It's over now

Unless I get a phone call within the next 15 minutes, I am now unemployed.

I thought I’d gotten used to the constant waiting of Army life, but this is a new feeling. My job contract was set to expire today, but I’d been told from the day I was hired that it would be extended; that it would be no problem. But late last week told a different story. My department was scrambling to get a last minute approval because of a new rule requiring stateside approval for any hiring action because of budget cuts. Right now there is neither approval nor disapproval. Approval after today still means I’m fired – I can just be rehired later, which is something my bosses have already agreed to. If it comes back disapproved? Well, that’s a different story, meaning pretty much that I’m out of luck. And with the hiring freeze now in place, I’ll be hard pressed to find anything else. So now, I sit here 10 minutes away from being a housewife again. My feelings are conflicted. I’m upset – I’d hoped to be working at least until December. But at the same time, I could use a short break. Short meaning a month, not two years.

So I’ll go on vacation, the excitement of which has been partially squelched by this wait-and-see scenario, and hope that when I get back I’ll have a job.

Because no matter how much I complain – or what I complain about – I love to work. And when I’m not working, I feel a little less than what I am. I'd finished the outstanding memos that were to be written and created an out of office reply: "I will be out of the office for an indefinite period of time."

7 minutes until close of business the phone rings. At this point my hopes of hearing something today are almost shattered, but still my heart skips a beat.

"What do you mean you're out of the office indefinitely?!?" It's the community sergeant major. I tell him the situation and he demands why I didn't tell him sooner. It's all being worked out, I tell him. I thank him for calling. I send an e-mail to the staff saying essentially the same thing, but the tone in that e-mail, it's clear that I may not be back.

2 minutes before the end of what has turned out to be my last day of work I get an e-mail. With my system, a portion of the e-mail flashes on the screen. "Congratulations!" It reads.

I open it.

I am one of this month's volunteers of the month. Ain't that a b@#$h. I start to laugh. Too hard. I make myself stop when I feel it becoming one of those hysterical laughs that get louder and louder until it becomes crying.

4:00. My boss comes in and asks if I've heard anything. He got my e-mail. "You'll be back next week," he tells me.

I hope so. I pack up a few belongings - I'll pick up the rest next week - and turn off the light. I have to close the blinds to make sure it's off because they're activated by the light produced outside and for the past 2 days, I've accidentally left them on.

And I won't be there Monday to turn them off.

Still here

I am a source of power
I am excited journey
I am a rock of patience
I am a whisper singing

I am unbridled freedom
I am the thoughtful thinking
I am a love unshattered
I am the great orgasm

And if you don't recognize my presence, I am here
And if you don't recognize my presence, I am here

- Jill Scott, Beautifully Human

I've been getting my ass whooped. First by Woodstock and now, Da Riddler has joined in. And not one of those Go-get-my-belt whuppins. One of those -go-pick-a-switch-off-da-tree-and-don't-bring-the-smallest-or-two-get-twisted-together type of whuppins. First Woodstock started it, urging me to get on my game, scolding me when I didn't.

But my line sister REALLY tore into me in an IM convo. I'm green, she's pink.

nolimit :what's up?
Riddler:not much and u
nolimit: exhausted ... but writing class is at 6 so just waiting for that.
Riddler: cool, writing class
Riddler:oh i can't wait for the finished product
nolimit: and I'm such a slacker ... still where I was two days ago ... the class will be disappointed
Riddler : SHAPE UP NO LIMIT
Riddler: what's wrong with you
Riddler:what's the prob?
nolimit : I know ... I don't know - unmotivated but that's what the class is for, motivation. When I get home, so tired, and then too much other BS going on. Might quit the church thing ...
nolimit:i mean as church secretary
Riddler:blah blah blah
Riddler: excuses is all i'm hearing
nolimit : i know, not giving excuses, I realize my slacker tendencies ...
Riddler : anything worth having is worth working for
Riddler: stop talkin about it and be about, u've gotten soft since u left the states

Damn Riddler, it's like that? But she's right, and so is Woodstock. During my bachelorette party onne of my bridesmaids read a survey she had put together where Wood answered questions and we decided whether or not they were true. What really struck me, forever solidying my love for him was the answer to the question "What does she hate most." The answer? "When people say they're going to do things and don't do them."

And I've become what I hate most. So I'm making a change here and now. Today. And I'm gonna do the damn thang. As for the name change, sansamor was my past name, the name that shackled me to a past that I'm no longer living in. And as Wood put it, it's just sad.

So No Limit is back. Reading the IM over, even I had to admit that I've gotten soft. A punk.

No Limit gets what she wants.

No Limit wins a journalism scholarship without a portfolio - in fact with only poems written on torn out steno pad paper.

No Limit talks the Dean of the School into letting her keep her scholarship even after Effing up for two semesters.

No Limit holds down 3 jobs while in undergrad so she doesn' have to ask moms for money.

No Limit goes to grad school and gets a full-time job out of it and a university teaching position.

And if you're not about my progress, stay the hell out of my way, cause I'm coming through.

Doctor! Doctor!

