It's Raining Men

It's been 15 months since the last of the Humvees, last of the Bradleys were driven off the Barracks. 15 months since the first wave of spouses said goodbye to their loved ones, fought back tears as they watched the bus pull away. 15 months since wives promised to lose weight, be better wives and parents, be sexier. And now, over 450 days after the group of mostly men left - over 3,000 of them - they're back. Well, about 20 percent of them anyway. And already, the difference is astounding. What might usually take 10 minutes - paying the phone bill, buying a plane ticket, buying a bottle of wine - can now take upwards to 30; especially the phone bill part, what with newly redeployed stocking up on phone minutes and all. But it doesn't annoy me. Now the spouses that left for 15 months are a different story. Not that I'm not glad to have them back, or think that I am any better than them for staying, I just think those who havve been here the whole time should get a badge or SoMETHING that lets us cut to the front of the line so that those of us who suffered through the crap with no husband AND no family members get a chance to buy the last turkeys the commissary has because they forgot to buy extras. Oh. Sorry. Got sidetracked.

Anyway. I wasn't sure how this day would feel when it came around. I'd braced myself. Got myself ready for the time when part of the men - sorry, the soldiers - would come back and mine would still be gone. I worked on maintaining a nondescript facial expression for when I saw wives canoodling with their newly returned husbands; made sure I kept my voice measured when other spouses told, how, "Oh my god, it's so great, he'll be here on (Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday ...), and oh my god, what am I going to wear and should I wear this with these shoes and this" and oh, you get the point.

But it's been two weeks, minus the guys and gals who got sent home for drinking/selling/doing drugs, and I actually feel happy for them. I smile, seeing my friends exit briefings with their husbands. Seeing their faces light up when discussing the aforementioned outfit, and the smiles of contentment when I actually see them with their spouse.

"Welcome back," I call out cheerily to the guys. "Have a good time," I say to their wives, my friends.

15 months is a long time to go without anything, especially a husband or wife. And despite what seems to be the overwhelming public opinion, I do have the ability to empathize with others. And to those who are welcoming their husbands back, I extend a warm and hearty welcome, and just as I have said to my other friends, enjoy yourselves.

And I mean that.

American Gangster

I know it's been a minute, and I still have to blog about my camping trip and my birthday, but I'm in the middle of watching Malcom X on no. 4 of the Denzel Washington Movie Collection and feel compelled to comment on the phenomenon that is Denzel. Now Woodstock, don't go getting all upset, let me explain myself. There is a definite separation between the new and old school as it relates to Denzel - old Denzel v. new Denzel, is he good looking, etc. etc. Malcom X sort of personifies what I think is the whole fascination behind Mr. Washington. It's what the new school calls "swagger" and what the old folks call attitude.

The movie's pivotal moment is when Bro Johnson is arrested and subsequently taken to the hospital on Malcom's orders. As he stands outside the hospital with the police officer (who happens to be Frank from "Everybody Loves Raymond") he dispurses the crowd with a simple hand gesture. Now think back to every movie you've seen. What black actor consistently evokes the type of attitude and persona that just makes people want to stand up and listen? Granted, it's a character, and Malcom X was that type of dude. But it's also the man behind the character - or more appropriately, the actor behind the character, because who's to say he's like this when it's just him, Pauletta and kids sitting at home eating dinner.
Don't get me wrong, he's had some rough moments. For every Devil in a Blue Dress, Man on Fire (yeah, this one is a stretch, but anyone who carries a gun while wearing a suit is alright with me) or Training Day, there's a Inside Man (what was UP with that haircut?), Antwone Fischer (weird mustache) and Bone Collector (I'm pretty sure I saw snot bubbles at one point). But regardless of how he looked, he always has the same commanding presence - even when confined to a bed that he moves by blowing through a tube (which I also find incredibly disgusting. It must fill up with spit, like a woodwind instrument ... sorry, I got off track).




Regardless, I know that when American Gangster makes it over here probably 2 months after its release, I won't be going to watch it to see if TI can really act (though my fondness for southern men, specifically Atlantans is no secret) but to see Denzel.

And I'm sure I won't be disappointed.

I am Not my Hair

I got hair issues ya'll.

Somehow down the line, as I think I've mentioned before, I've "gone natural." It's in quotations because it wasn't really a concious decision, but more a case of practicality=thriftiness. Let me explain.

As most of you know, I decided last year to accommodate Woodstock's request for me to grow my hair out. Now, I must say that I personally favor the short 'do. When my hair is longer, it tends to grow into this boring bob that goes from: wrap to curls to flips. The short spiky cut is like an automatic bit of excitement regardless of what I put on that day. But, I digress.

In order to better facilitate my hair growth, I've been getting weaves. When Woodstock left, I had a weave, and when I took it out to get my braids, I figured putting a relaxer in would be a waste of time and money. Five months later, I realized that my relaxer had almost completely grown out. Now, a year later, I have a full out 'fro. And therein lies the problem.

Among my friends and associates are two schools of thought on my hair. Half totally hate it, and the other have like it. There is no middle ground. On the "hate" side are Woodstock, Mom, and Lil sis. On the "like" side are Roadrunner 2, New Guy at work, White chick at work, and one of the Gulfport crew. Now, those on the "hate" side have pretty much erred on the side of straight hair. I know for a fact that mom and Lil Sis dismiss those "nappy" styles and I was actually surprised that mom liked the kinky twists I sported for two months (I thought she'd deem it too "ethnic"). I could go into a whole tirade about how it seems that those from the Dirty South are less likely than those slightly north of the Mason Dixon line to be accepting of natural hairstyles, but that's a whole different post.

The problem is that I actually like the fro. I put some gel in the front and rocked a psuedo afro puff while running errands on the economy last week. It was so easy, and it felt good to have my real hair out for the first time in a year. But when I told Woodstock, he gave me an on-the-verge-of-crying emoticon until I assured him that only Germans had seen the natural and I would resume my weave-wearing for work and all other places where I would have to interact with Americans.

Now, I must add that Woodstock isn't completely anti-natural, he just doesn't like the fro. He can get with the twists and the little curly 'dos, but sadly, my hair is waaaay more kinky than curly.

In any case, we both agreed that my best bet would be to wait until we get to the states until I make a decision about what to do with my hair. I will have more options, and I am hesitant to make a rash decision, though it's easy to do when I'm slathering my hair with conditioner, struggling to comb through my kinks.

So for now, I guess i will continue to hide my thick unruly main under straight layers of weaves and remember that it won't always be this way. Once I get to the states, I will make an appointment to see a natural haircare specialist to see my options. Maybe I will reconsider, put in a relaxer or a texturizeror my family will learn to embrace my naps. Either way, I can't wait until my locs can finally be free.

Back to Black

I have a confession to make.

I like Amy Winehouse. For months, I saw her name and picture splashed across the gossip blogs and rags. I hated her sickly frame and - as much as I like big hair - her natty boufant. And I didn't like that she was listed under the "Blackmusic" genre (in Germany, it's not hip hop/r&b/rap; it's Blackmusic). I'd never actually heard any of her songs, save for a snippet of "Tears Dry on Their Own" I found on Concrete Loop. Not having an American radio station listen to, I'm waaaay behind on the latest hits. But I refused to accept this lady as the hottest new thing before having listened to her.

