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You Can Never Get Enough of What You Don’t Really Need.

This morning, it rains.

So rather than take the mutts for our morning walk or get any kind of physical exercise whatsoever, I’m making crepes and lamenting the fact that last night I reached a hideous low in my state of Justinless pitiability.

I was going to get the photos ready for a post about San Antonio, and since I’m hardly organized enough to already have those photos labeled and filed on my iMac, I dug a memory card from my camera bag, sent a wish out to the Universe that the photos I wanted were on it, and stuck it, rather unceremoniously, into the computer’s CD drive.

I stuck my memory card into the CD DRIVE.

Not the memory card slot which, due to a lazy design flaw on Apple’s part in my humble little opinion, is located directly beneath the CD drive on the side of the monitor.

And humble, I am, because I didn’t even look.  I just felt it go in, much further than normal, and peeked around the side to see the top of the card was flush with the side of the monitor.

Sonofabitch.

I stuck a piece of paper inside in order to entice it out, but turns out I should’ve tried flowers or chocolates or seductive letters because the damn thing slipped all the way inside, past the rubbery dust blocker thingies, and I heard it clink to rest inside the drive.

Now normally, this is where husbands come in.  I don’t know if you know this, guys, but us women, we use you.  Like, a lot.  Like, even if there’s something we’re perfectly capable of doing but would rather have you do it in case it gets messed up so we can have someone to blame other than ourselves, we ask you to give it a whirl.  Plus, when you do fix it, it makes you feel all manly and powerful and needed and then we’ve done our good deed for the day by letting you do your good deed for the day.

Win-win.

But last night, I couldn’t exactly call Justin’s superiors in Afghanistan and ask if they’d send him home real quick because I did something dumb with my computer.  In fact I can’t exactly call Justin at all — ever — and this tends to pose a problem when I need advice on fixing the dog’s electric fence or why the subwoofer’s buzzing or how to get an effing memory card out of an effing CD drive because apparently, I effing suck at effing EVERYTHING.

So you see, this is where the inevitable self-pity came into play.  I knew that frustrated tears were well on their way, and I should probably pour another glass of wine because the pity party’s not a party without any wine, and I can’t believe I just got home from Raleigh like 2 hours ago, which is an hour away and happens to be the location of the closest Apple store, and who knows how long it will be before I can get back there and get this fixed?

Spiral.

But.

I have a trick for when this starts to happen.

You’re going to love me for this, really.

Go to YouTube (assuming lack of internet connection isn’t your problem), and run a search for “Stuck in a Moment” by U2.

Then, listen.

U2 Stuck in a Moment

And once you do, you will probably cry a little bit.  And then, wonder of wonders, you will smile.  And maybe even laugh.  Because really, with this song, U2 has struck the winning combination of  I-get-it-and-everything-will-be-okay understanding and smack-you-in-the-face-get-over-it-bitch-and-move-on-with-your-life motivation.

Seriously.

So after closing my eyes to “Stuck in a Moment” followed by some internet searching for “how to get a memory card out of an iMac CD drive” and relief that holy crap I’m not the only one, I fashioned a hook tool from folded cardstock and packing tape and, after about 20 minutes of sweet talking and many cardstock prototypes, was able to fish the sucker out.

Source

So.  I never did edit the photos.  Because after all of this, I did crack just a little, U2 or no, and decided that a microwavable peanut butter mug cake and a large glass of milk would do better to cure my woes after a harrowing night of memory card rescue than a bout of actual productivity.

And I was pretty well convinced that composure would not be my primary reaction if I managed to stick the memory card into the right slot and discover that my photos weren’t on it.

I still haven’t had the courage to look.

But, when I do, and if I feel the need to spaz out, “Stuck in a Moment” will be there to bring me back to earth.

Because, really.

I never thought you were a fool
But darling, look at you
You gotta stand up straight, carry your own weight
‘Cause tears are going nowhere, baby

You’ve got to get yourself together
You’ve got stuck in a moment
And now you can’t get out of it

…

You are such a fool
To worry like you do
I know it’s tough and you can never get enough
Of what you don’t really need now, my, oh my

And we don’t.  In the end.  Really need anything.  Just a clear head, some decent music, a little perspective, and the energy to keep on swimming.

