Rabbits Foot

 

The clock strike three at eleven

clang clang on the coffee mug

along clang on the coffee mug

clang clang on the coffee mug

Scottish hound are on the way

one mother coffee soon to be fixed

another down a sunder next in line 

little white tailed rabbits have many places with which to play

they borrow and seek that which has seeped

when they being their lift through the smoke

into the haze of the day

they jump and they sway

let your minds eye follow

the rabbits foot

Blue Shift

 

Everything is moving 

east, west, north, south, circles, spirals

heat gets turned up 

the friction of everything spinning a way

it opens doors and pathways

into a sunder it dwells down under 

a crag on the mountain tops 

another does take flight

The Storm Witch

Do you wonder if the human race is redeemable? 

I'm searching. 

I'm watching in live time the destruction of families and individuality all in the name of collectivism. We all know that collectivism does not work. It's been proven over and over. How many lessons are needed? Human nature will not allow it. You were not made in the image of a group. You were made an individual with free thoughts and free will in our Mother and Fathers image.  

You all thought it was one thing, one idea; One truth. 

The truth is YOU. It's right there by what ever name you give it.

I stand in front of you as the truth and I feel despair for all of you. 

The old men picked at the words of the wise and changed them to fit themselves. 

I am the trinity of Me, Myself and I. The Maiden, The Mother and The Crone. The Truth, The Light and The Dark.

I am the Storm Witch.

I travel through the heavens above and have since the beginning of all time. I see all you do.

You will not control me.

You will not control the Earth as it was made.

The Sea is mine and you will drown in my tears I have shed for you.

When I put war paint on; it will be Your war. 

It will be for the World. 

It will be for everyone to see. 

For I am the Standard. 

They will burn the Standard down and I will rise from the depths of death and bring you home. 

My Finnish Grandfathers Death

My Grandpa was a typical low income American from immigrants living in New England. I'm under the impression they were from the Finnish/Russian border area. You can do the math on that one concerning my anti communism stance, "for I know evil when it is before me". 

They called him Patchy because he was from The Patch. His birth name was Berthel Ragnar. He was a very handsome man. I look almost exactly like him but a female, and I hope a way more attractive version. The jaw, the beady eyes, the pretty good skin, and the most excellent strong cheek bones. All of which I did not choose. That is not a proposition of life.

My father grew up in a tenet house in a factory town in Massachusetts (thank you spell check). The town had a grey tint to it, the grass, the sky...all the time. I think it was despair. His father was an alcoholic that would disappear for days and weeks...I've even heard months. My father didn't tell me this...I was just listening when everyone else thought I was talking. I didn't hear much bad talk, it was mostly how much he loved his grandchildren, particularly my older sister with her locks of golden hair. Mine was always dirt brown and stringy. I don't remember this grandpa well. I remember when he died though...or was very sick and looking through to deaths door. He died of cancer...you have to whisper that word in a factory town. 

We were living in Seeb, Oman. I think it was around 1978...?

The phone wasn't used often; and my mom was on the phone a lot I had noticed. It wasn't cheap to call long distance back in the day. (Holy shit I have to say back in the day and actually mean it.) You didn't have a chance to talk to your family much...you wrote letters bitches. There was a desk to the right of the door to the hallway outside, on our very shiny terrazzo floors . They were ivory white with bits of black, and grey with tiny sand colour sprinkled throughout (that terrazzo floor is a story unto itself). The phone was on the right of the desk and to the left was a stack of air plane tickets to be filed out. We were different then normal people...because my father worked for Pan Am and Pan Am was kick ass. 

When we would go back to the States it was always an event. Traveling always meant, best manners, best behavior and a lovely hop to Bahrain on Gulf Air. Gulf Air hops were always worrisome for me more so than the 727's and on an awesome trip...the 747's. Their aircraft were small and always felt rickety. The siding inside would shake and rattle and not just during take off and landings. The orange juice was really tang and I hate tang. You also had to know where all the exits were, how to open the plane door and what to do in case of a hijacking. We always had to be aware of our surroundings. There were wars literally to the left and to right of us, Dofar and, well all that Iran shizzle and all the other lovely events that seem to have happened since the beginning of time...and never, ever, wear polyester because it will melt to your skin in a fire. 

To add on to travel fun for parents of 4 lovely children, when we arrived in New York, before deregulation, you had to switch airports coming and going. One for International travel (Newark?) and the other for domestic (LaGuardia?). 

"Taxi!" My dad would yell as we all lined up with suitcases inside suitcases. On the way home they would be filled to the brim with hubba bubba and new clothes...and anything else someone might have needed for us to pick up. My dad hated/hates New York and worse the drivers, he didn't swear in front of us girls and if ever did he still says, "Excuse my French." My mom on the other hand swears like a sailor thats been out to sea too long. Oh wait that's me, I just get it from her. I liked it when we would get one of the old taxies with the doors that opened in opposite directions. I still feel at home most amongst old things. I think it's in my blood.  