That all changed when a friend, trying to convince another friend how great Amy Winehouse was, copied her first CD, "Frank." I skimmed through the CD before passing it along, and as usual, was unimpressed by my first listen. But then I got hooked on one of the songs - number 4: F$%k Me Pumps. Honestly, how could you not like a song that contains these lyrics?
"You don't like ballers/They don't do nothing for ya,/But you'd love a rich man six foot two or taller."

or my personal favorite:

"Don't be too upset/If they call you a skank/Cuz like the news everyday you get pressed."

What? You don't get it? I guess you had to be there. Anyway, although I only liked a couple of songs on "Frank" I broke down and bought her newest CD, "Back to Black" on iTunes. It was only $9.99, so I figured what the heck?

And I'm feeling it. These songs ... this lady is a mess. But maybe the reason I can get into it is because I'm a bit of a mess too. The lyrics make me laugh out loud sometimes. I mean, the beats are cool, but you can tell that she writes her lyrics the way she talks. Take this line from "Wake up along": "I stay up clean the house, so I'm not drinking." Or from Rehab (I'm embarrassed to admit this is my favorite): "The man said why you think you here/I said, I have no idea."

Spoken like a true drunk.

Anyway, you don't have to take my word for it, here's a video. But close your eyes: seriously, the emaciated body and hair mess up the whole atmosphere. Enjoy!

F#$k Me Pumps




Back to Black

Bored

I think I'm having a quarter-life crisis.

I can't help thinking that the types of things I want to do these days are better suited for a 21-year-old, but I can't help it. I'm used to change. I can't stand to always be a part of the ordinary, and there's nothing more prevalent in the Army than ordinary.

Case in point: I want to get my ears pierced. Not the regular way, but an industrial piercing, where a barbell goes into one part of the ear into another.


I think it may be because I'm entering the "third-year itch." Since high school, I've lived three places. College was four years, Tallahassee three, and now I'm feeling like it's about time to move on from Germany. Don't get me wrong, I love it here. But I'm starting to feel that urge to do something new. Something different. Like right now, I'm listening to Amy Winehouse. Not such a big deal since she's gone kinda mainstream now. But I have a little heartburn over it. It's different enough to make it OK, but mainstream enough to give me guilt over listening to her. Of course, I have the same guilt over our new vehicle, but that's another post for another day.

I'm scouring 80s-themed T-shirts (remember Jem and Holograms? The Fraggles?) on 80stees.com, deciding which Tee would best suit my sparkly black and red leggings. And as previously mentioned, contemplating alternative piercings and tattoos.

I just need to do something different, but I don't know what. So far, I have a trip to Poland and a trip to Dachau scheduled. Perhaps that will do the trick.

All I know is I'm getting a little antsy, and feel like I need to break out of my mold.

Hopefully, buying 200 euro worth of dutch ovens and serving dishes does the trick. Otherwise, I might have to break out the AMEX and get that "Ride or Die" tattoo. Just kidding Woodstock.

Unless you wanna do it.

Nappy Roots Day

I stumbled across this blog, written by a St. Petersburg staffer, on tampabay.com today. The entry is about a white teacher who was suspended - and will be required to attend diversity training - for calling a black child's hair "nappy." And while the reporter didn't editorialize the story, it made me wonder: Is it offensive for a white person to use the term "nappy' regardless of context?

The blog story reads, "According to an account by the district’s Office of Professional Standards, a student asked Call *the suspended teacher* why another teacher was combing the hair of an African American girl. Call responded, 'She is trying to do something to her nappy hair.' Another teacher reported the remark to an administrator.
Call, a veteran teacher with a good employment record, told investigators she did not know the term was offensive."

This is what the board members who handed out her one-day suspension had to say.

“I don’t know that the word is racially offensive,” Clark said. “I’m not black, so I can’t speak from personal experience. But it is an adjective, correct? It describes your hair.’’Mary Brown, the board’s only black member, said the term has been used in a negative way to describe black people. Another board member said she'd stumbled across a web site, "A Nappy Hair Affair," which seemed to celebrate the word nappy, but also said she didn't use the term.

Hm, I'm a little stumped here. As a black woman, I know who I should be offended, or am expected to be, but I don't know that I am. Is "nappy" the new N-word? One of those things that can be used and accepted in the black community, but is considered a racial slur when used by whites?

For me, it's more context than the actual words. Imus's infamous "nappy-headed hoes" was obviously meant to be deragatory, whereas this woman's words were, I don't know, merely ignorant? And what if a black teacher had said it? Would both black teachers have shared a knowing chuckle, and glance? A sort of "I've been there" moment?

I'm really torn about this, and how I feel about it. I don't think the teacher meant it as a hurtful statement, but then again, as a teacher, I don't think I would have made the comment.

I talked to a white colleague about this, and she thinks that though the comment probably wasn't racist, it was inappropriate. But while listening AND agreeing with her, that little voice in the back of my head said, "Well, what would you expect her to say?"

So, I want another opinion. Was this racist? Is "nappy" in and of itself off-limits to whites, despite having heard more than a few white people refer to their own hair as nappy?

I think I am pretty objective on most matters of race. And although I don't immediately associate every slight, real or perceived, with race, I understand that sometimes race IS a factor.

But still, I sometimes wonder if other blacks think my background and diversity of my friends, disqualifies me from matters of race anyway because I'm "not black enough."

But THAT is a completely different issue.

P.S. I considered putting picture on here, but didn't to avoid any potential racist overtones :)

Wishes

Let me get a piece of business out of the way first: Roadrunner you owe me 50 cents.

Ok, my wishes? It's hard for me to reflect on those things I'd wished I'd done without feeling just a little bit disappointed in myself. This exercise just reminds me of the goals that I failed at, or those I let slip by without even trying. For me, it's less "zen" and more looking-at-my-life-flash-before-my-eyes and not liking what I see. But hey, RR it's your birthday week, and if a list of wishes is what you want - my impending depression notwithstanding - a list is what you'll get.

1) I wish I'd taken my French professors advice and continued on to intermediate French. At the time, I was looking at what it would take to finish school in 4 years, not what would enrich my life or impact my career. This is a major sticking point for me since my dad was a foreign language teacher. He would be so disappointed.

2) I wish I'd planned better for the future. When I left for Germany, I had a barebones plan, and no way of executing what little I did have. Now career-wise I'm scrambling to make up for the last 3 years.

3) I wish I had continued playing the piano and clarinet. It's been so long, now I have to be re-taught. It's a shame to squander a gift like that.

4) I wish that every now and then, I could just let it go, whatever the "it" of the moment may be. If something annoys me, I obsess about it. And my obsession with that thing annoys me even more, which leads to more obsessing and - yeah, it's a never-ending loop of obsession and annoyance in my head.