Red, Red, Rocks.

You know that feeling — that feeling you would get in a certain place as a kid — that made it seem as though it were filled with magic and wonder and that it was somehow much bigger, really, than it actually was?

Grandma’s house was not just Grandma’s house, but a cozy cottage that smelled of Grandpa’s spicy pipe tobacco and Grandma’s famous pumpkin bars and where handfuls of Werther’s Originals could be snatched from the old crystal dish as I ran through the arched kitchen doorway to splay across the soft, brown shag living room carpet.  The kitchen floors were beautiful, speckled brown and orange and green and I’d wait, sometimes, in rare moments of patient composure, for the bird to pop out of the coo coo clock to indicate the hour.  The basement was scary and filled with adventure.  Boxes of old toys and musty don’t-touch-thats and the home’s only shower but that was okay because baths were a novelty at Grandma’s house.  I wove yarn tissue box covers and baked peanut butter pies and picked raspberries in the garden and chased squirrels from the bird feeders.  These things I did at grandma’s house, which wasn’t just a house, but a world.  I’d rub my cheek against Grandpa’s rough stubble and snuggle up to his warm flannel shirt.  He used to tap his rings to his own tinny tune on the steering wheel when he drove as I slid around on the worn leather seats.  His truck had a square orange pillow I liked to squeeze.

But then.

But then I grew.  And the house became a house.  An old one with ugly linoleum floors and creaky steps and I had to wash my hair in the sink and barely reach to touch the top of the archway as I passed beneath, the coo coo bird mocking each slow passing hour.  And the magic wasn’t just lost for me, but lost for them.  And then Grandpa was gone, and now, with just Grandma, it feels not like a house but a trap.  Because I want more for her, you know, than lonely last years.  I don’t know what happened to that faded orange pillow.

Time changes things, it’s true, and not always for the worse but sometimes for the better — though even the better, sometimes, can feel worse if you know what I mean.

Take, for example, the Garden of the Gods near Colorado Springs.

Garden of the Gods

Stunning red rock sprung from unearthly ground against a backdrop of towering Rockies.

My family used to go there when I was still a kid and we were still a family.

I remember it being vast.  Rugged.  We couldn’t just drive to everything we wanted to see — we hiked.  Of course, some of these memories could just be small worlds made big in the mind of a child, but on our most recent trip to Colorado, I saw that still it had changed.  More roads.  Easier access.  More people.  Less… magic.

On the one hand, simplified access to this free and natural wonder is fantastic.  People who might never have bothered can now behold, but sometimes I think.  I think those who mightn’t bother if access were more difficult are those who throw the trash.  Those who scream and shout.  Those who just want to go, go, go and not stop, for a second, to see if the magic is still there.

Wide, paved paths.

So tempting to leave the trail…

Kissing camels.

Fortunately, I was with Justin’s family.  They came out to visit while we were staying with my mom to say goodbye before he left for Afghanistan and, despite my disappointment with the throngs of people with whom we had to share the Red Rocks, exploring the park and the nearby town of Manitou Springs with them was a wonderful way to spend the day.

Gard family.  There’s only 547 of us.  From left to right: Hannah (Justin’s sister), Andrew (Justin’s brother), Becca (Justin’s sister), Ashley (Justin’s sister — are we sensing a pattern?), Jack (Justin’s nephew), Jon (Ashley’s husband), Me, Justin, Justin’s mom and dad.  (Thanks, Aunt Lori for taking the photo!)

Travel tip: Explore with fun people who wear bright shoes.  Seriously.  They’re way better than boring people with boring shoes.

Tip: Travel in packs. Other tourists will get scared and you’ll have the whole place to yourselves.

Tip: If you’re going to climb, don’t photograph the evidence.

Uhh…

Climbing?  We’re not climbing.  (This is Brad.  Remember Becca and Brad from our trip to Spain?)

Pegg!  (Sign: “If you are not a technical climber using proper gear and a permit, stay on the sidewalk!”)  Seriously.  “Progress” makes the park safer and less fun.

Balance Rock Garden of the Gods

The Gard Men are RIPPED. (Photo by Hannah Gard.)

Even little Jack was a champ.

