool. Here's a fun fact: if it weren't for facebook, I would literally be unaware of the existence of politics, the temperature outside, food, breast cancer, lung cancer, prostate cancer, (any of the cancers, really), the second amendment, and grumpy cats. So, when the Lenten Season arrived, it was with great trepidation that I signed off of facebook, and asked Daniel to change my password. Surely, I reasoned, I could go forty days without subjecting 210 of my nearest and dearest friends to yet another Karolina anecdote. (Yeah, I know they're obnoxious, but at least you've never seen me duckface!)

Anywho, as I'm nearing the homestretch, I've realized just how much can happen in forty days. We were robbed. Karolina started a priestly rumor. I was size-shamed at the gym. We moved. One of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse swung by for a visit. I sexually harassed a police officer.

My plan is to eventually blog each of these happenings. That's the plan, anyway; I make no promises.  Also, my blogs are formatted to link to facebook, so technically, I haven't gone back on my Lenten promise- or, relented, if you will.  (You've missed my puns most of all, right?)

It's an Epoch, Y'all

Some say you can't go home again.  Some say you shouldn't.  Some choose to go home again, anyway.  Some say be careful what you wish for. 

Two years ago, Daniel was finishing up his command time at Ft Hood, Texas.  I was pregnant with Evangeline, and was looking forward discovering where the Army would send us next.  During this time period in an Army Captain's career, most are sent to a non-deployable, relatively easy (read: 50 hr weeks) duty assignment. Often, this means either Ft Irwin, CA, or Ft Polk, LA.  These are, by far, the two least popular duty stations in the Army due to their remote placements.  But what Uncle Sam didn't know, was that Ft Polk is only a short drive from my hometown, and I couldn't have been more excited with the prospect of moving there.  Imagine my surprise when Daniel received a telephone call from his branch manager informing him that he had been chosen for an easy, 9-5 job in Virginia, instead. 

I suppose it is worth mentioning that my husband is an absolute saint.  Before we were sent to Ft Hood, they asked us to go to Hawaii.  At the time, I was pregnant with Karolina, and wanted to be closer to both our Texas and Louisiana families.  So, Daniel told them, "Hawaii?  Yes, that sounds awesome, thank you, but do you have anything available in Killeen, Texas?"  And here we were again.  "Virginia?  Yes, that sounds amazing, thank you, but do you have anything available in Leesville, Louisiana?"  The branch manager laughed, Daniel assured him that he was being serious, and in short order we were on our way.  He's a saint, I tell you.

When we first arrived, I enjoyed the novelty of being the "hometown" girl in a crowd made up of Louisiana newbs. Most people had never visited any part of the state, let alone the small region of no-man's-land known as CenLa. You see, LA has long since suffered an identity crisis; the Northen part of the state more closely identifies with Texas, while the Southen part identifies with, well, somewhere between the second and third circles of Hell. (Don't be gettin all uppity, NOLA lovers. Look those circles up-- you'll agree with me.) Anywho, I enjoyed being an ambassador of sorts and answering all the questions I could. That is, until the questions got stupid (approximately 15 minutes after arrival). Humor me while I run down a list of FGAs, or frequently given answers.

"Why yes, I do have all of my teeth, thank you for noticing! As long as you're inspecting things, I also have a couple of butt cheeks and two stiff middle fingers you should check out."

"Mmm-hmm, yes, it is rather hot here. But, you know, I might not have noticed if it weren't for the hourly pictures of your car's temperature gage posted on facebook, so thank you."

"You're right, our little sayings are silly. Ya'll can be singular or plural, a shopping cart is a buggy, some of us make groceries, and 'bless your heart' can mean several different things. Although, in your case, it's probably safe to assume it means eat s#*t."

"No, I don't know why we're all ignorant inbred rednecks, but I know some people who would be more than happy to answer that for you. Take a daytrip to Zwolle, and once you're there, go up to the biggest group of people you can find and ask them."


Despite the seemingly endless barrage of stereotyping, I really did enjoy my time back home. I'll miss the food and family, of course, but I'll especially miss the little things. I'll miss the boys in their Carhartt coveralls and deer season beards. I'll miss the innate certainty that, were I to ever get a flat tire, someone would stop to help me. I'll miss the grocery store buggy wars, when you have to get past someone and you each say excuse me and take turns swearing, "No, I was in your way!" As for me, I wear my drawl like a security blanket; the farther away from home I go, the closer I pull it around me. I feel sorry for those that can't, or won't see the beauty in Louisiana. To them I say, well, bless your heart.

Sh*t Army Wives Say

Identity Crisis

We're getting promoted next month.

Our BAH changed.

We're in Charlie Company.

They're moving us again. 

Why should I have to participate?  You're in the Army, not me!


Wanderlust (all in reference to the same duty station)

EWW!  I don't want to live there!!

UGH!  I hate it here!!

AWW!  I loooved it there!!


What the What??

Honey, the TSP didn't draft, and the BAH on the LES was for O2 instead of O3.  So I called USAA, and then I went to finance, but finance won't talk to me without a general POA, so meet me at JAG unless you want to DIY. 