My first ex husband wrote a paper for his Masters on air line deregulation so I know almost everything from every angle on it to an absurd point. I'm hearing while you all think I'm talking yo;). 

I don't recall where we always stayed when we would go back east, if it was Mrs. Balls house or not, but I do remember something of the sort. Mrs. Balls house was an old wine coloured Victorian on Chestnut Street, the light shined a bit brighter there. She was nice to me. She rented out rooms, like the Forrest Gump story but completely different. There were stairs when you came in the house, nothing grand and palatial, but had a great sliding rail. Up the stairs was a hallway and three doors; heavy, dark wood sturdy doors. We would go to the one on the right, I think. I spent most my time outside playing super heroes, I was always Storm or Wonder Woman, or in the kitchens. Inside stuff was boring. We weren't allowed to be bored. Only uninteresting people allow themselves listlessness.

This would be a different time though. There was no travel for the 4 of us kids. My brothers went to The Rodgers, Carol and Mr. Rodgers and my sister and I packed a small bag each and headed to the Batstones. It was like a vacation to me. I didn't care if I slept on the floor. I loved staying with them. Mr. Batstone was the 'Weather' man, he would call me his little white witch. White witches control the storms. Mrs. Batstone had to stitch me up a few times, she was a legit nurse. She was one of my moms best friends in the whole wide world. ( I think there are only two for my mom. She's blessed to have had them and I am too because I got to have them in my life for a time as well). I think she was one of the Sultans nurses, maybe that's a story I made up though. They had two kids, Charles and Rachel. I looked up to Charles, he was good friends with my older brother. Rachel was way cooler and a year or two older than me and friends with my sister. I was just a little kid that was always climbing and falling and spying and talking. I've had so many stitches I've lost count. They used to called me scarface. The scars have faded with time. 

I didn't miss my grandfather after he left us, I didn't really know him.

"Every thing dies."

...and I was young and busy.

 

This is an adults perspective of a child's life events. Memories morph from a child's perspective to an adults perspective. Some of my accounting is wrong. I'm sure of it...memories blend with memories and we create that which we want to see so the past will fit our today. This is a tenet of my life.

 

Polish Raisin Bread

When I was a little girl my Grandmothers would sit me down and make me watch them as they prepared a multitude of dishes.
One Grandmother was a poor city woman of Polish decent, my Grandfather was a Swedish/Russian and her best friend was an Italian immigrant. In her house the cuisine was obviously Polish, Swedish, Italian and lots of roasts.
My other Grandmother was a typical midwestern woman. A country cook with a ham hanging in her pantry. She made her own jams and canned everything she could from her overflowing garden. She made biscuits and gravies, milk and redeye.

Easter is coming up and in my house and I hold the tradition of what we fondly like to call…
PORK FEST.
I stick to my Polish Grandmothers ways and don a babushka and an apron channeling all old Polish women ways.
I have updated and changed my Grandmothers menu a bit but it consists of…
Ham, Deviled Eggs, Kielbasa, Kapusta, Raisin bread, Perogies, Pea Salad and always, Olives and Pickles.

The trickiest part of this whole effort is the Raisin Bread. It is a thorn in the sides of her decedents.
As with most home cooks we don’t measure a damn thing, we just KNOW.
Well, this isn’t working.

Note…my other Grandmother would make biscuits and use a…as she described it, “An egg size dollop of shortening.”

Every year I make this Raisin Bread, every year one loaf always comes out raw in the middle.
This year I am starting early and I will get it right.
I started this morning.

Raisin Bread

In a sauce pan
1C skim milk
1/2C heavy Cream
1 C sugar
2tsp salt
1/2 C shortening (I used butter flavored)
Heat to a rolling boil
Add 2 Cups of Raisin to liquid and let cool, about 45 min. You want the raisins to pulp up.

Dissolve 2 packs of yeast (or 4 1/2 tsp) in 1/4 of very hot water.
To cool liquid add
Dissolved yeast
4 beaten eggs
2 C flour
Beat well with a spoon

In a large bowl
Add beaten mixture
and add
4 C flour
This is where it gets tricky.
I’m not afraid of yeast, altitude or humidity
…but I must take in these to consideration.
Add your flour slowly
If you live in a humid area, you need more, up here where I live at around 6000 feet above sea level were even our snow is dry and can be swept from our driveways…I need less.

Mix it till it comes together ish
On a floured surface kneed dough for about 4 to 5 min.
To kneed dough fold in half using the heel of your palm and turning it a quarter each time until its combined and well, doughy.

Put it in a large butter coated bowl, cover with a warm wet towel and put it in the oven. Make sure oven is off. Turn on the light in the oven. Let it rise in the oven for about 2 hours or until doubled in size.

