I'm a Civilian

I work for the government. I work for the Navy. I deal with Commanders, Chiefs, Officers, and other ranks that my civilian self doesn't recognize. Do I care?

No.

I may work for the military, but I'm not military. I'm not a fan of being affiliated with it, and I'm sure as hell not going to start talking like one. I tell time like a civilian -- 2100? No, it's 9 pm, fool; I say my letters like a civilian -- it's A, B, C, not Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, fool; I say actual words like a civilian -- it's called Navy Family Assessment System, not NFAAS, fool.

I walk like a civilian. I talk like a civilian. I don't stop my car or freeze and salute when TAPS starts playing. I look at an Enlisted man just the same way that I look at a Captain. I don't care how long you've been in the military, or how many colorful pins you have on your ugly brown shirt. I'm a civilian...and none of that silly stuff matters in my world. If you disrespect me, you can bet I'll do it right back.

Does this mentality get me in trouble at work? You bet. I get phone calls from random military officials telling me gibberish phrases like "you jumped the chain of command" and "sorry I blew off our meeting, I had a SNAFU."

Whaaaa? It sounds like the grown-ups in Charlie Brown shows.

I'm a civilian.

Miracles

I stated in my post that it would be awhile. It has, but for different reasons.

Mr. Navy would have left on his deployment last Sunday morning. Yes, would have left.

I have never been a "tokin' Christian" or anything. Sure, I grew up Catholic and went to church, and I've always believed in a higher power. But growing up and being handed the life I was handed, I always found it really hard to scream God's name from the mountaintops. However, two weeks ago, I was given my very own miracle.

One week before he was scheduled to leave, Mr. Navy received a phone call from his deployment doctor, stating that she had found something on his ECG that disqualified him from going. Disqualified.

He told me the news -- and I literally felt the world stop -- until I heard him utter the phrase "I have to go see a Cardiologist". HUH?

Why does it always have to be one thing or another, I asked God. He won't be leaving me for war, but...what, he has a..heart problem?

Mr. Navy and I hugged...for awhile...and then began to research cardiologists and Google the different types of heart conditions that his doctor said it could be. Nothing looked too serious....at least he's not going to war... I thought.

Mr. Navy went on to get a second opinion -- and that ECG came out..gulp...normal.

Could it be, that I was just given a miracle? That in fact, it isn't one thing or another, but that he and I were blessed by God and given the ability to not be separated? And, could it be, that there is actually nothing wrong with his heart?

Stay tuned for the final results, but I can stand here and say proudly...that while I'm still not a "tokin' Christian", I am living proof of miracles. Just believe, even when it's the last thing you want to do.

Titleless...

Hello all,

I've been away for awhile. And I may be away for another long while.

This blog was intended to poke fun at my military life. To crack jokes about how the women on base can't drive, about how the mail is always screwed up, and how bad it smells when the wind blows just right. Basically, this blog was about me making the best of this situation.

I can no longer do so. It is at this moment, and the moments over the past two weeks, that the last thing I want to think about or even acknowledge out loud is that I am affiliated with the military.

They are taking Mr. Navy away from me. After a year and a half of his superiors telling me he'd never deploy -- "no, his job is here" they said. "He won't go anywhere" they said. Well, two weeks ago, we found out that it was all false.

They (I will use this word "they" many times from now on, to avoid using other words that may offend anyone) told him two weeks ago that they received a billet (an order) for an IA deployment to Iraq for one year. The IA deployment program is a volunteer based program -- it takes Navy personnel who want to go work with the Army and serve their country in combat zones in order to experience new things, make rank faster, and earn some extra pay. Mr. Navy's department had many volunteers--and for some reason or another, "they" determined that those volunteers were all ineligible, and that Mr. Navy is being forced to go. And will he be doing air traffic control? His love, his passion, and not to mention what he's been training for for the past year and a half and was hoping to do in the civilian world? Nope.

None of this makes sense to me. My brain just can't wrap around it. They say an IA is just a body. Someone sent to relieve an Army soldier to do mindless work. If all they need is a body, can't they send a body who wants to go? Who isn't getting married? Who doesn't have such a bright future ahead of them? And do "they" realize, that attached to that body is a brain, a heart, and a woman who loves him very much?

I have been told many things by many people who just don't know what to say. I urge people that if this is the case, don't say anything at all. Getting extra money in my paycheck or being able to park anywhere on base the entire YEAR they put Mr. Navy in a war away from me (not doing the job he's been trained to do) doesn't make any of this worth it to me.

So, for the next six weeks, I embrace my Mr. Navy with open arms and try not to imagine how difficult it will be to go that long without my other half. Without my sunshine, my ying, my best friend. What I do try to imagine is a life free of the military, and that makes for some sweet dreams.

So, Mr. Navy and I both will be on a journey for the next year -- however, they are journeys totally separate from each other. I ask for all your best wishes and your prayers.

And maybe I'll keep up with this blog -- and find something to poke fun at again.

Can't We All Be Dogs?

I am absolutely marveled at the species of the canine. They are unbelievable.

Over the years, a human being compared to a dog was often a negative, not a positive. Men were often given the unfriendly comparison due to their habits and un-human like responses, and not to mention their ability to pee, spit, and scratch their balls in public without any sense of embarrassment whatsoever. Because of this, being compared to a dog became a negative personality trait.

However, the more time I spend with my new dog, Lacey, the more I start to think... can't we all be like dogs? If we were, I think the world would be a much happier place.