Aaaah … the joys of military life just don’t stop! Every day in the newspapers I read about people complaining about how the military and the Department of Defense as a whole is cutting back – on jobs, on services, on everything. But what these people fail to mention is the FREE lessons they give us every day. Yes, you read correctly, FREE. I got such a lesson myself today. I ran out of birth control pills 2 or 3 weeks ago, which signaled to me that it was time for my yearly. So I call to schedule an exam. Only there’s a waiting list. Waiting list? For an exam? So I wait two weeks before someone calls me to set my appointment. Anyway, today the appointment rolls around and I have made plans to “skip” lunch so I don’t have to take my appointment time out of my sick leave. Ok, now I know that may sound kinda shady, but I might need that sick leave – you know, for my (cough, cough) trip to Italy next month. So I get there a little early like they suggest – 1:15 for a 1:30 appointment. They have me fill out all these forms, which I don’t really understand, because haven’t I filled these out before? Then they give me a survey to say what I like and dislike about the clinic. Now, I must say that was a smart move, giving out the surveys BEFORE people see the doctor. That way they have nothing bad to report yet. So I’m chilling, reading the only damn magazine in the place “Family Fun” like I care about how to make a little house out of sponges and make grass grow on it (Who would WANT that?!?). I glance at my watch, 1:45, and I’m getting a little antsy. I admit it, I hate to wait. But I’ve come to expect to wait a LITTLE bit. They take my vitals and my blood pressure is high. I think that was a sign – a sort of preemptive sign of my impending anger. After they take the vitals, you know it’s only a matter of time before you get to the doctor (or in my case nurse practitioner) right? Wrong. I sit, tapping my feet, glancing at the plasma TV that’s playing some cartoon movie, the same movie that was on when I got there that they have had time to start over and how in the hell can they afford a plasma TV but they can’t hire another doctor up in this piece? At 2 I go to the reception desk and ask if maybe I had the wrong appointment time. I don’t. So I’m getting heated. I mean HEATED. I haven’t been that mad in a long time, since ole’ girl almost made me go off on her that time. 2:15. 2:30.2:45. I go back up to the desk, as where the restroom is just as my name is being called into the exam room. “I’m sorry ma’m, something unexpected came up during her last exam,” Soldier somebody says. DO I LOOK LIKE I GIVE A FLYING F$%^?!?!? You should have told me that an hour ago! But I just look at him with that smile I used when I’m pissed the hell off. I think he got the point. So when I get in there I already have an attitude, and you know how hard it is to break out of pissed off mode once you’re deep off into it. Nurse tells me to take off my clothes, put on the robe, yada yada yada. Now I know it’s her job to say that, but inside I’m screaming, “I’m 26!!! I know that I need to put on the damn robe facing the front!!!” And what’s the point of going behind a curtain to take your clothes off, and even putting on the robe for that matter? You end up butt booty nekkid anyway! So when the nurse finally comes in to talk to me she’s asking me all these dumba$$ questions, like when was your last exam. How in the eff should I know? You got my chart in your hand. It’s right there, I see it. I heard you on your computer before. What were you doing if not looking up my patient history so you wouldn’t have to come in here and ask me all these dumba$$ questions? Then they rush through my exam, shoving the speculum in so damn hard I can still feel it and tell me not to start smoking before I leave. OMG!!! So what free lesson did the Army teach me today? Patience. Or at least they tried to.

Confessions - Part I

People ask me all the time, “Sansamor, what makes you tick? Tell us more about you” And I’ve decided to do just that on the blog. Actually, no one says that, and actually I’m bored and too lazy to come up with something interesting, so I’ll just tell you some random stuff. But didn’t the other reason make me seem way cooler?

1. When I was younger I wanted to be an actress or a rapper. In middle school I actually wrote a rap for a “Say No to Drugs” contest at the school and me and my group (me, Apple Jacks – don’t worry, not her rap name, and Lewis who lived down the street from Ms. Josephine ‘nem) won a pizza party.

2. Some people think I’m a snob before even getting to know me. And that hurts my feelings; which leads into #3,

3. Despite my “tough” exterior, my feelings are easily hurt.

4. I drank so much at my graduation party (from undergrad) that all I remember is bits and pieces: accidentally calling my mom while cursing people out and having to pretend she made it up; praying to the porcelain god after drinking shots that most people consider full cups; passing out in the car but waking up periodically to give my brother directions to the club – needless to say we didn’t make it. Ahhh …. Good times!

5. I’m afraid that if I write a book, everyone will hate it.

6. I got fired from a job because they said I caused $300 to be missing from the drawer, but they didn’t fire the white person who actually took the money from the customer. So I sentenced the store to “pay me” reparations with $300 worth of merchandise.

7. I almost got my license suspended because I had an outstanding speeding ticket in the States before I moved to Germany.

8. People who brag get on my nerves.

9. People who brag about their husband’s rank or what kind of car they drive REALLY get on my nerves.

10. It annoys me when people assume I’m a secretary. Maybe I should put my degrees on my wall at work.

11. My mom found two “books” I wrote when I was in like elementary school. I cried when she read me a story from one of them.

12. I hate for people to see me cry.

13. I listen to Avril Lavigne.

14. I really, really hate school, but want to go back to get either a J.D. or a Ph.D. A Ph.D. in what, I don’t know.

Anyway, that’s enough of letting you all in MY bidness for now. What are some of YOUR confessions?

Gin & Juice - AKA Don't fry chicken when you're drunk

After an exhausting day, I am FINALLY at home, after lugging groceries from the underground garage to our apartment. When I get inside, I see the hubby on the computer, draining the last of a MGD. I’ve had a long day and he’s already set the standard so I decide to make myself a little after-work drink as well. Only I always forget that my drinks get you to’ up. And this one was no exception. Mixed up a little concoction of OJ, citrus vodka and triple sec, with a splash of grenadine. Thought I’d be OK because I used the Smirnoff and not the Grey Goose, but dammit if my juice to alcohol ratio is out of whack and by the time the chicken finished, marinating I was feeling pretty dang good.

So, the oil’s in the pan heating and I start to season and batter the chicken. By the time I put the first piece of chicken in the oil, I’m actually tipsy. But I’m still trying to maintain. So I got the chicken sizzling, mashing the potatoes and have peas boiling on the stove. But I’m also totally violating the cardinal rule of the kitchen – pot handles should never face out! So of course I almost knock over the chicken in it’s hot a$$ grease AND the peas. I regain my composure in enough time to prevent any catastrophes, but it’s a struggle. I guess the bratwurst I ate for lunch wasn’t good enough to let me sip on a lil’ something without overdoing it.

It’s going OK, despite my failed attempt to get on the computer and fry chicken at the same time – I kept envisioning myself typing away as a grease fire blazed in kitchen. And in Germany, there is no law that each apartment has to be equipped with a fire extinguisher. I was told that we had one for the tenants to share – and it’s in the basement. It got kind of perilous when I tried to make gravy, though. I had lots of grease in the pan and I didn’t want to pour it out because I wanted it to fry a second batch of chicken the next day. So I figure I’ll take the grease off the heat, get a smaller pan, put some drippings in it and make the gravy. Only when I started to do it, the grease was sloshing everywhere – much like my mind at this point. I’m able to set it down without starting a fire and proceed to make my gravy. So I’m putting in flour, stirring it around as usual, with my cup of water next to me. And I put in more and more flour until it had thickened up a bit. But right before putting in the water, a clear voice came through in my muddled mind – “Doesn’t it thicken up AFTER I put the water in?” It does. So I have this thick mess of flour and grease, and I hear the hubby turning off the water in the shower. So, what do I do? The only thing I could do – throw it away.

“I was going to make gravy but I changed my mind,” I told him.

The meal was damn good though – but don’t try this at home - you might end up burning the house down.

Mad World

Wow.

In two weeks, I may not have a job.

And I found this out from the newspaper.

According to the article the firings are being announced “as early as possible to allow our affected employees and their families to prepare.”