Dump out on floured surface and cut into thirds, or halves.
This most fabulous recipe is a crap shoot but worth it.
You see this same recipe I have made into 2 loaves and sometimes 3, depending on the year.

Form in to a loaf and add to floured pans.
Let rise in the oven for about an hour.

Remove from the oven and turn the oven on
To 350.
Bake for 30 min…or until when thumped with your finger you hear a hollow sound. (Yes, this is how it was taught to me.)

If you try it, let me know how it comes out.
As for me My dough is in the oven rising as I type….and I will let ya know how it turned out…I’m sure one raw, one cooked as always and I will sit there and eat around the raw bits, just like every year.

Reel to Reel

When I was a child we lived in Seeb, Oman. We lived there for 8 years. We lived in Building One, Apt. One in the Pan Am Compound. It was the early 70’s.

There weren’t many Americans there, mostly Canadians and such.
When my mother had foot surgery, Rainbush, the house boy would cook dinners and clean. Oman has a very large East Indian population. Indian food is a staple to this days in my home, I roast and grind my own spices even. My brothers and sister and I to this day will have conversations with each other with an East Indian accent.

The PanAm Compound was oval in shape surrounded by a cyclone fence. It had a ‘gate guard’, a tall Omani wearing his dishdashah who enjoyed taking naps in the little shack next to the gate. The gate was just this long two by four that he had to push down on for it to raise…high tech! There were 5 original apartment buildings with 4 stories each, 2 apartments on each of the 3 top floors. Each apartment had a foyer, a living room, a dinning room, a small galley kitchen, off the kitchen was a tiny semi bricked in porch where my Mom would yell...
…."Stefy, Leonard, Kristin, Thor….!” …and we knew it was time to come home.
It also had 3 bedrooms and 1 and 1/2 bathrooms. The floors were terrazo and the walls the same colour as the outside of the building, concrete grey. My Mom fought and argued with the management to be able to paint or wallpaper the inside. She finally won several years later. Our house was decorated with macramé hanging tables and hideously coloured loaned furniture. Macramé that caught on fire very quickly when brothers and their friends were left alone in an apartment with matches and a lighter!
Parking was under the building. Where we children were often found roller-skating on the smooth surface till our fathers came trotting back in their shared vehicles from work.
From our living room we had views of rocky, jagged mountains, dirt, rocks and thorn trees that dotted the barren land. Thorn trees that had brightly coloured fabrics drying on them. We would run to the windows or outside whenever a camel train would come by, always fascinated by what we saw.

These buildings lined one side of the Compound. There was one difference between building One and the rest, our had a patch of grass. It was probably four feet by four feet. My father had planted it and tended to it with great skill, and a lot of water. He would trim it with scissors.
On the other side were also a few houses for the ‘higher’ ups.
In the center of the Compound, where the rocks had been cleaned away we had volley ball nets up. We would also celebrate major Holidays, like Guy Fawkes day with a massive effigy that we would burn every November 5th. We also celebrated July 4th there with cookouts and fireworks.
On the far side from building One, next to Building 5 were Tennis Courts. I don’t even know if anyone ever played Tennis. They were usually used once a year at Halloween for a MASSIVE party. (Another Blog.)
Eventually they built 1 more apartment building, in all our childish originality, we called it ‘The Big Building’. It was cool and modern, it even had elevators.

We weren’t in the middle of nowhere, the RAF Compound was right next to ours.

My Dad would give us a few Baisas and we would walk over to ‘Tony’s’ to get candy. Tony’s was the closest thing to a convenience store. A ruckety wooden building, painted orange or yellow, my I can’t remember it was so long ago, with beaten wood floor boards. In the center of this tiny space was a trough of candy for us to choose from…I liked the Smarties. If you walked a little farther you would reach the Church/School. The Church all denominations shared and the school was for the ‘older’ kids who took correspondence courses, like my brother, sister, Rachel, Charles, Rob…and all the rest of them.

Us young in’s either went to boarding school or to the local English school, Royal Flight. At that time it consisted of two rooms. We played rounders, painted and Mrs Brown taught us, in her very strict manner. We learned French, the pound the pence and in-depth history of the United Kingdom.
Royal Flight is now a substantial school, with multiple buildings, a pool and sports teams.
I’m a member on an FB 'Royal Flight Group' site. I am THE oldest person on there. I’m looking for one of my best friend from those days,  Rebecca Tilly.
Once the Queen came to visit us at our little school, yes, the Queen of England! She wore a brown dress with white polka dots. Her hat was also brown and she had a string of pearls draped around her neck. We were instructed not to talk to Her unless She spoke to use and we learned to curtsy. How COOL is THAT!
I shook the Queen of England’s hand.

