Good Bye Awful August; Hello Serendipitous September

If you read my last post, you know August was kind of a bust.  September, however, is looking up.

This past Friday I went out for burgers and pie with a friend.  I usually get custard pie.  It’s one of the few places I’ve found where you can always get it.  Friday, though, I felt like changing it up a little and ordered coconut cream.  When I got to my table with my food, I looked and saw not coconut, but chocolate cream pie.  Oh no!  They got my order wrong!  I hate that.  But I took a second to think…what’s the worst that can happen if I don’t send the pie back?  I eat a slice of delicious chocolate pie?  Well fuck me, that sounds pretty damn good!  So I honeybadgered on and ate the fuck out of that chocolate pie.

And so started the trend of saying “to hell with it!” and going with the flow.

Next, after a weekend of camping, I suggested to my friend that we stop for food somewhere between the site and my house.  I actually was in the mood for In & Out Burger, but my friend suggested the Jack in the Box just down the road.  Fuck it!  Let’s go to Jack in the Box.  We wound up running in to a guy from the camping event and hung out for a while.  Now I have plans to go camping again next weekend.  (and he’s promised me craft beer and bourbon!)

But wait!  It gets better!

On Friday, my camping buddy asked about our plans for Sunday.  I just needed to deliver some cupcakes and pick up some brewing supplies, but otherwise just needed to make time to eat.  “My brother does sound for various touring musicians,” my friend said to me.  And so that’s how I wound up backstage at a Willie Nelson concert looking at nude pictures of the sound guy’s wife.  Yep, that happened.

Rule 6: Say yes like a honeybadger.

I Call Do-Over on August

August was not kind to me.

First, a visit from my former best friend turned into an inferno of suck when he started acting like a giant douchecanoe so I put his ass back on a plane to Texas.  We haven’t spoken since.  He behaved like so much of a jerk that our friendship is beyond repair.  We’re not friends who are arguing; we’re no longer friends.

Right before I sent him packing, we were in Lake Tahoe for a couple of days where I apparently I laid down in the Unholy Lair of Bloodsucking Fiends.  Go do a quick Google image search for “bedbug bites.”  I’ll wait here.  Back?  I looked far worse than anything you just viewed.  Stress and anger kept the reaction down for a few days, but when it hit it was all at once and miserable.

This is what I imagine was happening while I slept

I painted my body with Caladryl and took 50mg of Benedryl before going to bed only to wake up four hours later itching like mad.  50 more of Benedryl and four and a half hours of sleep and I’m up again now with enough bites on my face that my right eyelid is swollen enough to partially obstruct my vision.  My doctor’s office offered to see me in two weeks.  Luckily I work in a clinic and they offered to see me in two hours.  I walked in and an ER Physician’s first words to me were, “You’re getting seen for that today, right?”  No one I worked with…doctors, nurses, EMTs, Public Health…had ever seen a case of bedbugs that bad.  I got a steroid injection on the spot and a bottle of Prednisone to take home.

My hands were so swollen I couldn’t even cook dinner for myself.  I had a filet mignon (that I was going to cook for the douchenugget) thawed out in the refrigerator but all I could manage to pull together was mac and cheese from a box.  It was a miserable several days until the itching subsided.

My friends yelled at me for not calling them to bring me real food.

A week later, my cat got sick.

Now I have to pay for cat ultrasounds and cat lab tests and cat antibiotics.  Super.  And it’s the shitty cat I don’t care about.  Awesome.  Three vet visits and $600 later, she’s all, “I don’t know what you were worried about.  I’m totes fine now.”  My cat’s a teenaged girl.  And kind of a bitch.

This is what my cat would look like as a person.

Shitty work drama ensues.  I won’t bore you with the details, but know that much obnoxiousness was afoot in my workplace.

Someone even came after my Rio Red Swingline stapler.  No lie.

Finally, August 31 was my birthday.  It’s been a horrid month.  Surely things will look up on my birthday.  It’s my birthday!  Nope.  My friends all bail on game night because they didn’t realize it was my birthday…understandable since I’d had my party three weeks earlier when my shitty ex-friend was in town.  No problem.  I’ll just walk to the Italian place around the corner and have a beer and some pasta…maybe some cheesecake for dessert, and then I’ll come home and watch some Dexter on my laptop.  But that was not to be…

That's probably every patrol car in town.

While I was waiting for my food, a dude came in acting erratically and going back and forth to the bathroom.  I thought about calling the cops but he came and sat down a few feet from me.  Instead, I scoped out the place to see who would be useful if we needed to subdue this guy.  Military training, HUA!  Meanwhile, my food comes and I take one delicious bite of my fettuccine alfredo before a half dozen police storm in, some with assault rifles, all with weapons drawn.  They yell, “Get out!  Get out!  Get out!” so I do.  Fuck.  All I wanted to do was to have a nice quiet dinner on my birthday.  Dammit.

So yeah, any month that starts with losing a friend and ends with a SWAT team interrupting my birthday dinner can suck it.

Happy Birthday!  Now get on the ground!

I just want you to want me; I don’t need you to need me.

…And if you need me to need you, you’re barking up the wrong damn tree. 

Years ago, I learned that if you rely too much on a man, one day you’ll find yourself out in the cold trying to build a life from scratch.  And it fucking sucks.  I stayed far too long with someone who was toxic largely because I was young and madly in love, but also partly because if I left, where would I go?