WTF? Since when did two weeks allow you enough time to do anything, let alone find a new job? And it’s not like in the states where you can pick up the classifieds and start making phone calls. Most jobs over here for Americans (the ones who don’t speak German anyway) are government jobs – the same ones being cut. So what do I do?

On the one hand, I am telling myself not to worry about it – that God will make a way for , that this may be a blessing in disguise, or that I won’t even be affected by this. But at the same time, I can’t help but wonder – and worry – at least a little bit.

The positive me (yes, there IS one) says that if I lose my job, what’s the worst that can happen? We don’t pay rent or utilities so we don’t NEED my paycheck to survive. And we are trying to move into a new place, a move that will be at government expense, that is big enough for a home office. A place where I can go and write and actually have the time to devote to it. Positive me says maybe this is the break I needed, the thing to get me off my butt and push myself to write until I finish something – not having to worry about squeezing in time between work and church and sorority and FRG and just plain Army stuff.

But the negative me, the one I’m trying to push down, says what are you going to do without a job? Although we don’t need my check, it was nice. I could finally buy what I wanted, not having to worry about the balance in my account and whether I should write a check for those groceries because I get paid tomorrow and it won’t hit my account until Friday. Negative me remembers my first few months living in Germany – months spent without a job, months spent depressed. Negative me says, what if I spend all day in my “home office” and come out with nothing. Or I get called on to do even more than I’m doing now, because in the world’s eyes I’m not working, no matter how dedicated I try to remain – they will say Sansamor can do it, she doesn’t have a job OR kids.

For now, I’ll try to hold negative me off, I’ll try not to worry about it, I’ll try to stay calm. After all, my boss could come back in an hour and say, don’t worry about it. You’re permanent now, not temporary – they can’t fire you.

But for now, I’ll wait, and I’ll pray – because really – there’s nothing else I can do.

The Baddest B@#$h

Yeah, I know I've been MIA for a while, but I have been BUSY!! Why the baddest b#$%$h, you might ask? Because I've been on FI-YAH! First off, I've been super stressed about everything I've been doing lately. So it feels good that some of it has started to pay off. I've been a little worried about my job, but I decided a while back to put it in God's hands. See, the job I have is temporary and is supposed to end 30 June. That means I will be out of a job in a little over a month. But, I know in my heart that's not going to happen. So, anyway, ignoring all possibilities that my job may soon be over, I dove headfirst into my biggest "assignment" yet. Like I've said before, my job title is customer relations, leaving most people to think that I'm a receptionist. But I write policies, make sure they're adhered to, grant exceptions to policy, and somehow, have been spearheading my division's participation in the FDP. Since only Woodstock and RR2 know what the hell I'm talking about, let me explain. I mentioned that the guys here will be deploying soon (although it's been delayed, which means I have at least another couple months with my baby; YAY!!). FDP means Family Deployment Preparation, a half-day thing that all the married couples come through to give them information about what to expect from the different agencies in the community. I have to do the briefing for my department, which means twice a day, I speak for 10 minutes to up to 200 bored-out-of-their minds married couples. But I found something out after agonizing since January over the thought of doing this - I'm pretty good. As much as I talk, people often find it hard to believe that I don't like speaking in public, but I don't. I almost froze up a couple of Sundays ago while doing the church announcements (The Pastor was LOOKING at me!!) And I often have flashbacks of one day yeeeeaaarrrssss ago when I led the choir at church. .....

.......As soon as the music began, I started laughing. And I couldn't stop. Most people I've met since college have never seen this side of me, but I'm a giggle box. And sometimes, once I start laughing, I cannot stop. Seriously. So, I'm leading this song, and laughing hard as hell, trying to make the congregation think that my shaking shoulders are a result of me being so into the spirit. I think it's OK, for a minute, until we get to a part in the song where it's a kind of call and response thing. I try to keep it moving, but when I open my mouth, the only thing that comes out are giggles. I mean, I'm almost guffawing, while trying to lead the choir. So I do the only thing I can think of - I make that "keep singing this part" hand signal over and over until I calm down enough to finish the song.

So this little episode replays itself in my mind everytime I get up to speak in front of more than, say, 5 people. But I do it, and I'm good!

"You've done this before," said the guy in charge, smiling at me. Afterward, my boss gives me thumbs up. I do it again that afternoon, but instead of 4 stars, it's more like 2 1/2. There are fewer people; they look pissed off, and it seems like the Colonel's eyes are boring into me. I imagine him thinking, "What in the hell is she talking about?" So I stumble over a few words, I say a few too many umms, and I almost forget to introduce the Commander as the speaker after me.

But it's OK. I survived. I didn't beat myself up or drown my sorrows in the Snickers miniatures we have on our table for customers. I laugh it off, go home and go to sleep. And when I wake up, I make myself a strong cup of coffee, go into work and do it again.

And that time, I kicked ass.

Mo' Money, Mo' Problems

When I decided as a teenager that I wanted to be a journalist, I’d resigned myself to the fact that I probably wouldn’t make a lot of money. Reading books where young reporters ate beans out of cans to candlelight, I was content when my first full-time job (two jobs actually – one part-time) paid enough for me to pay rent on an apartment the day it was actually due (no post-dated check required), eat out, and know at the end of the month, I still had a little bit of money in my bank account. But what did surprise me was when I told a friend how much my full-time job was paying.

“Oh, Sansamor,” she said, eying me with pity in her eyes. I think she said more, but that’s all I remember. That moment of pity; that split second when I felt like everything I stood for was being reflected in my paltry paycheck. I’d never cared about money before, but in that instant I felt naked – I felt unworthy, and I didn’t like it. I rationalized that I was doing what I loved and that it was only a stepping stone for something greater. I was writing, I was editing, and I supervised (Ok, only two interns, but STILL!). And although she made more money than I did (I assumed based on the reaction, but I never asked) she wasn’t doing what she loved. I also had only myself and a small dog to support, while she had a child and a car note. Even so, I never again told anyone how much money I make.

An article I read in the Fashion & Style section of the New York Times tells me that I’m not the only one feeling alienated by the size of my bank account. The article talks about “Keeping up with the Joneses” and how people of different economic status often feel uncomfortable, some about their wealth, others – like me – about their lack of it. A friend confided in me recently that she and her long-time best friend just had a falling out over money. Friend (I’ll call you DR just in case you’re trying to keep this on the low!) has been well taken care of by her parents. They were blessed enough to be able to provide her with a car during college and later, after she graduated from Grad school and was working. Well, apparently BF thought DR was acting “spoiled” when she lamented about not being able to get the new car she wanted. Now they haven’t spoken in weeks.