We have to PCS so my husband can attend the CCC for his MOS. 

I waited for an hour at DEERS to enroll Kate in EFMP, but had forgotten her SSN and statement from her PCP, so I was SOL. 


I have to register with CYS so I can drop the kids at CDC on my way to PWOC. 


FRG? FML,

I don't participate in FRG because the women are all catty witches.

Another email?  Delete!

No one ever tells me what's going on.

I asked for help moving apartments because I had a hair appointment that day, and was told that that's not "the FRG's purpose". Witch. 

They brought another lasagna?? (after elective surgery)

My FRG leader sucks.  I could do such a better job.

I'm the new FRG leader??

No one's coming to my meetings, even though I keep sending the emails.

No, I'm sorry, the FRG isn't responsible for your lawn maintenance. Moron.

Okay, I have to pick up my kids, go home, and make dinner for our family and for Sue Smith.  She just had her nose done, and can't cook for her own children.  They didn't give me any likes, dislikes, or allergies.  I hope they like lasagna.

My FRG sucks.  I'd like to see any of them do a better job.


Approximately 5 Weeks After Redeployment

Have you heard?  The Johnsons, Romeros, and Greens are pregnant.

Have you heard?  The Davidsons, Fitzgeralds, and Taylors are getting divorced.

Have you seen the McDonalds new Escalade?

Have you seen the Jacksons new boobs?


Generally Speaking

Semi-formal?  What does that mean??  What am I supposed to wear?

I hate hail and farewells-  they're always at the kids' bedtime.

I hate hail and farewells- they're always full of screaming crying kids.

Oooh, Army Wives is on!  I love that show; it's just like real life.

Eww, Army Wives is on!  I hate that show; that crap would never happen in real life. 

We're waiting on a board.

We're waiting on orders.

We're waiting on movers.

We're waiting on housing.

We're waiting on household goods.


And Finally...

HOOAH!!  (I am, of course, kidding.  None of us ever say this seriously.  At least, we shouldn't.)

Rules To Snark By

I've been seeing the following forward making the Facebook rounds:

We need to teach our DAUGHTERS the difference between
A man who FLATTERS her and a man who COMPLIMENTS her.
A man who SPENDS MONEY on her and a man who INVESTS in her.
A man who views her as PROPERTY and a man who views her PROPERLY.
A man who LUSTS after her and a man who LOVES her.
A man who believes HE is GOD'S GIFT to women and a man who remembers a WOMAN was GOD'S GIFT to MAN.
And then teach OUR SONS to be that kind of man.




Okay, so you know I'm salivating here. Where to begin, where to begin? I suppose I can see the author's intent; let's teach our daughters self-worth and value so that they choose healthy relationships. But, in the grand tradition of televised lingerie fashion shows and party pics of Pamela Anderson table dancing in Cabo, things widely disseminated in order to empower women can come off as farcical, and even a little sad. So, sure, I could point out the absurd and obvious contradictions-- a gent who believes women are God's gift to him would most likely see said gift as property. Also, I'm not entirely certain, but a man who invests in a woman is probably looking for a return, so maybe we'd be better served teaching our daughters the difference between a man who spends money on her, and a pimp. Admittedly, though picking apart this missive is entertaining, it's hardly helpful. "But, Kitt," absolutely none of you are asking, "What do you think we should be teaching our daughters?" Buckle up, kiddies, I'm about to lay some cold, hard parental wisdom on you. I've raised two daughters to the combined age of four, so, clearly I'm qualified for such things.

You need to teach your daughter the difference between a man who compliments her, and a man who complements her. Example? A guy once told me that I "had done growed up in all the right places." Was I flattered? Sure. But did I date him? Only a few months. Simply put, compliments rock, but that doesn't necessarily mean the complimenter does. Conversely, my husband's idea of a compliment is "Don't worry, I have more wrinkles than you do." BUT he gets my sense of humor, and he's the world's best straight-man; he definitely complements me.

You need to teach your daughter the difference between jeggings and pants. JEGGINGS AREN'T PANTS!!

You need to teach your daughter the difference between a roth and traditional IRA. Of the 62 million wage and salaried American women working today, only 45 percent participate in a retirement plan. Another fun fact-- the life expectancy of an American woman is 81, while the average American man is expected to live to 76. This means that while women are living longer than men, they're probably saving less. Ladies, DO NOT depend on someone else to support you. The last thing you're going to feel like doing at eighty is trolling retirement homes for boytoys, when your main competition will be a perky, twentysomething trollop who's looking for a wealthy grandpa to "invest" in her.

You need to teach your daughter the difference between safe sex, and safe sects. Condoms good, sister-wives bad. While you're at it, you may want to let your teenager know that sex is power. That is to say, she holds all the power until she has sex, then it goes directly to that love of her life who won't be speaking to her the next month. Oh, he'll be speaking about her, just not to her.

You need to teach your daughter the difference between lie, lay, laid, and lain. Then kindly have your daughter explain it to me.



And, finally, teach your son to stay away from girls whose mothers used Facebook as a parenting resource.







　

In Defense of Men

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.



　

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.

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.