5) I wish I had the nerve to wear a huge afro and dye it red. No major revelations about this one, I just think it would look really cool. And so would a tattoo on the back of my neck, but that's a different story.

I could go on and on, but won't.

And I'll try really hard not to obsess over this list of wishes after I hit publish.

Back in the Day

High school was simpler, easy.

Those days of carefree living. Only worrying about grades and whether he liked us or not. Not knowing that really WAS the best time our lives, just like our parents said. No wine, no vodka to clear our minds, we didn't need it. No bills, no responsibilities, no war. I miss those days now. And I'm tired.Tired of all those things that we could have never imagined would have happened when we were in high school. Buying a new outfit. Going to the game. Hanging out with our friends, not a care in the world. And as much as I thought then that I didn't have a real childhood, I realize now that I did.

And now it's too late to appreciate it.

Crazy

Does it make me crazy that ...

**I'm tired of hearing about the TB guy? He's OK, the people on the plane are OK, Now give him some antibiotics and a shot of penicillin and let's move on.

**It annoys me to see all these slow a$$ police "chases" on the news? Why you gotta interrupt something I might actually be interested in to show me another shot of the same person driving the same car on the same road? Just let me know when you catch 'em.

**I'm a little bit jealous of the Schweinfurt HeShe's swagger? Seriously, someone who can convince countless soldiers (not just the closeted ones) to believe he's a woman got some secrets I want to know.

**I don't care to see the "distinguished visitor" the PAO claims is coming to Schweinfurt today. If it's not Barack Obama, Common or Woodstock, why do I need to hear what he (or she) has to say in person when I can read about it later?

**As a career counselor, I'm getting paid to help soldiers with their career path when I'm still trying to solidify a career future my d#$m self?

**I think adults obsessed with the Harry Potter books and movies are kind of weird? I'm not saying they shouldn't read them. I'm just asking if it's necessary to talk about it. And post Harry Potter pictures your myspace page. And take off work early so you can go see the movie.

**My shoe just broke and I'm trying to decide whether it's acceptable to attempt fix it with mixture of staples, super glue and thread instead of throwing them away?

**I think colored tazers are stupid? Since when did personal safety devices become an accessory? And the sad part is, someone will say, wow I'll finally break down and get one. Not because I've been mugged 3 times, but because it matches my pink Razr. Although I can't say for certain I wouldn't carry a Beretta 92 SB with hot pink side panels.

What gets on YOUR nerves?

It's So Hard to Say Goodbye

They say that it's better to have loved and lost to have never loved at all. They also say that if you love something, let it go.
I'm not sure who "they" are exactly, but I'm pretty certain they don't know what the hell they're talking about.

I'm not ready to let go. "It's time," my friends say, but I know better. Every week I find myself pushing him just a little further. At almost 10 years old, I know I'm lucky for the times we HAVE had. The part that makes it most hard is that he doesn't LOOK old. But I can't deny the fact that we probably only have a few months together. But still, I can't fathom the thought of having only rapidly-fading memories of our ups and downs, mishaps and adventures to look back upon. Just being near him evokes images years past. Trips to the mailbox, impromptu trips to faraway cities for alleged home-invasion purposes, exploring the German landscape as we narrowly skirt disaster. Sigh. I feel like it's too soon. But after yesterday, I know that time isn't on my side, and death is imminent.

It's time to put the Protege to rest. It's time to say goodbye to my first car.

I thought I knew all the tricks of the trade, but despite all my efforts, I fear the end is near. In anticipation, Woodstock and I got a new car. An SUV, something a little snazzy, but a lot practical as we consider expanding our family (Don't ask. That's another post altogether). But still I drove the the Protege. "You're still driving that car?" friends ask. "I can't believe you have a new car," others remarked. And yet, I persisted. Why not drive it, I thought. It was 3/4 full of gas, and those who know me know that one of my favorite quotes is, "And you know gas high." I also thought I'd successfully planned in the event the car did break down. I would be driving down some main street (in my mind, it's always Franz-Schubert-Strasse, the street the MP station is on) and the car would turn off, allowing me to glide gracefully onto the little car-sized opening in the sidewalk. Besides, like I said, I'd gotten used to the Protege's little quirks, and thought I'd found ways to work around them all.

First was the burning smell, which I realized only happened when I used the air conditioner. Easy enough - keep the windows open. Then came the periods, like 2 weeks ago, where the car's idling would go so low it would turn off. Four times. On the way to work. But ah ha! I don't owe a year's salary in student loans (not my salary of course) to not be able to figure that one out. The car only turned off when it was idling in neutral. Again, problem solved. Simply downshift quickly and I'd make it to work with maybe only one turn-off. Anyway, the car starts back up pretty fast, so that's no big deal right?

But today - today I fear is the end of a long line of problems that may finally cause me to retire the car. As I was leaving the PX, the car made a squealing sound. Now, I'm used to that. I needed a belt replaced last year and it squealed all the time. Usually at 5 a.m. Anyway, I digress. It was a little embarrassing, but I ignored the little boy holding his ears (I'm sure it wasn't THAT loud) and headed home. After the squealing stopped, I breathed a sigh of relief. Good to go. I thought there was a smell - but I attributed it to the construction going on. That's when it happened. I heard a pop. And I couldn't turn the steering wheel. I thought to back up and park, but I was stuck between a myriad of poles, arranged so that a terrorist - or someone who stole a TV from the PX - couldn't leave quickly. There was no way I'd be able to manuever the car backward.

I soon realized the popping sound I heard was the power steering pump. I made it home and parked, with some difficulty, before switching cars for church.

I know it's just a car, but remember, I've had the car since I was but a lowly freshman. It got me through life in four cities and 2 countries. When Woodstock and I first started dating, the car cemented our relationship when the Eclipse was out of commission. It's been a place for private meetings, pre parties, post parties and late-night trysts (with Woodstock of course). This car knows more about me than my best friends, and I'm asked to simply throw it away. Or in my case pay $45 to let the Army "throw it away," which means they'll reap my poor car's parts and sell them for profit.

Now that I've explained myself, perhaps it's a little more understandable why I feel the way I feel about getting rid of my car. But at the same time, I realize I do have a problem. As I retold the story of the power steering pump, a thought came to mind.

I can still DRIVE the car - I just can't pull into any tight parking spots.

EDIT: I LOOKED UNDER THE HOOD AND REALIZED IT'S NOT THE PUMP, IT'S THE POWER STEERING BELT. I KNOW FOR A FACT THAT'S LIKE $2, SO HAHA B$%^$#S! THE PROTEGE WILL LIVE TO RIDE AGAIN!!!!

Beauty is Her Name

I must admit that I hesitated writing this, because I didn't want it to come across as a plea for help - a type of "woe is me" post used to garner compliments. But here goes anyway.

Since I was a child, I've been viewed as smart (though you wouldn't know it to look at me now). As I got older, people came to view me as silly or goofy. And as I got even older, caustic and stuck up have been added to the mix - though I don't get the stuck-up part, the "why" of which may become clearer later. Of all the things I have been considered or viewed as, the most surprising to me is “beautiful” or “stylish.” Don’t get me wrong, I’d been called beautiful before, but mostly from people like my mother, grandmother, great aunts, and now Jamil, all of whom have a blood or legal obligation to do so.