Late lunch in the adorable town of Manitou Springs was the perfect way to relax after the park.

It turns out the improvements made to Garden of the Gods over the years are what made it possible for us to see it as a family.

And in the end, I guess that’s not such a bad thing.

After all, time does change things.

It always will.

My family has grown exponentially.  It laughs.  It plays.  I miss them sometimes.

And the future, to me, doesn’t look so bad.

See our tour of the Coors Brewery HERE and a chalk art festival in downtown Denver HERE plus the best hot dog ever right HERE.

And I Traveled Just A Few Steps, At Most, To See The World.

It’s funny.

I spend all of this time daydreaming about travel.  About where I would be if I could be anywhere other than here.

And then, out of nowhere, I discover this whole universe that’s been sitting outside my back door for the past 5 1/2 years, and I never even saw it.

Like literally.  It’s the Universe.

All it took was a couple of solo glasses of wine, a little bit feeling sorry for myself, a broken electric dog fence, and a chance look up.

The metaphor, this whole time, was in my own back yard.

Look up, my friends, instead of down.  Look up, or you might miss it.

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Deprecating. Which is a Good Thing. I Think.

Justin has been in Afghanistan for over 3 months now, and I’m ready to admit something.

Here goes.

Ready?

Okay.

There have been times in our marriage when I’ve looked at him and thought, I can’t believe I’m actually married to you.

Like the time he realized he didn’t brew enough coffee after he poured his cup but before he poured mine, so instead of making more coffee to fill my cup, he just ran new water back through the soggy, used coffee grounds and hoped I wouldn’t notice that my cup was filled with light brown water as opposed to actual coffee.

Times like that, my friends, when I thought, I can’t believe I’m actually married to you and not in a totally smitten, pre-honeymoon, post-vows kind of way with a mental tone of adoring and grateful affection, but in a we’ve-been-living-together-for-over-8-years-now-and-you-think-I-won’t-notice-weak-coffee? kind of way with pure, unadulterated, incredulity.

And.

I know it sounds terrible, but there it is.

The “good” thing is, I know I’m just as bad.

(What can I say?  I’m a Libra.)

Like the time he came home after 3 months in Africa to find I’d bought dog beds so our little monsters could sleep with us in our bedroom to keep us safe from intruders and bogeymen and fill the space with protective methane fart gas throughout the night.

Because I always think these things through, you know?

So.

Even though I do these things too, I still usually feel that I’m in the right.  That I know best.  That really, if we would just do everything my way, the world would spin smoothly and double rainbows will fill our home and the sex will always be fantastic and no one will ever — ever — have to sleep in the wet spot.

(Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about.)

But now he’s been gone for 3 months.

Three months, apparently, is enough time for me to stop blaming him for every cluttered mess that collects on counters, for almost-empty orange juice bottles in the fridge, for laundry that sits in the dryer for days, and the pulpy, globulated mess that coats my clothes when an errant pocket receipt goes through the wash.

It’s enough time, apparently, to realize that I’m actually fallible.

I mean, I’ve always known I’m capable of making mistakes.  In fact, maybe my blunt, drunken wrist tattoo should read erroneous, because I’ve certainly made more than my fair share.  And I’d be the first to admit it.

But it was always these little things.  These little house things that would get on my nerves make me mutter under my breath as I’d fritter around the house collecting crumpled papers that someone — and certainly not me — was too lazy to throw away, are not always entirely his fault.

And that’s the gift of distance.

They say, you know, that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I know a secret.

The real benefit of absence is clarity.

The way it gives you a chance to look at yourself.

The chance to experience the discomfort that comes with the dawning realization that wait — I’m not perfect?

It’s not a good feeling.

But it’s a helpful feeling.  And a relief, too, to know that he’s not the only one to blame for the messes and the occasional late charge and sometimes erratic online shopping binges.

Wait.  Maybe that last one has always been me.

But my point is that true perspective — not just about a partner but about yourself — is something that most people who’ve been living together for a long time never have the space — or the distance — to experience.

And that’s unfortunate.

Because while I would never recommend that you ship your significant other off to Afghanistan for a quarter of a year or more, a little space can sometimes help.

Not to get away from your partner.  But to get back to yourself.

