It's the little things.

Me: Hey G, today is military spouse day.

G: mmm'kay. I made you pancakes this morning.

Me: I get a sneaking suspicion that you didn't know that at the time.

G: (giving 'jazz hands') Happpy Military Spouses Day!!!

Me: That's better.

The moral of this story is that G shouldn't tell me stuff while I'm already blogging.

SSG G: (calling from the living room) Oh, hey, for that TNA wrestling event we're working I get a backstage pass.

Me: I don't think I'm happy about that.

SSG G: Why?

Me: Just stay away from those TNA girls

SSG G: What? It's not like they are trampy like in WWE

Me: (wheeling the computer chair to the edge of the kitchen and staring at him around the corner)

SSG G: (looking sheepish) heh heh heh.

Me: Seriously, I don't want to see some barely dressed woman rubbing up on you for the camera or have some little girl talking about how she (using my air quotes) "appreciates your service"

SSG G: No rubbing. No appreciation. Got it.

I guess I don't really like the idea of any of the TNA guys "appreciating" him either.

I have to get out of here...

I was born and raised in Michigan. I married a Michigander, and even gave birth to one. That does not mean that this is where I belong. If given the choice, I would be someplace a little farther south. I have no problem with gun racks in pickups. I can have long, roundabout conversations with perfect strangers, I call it soda, not pop, tea is only tea if it is sweet, and I can drop this Yankee accent and drawl, y'all. I even encouraged my husband to join the Army, where most of the bases are located: yep, in the south. Yet, here I am...back HERE. And finally, it is Spring. How do I know that it is Spring? I don't need a calendar. I know it is the first day of Spring because after about a week and a half of t-shirt weather we woke up this morning to this:



This is how we do Spring up north, (y'all). My kids, showing their innocence to true Michigan weather, were actually surprised. Maybe they will get lucky and get to hunt their Easter eggs in the snow too, since anyone who was actually "raised" here can claim that tradition.
As for me, until Spring comes, you know, at the end of May, I will channel my inner garden gnome and sing the following song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ArQ46Y5VqHI

He looked so insulted, but it felt good.

G called to inform me that he got orders today. Scared me half to death, thought he was getting stationed someplace else. No, he finally got his orders for his promotion to from Sergeant to Staff Sergeant (hooah for pay raises). G comes home and says the following:

G: Man, my chest hurts.

Me: What?! You had your promotion ceremony today? (*if the thread of this conversation makes no sense to you I have provided an "Army for Dummies" footnote*) Without me? That's nice.

G: I've been wearing the rank for a while now, just didn't have the orders. It wasn't really a ceremony, we sort of skipped all of that.

Me: and went straight to punching you in the chest? Fantastic. I would like to actually go to one of your promotion ceremonies someday.

G: I'm sorry babe, would you like to punch me in the chest?

Me: *sulking* no..............yes.



*Here's a brief explanation of a little piece of Army lore for those of you who don't readily know what a promotion ceremony consists of. There is a stuffy little ceremony, some higher up says a few words and reads whatever is written on the certificate they give you. Your spouse is invited and they take some pictures. THEN everyone takes a turn pounding your rank onto your chest. This was a little more barbaric when the Army had pin-on rank. G came home after making Specialist with multiple puncture wounds spaced a half inch apart set inside the ugliest bruise I've ever seen. Now the rank Velcro's to your shirt and it isn't as fun for all those who are the 'pounders'. So to compensate they just hit the 'poundee' harder.

Major life epiphanies win every time.

G gets home from work earlier this week, looking exhausted.

Sgt. G: Well. My day sucked.

Me: Really? Because I dealt with a screaming fit from Monkey that lasted for about 45 minutes.

Sgt. G: what is his deal lately?..........So, how is that new?

Me: He was naked and threatening to kill me.

Sgt. G: why was he naked?

Me: That's the part that concerns you? Thanks. So, you think your day beats death threats from a naked 6 year old? Try and top it.

Sgt. G: (sighs) I realized today that I spent most of the day trying to get a guy INTO the Army that as an M.P. I would have tried to get kicked OUT of the Army.

Me: oh......you win.

Get off my six.

Motormouth comes running out of his room "Mom!! There's a bug in my room. It fell out of a box and you have to get it!"

Me: A bug. Where is it?

Motormouth: At three o'clock.

Me: Say again?

Motormouth: It fell at my three o'clock

Me: Motormouth, do you know where your three o'clock is?

Motormouth: IN MY ROOM

Me: Pretend you are standing on a clock face. So here is 12, 3, 6 is behind you, and 9....make sense?

Motormouth: Oh, I just had heard it on a TV show with soldiers and stuff. Daddy says it too.

Me: Those are generally the kind of people who wouldn't need to call their mom to get the bug.

Motormouth: Get it, get it get it!!

He came back for a second helping

While living in Germany I ran into an Army wife that made mashed potatoes with mayonnaise in them to make them creamier. Sounds gross, but is actually pretty good. She confided in me that her husband was horrified at the thought of eating potatoes that way and so she has snuck the offending ingredient into the recipe ever since. I thought that was good advise, and started quietly putting mayo into our potatoes. This has worked really well for us, since the boys can't eat any form of dairy, and we only ever have vanilla flavored soy milk in the house, I use the GF/CF mayo as a milk substitute. Sgt. G caught me the last time.