 I never wanted to find myself there again, so eventually I found myself on my current career trajectory.  And I’m good at it.  Promotions are coming faster than predicted and I’m damn good at what I do.  I’ve worked hard to get where I am and I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished.  I visited four motherfucking continents last year for work.  I have a two bedroom house with wood floors, a basement, and a washer and dryer.  I have investments bitches.

Trouble is, men like to see themselves in the rescuer/protector role.  They want to be the provider.  They want to ride in like Prince Charming to rescue the damsel in distress.  Above all else, they do NOT want to be rescued themselves.  No matter how dire their situation or how far a simple helping hand can help them reach their own goals.  Some men would rather go down in flames than accept help from a woman who was once in their shoes.

Well fuck those guys.  I’m not giving up my independence for a dude again and I'm not apologizing for being successful.  I like going to a restaurant or movie by myself.   I’ve had a great time in Vegas alone.  Maybe next time I’m due for a vacation, I’ll see New York, or London, or maybe I’ll run a marathon in Australia or Hawaii by myself.  Who knows?  Perhaps I’ll even brush up on my German and head to Berlin?  Achtung  baby!

Toughest Job in the Military

Disclaimer:  I very well may piss off some military spouses with this post and to them I say, “flame me in the comments or stop reading my blog.”  Also, the views I express in this post are not the views of the US Air Force, any US military branch, or the US government.

Now that that’s out of the way, let me tell you about something that pisses me off.  If you live near a military base, you’ve probably seen wives of active duty members driving cars or wearing shirts that say “Military Spouse: the Toughest (or most important) Job in the Air Force (or Army/Navy/Marine Corps).”  Are you fucking kidding me?!?!  How offensive is that?

The ground pounders will be happy to know they don't have it that bad.

You think you have  a tough job, spoiled military spouse who doesn’t work?  I DARE you to walk into BAMC or Walter Reed or Landstuhl and tell the EOD tech who got blown up disarming an IED or the Marine who took a bullet defending his men that your job is tougher than theirs.  Boo hoo, you have to live in your comfortable house with cable and AC and all your friends nearby while hubby’s gone for 6-12 months or more on deployment.  Cry me a fucking river you spoiled bitch.  You want to know who has a tough job?  The CE troops building the infrastructure in Afghanistan, the crew chiefs and port dogs and maintainers working on the flightline in the blistering heat, the medic in the ER receiving injured troops.  You, my dear, do not have a tough job.

I'd rather be a military spouse than do this job.

Pretty sure this Marine has a tough job.

People forget how tough it can be on the medical side.

Sure spouses are important.  They support the active duty member and take care of things while they’re away.  However, if it was that important of a job, we’d all be issued one upon commissioning or enlistment.  I’ve deployed several times without the benefit of a dutiful spouse waiting at home for me and it worked out just fine, thanks.

I'm not saying it's not hard to be a military spouse.  It's certainly harder than being the spouse of an investment banker or an accountant or a Wal-mart manager.  I do appreciate what military spouses do.  I've been deployed and received a care package from a military spouses group.  (though I think they forget that women deploy too)  The majority of military spouses are wonderful people who have excellent coping skills.  Unfortunately, it's the pains in the ass that are the most visible.

 What I think some of these wives forget, is that none of them are actually IN the military.  They did not enlist or commission as a wife.  It’s not an AFSC or MOS.  If they wake up one day and decide they don’t want to be a military spouse anymore, they can and do pack up their stuff and run back home to mother.

While I’m on the topic, I recently saw a spouse with a shirt that read, “Don’t Confuse YOUR Rank With MY Authority.”  Oh really?  Well honey, I’d like to advise you not to confuse your HUSBAND’s rank with MY authority.  You are a civilian.  I earned my rank and the authority that goes with it.  I don’t care what rank your husband is because I still outrank YOU.

Rule 5: Military spouses are great, but some of them need a little perspective.

Perspective

Fuck You Dr Phil

I’ve never much cared for Dr Phil and now after hearing about a recent topic on his show, he can go suck a bag of dicks.  You see, he did a show titled “From Heroes to Monsters” about troops who come back from deployments with PTSD and Traumatic Brain Injuries (TBI) and calls them “damaged goods.”  

Monsters?!?!?!  Really?!  Fuck you Dr Phil.  Anyone who has experienced what those military members have gone through and come back home WITHOUT any issues is the real monster.

I tried to find somewhere to watch the episode online, but can’t find anywhere that doesn’t look sketchy, so perhaps the episode was more positive than the title and previews would indicate.  However, the clips I saw seemed to portray the wives as victims who were afraid of these demons they had to sleep next to every night.

From what I’ve been able to find out from other blogs/reviews one of his “experts” is promoting his new book on PTSD and advises veterans to “use a strong mouthwash before bed” because poor oral hygiene can contribute to other health problems.  If brushing your teeth could “cure” PTSD, we’d have a handle on it by now, dumbass.  The book also quotes a study that shows that chewing gum can improve PTSD symptoms.  You know who sponsored that study?  Wrigley.

It seems that since the airing of the show, Dr Phil has changed the name of the show to “Heroes in Pain” but has not issued an apology.

If you'd like to hear from the other side of the Warfighter/PTSD community, check out Boone Cutler's radio show about this topic.  He's a GWOT vet himself and doesn't talk out of his ass like Dr Phil.