When did money become the measuring stick by which we measured our worth? Not that there is anything wrong with money – we all need some – but I don’t appreciate being made to feel like less of a person because of my perceived bank account. And I’m sure those more fortunate of us shouldn’t be made to feel bad because they didn’t grow up broke.

Here, in a military community, I think it’s even worse. Everyone tries to one-up the other, getting the latest BMW, Mercedes or Volvo. Buying up the Coach and Dooney bags as they come into the PX, and sporting fake Louis Vuitton and Christian Dior that we KNOW they got in the back room of some store in Czech. I’ve even been at a party where someone broke out the laptop to pull up the military pay scale so they could compare their pay to the rest of the guests!

Even though I make more money now, that’s not what defines me. But sometimes it’s hard not to get swept up in the comparison. Several weeks ago, an acquaintance speaking about his car (butter leather seats, heated seats standard) called my car a piece of shit. I’ve had my little ’96 Mazda Protégé since I was a freshman in college, and it has admittedly seen hard times, but it still stung. I was tempted to shoot back, we could afford something else if we wanted to – something better than what they have, but what would that have proven?

Just keep this in mind the next time you’re met by awkward silence from a friend after you make a crack about their financial status, or low-paying job, or when you look at a friend’s engagement ring, silently thinking how small it is.

We know what you’re thinking.

And it doesn’t feel good.

Hey Mama

Anyone who knows me, also knows that I'm not too keen on children. I'm totally not ready for my own yet, and can usually only take others' in small doses - no offense to my friends with kids. But you already know this. Plus, your kids aren't bad ass food court kids either, but I digress. Even so, I have buried in the deep recesses of my mind that I will have kids eventually. However, even deeper in the recesses is the fear that I will be the worst.mother.ever.

This seems to be evidenced by what I will refer to as "Plant Cemetary."

The Army is doing this thing to promote clean-up and beautification so they gave out free flowers. My co-worker, being nice, picked up some for me. Me, being a smart ass, motioned to the plant/tree next to my computer.

"Don't you see how this plant looks?" I could practically see the damn thing dying right before my eyes. I think I've watered the plant probably 5 X's in the 7 months I've worked there. And 3 of those times was with carbonated water I'd left sitting in a cup overnight.

But I figured, what's the worst that could happen and we planned to meet at our cars after work so i could get the flowers.

The "flowers" turned out to be 4 plants in a plastic thing. I saw maybe one flower out of the four.

"Are they going to get more flower-y?" I asked, my nose turned up?
Then she hands me a bag of soil. SOIL!!!!
"What am I supposed to do with that?"

You have to re-pot them, she answered.

WTF?

Now at that point I should have politely declined the flowers, but no, I try to be positive.

"Maybe I'll start gardening," my obviously delusional alter ego says. "I can use it as a
way to relax."

So I decide to take the plants home. Except, you know, I had a meeting after work so I had a lot of stuff to bring inside, so I left the plants in the car until the morning. Only, when the morning comes, I'm REALLY busy because I had to put a relaxer in my hair. I'd been rocking the head scarf thing all this week, and you know that just SCREAMS bad hair day when you do it too long. Either that or I'd converted to Islam, but either way, it ain't right. So, I'll just get the plants after work.

Only when I get off work, they're DEAD. I thought for sure I left a window down ....


And the lady at church had the NERVE to ask me to be a part of the children's ministry - really, would YOU want me watching your kids?

Caught Up

Well, I’ve gone and done it. When I got to Germany almost a year ago to the day, it was as if a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. For the first time in my life I had nothing to do! And although, I wanted to work really, really bad, I kind of enjoyed that feeling for a while. And now, I’m right back where I started and I don’t even know how it got like this.

My situation is like that of an overachieving high school student. You know the ones – play varsity sports, in the band, holds an office in student government, all while holding a part-time job. Except I’m not an overachiever. In fact, I’d almost call myself an underachiever. So how did I end up so involved?

Right before I left Tallahassee, I had almost reached the breaking point. My insides were what it must feel like for a skimpy triangle top struggling to cover some DDs – as in stretched to the limit. Knowing that it could snap at any moment. I was teaching a 7 a.m. class twice a week, after which I went to work full-time as associate editor of a weekly paper. Full-time meaning that I often worked at home after close of business and on weekends. I was also active with my sorority and OES chapter, including meetings, fundraisers and the like. So when I got here, doing nothing was like a breath of fresh air.

But slowly, that nothing became a whole lot. And a whole lot is now more than I think I’ve ever done in my life. At my first “Army spouse” get together, otherwise known as FRG stuff (Family Readiness Group), I was asked to be FRG leader. Not knowing enough about it, I agreed. That’s how they trap you I guess. As an officer’s wife, I’m “automatically” a part of the coffee group. In a moment of tedium-induced panic, I volunteered to be coffee group treasurer. “Anybody want to be treasurer? Who wants to be treasurer? Anybody? Anybody?” And so on and so forth for 10 minutes.

And of course, my first mission was to join the AKA graduate chapter here, where we meet monthly in a city 2 hours away. Now that we’re stepping, it looks like every Saturday is going to be filled.

I’ve also become the church secretary/PR person. So I’m pretty much in charge of anything administrative that comes out of the church, like church bulletins and stuff.

So my schedule is pretty much: Monday – nothing – except for steering committee once a month
Tuesday – German class; Wednesday – 2 days gone with FRG and Steering committee; Thursday – Church ; Friday – church twice a month; Saturday – prayer (although I rarely go); once a month sorority meetings; step practice; Sunday – church; grocery shopping; rest.

Not to mention that I work full-time, full-time wife, chef, etc. etc. and need to show both Woodstock and Taz some TLC on the regular. I’m getting tired just thinking about it. Of course all this leaves me with little “me” time and the me time I do have needs to be spent in the gym, which of course, it’s not, so I am getting fatter and fatter each week, and really, I’m not a cute fat.

So, what to do, what to do? Really, all of this stuff started out innocently enough but has somehow grown to overwhelming proportions. I don’t want to have that stressed out feeling all the time, which was all too common for me in Tallahassee. And I have little time for the stuff I really want to do like going to this writing workshop on Thursdays.

Woodstock says I say yes to much, and maybe that’s true. But now that I’ve agreed to do stuff, how do I maintain my sanity and still get everything done?

Soldier

I was thinking about that Destiny’s Child song, talking about how they “need a soldier.” And I got news for ‘em. You don’t want one. It’s not fun. Trust me. I love my soldier-husband, but these days, they eventually have to do some soldiering. And this time that means Iraq.