So to hear myself mentioned in such a way (Roadrunner’s reference to my “style” comes to mind) I still find myself questioning it. Don’t misunderstand; I don’t think I’m ugly. But my entire life, my descriptions have mostly consisted of various types of cute (cute, kinda cute) and maybe even sexy, which I attribute solely to the boob factor. But beautiful? Nah. Which is why I found it so surprising – and totally creepy – when the old, white guy followed me around Wal-Mart smiling, eventually confronting me in the CD section:
“You’re so beautiful. But you’re married,” he croaked (that’s funny cause it’s a play on words) as if he had a real chance before he spotted my wedding ring.

Woodstock’s reaction was more mundane: “Don’t you know you’re beautiful?”
I gave the kind of stock answer that I felt he was looking for, but deep down inside a voice echoed back, “Of course not.”

This leads me to the style part of it. I’ve NEVER been considered stylish. Eccentric maybe, presentable even, but not stylish. In my clique of friends, I was definitely not known for my fashion & style acumen. I’d often get a disapproving glance – or if it was complete gaffe – a grunt from my friend K, who was an expert at all things fashion. I’ve been chastised for an abundance of transgressions, from not curling my eyelashes (“You’re a GIRL! Your lashes should look fun and flirty) to having my keys in the front pocket of my jeans (“What IS that? Just hold it.) I once put on what I considered a very cool outfit (sadly chosen, I must admit, in preparation for seeing her) and K gave me a quick once over. “Interesting,” she said in that tone that seemed to indicate that the outfit was anything BUT interesting.

My other friend, The Captain, was the only one of us able to pull the kind of cool-and-trendy-without-trying-to-be look that you see amongst the movie star set. You’ve seen them. K is the one with the leopard print shirt and red belt (before it was cool to wear leopard and red) and The Captain is the one with the Free Angela Davis T-shirt and relaxed jeans that make her look like a socialite that’s trying to blend in with the common folk and failing miserably. They’re BOTH the types that make guys ask “Who’s your friend?”

I’m the friend. The one who’s WITH them.

So now, I’m in Germany, and all of a sudden I’m stylish. People are coming to me for fashion advice. Asking me where I got my shoes, or shirt or whatever, and honestly it confuses me. I feel like a phony. When someone compliments me on my looks I want to say, well you should see my friends. Or if a friend mentions my keen fashion sense, I want to throw out, “I know some folks who’d disagree with you.”

But I don’t say anything but thanks, and hope my eyes don’t betray me.

Blame it on the Rain

I walked out of church last week uplifted. Pastor preached about "rejoicing evermore." How we must continue to rejoice,even when things look dim. I nodded my head in agreement with his words, had that knowing smile because I've been there. Been in a place of darkness and continued to praise him. And in a rare display of social interaction clearly brought on by the Word (I've been flying WAY below the radar as of late) I even hung out with some of my church sistahs eating ice cream and chatting. I wasn't even all that annoyed when the after-church fellowship caused me to miss Ocean's 13. I went to sleep content, thinking about those times I persevered when it looked like things wouldn't go my way and turned out for the best.

And then I woke up.

And that's when the s#$%t hit the fan, so to speak. EVERYTHING - from the slow Farschule car to the phone ringing during my marathon Smallville watching unbraiding session - got on my nerves. The rest of the week was a series over ever-worsening mishaps. Most of them un-noteworthy, but every single incident was like bamboo shoot being stuck deeper and deeper under my fingernails. The way I worked my way through 30 phone numbers, calling soldier after soldier trying to get them to come to our next workshop as my co-worker sat idly by, sending e-mails and catching up on her celebrity gossip.

Or what about Yahoo messenger's mysterious glitch that had me restarting the program just so I could get messages. Speaking of computer problems, I had a fit when blogger was acting the fool and I couldn't see any new posts. Granted, I was blogging on the job, but dang, that's no reason to fool with my only means of staying awake during our slow-for-now days.

The annoyance level was racketed up a notch on the 4th at the Girl Scout event that I showed up an hour early for and sat around with nothing to do. I ended up missing the whole thing because I was helping out behind the scenes - something that wouldn't be necessary if it had been properly planned.

I admit some of it is of my own doing. Tearing through the apartment, unable to find anything and cursing the papers strewn about the coffee table, covering up every important thing i would need this week.

And today? Oh, don't even get me started on today. I was feeling kind of lazy, but STILL I persevered to make it to the car dealership to have a light reset. I was feeling good on the way out of the dealership - feeling like I'd finally accomplished something this week. But as soon as the tire hit the Autobahn, the light came back on. THEN I ran into a stau on the way back. Too bad I didn't hit the stau when a stray eyelash flew into my eye, causing a burning that blurred my vision and almost caused me to swerve. Thank goodness I was able to pull over at one of those Park 'n Rides.

When I got home, I attempted to ease the pain of what I assume was an aftershock of the killer eyelash by taking out my contacts. Yeah - didn't happen. I got one out, and tried unsuccessfully to get the other one out to no avail. So all I could do is put the other one back in and be mad. Which I most certainly am.

I don't know if it's the rain, the unseasonble cold snap, or whether I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed Monday. What I DO know is that I'm going to have a glass of wine and go to sleep and try to put it all behind me. But if you see me this weekend looking like I got pink eye in ONE eye - stay back, because no matter what you say, you're apt to get on my nerves.

Finally

So, I'm finally doing it. After obsessing, postponing and praying, I'm finally trying to do something to keep my journalism experience relevant despite my lack of employment in the field. I submitted my resume to an on-line magazine last month and have just now (I KNOW!) actually done something about it. I've started writing an article for them, and will query them by this end of this week. Although I know a query doesn't mean they'll accept my article, it's a start. And I've been putting that off for too long. Even though I'm working now, not writing is killing me as far as my chances for working in journalism in the future. I'm sure prospective employers will wonder (and rightfully so) why I haven't written anything or at least volunteered to write for the community paper. And those are valid questions that I can't explain without discussing my extreme bouts of self-pity and - gasp! - laziness. But with our departure date getting closer (we leave next February), I've got to get on the ball. Eight months seems like a long time, but it's not very much time for me to get some more recent writing clips. Thus, my attempt to break into this on-line freelance market. I won't say what site I'm going to query, but it's my style and I think it's the type of forum I will be able to work well with. The pay is practically non-existent, but that's not the point. It's a chance for me to start doing something that I love. Not that I don't enjoy dealing with temperamental captains who think they know it all and underhanded specialists who try to get me to do their work for them. That's what helps pay the bills. The writing? That will be just for me.

Das Lied der Deutschen

I've decided that I need to learn German.

Yeah, I probably should have made this choice two years ago, but I am determined to learn at least one other language besides English. And what better time to try. To my credit, I did take German classes last year. But when I stopped working, i felt bad about spending "family" money on it, so I stopped. Well, that and the whole Taz barking situation ....