No one can love you like a dog. A dog's love is the exact definition of unconditional. My dog, Lacey, just loves me...from the minute we brought her into our house, the love started. She doesn't care about the mistakes I have made in the past, or the ones I continue to make daily. She doesn't care if I raise my voice or get too emotional. Lacey looks into my eyes with so much love--and there are no strings attached at all. Sure, it's not completely one-sided. She does count on me to feed her, shelter her and occasionally walk and play. But she'll love me anyway--even if I don't get a chance to take her on a walk or throw her toy around with her enough one day.

Maybe if humans were all like that--maybe if we all cared more about our relationships with each other and gave out our love freely with no expectation of anything in return--the world would be a happier place. Maybe if we always greeted our loved ones at the door after their long day at work, curled up in their lap even though they just disciplined us for doing something bad, and made eating, sleeping and loving our priorities--the world would be a happier place.

I am marveled by my dog, and feel privileged and so lucky that she loves me unconditionally, no matter what.

Can't we all be dogs?

Bowl Cut Xmas Tree

Mr. Navy and I have the worst luck. Actually, generally he's been lucky his whole life, so maybe it's my bad luck that's rubbing off. Who knows.

We have a tendency to get the short end of the stick. We'll constantly buy something new, bring it all the way home, open the box and find out we're missing key parts to make it work. We'll buy a piece of clothing, put it in the wash and suddenly it shrinks and it cannot be worn again. We'll leave phone chargers behind, pay full price for something the day before it goes on sale, break our computers merely months after the warranty expires and agree to take in a dog right before it decides to attack another dog and get put down. However, this trend has never been so evident than it is right now--as I look at our Christmas tree.

We went out to the lot to purchase our first tree together this past weekend and it was very exciting (I was perhaps more excited than Mr. Navy was, but that's because I magically transform into a 7-year-old every year starting the day after Thanksgiving and then coincidentally turn back to my rightful age right before New Years Eve). We brought it home, put the lights on and decorated it with ornaments old and new. And then as we took our proud photos, we saw it. There's a huge chunk missing from the top. Huge.

There's no getting around it. Even turning it slightly towards the wall only makes it worse. We can't exactly take it back because of a flaw--we picked it out and dressed it up, therefore we must stick with it. But it's hard to take in the beauty when it's just...so...awkward looking...much like a kid with a bowl/mushroom haircut or something. Like Lloyd Christmas.

Mr. Navy and I are hoping this streak ends before we start having children...

Vacuum Bliss

I know I've been talking about being old a lot lately. Maybe 27 isn't really old, but for some reason I can't get off the topic.

Ok, you know you're old when...you're totally elated about a new vacuum.

Yesterday, Mr. Navy and I went out and purchased our first tree together. It was so joyous picking it out, bringing it home, setting it in the stand and beginning to clean up the millions of tiny pine needles that fell on the floor. As I vacuumed, I realized it wasn't picking up the needles, but just spitting them back out all over the carpet.

Mr. Navy, being the frugal fix-it that he is, took it apart to see what was the matter. After screws were un-screwed and screwed back on, filters were cleaned and hoses unclogged, I began the feat again--and yet again, it spit the needles back all over the carpet. As Mr. Navy reached to tear it open yet again, I thought to myself "please, can we just get a new one?" As if he read my mind, we were in the car on the way to the store faster than you could say Jingle Bells. And, we came home with a masterpiece.

Not only did the pine needles get scooped up in a heartbeat, but our new vacuum comes with a duster, two hoses and an upholstery cleaner--and not to mention the carpet and hard floor settings. The modern technology and sophistication combined with the thought of easier household cleaning almost brought a tear to my eye...

And now the new vacuum, with the same respect as Ralphie's Red Ryder BB Gun, sits proudly in the laundry room, just waiting to be called upon for duty.

Am I Just Tired...Or Am I Old?

This week was my first official week back in an office 8 hours a day. I'd been masquerading as a stay-at-home housewife and two-hours-a-week newspaper writer for about seven glorious months until a month ago when I was offered a part time position at a facility on base (which will remain nameless, again to protect the innocent). As daunting of a task as it was to start waking up at 6:45 every morning, at least I came home by 12:30 p.m. so that I could enjoy the quiet of the house, do the grocery shopping at a reasonable hour and watch my Sex and the City re-runs without judgemental looks from Mr. Navy. Things were good.

However, the paper started getting tedious and I wasn't feeling like I was able to rise to my full potential(damn my over achieving conscious). I was tired of being neglected by my editor and writing boring, mundane stories about ribbon cuttings and twin pilots. Something wasn't right. Something was missing. I wasn't feeling important or useful. Most importantly, I wasn't feeling creative. Then, the part time position at the facility on base offered me a full time position.

Long story short, I accepted the position, quit the newspaper and have been waking up before the sun comes up and heading home after it's gone down all week. I feel creative, productive, and...I get to wear cute shoes again. But, I'm also unbearably exhausted.

Am I tired, or just old? Why can't I motivate myself this week to do anything? Cook dinner--No, I'm exhausted. Go to the gym--Ha! I can barely keep my eyes open. Last night I dared to go grocery shopping after an 8 hour day at the office. I thought I was going to die. I still haven't recovered.

Am I just tired...do I just need to get used to not being a housewife any longer? Will my psyche and my body recover from the shock of not being able to stay at home and watch The View and Oprah in my 'jammies'?

Or, am I just old? Is this the life of an old person? Am I going to be tired every day and never be able to participate in after hour activities Monday through Friday? Am I going to start going to bed at 7 p.m. every night like my mother?

Am I just tired...or am I old?