I thought I’d sufficiently prepared myself for the future. I had my game face on, my mind at peace and my heart sufficiently hardened.

And then I went to the store, and all my steely resolve crumbled.

Walking into the PX, there is a stack of Walking into the PX, there is a stack of Gorilla footlockers there to greet customers right up front. They’re kinda like a hardcore, plastic version of those trunks we all took to college. There were other things around, Hooahs (They’re like the Army version of baby wipes – lame, I know) and various products they would need when they left. And when we drive on-post now, there are huge crates lining the sides of the roads. The crates they use to pack up their stuff and ship it to Iraq. I knew all along they would be leaving soon, but now there’s real physical evidence that he’s going to be gone for a year. And just when we were really starting to like each other.

It’s taken me almost this entire year we’ve been together to get into the swing of this marriage thing. And it’s been work. And I’m the person who has said many times that I don’t like to work hard unless I’m getting paid. See part of the problem? I’m a weird mixed breed of personalities. I need lots of attention but I’m a loner. I tell it like it is, but my feelings are easily hurt. I’m a control freak, but I don’t like making all the decisions. And for those of you who know me, when you put all that together, I’m not the easiest person to get along with. I tend to come across as rude. I’ve had to work on not being the person who walks into the room and starts asking for stuff before saying hello. Or asking about taking the recycleables out before saying good morning. It’s not that I’m TRYING to being rude, my mind is just always racing, thinking about the next thing that needs to be done, and sometimes that other stuff just comes out before my sense of decency has time to catch up.

I’m also a creature of habit. I like to do the same things, at the same time, in my own special way, everyday. When I lived alone, the routine was set: Come home. Walk Taz. Take 30-minute nap with the TV on, waking up just in time to catch Girlfriends reruns. Cook. Eat. Talk on phone. Shower. Talk on phone. Sleep.

I wasn’t really used to having someone in my space, messing up my flow. Only it wasn’t MY space anymore. It was ours. And I couldn’t just turn the TV off just because there was a game playing or turn up Avril Lavigne real loud when I was in one of my moods because now I had to be respectful of someone else. Plus, I’m irritable. And it doesn’t take much irritate me – bad hair day, fat day, can’t-find-the-right-outfit day – is enough to set me off. But I’ve been working on those things. I’ve gotten to the point where if I’m out somewhere and he’s at home, I’m EXCITED to get home to him, even if we aren’t going to be doing anything. When it’s 11:45, I get a little grin on my face because I know he’ll be stopping by for lunch at any moment.

And now he’s leaving. And I don’t feel like I can really talk to anyone about it.

Where I live this is life. It’s the norm. These people have been through this 3,4,5,6 or more times, but this is my first time. I’m nobody special here; my situation is not unique. So I’m feeling like, why burden somebody with real problems? And “outsiders” really don’t get it because they’ve never been through it. Hell, I don’t even “get it” yet. It’s easy for them to just say oh, no and move right on to the next thing because they’re not living it. And for those who ARE living it, who have kids to deal with, who have to play both parents to children who just want to know why daddy keeps leaving, I’m just another whiny new wife who thinks the world revolves around her. So I don’t say anything. I just go on like everything is OK, which I guess it is right now. But how about after sleeping in bed alone for a month? Or what about when I hear someone has been hurt or worse? I try not to think about it, but it’s so close it’s hard not to worry, and it’s hard to stay strong all the time.

My intention in starting this blog was just to write about how I feel about things, and keep my friends up to date on the happenings with me. I never wanted to be an “Army wife” blog about how hard it is during the deployment, and oh, woe is me. But the truth is, no matter how much I hate the term, I am an Army wife. And sometimes, that’s all I’m going to think about. So bear with me friends.

And if you want to help me feel better, send me tapes of the new seasons of all the new shows. Cause you know we ain’t got cable.

Pimpin' All Over the World Part III - The End!

We woke up fairly early in order to get ready for the trip to Jandia to go to the African Market. Everything on the island was like a bus trip, so this was no exception. When we got there, it was like this huge shopping center. With the beach right across the street. The first thing we saw when we got there were the sales people setting up for the market. Actually, there was a group of African women arguing. We couldn’t understand what they were saying, but they were pissed. And they were braiding white people’s hair. Fun! One thing to remember in this type of situation. Don’t look at them. Seriously, walk with your head down and look at the merchandise at the corner of your eye. Because as soon as they spot you looking at something, it’s on.

“Miss, miss. Come, I give you good deal. What you want? I give you good deal.”
“Hola. Morgen. Good morning,” they went through the obligatory greeting in about 3 languages cause they didn’t know what language we spoke. “Where you from? The UK?”
And to Wood, “Hey, come here my friend. My friend for you I make good deal. This handmade my friend.” And they kept calling him something. Every table we passed they called out to him, “Dell Boy” or “Der boy” or something. I don’t know what the hell they were saying. So we decide to want to buy a couple things. And the negotiations began. He wanted these pictures made out of sand and they guy says they’re like $25 or $30 each. (Note: Ok the prices aren’t in $$, it’s Euro but I can’t find the euro symbol) Wood says we’ll think about it and come back. Those are the magic words. They don’t want you to walk away from the table because they’re scared somebody else will get you. So Wood negotiates to $30 for 2 and our guy walks over to help the next marks customers while we figure out which ones we want. So we pick 2 out and new guy comes to us talking about $40 for both. “My friend,” he says sadly, eyes pleading when we tell him about the previously agreed upon $30.

Then we decide we want some type of sculpture thing. Again, Wood works the magic to get the guy down from like $90 to $65 I think. The guy relents but the whole time he’s yelling about how it’s handmade. But, he adds, “For you, my friend, OK.” Like we don’t know we paying mark ups out the ass for that stuff. But it’s cool, because part of the fun is the bargaining, right?

So after walking the beach, which is again, naked old people city, we decide to find some food. And we settle on Casa Juan. We order a couple of individual sized pizzas and Woods gets a local beer and I get Sangria. When the Sangria comes, to my surprise – and admittedly my delight – it’s a ½ liter. Damn. Who knew? And I couldn’t let it go to waste right? I mean there’s starving kids in the world who would LOVE to get a ½ liter of Sangria. Or something like that. So we eat our pizzas and this delicious warm, fresh bread with some kinda garlic sauce. So good.