Anyway, a situation that occurred today, really prompted me to get going on this. There's a lady from my church - Sabine - who only speaks German. Her and I talk ALL the time. Seriously. I dont ever speak German and she never speaks English, ans still for the most part I understand. Today, she said something I was unsure about. A friend of mine who speaks fluent German happened to be walking by and I asked him to interpret. Sabine and the guy talked for about 20 minutes. AND I UNDERSTOOD EVERYTHING THEY SAID! She asked him about the difference between WC and bathroom )seriously, this chick asked me about that last week. What is her obsession with the toilet?) She said her English was bad and he told her it was easy to learn. She told him his English was good and he said he was American ( I thought that part was HILARIOUS!) and on and on and on.

But I couldn't respond to any of it in German. And that's a shame.

So, I resolve to learn more German. I can say a little bit, but not much. And most of it is stuff you'd never say in everyday conversation. "What nationality are you?" and weirdly, I know the words for twins, future and past, but I can't ask how to get to H&M. I'm not saying I'll be fluent when I leave, but I intend to continue in the States by taking a college course.

I might not be able to talk to the 80-year-old German woman who lives down the block, but at least I'll be able to say things to Woodstock that no one else understands. And that, I can live with.

Pinball Wizard

As you may or may not know, I've been kind of down these last few days dealing with this car stuff. I've calling various people in the states for around 6-7 hours today, with no sign of progress. Even the hardest of chicks start to stress after a while. This is something I've used today to kind of make me feel a little better. While sitting in the bank, practically sweating, this song kept going through my head. Maybe it will be a positive force in your life as it has been in mine. Peace.

Where Do We Go from Here?

Last week I was fine. A regular Army housewife debating when our husbands would come home, and why everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) in Schweinfurt has to get a Volvo XC90. This week, my mind is alternately rattled with an unexpected - Ok, the word unexpected is a bit of an overstatement - car buying process, and a reignited since of confusion over where I'm going in life. I won't dwell on the car thing here - Woodstock and I have already come to a decision. Which means, I presented several options to him (since he obviously can't pick the car) weighed the pros and cons, come to a conclusion, and now I spend almost every waking moment deciding if we made the right choice. But that's just me.

The other part is a bit more complicated. With one phone call Woodstock has shaken the very core of the super Army wife persona I've somehow adopted. Meaning, he wants to stay in the Army a little longer. Now, don't get me wrong, for various reasons I probably shouldn't disclose in a blog for OPSEC reasons (haha), I'd actually encouraged him to stay in for a while longer. He resisted. So I made other plans, based on the timeframe of him getting out of the Army, um sooner rather than later. I'm on the Spouses Club board (for you non-military folks, it's a club for Army spouses. For you military folks - it is NOT lame); I volunteered to be secretary for the community Girl Scouts committee, and I hinted very strongly that I'd like to be considered for a full time position in the job I'll be starting in a couple weeks. Now, things might change. And I'm not happy or unhappy about it - just confused. As the most indecisive person I know (I'm the person who orders a cheeseburger and fries, and when it comes, wish I'd gotten a chicken sandwich instead), it's hard for me to help give Woodstock advice about it. And the reason it's so hard, is because I think that my deliberation process is skewed by, gulp, selfishness.

Before I start in on the choices, which are Ft. Benning, GA and Ft. Sill, Oklahoma, by the way, I have to say that I admire military wives. And as much as I currently look like them, I feel that I'm a fraud. These women have - and will - sacrifice everything. Careers, plans, goals, and dreams. Past employers, jobs, master's degrees, jobs in aerospace engineering (seriously). I'm not willing to do that. I want a career. Perhaps if I'd gotten into the job market instead of wasting one year working at a beauty salon and going to school, I'd have built up a solid freelance career. But I didn't. And I don't think I should have to wait until my husband's career has finished before I try. Imagine me, a 45-year-old reporter, working nights, listening to the police scanner, while some 25-year-old doles out my assignments. I admire the courage of these women who CAN do that. And at times, I am ashamed, I feel bad, that I can't do that.

Which brings me back to the subject at hand. Of the two choices, it doesn't take a genius or a military guru to figure out that I'd prefer Ft. Benning. I can get a job, in or around the Atlanta area, in my field. If he PCS's, he'd probably have less than a year left, and we could survive a commute while we both work at our respective jobs, and then finally move to the area. At Ft. Sill ... um, I could take the entire slate of courses offered at ACS (resume writing, typing and Army Family Team Building - yeah, I don't know what that is). BUT is Ft. Benning the best choice as a whole, or just the best choice for me? That, I don't know. And I know that Woodstock will be putting me into the equation and won't just make a decision based on what's best for him because we went into this knowing that the military thing wouldn't be forever.

I guess all my ramblings boil down to: Am I being selfish by wanting to go Georgia? Or am I just looking for the best interests of our family for the future?

Thank You

To, Roadrunner 2 (Germany version). Thanks for being my friend. We'll miss you while you're in the States. Since I am not good at expressing feelings, I'll let Boyz II Men do it for me, circa 1990-something.

Now - we shall never speak of these emotions again.

M!ssundaztood

Most people just don't understand me. Well, expecting someone to UNDERSTAND me may be asking a lot. But can't I expect people to "get me"? By that, I mean that I realize it's very hard to put me in a box, very hard to actually understand how I may act in any given moment, in any given situation. But it seems like people who know me - my friends - would know enough about me not to even TRY to put me in a box.

I had a long conversation about my perceived snobbishness with some women I know. Apparently, my appearance - that I don't dress like a slob and try to keep my hair done - the way I walk (apparently with my nose in the air); the fact that I used to leave church without staying and chatting, and my lack of Amens (I guess) during the sermon, led them to think I was stuck up. Oh, and my facial expressions - my normal expression isn't a smile, and when I think of something, my face often shows it.

I don't know if this type of stereotyping used to bother me or not, but it does now. A lot. It bothers me that people often judge me before even getting the chance to know me. It bothers me that if some people just took the time to have one conversation with me, they'd realize that I'm not only NOT stuck up, I'm a nice person. Is it bad that I like to look nice? Is it OK, that I know when my hair's not done, I look a hot mess, so I pretty much keep it done on the regular? Is it OK, if I speak with proper English or enunciate my words? Is that OK?

Is it wrong to want people to try to get to know me? That way they'll realize that if and when I make a weird face, I'm probably not thinking about anything that's being said. I may be thinking, "Oh, shoot, did I let Taz out?" or "I forgot to transfer the phone," or even, "Is that rain I hear outside?"

Now, I know I have to take the blame for part of this. For one thing, when I first meet a person or group, I tend to keep to myself until I am comfortable. I don't know why people automatically jump to stuck up, but I'm not really comfortable jumping into a new group of people. Here's a secret ... I'm self conscious. And insecure. So, I'm not always comfortable walking up and chatting away with a group of strangers. Which takes me to my second point of why I'm partly to blame - I've developed a "socially acceptable public persona." Before the year I served as president for the sorority during undergrad, I remember my LS saying that some of the sorors thought I was too mean. Then I was mean. No doubt. But it wasn't just that - I'm not a hugger, and some people took that personally.Anyway, I digress. Since undergrad, I've tried to be more outgoing and friendly. Smiling and laughing, doing a lot of that ha ha-ing and whatnot. The problem is that it is a persona - not the everyday me. But the me that I feel like I have to be to make others comfortable. And if it's not the everyday me, then I can't possibly keep it up everyday, 24 hours, ya know?