We had a pet donkey named Clarence. He was brought up to our apartment on my little brother Thor’s birthday. Clarence had been found wandering on the runway and the Dad’s captured him for us.
A corral was made and I swear there were 4 of 5 donkeys before we knew it in the corral. The corral was lined with forts for us children, made from the containers goods were shipped over in. They were not one story forts but two! Our parents spent a great time building these two story forts for us.

My Mother was always making sure my tetanus shots were up to date because I would run around with no shoes. Rusty nails are NOT my friends, in my feet and forehead. They called me Scar Face because I had/have so many scars on my face from stitches. Mrs. Batstone, one of my Mom’s best friends was a nurse and I saw her often as I was stitched back up.

Excitement for us was when a U.S. Navy ship was nearby and we would get real pork hot dogs, bologna and maybe even a Coke product. We had to keep it quiet though, we lived in a strict Muslim Country where Sharia Law was The Law.

Motorcross was huge in Oman. We would go to races on weekends. Ian Ash...I rooted for him every time. I can’t believe I remember his name! My sister and brother shared a bike, I was WAY to young to ride:( Once my sister went out riding alone, a big, no, no. She came back hours later, on foot, pushing her bike along side with a terrible case of ‘desert rash’ all down her side.

The TV we watched was very limited; Star Trek in English and Sesame Street in Arabic. That’s ok, we missed nothing, we had something better….our imaginations.
My father had a collection of Reel to Reels…My parents would invite the kids in the compound over and we would lie on the dinning room floor on our bellies, our elbows resting on the floor and our chins planted in the palms of our hands. My Mom would make popcorn for us. I remember ‘The Lone Ranger’ and ‘The Shadow’ the best. I am sure he had more….but really…’only the Shadow knows….” It was like reading a book, you saw the story in your head, it was better than TV!

It was a safe place to live and run around barefoot and carefree.
I am friends still with people that shared this most amazing, magical time and place. We had a limited amount of people to interact with and because of that the families that lived there are closer than normal, the friendships stronger.

My Post Op…this is a bit funny!

So I had my Surgery on Monday…I survived, much to the dismay of my Ex. (That’s a joke-ish, I hope.)

My surgery was at 7am finished at 11am. Before we left for Surgery I took a long hot shower, knowing it would be till Thursday till I could have my next one. It was an out patient surgery and my Dad dropped me off so he and my Mother could get my children off to school.

I get there, meet one of the many nurses and she says to me…
…”Take off everything but your panties and put this on, ties in the back.”
Back story, I don’t wear panties unless I have a reason to take them off…ya know what I’m talkin' about…
They leave panty lines and I don’t want to get my panties in a wad!
Anyway…When I got dressed that morning I didn’t put panties on…thought about it, and decided…
…’Hmmmm, maybe I should just for good measure.’
So Panties on, I tell her as I laugh and tell her my little story.
It was first thing in the morning and I don’t think I have ever heard a woman laugh so hard at 6:15 in the morning!
I’m sitting there with this not very style conscious gown in white and blue tied behind me. No bra and I hate not wearing a bra…My Boobs are real, not perfect and I’m a little sensitive to their loose-ness (Sing along with me, “You can tie them in a knot, you can tie them in a bow…”) At least I have my panties on. To get my mind off the uncomfortable situation, no bra, I’m getting cut open, I’m all alone…I post my panty status on FB and laugh at my ridiculous-ness and can’t believe I have just shared this with all my friends.

The Anesthesiologist comes in and explains some things and sticks me with a few needles to get some groovy drugs into my blood stream. I’ve agreed to a nerve block and this Bitchin’ Wiccian is goin’ under!
He injects me and I feel the lovely high that is shared by those with medical marijuana cards and Shamans. I told him to let me feel it for awhile…he was nice and did…I reminisced out loud;)…I remember all of this. Later I found out something else…later in the blog I will share…

I wake up several hours later, ready to go. No nausea, nothing…just ready. My Doc. comes in and tells me what he did.
This is something I have NOT shared yet on FB or anywhere else yet. I asked for a miracle on the night of the Full Moon. I prayed/wrote a healing spell. My meniscus, and MCL had healed on their own. I have no idea how to up load the before (MRI) pictures and the Surgery pics (semi after) so you can see yourself, when I do I’ll put them on here.  My MCL, that was completely torn from my femur reattached it’s self. My Doc was more so taken aback with the healing of my meniscus…it is a beautiful site now, appalling before. My ACL has been replaced with the help of a donor…a dead person’s tendon. Not a big deal, but hey…I’m thankful for the organ donor card now more than ever.

My parents aren’t there yet but show up a little bit later and attempt to get me home. Because of my nerve block I can’t move or feel the lower right hand side of my body. If I don’t pay attention I will be dragging my right foot behind me and have no clue.
I decided the best way for me to get home is sitting in the back of my MiniVan. I had had my Father remove the middle seat thinking I would sit in the way back with my leg stretched out before me. NO…that was not happin’. I sat on the floor.
When we got home I scooted up the stairs on my butt. Safest easiest route I could think of. I got on the bed backward by pulling myself up from behind like a paraplegic. I don’t ever want to be a paraplegic. I didn’t want help though. It was very important that I could do all this myself…there was/is/are many things I need help with…enough that I want to do what I can on my own.