That’s pretty much what we did all day. Next day, we got up hella early and snuck food out of the dining area cause we were supposed to go on the Catamaran ride (basically a big sailboat). Only it’s raining hard as hell. After waiting 20 minutes to see if the bus would come, this lady pulls up and jumps out of the car. Trip cancelled. So we spend the day doing a bunch of nothing at the hotel. Well, actually we pretty much finished up the book we’ve been reading at the same time, Teach Me How to Love You by Thomas Weeks, Juanita Bynum’s husband. It’s a good book for married or dating folks looking for marital advice from a Christian point of view. The first couple chapters are hard to get through, but after that it’s pretty much smooth sailing. Ok, let’s skip to our next to the last day cause this is getting long.
We get up early, skipping breakfast again, to make it on time for the Catamaran trip. The sun is shining, birds chirping, the whole nine, so there seems to be no chance of our trip getting rained out again. So the bus comes and we are on our way. We ride for like 7 minutes and stop, so we’re like, yes! That was quick. But no, we stop at like 20 hotels picking people up before we get to the port or whatever it’s called like an hour later. But when we get on the boat, we see something we haven’t in a week. Native English speakers! Yes, they’re from the UK and are still hard to understand, but dammit we can hold a conversation! Wood helps them get the sail up (he scrong!) and we’re off. It’s fun just kinda being on the water in the sun, although it’s hella windy and I have my poncho on so I don’t get cold. Once we stop, they let people get off and snorkel, fish and Jet ski. Me and Wood opt for the Jet Ski. I’m first up somehow, but I enjoy it. The water is FREEZING but I handle minez.

We eat this pretty good meal they cook for us on the boat, and head back. But they play some kind of game that Wood somehow gets volunteered for. His team – the men – lose, but they all get to share a bottle a wine. They give me a cup too. Then he gives me his cup, which makes 4 cups of wine counting the two I had with lunch. Add that to the sun beaming down, and I’m officially tipsy. But what better way to end a vacation right?
Can’t wait for the next one!

Pimpin' all over the world Part II - The trip

So, I know I’m way behind on posting about my trip, but things keep coming up and it’s going to take a minute to do it right, so I decided to just make it short and sweet.

To refresh your memory, me and the hubby went to Fuerteventura, Canary Islands. The hotel was a good 45 minute bus ride from the airport, so by the time we got to the hotel we were tired.as.hell. But when we get there, it was like paradise. German paradise. My German co-workers booked the trip, which explains why we were the only Americans there. We seemed to be the only Americans on the whole island actually, which we couldn’t hide since we A) Didn’t speak German and B) weren’t African. The only other blacks we saw were African. But we pretty much keep to ourselves so it was cool.

The second day we went to the beach. Nice. We were wearing shorts and open toe shoes, both of which have pretty much been no no’s since like October here. Although the coworkers warned me about what to expect on the beach, nothing could have prepared me for what we saw. Nakedness. Everywhere. And by mostly old people. There’s nothing like seeing a 60-year old man walking naked down the beach. And I’d be happy if I never saw another man in bikini-style swim trunks EVER. It was like a sea of penises. But not in a good way. Ugh!

I started questioning my hairstyle about this point (some ghetto flips I let this my new hairdresser put in). Note to self: Next time you go on a beach vacation, get braids. Plus, I forgot to bring a comb. Idiot.

Days 3: The third day it started to rain so we stayed at the hotel. Since we were there all day, we had time to really observe the Twilight Zone-ish behavior that seemed to be going on. The “feeding” schedule went like this.
Breakfast 0800-1000
Snack time 1100-1230
Lunch 1300-1500
Tea time 1600-1700
Dinner 1800-2000
So pretty much, you could be eating at almost every moment of the day. And that’s exactly what they did. Right after breakfast, the Germans would jump into the cold ass pool, or lie naked in the sun by the pool. They would even change clothes out there. Like seriously. Take off the swimsuit, put on underwear, put on real clothes. Weird. Anyway, about 10 minutes before lunch was to start, everyone would appear at once, like locusts swarming toward the dining area. It actually reminded me a little of Night of the Living Dead or something, where the zombies seem to be mindlessly drawn to brains. Except in this case it was food. And they actually got their plates and formed a line until they were told they could eat. Again – weird.
That night we sat through a presentation – in German – to sign up for some activities. We decided to do the African Market and go on a Catamaran. Then we went to the bar and had at it. Drink of the night: La Cocktail Canaria or something like that. Muy bueno.

Ok, this is super long so more in the next post! Adios!

Guess Who's Back?

As the plane landed, I had a strange sense of foreboding. And sure enough, as soon as we got back to Schweinfurt, the shit hit the proverbial fan. Back from vacation 1 hour, and I’m already feeling that deep stress I get when things aren’t going right. First of all: the party’s cancelled. Over and out. And I’m pissed, but still kinda relieved. Pissed because I totally did stuff in advance for a change. I didn't procrastinate on anything! This coming from someone who would research and write entire papers in college the night before it was due. Without a computer (thanks Riddler!). Anyway, while I was gone, everyone voted on whether to cancel the party or not. Luckily, there was only one “why didn’t you have all this stuff figure out before now” comment, but I didn’t feel good about the whole thing nonetheless. I feel like I let the sorority down. Like I stuck my neck out and got it cut off. And it wasn’t even my fault! Turns out, there are like 3 ANNUAL events going on the same night. I also got one “why didn’t you check the calendar” but I did! We came out with the event, and all of a sudden all this other stuff is going on. And there stuff is cheaper. And they can serve alcohol. But hey, it’s OK. Enough of this self-pitying and feeling sorry for myself. It’s over.

These 5 guys just got arrested for hazing. HAZING!!!!
And they’ve been arrested under this new law that says hazing can be classified as a felony. This is bad. Very bad. Some of these guys were just weeks from graduating. Although what they did was horrible – reading the affidavits shocked me – I feel like these are 5 smart brothers going down for something very, very stupid that’s going to affect them for the rest of their lives. Damn.

Don’t worry, it’s not all bad news with me. I just need a little time to get my thoughts together to recap my trip, which was GREAT by the way. Got me a little tan, had a little fun, you know. PLUS, I got my shoes in the mail. And I’m wearing them today. They say there’s always a silver lining, and if mine has to be shoes, so be it.

Hail Mary

"I ain't a killer but don't push me." - Tupac

Well, I tried not to let outside situations get me down so close to my vacation, but I’ve been unable to avoid it. They've done it this time. I’ve been planning this Sorority party for months. Since November to be exact. Before I brought it to the chapter, I wanted to make sure it was possible to do everything so I looked into the venue, found a caterer, came up with the theme, etc. It was supposed to be something kind of like Capital City Soul in Tallahassee for anyone who live(s) there. It starts with some live poetry and music, gourmet hor d’eourves and the like. Then as the evening progresses, the DJ turns it up and then it’s a hip hop/r&b/rap free for all. So I bring it to the chapter, they love it (yay!) and I put the wheels in motion.