So, here it is, the real me. I like being alone. Now, this doesn't mean I don't like being married or anything, but I do like to have my space. Which means, if I've out all day, I like coming home and just being ... home. During the deployment - just because Woodstock is not here - doesn't mean that I need to be out of the house all day. It's OK that I'm at home with just Taz all day. I don't mind that.

Next, I don't like calling people. I once worked at Glamour Shots and we had to cold call people and say they "won" a photo shoot, which would eventually make it so they'd have to come in and buy a bunch of pictures. Every phone call I made was hard for me. It was a lot of work, I had to take a deep breath before each call. So, I still don't like making phone calls. Especially not random phone calls to people I don't know. And while we're at it, sometimes I can't keep "it" on long enough to have a conversation where we are just chit chatting, shooting the breeze, talking about nothing. I mean, sometimes I can do it, but I'm just saying please don't take it the wrong way if I don't seem chatty. It's not that I'm in a bad mood, or don't feel like talking, or that I'm mad. I just don't have anything to say at the moment. Is that OK?

I don't know, I could go on and on about this, but I won't. I know how people think of me, I know how people see me. And usually it's OK. But I have feelings too. And just because I don't wear them on my sleeve or cry in public .... I still have feelings. So when you meet someone, and she seems aloof or "stuck up," Talk to her anyway, because maybe she doesn't feel comfortable speaking to you first. And if you make a decision about her before you give her a chance, you may just end up missing out on one of the best friends you'll ever have.

Maneater

So, I must preface this post by saying: Sorry, Woodstock, this is not about you. I must also say that this is not an anti-man post.

That being said: What is up with men? Really, sometimes, what are they thinking?

The guy who lives upstairs in our apartment building thing - I'll call him upstairs guy, same as I do here - has been a slight sense of contention with me almost since he moved in. But it really started to bother me after the deployment started. No one told me when the trash was to be picked up in our town. No one told me the difference between the plain black trash can and the one with the green letters on it that reads "bio-tonne." But I figured it out. Pretty easily too. Wait for the Germans to do something, then do the same thing. As for the bio-tonne, there were pictures on it, for goodness sake. So, weeks go by and upstairs guy is filling up the trash can with his trash, but for some reason, I'm the one dragging the trash can to the curb every Tuesday night. So, I do what you would expect. I talk to him about it.Tell him the schedule. Say we can alternate week to week, because, HELLO, it's his trash too. So, I guess the week we talk is my week. Then two weeks later, it still seems to be my week. Then a month later, OK, maybe he went to the field or something.

Sure, the trash isn't a big deal, but it started to get on my nerves more and more. First of all, wtf? Isn't that man's work? Second, this dude puts all kinds of plastic into the trash, I'm talking milk cartons, juice bottles, the whole nine. If we recycle, 3 trash bags can fit into our little trash can, which brings me to the third of all: he stacks the bags on top of each other, kinda standing up, making it possible for only 2 bags to fit. Everyone knows you have to turn the middle one to the side, punk! And I'm not even gonna start on when I went to the states and when I got back the trash cans were in my parking spot like he doesn't know where they go, and that same week he obviously threw away all the trash he had laying by his front door and filled up the can so I had to take my trash on post. Oh, um, well I guess I did get started.

Now, I must say here that I did think for a mere moment that perhaps my control freak nature took the trash out BEFORE he could get the chance to and he was merely waiting for the opportunity. SO ... I gave him the chance and didn't take the trash out at my usual 8 p.m. or so on Tuesday. And ... yes, you guessed it. Trash didn't get picked up that week.

Despite the twice a month annoyance I get from this, I'm pretty used to the trash thing by now. But the final straw was this week. I get home one night and the light bulb in the entryway is out. I'm thinking this dude has got to notice this. I mean, I walk straight to my door, but he has to go up some winding stairs to get to his door. So I wait it out. Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday; yeah .. still nothing. This MF got the nerve to go in and out of the house all those days - days, 2 of which I left home at 8 and got back at 9 or 10 that night - and couldn't change the freaking light bulb. So I did what any other woman would do. At 1030 at night, I noisily changed the lightbulb.

So my question is: whats up with this guy? Is it because he's young ( I assume he's early 20s)? Unmarried? An A-hole? What?

Because so far, all he does is make a lot of noise when he leaves for and comes back from PT in the morning.

Georgia

After weeks of going between anxiety, nervousness and excitement, on Feb. 1, I headed home to visit my mom, and from there, to meet Woodstock for R&R. For the most part, we didn’t have any specific plans, but to spend time and enjoy each other and his family. To say I enjoyed myself is an understatement. It was great, and I had a lot of fun getting to see a side of Atlanta that I’d been unable to before. So, finally, recap of my trip for those who care to know ☺



The COMEDY SHOW
When Woodstock was still in Kuwait, he found out about this event called Passion and Poetry going on in Atlanta. It seemed to be a night of Poetry from professionals and amateurs and live music. It seemed like a perfect start to a Valentine’s Day week. Clearly, it seemed that way to a lot of other people too, because it was sold out. So I scrambled to find something else we could do on Saturday night. After scouring Access Atlanta, I finally found something – A comedy show at Uptown Comedy Club. Then I went back and forth trying to decide whether we should wait until midweek and see DC Curry or go on Saturday and see Pierre Edwards, AKA the light skinned guy from How to Be a Player and BAPS. I settle on Pierre. But when I first told Woodstock, he raised an eyebrow. “WHO?” he asked. Regardless, we went, getting there early just in case. We needn’t have worried – since I’d printed out our tickets and got us VIP seats (which, if you get there early, are no better than the regular seats) we got to skip the line. That also gave us time to hit up the new martini and tapas bar down the street (more on that later). Pierre didn’t open the show of course, there was an MC and another guy who went on before him. They were all hilarious. And I found out afterward, Woodstock had never been to a comedy show. All, in all, it was a good night. And if you go, remember, parking is for both the comedy club AND the strip club next door. And keep your ticket from the show – the strip club offers a discount ;)


The ANNIVERSARY

Ah, so we’ve finally made it. Two years of marriage. For our anniversary this year, we were together – which, if you’re in the military, you know is not always possible. I’m pretty sure Woodstock was in the field for our anniversary last year. We are in Atlanta staying at Woodstock’s mom’s new house, but from the 12th (our anniversary) to the 14th, we spent the time alone in a small town outside of Atlanta.

For our anniversary dinner, we went to a fondue restaurant called The Melting Pot. If you’ve never been there, you’ve GOT to try it. We started out with a cheese fondue that the server put together at the table. We had bread cubes, granny smith apples and some veggies for dippers. After the cheese course, we both had Caeser salads. They might have possibly been the best Ceaser salads I’ve ever tasted. They were topped with pine nuts and some kind of honey roasted nut.