Blah, blah, blah…

I slept, took drugs and had food served to me in bed. On Tuesday, F1 and F2 came to visit me with flowers, pasteries and chocolates from all the CSRM’s…I couldn’t have been happier!
Yesterday I started walking around without my crutches. It wasn’t really walking though…but I was putting all my weight on my leg, no crutches.

My Doc. called and asked me…
…”So how’s your pain?”
Me…”I think I’m just the biggest pain. I’m kiddin’ I’m doing really well, I just popped some pills.”

I love these pain killers but I jest about the amount I use them. I take less than the average and more infrequently than I want. I take them when I AM in pain. I just wait till I can’t take it anymore. However last night after a day of waddling around my house I WAS in pain and took some pain meds and my Mother and I ‘cheered’ with a glass of wine. I texted one of my friends…I told him I would apologize later. I still haven’t apologized, probably won’t….I meant every word! ;)

Today I got up made my Children breakfast as I was tried of laying around. I’m an active kind of gal. I got them ready for school and sent them on their way. Their Grandparents drove them, I still can’t drive. My post op was at noon and I was anxious to see my Doc.
My Dad drives me and we are sitting there waiting talking about Egypt…
Another blog…
I see my Doc and he tells me…

This is what I found SO FUNNY!

…”How are ya?”…a little small talk then…
Doc…"You scared the S*** out of our Anesthesiologist!”
Me…”Really?! What happened?”
Doc…”He told us that after he put you under you started talking, even more, and you told him you were a Witch.”
Doc…”He was so scared and I told him people say crazy stuff you know that. He was adamant, you scared him and I had to reassure him you were normal.”
Me…”I am a Witch.”
Doc…”Stop it.”
Me…”No seriously, tell him I would never harm another though. Hundreds of people know about me, it’s ok. ”
Doc…”Only you.”

He removes the bandages from my legs and shows me somethings and gives me some new rules. Tells me to make appointments for my Re-hab and such...

I got an A+++ from my Doc. I think he is a little afraid I will push to hard. He doesn’t know that I want to heal quickly yes, but most importantly, perfectly!

I skipped all pain pills till 1:00 today and haven’t had any since….I also got to take a shower, a long hot shower with ClingWrap wound tightly around my leg and wounds.

I’m not sure if this is my last blog about this part of my journey or not…I will see and decide as time sees fit.

Now that I have said all that about ME. My journey is nothing, not a drop in the bucket compared to the fights and perils that others go through.
I’m a little embarrassed about this…think about others before yourself. If you want to think about me, think of my vanity and say a prayer/write a spell for me;)

Toilets

Ideas flood and over flow from my brain….
Quickly!!! Someone get a plunger!

This is a serious matter. We have all used one at sometime in our lives. Don’t lie. I know you have. #1’s and #2’s….
When learning a new language one of the first things you learn is…
…”Ou sont le toilettes?”
…”Ayn al-hhammam?”
…”Torie wa doko desu ka.” (No question mark as 'desu ka' is the question mark)
…”Gdu teulet?”
…”Donde esta el bano?"

My youngest son asked me the other day…
S…”Mom did you and Dad get divorced because you were tired of cleaning all the bathrooms?”

My ‘new’ place here in the ghetto that I now reside with great glee only has two bathrooms.
It takes me only 30 min. to clean the actual bathroom…the toilets though take about an hour each. I have a special yellow toothbrush that hangs out with my cleaning supplies. I replace it every month as it sees a lot of bleach and ….uggggh…!
I have two small boys that have a difficult time finding “the hole”. I really hope when they are older and of appropriate age they can find “the hole”.

Once I walked into my downstairs bathroom and my nose was assaulted, the bouquet of urine was permeating the air. I looked around the base thinking maybe one of them had missed…by a long shot this time. It was clean.
Where the hell was it coming from?
I looked in the garbage. They are young boys, I really don’t want to have to explain their behavior or why I WOULD look in the garbage…it’s just embarrassing.
All the bending over and looking around had made my nose run. I go to grab a tissue from the tissue box on top of the back of the toilet…
Holy Urine Smell Batman!
I lift up the box and the bottom is coated with urine? I look behind the toilet and see streaks going down the wall.
I call my middle child front and center. (I knew it was him with out a doubt in my head.)
I asked him…
…”Why am I going to have to clean the toilet up here AND behind it?”
MC…”Ummmm…..I don’t know.”
Me…”Yes, you do. Lying will get you in more trouble.”
MC…”I pointed my penis up instead of down this time.”
Me…”WHY?” with exhaustion…
MC…”Dunno.” as he shrugged his shoulders.