I again check with the venue, bartender, DJ in January/February timeframe. So the event is scheduled for May, so my usually procrastinating ass is really trying to do things on time. So in March, these MFs come up with all this stuff, talking about how we need to be registered as a Private Organization in our “city”.

OK, let’s pause for a quickie course in all the BS we’re required to do. The Sorority is allowed to do fundraisers in Germany by the parent organization. So all the "cities" are the kids. A Private Organization, known hereinafter as a PO, is for the purposes of this explanation, an entity that can make money that’s not military. And it’s not really a city, but I’ll call it that b/c it’s easier. Got it? Good.

So, like I said the parents said we can do the shit, but the kids are tripping and they make us go through all this MFing hoops, right? So finally they say OK, you can “exist” in our city. But then the MFs come around and say we can’t serve alcohol at the event? WTF? Now, I’m no alcoholic (haha, really, I’m not I promise) but who in the happy hell is going to a MFing event where they can’t drink? This is not a MFing Alcoholics Anonymous meeting bitches, N****as, be wanted to get twisted! Ugh!!!! And on top of that, I find out there are two other events scheduled for the same date. Now, there are only so many black folks around here willing to pay more than $10 to get into something so that really f’s up the potential customers, Nahmean?!? So, I’m thinking we have to cancel it, right? Because yeah, we can do it just because it’s supposed to be in a month, and just so we can say we did, but really, do we wanna do something that flops? I know “us” and we are quick to write off some lame shit. Trust, I have done it MANY times.

So, what should I do? Cancel it? Let it ride and hope they don’t spread the word that we’re lame? I don’t know. But they can't stop me, oh no. I'm gonna come out with this same event in another city, like Ha! You could have had this business in your city b*****es! And they wonder why nobody likes to use their stuff to do anything. Anyway, I'm going to try to put this on the backburner so I can have a good time this week. But really, don't these MFs know who they're messing with?

Holla!

Pimpin' All Over the World

Riddle me this: What's better than eating, drinking and lounging all day, every day for a week?
Answer: Doing it in the Canary Islands b@#$%es!! Ha ha just kidding.

But seriously, me and Woodstock are taking a week-long vacation to the Canary Islands in 4 1/2 days, and I'm finally able to get excited! We're taking a little shopping trip on Friday to prepare and get our warm clothes together. It's still cold here so I won't know how to act if I can go somewhere without a coat, let alone wear shorts and a swimsuit. If you don't know, this is the vacation we get before the hubby leaves for a year so we have to do it up big. We're going to Fuerteventura on this trip hooked up by my German co-workers. We got the all-inclusive package so all our food and drinks (read: martinis, daquiris and all other things vodka and rum) are ours for the taking. And you know how we do it!

So here's the hotel, which is supposedly a 4 star. Although in Europe, those stars seem loosely based. But I got a good vibe! A few people I know have gone and loved it, so now I'm just counting the days. Plus, another positive? No body issues! Not that I don't have them, but Europeans don't have them. So for this trip, I'm European. Wearing my bikini without a care in the world. No worrying about stomach, thighs or whatever. I'm soooo excited!!! But don't worry, I'll post some pics after the trip. And hey, maybe I can brush off some of that high school Spanish for the trip.

"Hola. Como esta? Donde es the Vodka?"

Holla!

I'm coming out

So, here is part 2 of my awakening. Here is part 1 if you missed it.
During my bridal shower/bachelorette party, there was a portion where my future betrothed answered questions about me. The bridesmaids read them aloud and compared my answers and their answers with what he had written. One of the questions was, “What do I hate the most?” The answer: “When people say they’re going to do something and don’t.” Now I’ve become what I hate most.

Before I moved here, I applied for all kinds of jobs related to journalism. In a military community overseas, it’s hard as hell to find a job in your field. Even if you are qualified. So I took a job as a test examiner, giving soldiers tests, grading tests, giving ACTs, GEDs, that type of thing. Then 3 months into it, I got a call for a job interview. Overseas, getting a “GS” job is like finally finding the match to a pair of favorite shoes you haven’t worn in a while. And although the position was listed as temporary, I was told off the bat that I would probably get it extended, unless I just totally didn’t work out. The only problem is that it wasn’t in my field. But it paid good and it was in my city so I accepted it. The week before I was supposed to in-process into the job, I got an e-mail about my perfect job (well, here anyway. Not in the real world of course). Public Affairs specialist. Pays the same amount as my job and I’d be editing the community paper, as well as performing various other PA tasks (i.e. writing speeches and stuff for the base commander). And around the same time, a reporter from the other newspaper (military affiliated, but not military run) told me he was leaving and that I should apply for his job. But there were a few glitches.
1. I’d already verbally agreed to the other job.
2. There was no guarantee I’d get this new job, so if I backed out of the other one, I might end up ass out. I was pretty confident I could get the government job, though. As for the newspaper, I didn’t meet the requirements on paper, but my mantra is if I can get to the interview, I got ‘em. But I digress.
3. The other jobs were in other cities between 30-45 minutes away. Now, that’s not really a long commute, but it would mean that I wouldn’t see Woodstock before leaving for work and then would get home around 6. We go to sleep at 10. And we couldn’t eat lunch together. I’m not usually one of those chicks that has to be under my man all the time, but I had to put into account that we’d have less than a year to spend together (not including field exercises) before he deployed for a year.
4. The other government job was temporary with no possible extension.

So I took the job I have now. And I feel like a sell out. I’m not passionate about many things, so when I gave up my true passion – writing, it felt kind of like a lost a little bit of my soul. Which is where what I hate most comes in. I’m a big believer in the “Don’t talk about it, be about it mantra.” And I’m not being about it. Tha Riddler has been on me for like 5 years to start writing a book. So why don’t I? My excuse was that I didn’t have a laptop (cause you know all writers gotta have a cute little Mac Powerbook. They do on TV, and what makes them better than me?).

But I’m tired of reading all these blogs about people doing what they love, sisters doing big thangs, while I’m letting the world pass me by. I’m tired of sitting depressed, letting stupid excuses hold me back from my dreams. So no more excuses. I have to get off my mental ass and do what makes me happy. So hold me to it. Make me write. An essay, an article, a short story, SOMETHING. I mean I’m about to have a whole year just me and Taz. I have to show some type of productivity.