Sgt. G: Oh my God. What are you doing?

Me: um....cooking? you should go back into the living room now.

Sgt. G: you can't be putting that into the potatoes, it's disgusting!!

Me: would it make you feel better if I told you have eaten these potatoes several times already and you never noticed before?

Sgt. G: (fingers in his ears) LaLaLaLaLa!!

Me: oh yeah? I learned this from a wife in Germany, we moved back stateside 5 YEARS ago.

Sgt. G: you have seriously put that into my potatoes before.

Me: (looking slightly guilty) Not EVERY time.

Let the circle be unbroken

After getting my second refusal letter in a row for medical tests I had done from our insurance company, I gave in and called to get the mess straightened out.
Do I have my authorization for treatment and the refusal to pay statements together? Check.
Do I have enough time to wait on hold right now? Check.
Enough patience and energy to deal with bureaucrats? Apparently not.
I will summarize so you don't fall asleep from sheer boredom. They were refusing to pay because my social security number was "incorrect" on the forms; which means it was MY social security number and not Sgt. G's. The stupid woman is arguing with me about where his social security number needs to be. I think if it asks for the patient's SS#, the doctor's office and hospital were both correct in putting my # there. They had then put Sgt. G's SS# in where it asked for the policy holder's SS#. This would make sense to anybody, right? Not to my Tricare lady. She is not allowed to make that connection on her own and needs Sgt. G's social where mine is. Okay, whatever.

Me: So, can you guarantee that when this paperwork comes back to Tricare that it will come back to you personally?

Tricare lady: No, but I assure you, it will be fine.

Me: Really? Because I am pretty sure that most insurance claims people would wonder why my husband needed a PAP smear and an ultrasound to check for breast cancer.

To top all this off, when I called the hospital to have them make the changes and re-bill my insurance, the hospital billing department woman responded with this:
"Tricare has denied payment already? Well isn't that interesting. We haven't billed them yet."

And the Circle of Absurdity is complete.

I am the bestest Army wife ever!

A little background: Sgt. G called to let me know that he got orders to go to a army training school (one that we have known that he would be going to in the next year or two, and one that will be essential to his continued promotions) He was stressed out because they were orders to go in February, and when he tried to cancel them because it wasn't enough notice, they moved him up to the class that started in 9 days. He went around and around until he ended up with the original school date of Feb 2. He'll be gone about 6 weeks. Add that stress to the stress he is under because he knows he isn't physically capable of completing the school at this point. His back and neck are really screwed up (because of the army.....) and he knows he wont be able to wear all the gear for the training excercises. He could handle the recruiter training school, but he really doesn't think he can handle the MP version, which is the one he would have to go to unless he officially changes jobs, which he looked into and can't do in time, and he just isn't one of those "I don't care if I flunk out" kind of guys. I KNOW all of this information going into the following conversation. Not all these statements came out of my mouth in 30 seconds, but they were the ONLY comments I made on the subject over a 24 hour period.

Sgt. G.: Couldn't change my school date, I am going in Feb.

Me: What? What the heck?.....Who is going to shovel the snow??? (no exageration, this was my first thought and reply) ......I am so going to lose my job.....crap. I really like my job.........you MADE me move back to this frozen tundra and now you are going to LEAVE ME here???? This SUCKS! .......And I don't know if your dog will still be here when you get back...(oh yeah, I threw a poor, defenseless, insanely cute puppy under the bus- figuratively, not literally)

Look at me, being extremely postive and supportive! I should get some sort of award for that.

Ah, Perspective

We moved back to Michigan last Spring. Moving is normal for us, and to honest, after a year or two in one place I am excited to go someplace new. This is mostly because even though the next place will be new, it will also be the same. All military bases are essentially alike. They all have a grocery and department store, fire and police station, bowling alley and movie theatre, vet clinic and thrift store. There are family services that help you find jobs, child care, lend you household items until your own things arrive, etc. Not to mention entire neighborhoods of people who will intsantly loan you things you need, show you around, keep you company and provide playmates for your kids. There is certainly a sense of security living on base. You live in the ultimate gated community, an entire town protected by gates and armed guards. Not to mention the fact that I lived with part of the police detail, and knew all the cops on patrol. I knew help was only a phone call away, and whoever anwered the phone would be someone I knew. I also knew that if I got pulled over, no one really wanted to give me a ticket. Life was pretty sweet on base. So, knowing that moving to Michigan meant we would be leaving all that security behind, it was a little scary. We were house hunting over the internet, and living someplace safe was my main concern. The night before we left for Michigan to have a house hunting weeked, we were woken up by the sounds of yelling. "Help!! Help!!" about every ten seconds. We figured it was teenagers. Nighttime disturbances were pretty commonplace. Sgt. G finally got up and called the MP's. The desk's response was "I hope you are calling about the disturbance in Herryford Village, because everyone we got is heading that way!" Sure enough, soon the yells for help were then joined with this yell of "I'm an MP!" barking K-9's, and about 6 cars with flashing lights lighting up the entire neighborhood. Dogs were released, pepper spray was used, and because the MP in charge was an idiot, it took 45 minutes to get a domestic disturbance under contol. As we lay in bed watching the red and blue pulsate on our walls and ceiling, I started laughing uncontrollably. "Gee babe, it will sure be hard to find someplace as safe as this to live!"