So now, at least I know.  I remember.  I can overlook the little things when he gets home because while cohabitation definitely creates more messes and chaos, it also provides an extra set of hands to help.

Except the coffee thing.  I can’t overlook that.

But I’m working on it.

 

Crunchy Like Granola.

I make my own granola.

Sounds quaint, I know.  Like knitting my own socks or preserving my own peaches or churning my own butter.

But the thing is, I like granola.  It’s a fantastic breakfast, it’s healthy-ish, and it’s crazy easy to make.

I mean, basically you mix a bunch of stuff together, then mix a bunch of other stuff together, then mix the two mixtures together, then bake.

Heck.  You don’t even have to bake it if you don’t really want to.

To make it, you will need pretty much anything you want.  You can use the recipe below as a guide, but don’t be afraid to get a little crazy.  Like agave nectar instead of honey?  Use it.  Prefer vegetable oil to coconut oil?  Be my guest.  Crazy about oat bran?  Substitute for some of the ground flax and toss it on in.  If you want your granola to be more sticky and less crumbly, make more of the “wet” part (step 2) and cook a little less.

This can get a little pricy, depending on the ingredients you choose, but it makes a lot.  If you were to buy the same amount from the store, you’d not only be spending mucho deniro, but you’d be getting all kinds of not-so-awesome added sugars and preservatives and all of that crap that makes us feel slow and drudgy instead of awesome and powerful.

Here’s what I used in my last batch:

  • 4 cups oats
  • 3/4 cup wheat germ
  • 3/4 cup ground flax
  • 1/2 cup sunflower seeds
  • 1/2 cup chopped almonds
  • 1/2 cup chopped pecans
  • 1/2 cup chopped walnuts
  • 3/4 tsp. salt
  • 1/4 cup brown sugar
  • 1/4 cup maple syrup
  • 1/2 cup honey
  • 1/2 cup coconut oil (vegetable oil works, too)
  • 1/2 Tablespoon cinnamon
  • 1/2 Tablespoon vanilla extract
Optional additions:
  • Raisins
  • Craisins
  • Chocolate chips
  • Butterscotch chips, etc.

1)  Mix the first 7 ingredients (oats, wheat germ, flax, sunflower seeds, and nuts) together in a very large mixing bowl.

2)  Mix the last 7 ingredients (salt, sugar, syrup, honey, oil, cinnamon, and vanilla) together in a sauce pan, heat over medium-high heat, and bring to a boil for 1 minute.

3)  Pour the wet stuff into the bowl with the dry stuff and stir to combine.

4)  Line a baking sheet with foil or parchment paper, then spread the mixture evenly and bake at 300-degrees F for 30-40 minutes, stirring halfway through.  It will keep cooking for a bit after you remove it, so don’t worry if it’s not completely crunchy before you take it out.  If you like it softer, bake it less.  There really are no rules — just don’t burn it.  That’s easy to do, so watch closely as you start to near the end of your cooking time.

Once you take it out, add your raisins or chocolate or whatever your little heart desires.  I prefer mine plain.

Let it cool on the sheet before storing it in an air-tight container.

5)  Serve however you’d like!  My favorite is over vanilla or plain yogurt with sliced strawberries.

Mmmm.  All I have left to do is put my hair in dreads and buy some hemp pants and I can officially call myself crunchy.

But really, with granola like this, that’s not a bad way to be.

Also, it will make you feel awesome and powerful.  I promise.

Inappropriate.

On Saturday night I went to a surprise party.

Surprise parties are the best, as long as everyone is awesome and no one ruins it.

There’s just something about making someone feel so unexpectedly loved.

But first, (and if we’re going to be honest, then this is the best part), you have to make the guest of honor — the “surprisee,” if you will — feel like total crap.

“Oh, it’s your birthday this week?  Huh.  I think I already have plans on Saturday, but maybe we can get together Sunday?  Hmm… but I have to get up really early on Monday, so let’s get lunch instead of dinner.  I have to pick up my dry cleaning by 1:00, so can we go at like 11:00?  That cute little cafe downtown is a little far for me to drive, but they have a Chili’s near the mall.  Hey, I’ll buy you a birthday margarita!  It will be great!  As long as I can get to the dry cleaner’s by 1:00.”