This blog will not just contain the absurd toilet habits of my children…just one more and then I’ll get on with it.

When teaching my children to wipe their butts I had to eventually only allow them 8 squares at a time. Reason being is that after finding softball size wads of toilet paper in toilet and having to figure out how to clean it all up….and not just one ball…THREE!…Surrounded in pooh.
I’m so amazing, skilled at a level so high dealing with concerns of boys and toilets! I didn’t get any pooh on me or anything else and I saved the ‘Softballs’ from drowning in the sewer…or just clogging my toilet even more.

I’ve been all over the world.
Thankfully I was well schooled in foreign toilets at a young age. Most Americans when traveling abroad though end up partaking in the puzzlement that many have to address…

..where is the toilet?

That’s just a hole in the ground.

Which way do I face?


<—————This style toilet is common all over the world
They are convenient and I feel very sanitary.

You squat above them and do your business…your ass cheeks never touching where another’s ass cheek has sat.

I love bidets!
If you have ever been to South America (or Spain…:/...) and forgotten to ask for…
…”No, heilo.” when ordering your sangria…
You would love a bidet also the way I do. They clean the nastiest areas that are being tortured by their constant use… prolific diarrhea is no fun and the constant wiping of your already chafed bum sucks ass…and not in the good ass suckin’ kinda way. (I’m sorry, I HAD to put that in there!)

I think Japan has the best toilets. They have the hole in the ground variety too, but in homes and nice places they have entertainment units that also double as toilets.
See that control panel on the left?——————————>
If you want your seat heater on you can do it from there.
If you would like to hear birds chirping you can just press a button.
When you are done you press a different button and this plastic tube with holes on the top emerges from the back (inside the bowl) and you now have your bidet built into the toilet!
Many of them even have REMOTE controls.
If you want to get me something for Christmas I would LOVE a good Japanese toilet!

Henka

Henka, is the Japanese word for change. Maybe a better translation would be to be able to change direction, a 180 if you will in your mind.
If you know any women….Ahhhh, I need not say more;)
I started my change while living in Japan…turning a 180…it just took me years to get all the way back to where I needed to be.

I don’t know where this blog is going at this moment. I just feel a need to type it out as I see fit. I don’t know if it’s going to be a history lesson, a small one for I have limited knowledge, or just my reminiscing of learning to be my self again and/or the fun times I had there.

I lived in Japan for several years. It wasn’t main land Japan. It was one of the poorest prefectures of Japan, the Ryukyu Island of Okinawa. I was but one of the many Americans that live/lived there. It’s a beautiful island, sort of the Key West of Japan. It’s hot, humid and a lush play ground for the habu…a very poisonous snake that likes to hang in trees and attack unsuspecting passers. The waters clear as my thoughts as I watch the sunrise.
The people of Okinawa are different from those on the main land. They are a mix, like us Americans, a melting pot of their own. They have darker skin and their facial features are unique and distinct from the Main Landers.
My Father was on Okinawa, as a Marine, before the Americans gave control back to the Japanese government.
My Dad is cool like that….in all the cool places, doing all the cool things;)
Anyway….

Living there, as all the other places I have been and lived, gave me a different perspective on the people. One you can only get by living amongst them.

Being defeated, overrun and at one point decimated….

We all know on December 7th, 1941 over 500 Japanese fighters and bombers attacked Pearl Harbor killing more than 200 Americans.
We were not at war yet…but World War II had begun as we stood by…BABAM….
December 11, Germany and Italy declare war on the US.

The Battle of Okinawa, Operation Iceburg, had over 250,000 lives lost, over 150,000 civilians. That is a lot of civilian lives. The war ended with us of course...having the last word in Nagasaki and Hiroshima.
It is a small island of farmers, women and children. It is a place I called home, the people my friends.

There were moments though I could see hate in their eyes, as drove my Y plated Van around, shopping, eating and site seeing.

Side note…I wonder why President Truman chose only Japan to drop the bombs and not Germany? Was it because we had so many allied soldiers in the area? Do you think that maybe the Japanese are insulted that it was them and only them? That President Truman couldn’t drop the bomb on Germany because as an American and as a melting pot of our own, they were to much like us?
Just thoughts…..

It was a fine line you walk as an American citizen there and I tried very hard to respect the people of the Island.