Then came the main course. You choose your broth (we chose mojo, which was supposed to be a kind of spicy Caribbean style) and then a selection of meats. The trick is that you cook the meat yourself by putting it on the fork and sticking it in the broth for a few minutes. We chose a selection of lobster tail, shrimp, chicken, filet mignon, some kind of spicy beef and veggies. It took us a while to get everything cooked, but I think that was part of the pleasure of the meal. It wasn’t the type of meal you just rush through, it gave us time to talk and have fun. Of course, there had to be some type of libation, so we shared a huge margarita.

There was a Melting Pot in Tallahassee where we lived before coming to Germany. But being broke college students, we were never able to try it. I’m thankful that we are able to do something like that now, and I’m thankful that we were able to share such a nice night together.

Now, I think we’re both looking forward to many more.

Lonely World

Disclaimer: I realize that the next few posts won't be in chronological order. But I started writing a couple detailing our trip, but I want to get the stuff that's on my mind out of the way first. Thanks.

Despite the good time I had on R&R in Atlanta, I kind of missed being in Germany. I mean, I missed my house, I missed Taz and I felt like I was missing out on a lot of the business I usually tend to. But leaving Woodstock this time was different. The night before, we were in bed talking and I could sense that we were both thinking about how much fun we'd had and how our time together was coming to a close. When we hugged goodbye at the terminal for me to catch my flight, it was almost overwhelming for me. I'm glad I got on the plane first. To wait with him at the gate, the loved ones of other soldiers saying goodbye, I think would have been too much for me. Once I got on the plane, I couldn't think about him, I had to think about other things. What was going on in the new Cosmo, what I had to do in Germany, whatever.

When I got to Baltimore, the waiting for my space A flight began. A little of my anxiety subsided when I realized another person from Schweinfurt that I know was on the flight. So, I had a ride home. Woodstock and I got a chance to chat online before his flight boarded and it felt like old times, like normal, like we weren't even apart. Talking to the other Schweinfurt resident and the lesbian who had a crush on her (sorry, thats for another post) passed the time quickly. The flight started boarding at 915 and for technical reasons we didn't take off until after midnight. I fell asleep waiting, and by the time we left, I was ready to be home. But on the ride home from Ramstein, I felt like, what am I rushing home TO. I went by RR#2 house to get Taz so I wouldn't be home alone, but even so, it's like this loneliness enveloped me when I walked into the house. The crazy part is I LIKE being by myself. Or else I think I do. Maybe I've just grown accustomed to it, and have mistaken that for liking it. Whatever the case, I didn't like it. So I started calling people. Of course, no one was home. I chatted online with Cindy ( I haven't come up with a psuedonym for her yet) and then fell asleep.

So you know what happened next, right? Woodstock called. Before I left, I'd set the answering machine to pick up at 2 rings instead of 6, so I awoke to hear him on the machine. He said he'd call the cell. So, when the cell phone rang, I ran to it, picked it up, and .... nothing. I know we just left each other, but for some reason, just to hear his voice on the machine made me feel better though, I wish, and am still wishing and waiting at 1 a.m., that he will get a chance to call back. That he gets the chance to know that I miss him already and although we were in this house (apt?) only a month before he had to leave, it just doesn't feel the same without him. I know that in a few days I'll be back to what I now consider normal life. I'll be busy, I'll have things to do, and I will be begging for days when I can just come home and hope that I can watch TV in peace or go 2 hours without getting a telephone call or having something to do. But right now, all I can do is watch TV and think how funny Woodstock would find this Lt. Dangle and Deputy Junior interview on this late night TV show. All I can think of is, how very alone I feel in this house.

And I want him to know that no matter my moods or my silent periods or the times I don't really want to hear another person talk, I wish he was here.

When I think of Home

You know how sometimes you like something, I don’t know what, just anything. And it’s like the best thing you’ve ever had, because you have nothing else. You have nothing to compare it to. But then you try something else and then it makes you question the thing you had before; makes you wonder if it was as great as you thought it was.

Being in the states, being around family has made me do that. I wondered aloud on many occasions why people would return to the states jus because of a deployment. The duty station was their new home now, the home they shared with their husband and kids, if they have any. Don’t get me wrong, I do have friends in Germany. I have plans, I have things to do. But being here, it makes me wonder what’s the point? The majority of my friends in Germany, I will never talk to again. Being there sometimes is like being in a play. Except the stage is my life. And I have to be this person, and do these things, because it’s what’s expected. But is that really me? It’s very easy to blur the lines between doing what I like, doing what’s right, and just doing what’s expected of me.

Being here also reminds of what it’s like to have a family. I haven’t lived in the same vicinity as my family for many, many years. And even though they get on my nerves, I like it. I like having people around me that I know have my back no matter what, no matter what stupid thing I may say or do. I can just be myself, whether that be good or bad. Whether I’m feeling charitable or bitchy, they will ignore me, or possibly get mad, but regardless, they will love me after I’m out of my funk. Here, there’s always something. There’s always some kind of drama or a situation that needs smoothing over or someone’s hurt feelings or ego that needs to be stroked. And I’m tired. I’m tired of having to be so strong all the time, I’m tired of not being able to let my guard down, and of having to tread softly, always holding back a piece of myself in order not to offend someone.

I just want to go back to a time where I was free to just be myself, free to be sad sometimes. Free to want to be by myself sometimes, free to do things I want to do and when there is something I don’t want to do but have to, free to say that. I’m hoping that when I get back to the states for good, it will be a place of freedom for me. The freedom that I now long for.

I just hope I’m not disappointed.

Coming Home

This week, I've come to the states for a vacation after a year of being gone. The main reason for the trip is because Woodstock wanted to go to Atlanta for his R&R. So I decided to get here a little early and visit my fam in Mississippi. As I cleaned, packed and otherwise got ready for my trip, I had mixed feelings. I was excited about seeing Jamil and getting a break from all of my, um, volunteering, but at the same time it didn't feel like I was going home, it felt like I was leaving home. Since I've been on my own, I've never been away from my new home more than 2 weeks. And that 2 weeks only happened last year for Christmas. I was leaving my new "family" behind, my friends, my "work", my commitments, and Taz (I couldnt' bring him on a space A flight).
But since I’ve been here, it’s like everything I’ve missed in the past year has been experienced in the past 4 days. So what have I learned?

1) How to have a dad: I flew into Baltimore and to make sure I didn’t miss my flight, I scheduled my connection for the following day. RR #2 arranged for me to be able to stay with her parents for a couple of nights. For a day and a half, it was like having a “real’ family, one with a mom and a dad. We talked; about the weather, crime in the city, just normal stuff. Her dad dropped me off at the mall. We watched “judge” shows together – you know, Judge Mathis, Judge Joe Brown, People’s Court – and laughed at how stupid people could be and what we thought the verdicts would be. I asked for a slice of cake, and like dads do, he offered extras; ice cream, strawberries and chocolate syrup. When it was time for my early morning flight, her dad gave me a ride to the airport. But what he also gave me was some adult memories of a father.