And the fantastic part is you don’t really care that your friend looks like she wants to punch you in the face because you know, deep down, that she will feel terrible for thinking these unsavory thoughts about you when she sees you at her surprise party.

And that’s why surprise parties are the best — because they make your friends feel terrible for doubting your commitment to the friendship.  Which makes you feel great, because you can be like, “See?  I really do love you!  I love you so much that I will lie to your face and make you feel unloved, just so I can make you feel terrible later.  Which, in the end, will really make you — and especially me — feel awesome.”

See how that works?

We surprised my friend Danielle for her birthday, after each of us in turn told her — subtly — that we had more important things to do.  (By the way, of course I forgot my nice camera, so all you get is fuzzy, semi-inebriated photos of the evening’s festivities.)

It was just a small group of friends — that’s me in the gray dress in the middle, Danielle in the gray dress crouched down on the right, and the looker standing on the far right is her boyfriend Matt.

Matt planned the surprise (because he’s not just a looker — he’s a thinker, too).

(And sorry, ladies — he’s very much taken.)

It was probably the most fantastic food at any surprise party in the history of ever because Danielle’s friend Morgan (far left in the top photo) works as a catering manager for a really fantastic restaurant called Elliott’s on Linden in Pinehurst.

We may have taken advantage of this fact.

Lamb skewers with a spicy remoulade dipping sauce, seafood risotto, cheesy grits with sausage, mini grilled cheese triangles with tiny cups of tomato basil bisque, dim sum, and various dips, local cheeses, breads, and crackers.  (That’s the lamb with remoulade in the above photo.  Not, uh… whatever else it may look like.)

And let’s not forget the desserts.

So basically, I was stuffing my face, and then I noticed this.

Morgan’s tattoo.

Look close.

No, it’s not a Celtic knot symbolizing her spiritual faith for all eternity.  No, it’s not some inspirational word written in French or Latin or any language other than the one in which she’s fluent.  And no, it’s not the birth date of a child or the death date of a grandparent or the date she went to her first Creed concert and decided that she would, in fact, embrace the world with arms wide open by getting a wrist tattoo.

Nope.

It’s just a word, and it’s written in english, and it says…

 

Inappropriate.

 

That’s it.

Inappropriate.

Of course it was the result of an evening’s drunken escapade — the kind where permanent ink always seems like a great idea to commemorate something you’re sure was quite hilarious at the time.  And then you wake up in that fuzzy, semi-delirious state-of-mind — that place where you can’t quite remember which of your brain’s crazy recollections are real, and which are just dreams, and then you feel it.  You feel it before you see it.  That bee sting burn that indicates you may have done something really, incredibly, stupid.

It’s something characters do, not real people, like the face tattoo in The Hangover II or the butterfly tramp stamp in Californication.

Except in this case it is very real, very permanent, and very… inappropriate.

Or is it?

I mean, maybe it would actually be kind of nice if we could all get branded with a blunt word that describes our prominent personalities.  I know many people who would stamp me with “inappropriate” or “loud” or “incredisexylicious.”

Okay.  Maybe not that last one.

But if I had a tattoo that said “inappropriate,” people would no longer be shocked when I say something, well —  inappropriate.  They couldn’t get offended because I’d be all, “Hey.  Can’t you see the tattoo?  It’s not like I didn’t warn you.”

It would give people a heads-up.  You’d go to shake a hand, check out the wrist, and immediately have an idea of who you’re dealing with:  Funny?  Great!  Bigot?  No thanks.  Easy?  Let me buy you another drink.

I might need to buy a tattoo machine for the sole purpose of branding people while they sleep.

Labels are bad, you say?  People are more complex than a single word?  Yes, we are.  But think about it.  Deep down, in our heart of hearts, we all have something very definable.  Something very us.  Something not likely to change anytime soon.  It might be good, it might be bad, but whatever it is, it just is.

If you had a word, what would it be?

Sometimes I Have Fun.

Sometimes, I like to have fun.

I don’t know if you know this about me.

But it’s true.

Sometimes I like to jump out of airplanes and sometimes I like to build closet organizers and sometimes I like to cook fancy chicken but sometimes, my friends, I just like to have fun.