…I did party like a rock star sometimes…

Gate Two street was nothing like Vegas but had the same mental concept. The mental concept of a bunch of adults behaving like 22 year olds, drinking, dancing and singing all night long. Not noticing that time has passed by and you walk out of a club or Karaoke bar and hints of sunlight are streaking their way through the negative space of the concrete playground. There was the ‘snake lady’ (I’ll leave that there for your naughty imagination. Ok, go farther into the gutter, oh, baby, you are still not there! Think change and bananas...)… The Philippino karaoke bar with the co-bathroom with a stall and a urinal. Inevitably I would go pee and there was always some guy with his wanker out reliving himself. Joy, joy, joy!
Some ‘nights’ I would find myself out a great deal later than was expected…AKA…
…”Holy shit! it’s 6?”…that would be in the AM.
Sunabe or the 'sea wall' was my enemy at these times…and my friends that I hung out with. We pushed each other to go longer, farther…stay out later. Trouble with a capital T! Yeah…the XO’s spouse, mother of three…:/ it was not looked on highly.

I had a friend, C, she would help me out on Wednesdays all day and Friday nights. I loved C, still do actually. A lot of people had ‘Mamasans’ I didn’t, I had C! She knew everything about me, when my cycle was, where my underwear was kept and that I am a total slob. She knew how to make my children laugh and loves them, still…I don’t think she knows how much I love her, still to this day! C, would show up on Wednesday mornings at 10am and I would head out  and be back at 4. Friday night (or I should say sometime Saturday morning I would come home, house immaculate, laundry folded, ironed and put away. Poor C would be sleeping on my sofa. She is so forgiving and loving. Thank you C!

Wednesdays was my time. Me time.
I didn’t hang out with friends…unless the me, myself and I can be counted. The ‘holy trinity’ that is Kristin;)

I would go to StarBucks in the ‘American Village’, sipping on what ever coffee drink I picked that day, sitting, watching the Japanese women, studying what they were wearing, how they acted and walked. I studied those women like they were my heros. I already had my own walk and my own style, but I admired their un-canny ‘chichi’. Some of their outfits were a bit out of whack I’ll confess. Their love of stilettos I understood.
I would meander through shops, looking at the strangest things, trying to figure out what they were! Or I would head to Cocok’s and get the GREATEST pedicure a woman could receive. An hour of heat and massage and hand painted art on each toe nail, for $30. An hour later I would head to lunch…restaurants galore to choose from…

The Japanese don’t cook a lot. They maybe have 2 burners and this tiny oven that you could probably broil a small filet of fish in. Restaurants are all over the place, and all sorts of kinds. The San A or  even the connivence store on the corner had decent food to go. The Sushi Go-Arounds were immaculate and yummy. (Some times if I just wanted a snack, I would head to one, and just grab a little bite.)

The Restaurants where diverse. Some were traditional, taking your shoes off when entering and sitting on tatami mats. Others were fast food, Mos Burger…they had these pressed rice patties that served as ‘buns’ and had stir fry meat between the two, absolutely DE-LICI-OUS!

In the very Okinawan restaurants they would have shelves along the walls, on them were ceramic jugs. Each one designated to a person, filled with your favorite kind of Awamori. Awamori is like sake. My favorite kind is Black Zampa. It’s a bit reminiscent to moon shine for some, but I love it. They would serve it with a glass of ice and a pitcher of water…I always skipped the water.
I had SO many favorite restaurants its hard to name and remember them all: The Barrel, Transit Cafe, the Garlic Restaurant, Coco Iichbanya, Sam’s By The Sea, Sushi Go-arounds to name a few…

Transit Cafe in Sunabe…If I wasn’t taking a cab and had to drive, finding a parking place was difficult and dangerous,  when you did find one you prayed when parallel parking one of your tires didn’t fall into the binjo ditch. Walking up a slender stair case to be greeted by white stucco walls and a modern interior. The owner standing behind the bar ‘yelling’, “Irashaimase!”
 I loved sitting outside, listening to the waves crash against the sea wall. I always ordered the same things…Melted brie cheese served with french bread to dip and Tuna, corn and mayonnaise pizza. It sounds gross if you have never had it, but it was daring and palatable. I of course added Tabasco sauce to it. Tabasco sauce was everywhere.
The only thing I think was hard to find was sour cream…I think they thought Sour cream was poison, not sure.


OHhhhhhhh……Coco Ichibanya…A Japanese curry house. It was fast and tasty.
You pick what you want, and how spicy you want it. Depending on time of day and the events of the previous evening I ordered my meal. If it was a regular day, Eggplant, level 5. If it was 4am or lunch the day after and I had a hangover it would be fried pork cutlet level 7….with a mango lassi, to cool the heat.

Sam’s By The Sea...I actually lived on the same street as Sam’s when I first moved there. It was less than a hop, skip and jump away. Tiki torches welcoming you and the servers with blue and white sailor style uniforms. The curry soup bewildered my taste buds. I think everything I ate there I loved. It was a more Hawaiian inspired place, I still loved it. The music the tropical infused drinks.

I didn’t even get into the 100 yen store, my friends, the Roxbury….the memories….

Since this blog turned into me reminiscing I would like to try to bring it full circle…

Emperor Hirohito, the word ‘henka’ and the change in me…and the Japanese people.