2) How to be a big sister: I haven’t really lived in the house with my little sister since she’s been old enough to understand who was who. When I went to undergrad, she was only 5 years old. So, to get here and find a teenager on the verge of adulthood blew my mind. We went shopping together (she helped me pick out Woodstock’s anniversary gift) and we cooked together. We made Super Bowl snacks and mocktails, and I even taught her how to make shrimp curry. Though I doubt she will remember how to make any of it, I hope she will remember the fun we had doing it.

3) How to have a family: Since Woodstock has been gone, I’ve gone back to my old ways. I am used to be alone. I’m used to following my own schedule, and doing things when I want to. I prefer to have a couple of hours of silence after I wake up. I like to read books and newspapers and surf the ‘net without being disturbed. I like to watch TV in silence. Since I’ve been here, none of that has happened. I wake up at 6 a.m. because that’s what time the rest of the house wakes up. I go pick up my grandma when she needs a ride when I borrow mom’s car. I am constantly interrupted while doing things that I’d rather do silently. I cook and wash dishes without complaining. I laugh at grandma’s jokes, and hold back my laughter when she says something I find hilarious. And even though some things may get on my nerves, I’ve had a good time here, and I feel like part of a family again.

I’ll be leaving Gulfport Friday morning to meet up with Woodstock to start his 2 weeks of R&R. So my last lesson to remember will be how to be a good wife. Wish me luck.

Catch up

Ok, my 5 friends have increased to 6, and half of you are putting pressure on me to post more. So, ta da! Two posts in one day. Although this one is kind of cheating, since it's on my myspace page. However, since my dinosaur friends HAVE no myspace pages, it's almost like being brand new right? I also think I've done something like this before, but it's OK. You can never know too much about me :) (Note to self: the world does not revolve around you, the world does not revolve around you ....) There are a couple changes from myspace because you 6 aren't "super" military and my little sister's on myspace. Enough said.

There! Enjoy!

List 4 favorite colors:1. black2. Green3. pink4. that's it

Today have you...

Made a new friend -No
Laughed until you cried – No
Went behind your parents back - Of course not
Found out who your true friends were – No, I already know who they are
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF:1. George Bush: I find it hard to watch him speak and not burst out laughing - or crying
2. Gay Marriage?: I don't very much care. If everyone worried about their own marriages and not the potential marriages of others, perhaps the divorce rate would be lower
3. Lowering the drinking age?: I don't think so ...
4. Straight, Gay, Bi?: Straight
5. Who is the best hugger that you know?: The last hug I got was from Taz. But does it count if I did the hugging?
6. Do you believe in love at first sight: No
7. Is there something you want to tell someone: Yes, Woodstock ... 2 weeks!!!!
8. What brand of shirt are you wearing?: I don't know, some cheap tank top
9. How many kids do you want to have?: + /- 2
10. Do you have a good relationship with your parents?: Yes, with my mom
11. Do you wanna change your name?: No1
12. What did you do for your last birthday?: Probably sat at home with Taz and eventually went to RR #2's house
13. What time did you wake up today?: around 7:30. Taz came out of the room, like WHAT?
14. What were you doing at midnight last night?: Watching the shield, waiting to see if Woodstock come off patrol
15. Name something you CANNOT wait to do: R&R!!!
18. Missing anyone?: Yeah, Wood
19. What do you want to be when your older?: Journalism professor
20. Who Do You Want to Be with at this time?: Woodstock
21.What are you listening to right now?: "Have you forgotten" - Avril Lavigne
22. Have you ever donated money to a good cause?: Does it count if I spend my own money on stuff for church, FRG, girl scouts, sorority?
24. Have you ever talked about someone behind their back: Hm, probably. But I go back and tell them what I said.
25. What's the last piece of clothing you borrowed from anyone?: I don't know, but on Sunday I wore some perfume someone left at my house back in Tally
26. Who's getting on your nerves right now: Mean Girl Scout moms
27. Most visited webpage?: Yahoo Mail
28. Coke or Pepsi?: Rum
30. Do you have a crush on someone: no
31. Have you kissed or been kissed by anyone in the past week? Sis Ej
32. Have you had sex in the past week?: no
32. Do you enjoy your friendships with your friends?: Yes

Hope you've learned something more about me. I know you were wondering, lol.

No more drama

There's this R. Kelly song where he says, "Everywhere I go, trouble follows me."

I'm beginning to think I've got whatever he has. Well, despite the child molestation of course. (Alleged! I know!) Sometimes, I admit I bring the drama upon myself, but more times than not, it seems to seek me out.

Case in point: About a month after meeting someone - a fellow military spouse - I somehow found myself sitting outside her house, both of us wearing wigs and sweating in the summer heat, while staking out the husband she thought was cheating. We sat there a couple of hours, and when he didn't leave the house, she went inside. And that's just one example.

Things in my life that I think should be simple turn out to be mind-numbingly dramatic. The things I do to "give back" to the community seem to be wrought with contoversy and confusion. I wanted to start up the church step team. Not even a week passes before I get an angry phone call (albeit a controlled anger) from a parent demanding why her child wasnt on it. I want to be in a play - some equipment gets stolen and the cast is put in the middle of some feud between the director and a castmate. I volunteer to be a Girl Scout leader, and I seem to walk into a situation where some of the parents seem hell bent on making me and the other co-leader fail. Maybe it's the fact that we're the only two black leaders in the council. Or maybe it's this bad juju I apparently have that causes all the possible negative consequences of any given situation be thrust upon me.

Seriously, I sometimes think that if I could step outside of myself, my life would be like a movie. Well, not a very good movie. Because the dramatic turns would never make any sense.

"Wait a minute, she wakes up one morning and the car doesn't start? And the week before the neighbors called the police on her because the dog was barking? That's stupid. "

Stupid, but true. Even when I get sick, it does nothing to add to the dramatic arc.
"Woah, now she has TMJ!" or "I'm so scared for her. What if the toxoplasmosis acts up?"

And sometimes the situation is just plain uncanny. When Jamil and I were dating, a friend of mine and I went to Tampa to visit a high school friend. We ended up at a higher end black club and were having a good time. Being the broke-ster (and hustler) that I am, I got this dude to buy me a drink (apple martini if you're curious) and gave him a fake name and number. So, around 3 months or so later, me and Woodstock went to Tampa and hung out with the high school friend at the same club. Friend and I are chatting while Woodstock hits the bathroom when this guy sits beside us and starts smoking. We're not even paying him any attention when he starts talking to us. He rambles on for a minute, says something about some hoes, when I realize: this is the SAME dude from months ago! Seriously, how does this stuff happen to me?!?

Of course maybe I'm just being paranoid and I somehow unwittingly create all of this drama in my life because of a subconcious need for drama in my life.

Who knows. But what I do know is if you're hanging around me, watch yourself. Apparently I'm contagious. And I can't be held responsible for any drama I may bring into you life.