The kind of fun where you don’t even think about it.  You just do it.

Well.  After my whirlwind tour of San Diego and before the piercing situation in Austin, there was a concert.

There was a concert in New Braunfels, Texas.

Where?

Exactly.

I don’t know much about New Braunfels.

But I DO know they have excellent ice cream cones.

And I DO know they have plenty of Ooohs and Ahhhs.

And I DO know that their Whitewater Ampitheater is where the Avett Brothers decided to have a concert.

Which makes New Braunfels a-ok in my book.

My friend Stacy (remember her?) first introduced me to the Avetts a couple of years ago, and I’ll admit it.  I’m hooked.  It could’ve been the timing in my life, it could’ve been the sexy banjos, it could’ve been the fact that their lyrics abound with gems like:

The wind that blows from here to California
Never stops to turn and wonder why it goes.

and…

A jet plane and a big idea
I jump over the sea
What-ifs hot on my trail
But they can’t catch me, oh no

and…

Now I’ve grown too aware of my mortality
To let go and forget about dying
Long enough to drop the hammer down
And let the indolence go wild and flying through

and…

Decide what to be and go be it.

So when Stacy called and said she bought me a ticket, I knew I had to go to Texas.

(Note: If you want me to visit you, I can be bought.)

Even though Texas in July is hot.

And the concert was outside.

But it mattered not that Stacy, her sister Andrea and I found ourselves drenched and tipsy in a crowd full of sweat-slick people, because they were our people.

Even (sigh.) the super tall ones.  (This is me, by the way.  Incredulous and sweaty.  I mean glowing.  Glowing like a pig.)

Despite the tall folk, we me managed to have some fun.

(Stacy and me. Rawr.)

Crazy sisters.

I’m not big on crowds.  I’ll be the first to admit it.

But there’s something — something — about experiencing your favorite music live.

Exhilaration, defined.

For all of the sweat, for all of the people, for all of the porta potties and drunk guys and yes, even for Texas, I would do it again.

Thank you, Stacy!  It was everything I dreamed it would be.

(Minus the part about the Avetts inviting me back to their bus to serenade me with a private show, but hey.  We can’t have everything.)

13 Reasons Why I’m A Crappy Military Spouse.

When I was working my well-paying cubicle gig for the Environmental Management Branch on Fort Bragg, I sometimes had to drive to other areas of the installation to meet with various mapping, forestry, endangered species, cultural resources, and compliance subject matter experts.

SMEs, for short.

Because everything in the military is an acronym.

BEMA, for short.

I strongly dislike acronyms. (REASON #1)

ISDA, for short.

FS, for short.

You dig?

Anyway.

Since the installation is only like the biggest in the country, I’d get to take a government vehicle whenever I was driving for work-related reasons.  I’d sign out a nondescript white or silver sedan, bring the seat forward about 20 inches, reset all of the preset radio stations to something other than godawful, and be on my merry way.

For a year and a half, this was routine.  Like hopping a morning commuter train from a local Park-‘n-ride, I’d put ‘er on autopilot, crank some tunes, and somehow magically arrive at my destination.

Then, one day, on some rudimentary stretch of curvy road where soldiers deemed it necessary to cross as pedestrians because they thought they owned the place or something (wait, what? REASON #2), they reduced the speed limit by 10 miles per hour.

Just.

Like.

That.

And I, being the super observant, astute, law-abiding citizen that I apparently am — not — saw the flashing lights in the ill-adjusted rearview mirror before it even registered in my cubicle-muddled brain that I was driving not 5, not 10, not 15, but twenty-two miles over the newly posted speed limit.

It was a trap, I tell you.

Before I could even think to adjust my cleavage or touch up my lip gloss, the uniformed military police officer was at my window with the ticket.

“We’re giving tickets to everyone,” he said, before I could open my mouth.

“Ok.”  Hell.  I deserved one.

“No exceptions.”  The guy was ready for an argument.

“Ok.”  I gave him a sheepish smile.

“Really — the guy in front of you is getting one, too.”

“Ok.”  Is “ok” code for I-think-you’re-full-of-crap-and-I’ll-see-you-in-court?