And don’t worry, you chicks will be in the acknowledgements. The ones of you who comment anyway (hint, hint).

Holla!

Daddy

March 31 came and went without incident. I made an off-hand comment to the hubby about it, but other than that, I didn’t think much of it. And then Sunday came. A woman was visiting our church from the States. Although she turned out to be the pastor’s mother in law, he called her mama.

It made me think of my dad.

March 31st would have been his 50th birthday. Although it’s been almost 12 years, every now and then something happens that makes me think of him, and miss him, as if so much time hadn’t already passed. I wonder if he would be proud of me, finishing college, going on to get a master’s degree, working, getting married. I like to think he would be. I imagine him calling Woodstock just to talk. I think they could relate, at least on some level. Before my father started teaching again, he worked at the Mississippi Army Ammo plant – maybe making the type of ammo Wood works with on a daily basis. I imagine him coming to visit me here. As a foreign language teacher, he spoke German, French and Spanish. He would have loved to have the chance to speak those languages in their native countries. I could call him, ask to speak to him and German, and practice my language skills. Maybe I would know French by now. I took it in college but didn’t want to continue because it didn’t fit into my plan. Even though my teacher said I had a “gift.” I wonder if he would have been disappointed that I quit.

Would my life be different? What about my relationship with men? Would I have gone to college where I did? Become so independent so fast? I don’t know. I know God does things for a reason, and I want to believe that maybe I took something positive away from his death. But I still wonder sometimes.

I imagine a different life where my dad teaches me how to drive a stick instead of my pastor. And we go shopping for my first car together, because unlike my mom, he knows something about cars. He helps me move into my dorm room, and subsequently 4 or 5 apartments after I graduate. Instead of my brothers, he walks me down the aisle at my wedding. Looks at my soon-to-be husband in that way that is meant to strike fear in his heart; that look that lasts less than 5 seconds but says, “You better not hurt my little girl or I’m coming after you.” A life where he gets to come and visit me for his birthday, and we go shopping downtown, and make my doctor’s appointments for me, easily asking for and saying all the things that I have to try to convey using gestures and slowly speaking a mix of English words and stuff I’ve made up (“I see float-y things in front of my eyes. Floooaaat-yyy thinnnngggssss.”) We would go to France and Spain, too, where he could tell us if the natives are talking about us behind our backs or not.

But it’s not a different life, it’s this one, and he’s not here. And he can’t help me with French or German. And he didn’t give me away at my wedding or do any of those other things. And that makes me sad. But I still did those things, I still learned to drive a stick, I still got married, I’m still struggling to learn how to conjugate verbs in German. And even though he’s not here to help me with those things, I know I’m not alone.

Happy birthday, dad.

Kryptonite

After spending much of this week in a kind of a fog, I think I've figured out why I've been in this funk lately. I don't feel the same about myself as I used to, physically and career-wise.

Physically, I'm in the worse shape now than I think I've ever been in. I tried to ignore it but the now infamous ball dress incident really put a spotlight on it. Not that I want to be rail thin or lose weight to fit any type of mold, I just want to be me, only like 8 years ago. When I was an undergrad, I took my body for granted. I had a flat stomach, not a six pack, but still I could show it without worrying about scaring small children (the cleavage on the other hand .... a different story). I had just enough butt and thighs to provoke a second glance, but not so much that imagine myself in gauchos is enough to make me frown in disgust. But did I exercise? No. Did I continue to eat any and everything any time of the day? Yes.

Don't get me wrong, I like me. I just would like me better if I could wear a crop top. Not that I would wear a crop top, but I would like the option to be able to if I wanted. So, I've given myself a goal: to be able to wear this fitted jacket and pants combo (you know, the jacket where you leave the bottom open to show a little stomach?) to the sorority's big party in May. And with a little help from the Mister, I'm already on my way.

As for the career part, I'll get into that later. I've finished my cardio and I have to get to some squats and lunges. After all, this ass isn't going to lift itself!

Addition: Feel free to provide to the iPod fund (after all my birthday is in like ... 5 months). Why am I the only MF on the elliptical machine rocking a portable CD player? It's not right I tell you, it's just not right!

Mad World

So, I’m sitting in my office, munching on some grapes, PRAYING that the rest of the day will go off drama free, when the phone rings. Now, mind you, for some weird reason, my computer is on the other side of the room from the phone, so err-time the phone rings I have to roll my chair over to my desk. So clearly, each ring of the phone brings on a slight bit of annoyance before I even know what the person wants. Anyway, I get to the phone:

Me: “C speaking.” (I use my singsong voice here. After all, I am customer relations)
Dumb ass customer: “Hey, how do I fill out a claim?”

WTF?

Who ARE you, and what are you TALKING about?!? I mean, really, people. Did you think you were calling an insurance agency or something? Please get whatever it is you want to say mentally organized before you pick up the phone and start asking for s—t. Write it down if you have to. It shouldn’t take me 10 minutes to figure out what the hell you want.

While we’re at it, why do people always call me about random s—t, anyway? To give them credit, I’m listed in the phone directory under customer relations so maybe if nothing else in the book fits your complaint or concern, call me. However, also listed is furnishings and work order among others. So, why do I get phone calls asking, “Hey, who do I talk to about getting furniture” and “Is this number I call to get something fixed?” No, but HELL NO! Seriously, if you had the book to look up my phone number, why not go that extra mile and get the number to the department that might really give a damn be able to help you?

And what about the ones who try to be all friendly with you because they’re getting ready to ask you for some dumb s—t.

Me: C speaking, how may I help you?
DAC: C is it? Well, hello! And how are you doing this fine afternoon? The weather is really looking wonderful don’t you think?
Me: (How the eff should I know I work inside!) reality: hi. And yes.
DAC: So, C (what the eff, you think you KNOW me now?) … launches into long boring story, which ends with something I can’t do.

Just get to the point! We don’t have to be friends. Really, it’s OK.

Last, but definitely not leastI AM NOT IN THE EFFIN ARMY!! That means don’t talk to me about “digits”, or ask me if I’m “tracking” something. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. When I tell you something, don’t say Roger to signal your acknowledgement, and (listen closely, this one is most important) don’t say HOOAH to me – at any time, regardless of the circumstance! (I think I used it in a blog, actually, but you know, I was being sarcastic so it doesn’t count.)

I think that’s enough sunshine for the day. Now, enjoy the rest of your day, with my assurance that you can continue on just a little bit wiser.