“Fine.  I’ll write it up for 19 over the limit.  That should save you some hassle.”

“Wow, thanks!  Um… what kind of hassle will I have to deal with?” I handed him my contractor I.D.

“You’re not a spouse?  You work here?” He asked, surprise registering on his face.  “If you were a spouse, then I’d write you the ticket, you’d pay it, and your husband’s commander would hear about it.  But since you’re a contractor, you’ll have to pay the fine and attend a driver safety course.  At 8:00 a.m.  On Saturday.”

I thought about snatching back my contractor I.D. and handing him my dependent I.D.  (REASON #3)

“Well… this is a government vehicle I’m driving… so yes.”  I sighed.  “I’m a contractor.”

He ripped the ticket from the stack, a bemused grin curling the corners of his mouth, and handed it to me.  “The class is 8 a.m.  Saturday.”

So here’s the thing:  I wouldn’t have had to take the class if I’d simply shown him my dependent I.D. as opposed to my contractor I.D.?*  Being a “dependent” — and we all know how I feel about that — would’ve exempted me from paying my dues?  From learning how to be a safer driver?  From watching videos of high school prom dates impaled on fences and toddlers struck by drunk drivers and other nightmarish vehicular accidents?

(*I honestly don’t know, legally speaking, what difference which I.D. I showed would’ve made.  But the officer implied that the repercussions would have been less — for me — had I claimed dependency with a blush and a smile.)

The tradeoff, it seems, is that Justin would have gotten the lecture.  Justin would have paid the price for my recklessness.  And it’s that antiquated way of operating — the very idea that my actions could affect his career — makes me far too nervous to be an effectively “good” spouse.  In fact, it sometimes makes me want to test the limits.  (REASON #4)

Also, I’m not a mom. (REASON #5)

And sometimes I forget my husband’s rank. (REASON #6)

And I hate being called “ma’am.” (REASON #7)

And I sometimes get jealous of Justin’s travel.  (REASON #8)

And I think sometimes that it’s harder to be married to military than it is to be military.  (REASON #9)

And I disagree with the concept of respecting someone solely for his or her rank.  Especially if he or she is an asshole. (REASON #10)

And I can’t keep my delinquent thoughts to myself. (REASON #11)

And sometimes — sometimes — I actually revel in my alone time.  In watching whatever movie I want on the big television.  In eating cheese, crackers, and olives for dinner.  In putting a container of leftover pasta carbonara in the fridge and never having to suffer that suffocating disappointment when I decide to have some for lunch and discover that only 2 teasing bites remain — not enough to sate me, but just enough to justify not having to wash the container.  That really bugs me.  (REASON #12)

But then… I still miss him.  And his uniform.  And honestly, in the end, I wouldn’t want to do anything that would hurt his career.

I mean, who wants that on her conscience?

So I took the stupid driving course.  And Justin didn’t get a lecture from his commander about reigning in his spouse’s reckless driving habits.  And actually, the class may have been somewhat beneficial in teaching me ways to deal with my road rage.  In fact, I should probably look into taking a refresher.  And, at the end of class when I stood in the required line to show the instructor my passing exam score and the written offense for which I’d been committed, he gasped and said, “That was you?”

I nodded.

He looked at me, incredulous.

“Why don’t you slow it down, Katie.”  He smiled.

Slow it down?  Me?  Not likely, my friend.

Inside, I smiled too.

So.  Maybe I can do this.  Maybe I can play the military’s game.  And maybe — just maybe — I can still work my own little acts of rebellion into the mix, because hey.

I can be supportive.  I can smile and schmooze.  I can even learn the damn acronyms.

But in the end, I can’t lose sight of me.

You know?

P.S. Poll results are still coming in. If you haven’t voted, please do. And the thoughtful comments some of you have added are just… awesome.  If you’re in the U.S., you know your vote might not count in November’s election (REASON #13), but here, it most certainly does.

Decisions Make Me Sweaty & Uncomfortable, So Here. You Decide.

So.

After my lovely little woe-is-me rant last week, I came to a couple of conclusions:

1) I have some re-vamping to do on this site; and

2) I may not have many readers, but I have the best readers.  And since I’ve always been a quality over quantity kind of gal anyway, this suits me well.

While #2 can’t stand on its own, #1 may need some further explanation.

I’ve been struggling for a long time to define what I want to do with this site — which “direction” it should go, what topics I should write about, and why I should even call it “Domestiphobia” (aside from the fact that I like the word).  And since any type of planning or goal setting tends to make me want to crawl into the smallest, safest closet of my house with a bottle of tequila, a pair of sunglasses, and N-Sync’s debut album circa 1997 and pretend that I’m 15 again (with an apparent alcohol abuse problem), I’ve so far managed to successfully treat it as no more than an online journal to archive the often insane and aimless way I’ve thus far stumbled through adulthood.

Retirement plan?  Real job?  Sense of achievement and self-satisfaction?  That stuff’s for the Type As, I say, and let ’em keep it.

Except… it’s not.

I may be Domestiphobic, but I want these things:  Love.  Security.  A safe place to lay my head.

I want them.

I do.

I just don’t want to achieve them in the conventional sense.

In fact.

Every node on every nerve ending of every sensory receptacle of my body is repulsed by the idea of a “normal” life.

There.

I said it.

The very idea of working a regular 9-5 to support someone else’s dream seems ludicrous.  The thought that my basic needs can be met with a cable box and the latest Pottery Barn it’s-new-but-made-to-look-old overpriced dust collector is depressing.  The notion that life, as I know it, can be washed down in a blink with a single dose of monotonous routine just so I can earn enough money to wake up at 60 (should I be so lucky) with the means and motivation to actually start enjoying it seems like a waste.

I want to enjoy it now.

And I think each of us has this dream, maybe deep down, that life can somehow be more.

And for me, it’s going to start with this blog.

It will take some time to reorganize, especially knowing me, but that’s okay.

In the meantime, I need to know about you.  I tend to write a little about everything here — from travel experiences to home projects to dinner recipes and the deluded workings of my inner mind.  I’m all over the place.  And let’s be honest — that’s not likely to change.  But I would like to get an idea of what you, my regular readers, enjoy the most.  And maybe that will give me a sense of focus.

A bit of direction.

A safe place to lay my head.

Take the poll — it’s free and anonymous and will count for your good deed for the day.  Also, it could make you intelligent and rich and sexy beyond your wildest dreams.

Probably not, but I’m sayin’ there’s a chance.

(You can choose more than one answer.  Please be honest.  This is only my life we’re talking about.)

Really. What’s So Wrong With Eating Your Feelings? Because Mine Taste AWESOME.

What is happening with the world right now?

There are political figures trying to tell me what I can and can’t do with my body, there are people trying to sell me my own intellectual property, and there are princes getting naked all over Vegas but really, no one’s blaming Harry on that last one because who doesn’t want to get naked all over Vegas?

~*crickets*~

I think there’s just such an overload of fodder out there right now — and such a lack of focus on my part — that I tend to get overwhelmed and rather than talk to anyone ever, I instead opt to curl up on my sofa with a couple of mangy mutts, a glass of Zinfandel, and a streamed movie on Netflix that I didn’t realize was subtitled until 10 minutes in.

In other words, I have a lot of time to think.

There comes a time in most unpaid, extreme ADD blog writers’ “careers,” when the writer must evaluate the situation and make a choice.  MY situation is that I’ve been doing this for almost 2 1/2 years, and barely anyone reads Domestiphobia.

Like at all.

And I love those of you who do — you’re like the validation I never got in high school.  The prom date, the braces removal, and the boob development all in one, confidence-boosting package.  (I actually did end up getting those last two — just not until it was too late to be enjoyed in high school.)  It makes me feel like maybe I do have a niche.  Like maybe there are some people in this world who get me, and even if you don’t, you still like watching me through that thick zoo glass from the relative safety and comfort of your swivel office chair.

And that’s okay, too.

So that’s my situation.

Therefore my choices, as I see them, are to:

a) Keep doing what I’m doing

b) Stop

c) Pick a focus and work to improve

or

d) Eat a sandwich.

I’m pretty sure, if you know me at all, (and if you’ve been reading for any length of time, rest assured that you DO know me), then you know which one I choose.

Grilled Cheese with Guacamole and Bacon

Recipe