August 15th, 1945 was the first time the Japanese people had really heard the voice of their Emperor, as he surrendered. 2.3 million soldiers 800,000 civilians dead later. He directed the people of Japan to change their minds. After all the hostility, the horrors, can you envision the repulsion they must have felt at being defeated? (I am aware they ‘started’ it). The Emperor told them to do a 180….
….Did Henka rub off on me the moment I landed on the Island? Could I feel the desire of the lives lost and their need to fulfill their lost lives?
I really don’t know. I know they were ordered to change their mentality, from war to peace. Funny I seemed to have have changed my mind from peace to war…

I’m 'Barbie'

This question is for my FB friends who aren’t my AF friends.
Did you ever wonder why some people call me ‘Barbie'?

Right after I had gotten married we moved to Valdosta, Ga, Moody AFB. They were moving the 41st RQS from Patrick AFB (Cocoa Beach, Fl) to Moody. My Ex was on the Advon team (that’s military speak for the first to arrive and set up shop).
I was new to the whole Military thing and had no idea what I had gotten into. We arrive and meet the DO, or XO (2nd in Command) and his spouse. The CC (Commander) hadn’t arrived yet with their family. They, the DO and spouse, are a very nice couple. My Ex then was a Captain.

For ease sake on my part I will refer to the DO’s spouse as B and the CC’s spouse as A from here on out.

This was a life time ago for me.

I’m gonna talk smack here.

A’s wife was one of Satan’s pawns in disguise. (Some of you know who I am talking about. I know she was good to some of you but she was the epitome of cruelty and power hungry towards some of us.)  She wasn’t even there and directing us to what we could and couldn’t do. I felt horrible for B and bad for me too. I had never encountered anyone like her. The mean girl syndrome burned through her faster than the CSRM’s (Cool Spring’s Ranch Mom’s) burn through a bottle of Vodka (the big kind) when she was angry.
Most AF spouses in Sqd’s get together once a month for ‘coffee’s' or 'socials’. We hardly ever drank coffee. We would chat, get to know one another, plan events discuss raising money, eat and drink. Once after a social she called me and started yelling at me. Telling me I was in no place to suggest a different venue for something. She yelled at me, a Capt.’s wife, for nothing other than I put an idea in the minds of others. I was shaking I was so mad. It went on and on like that. I can only guess what she was saying to B, I knew she wasn’t nice to her either.
I found a few friends in that group, friends I still have to this day but I had to look else where to fill my ’social network’.
I was 25 and became President of the Officers Wives Club. I met some fabulous women that belonged to different Sqd’s and I loved it. The majority of them were fighter pilot’s wives. They taught me to play Crud, and taught me to be one of the best players;)!!!
Side note and my awesomeness…I won so many Crud tournaments it was silly. Up against some very big men (Pilots) who got very upset when they realized it was just me and them…last one’s standing. I lost some too, but i like to remember my win’s. I once won the Langley spring Crud Tourney…have the beer mug to prove it;)
All the Pilots have ‘call signs’…You know like the one’s in Top Gun. That shit is real.
The OWC was having it’s annual Thrift Shop Fashion Show. Yes, we did stuff like that. Who do you think used to run the Thrift Shops on base? We did of course.
I was dressed in this amazing bright pink dress, something you would have put a Barbie doll in the 80’s. We were playing Crud after and I was still wearing the Barbie dress.
All the ladies decided we would come up with names for each other.
I became ‘Barbie’. The dress was only one of the reasons they named me ‘Barbie’. I can’t tell you the other’s.

Time passed A and B moved on and so did I.
My spouse moved up in the ranks and years later I found myself as a DO’s wife. This time though things were different. The CC’s wife was/still is an amazing leader and true friend. We were yin and yang. She taught me a great deal. She was/is so different than me. I think that was why we worked well as a team.
Leadership changed and we all moved…back to our old stomping ground, Moody AFB. This time however I was the wife of the Commander. I knew how I wanted things to work by now. I wanted the spouses, officers and enlisted to work together as a team and create something THEY wanted.
When I arrived there was only a small group in place that the DO’s spouse had put together. (She had run into the kind of problem I had but opposite of mine last time I was there. The Spouse before me didn’t want anyone getting together, maybe she thought it was silly, I can only guess).  So I hit up the secretary and then spent weeks on the phone trying to contact everyone. The DO’s spouse was fantastic in helping get everything together.
Yada, yada, yada…
We finally had a cohesive group together and everyone played a part if they wanted. They could say anything to me, good, bad or ugly.
It wasn’t my group, it was theirs.
When one of them would come up with an idea I would tell them, “Make it your own.”
They ended up saying, “You mean do it ourselves.”
That is exactly what I meant too. I was there for a short amount of time. They needed to have ownership.
Their were some who didn’t want to be a part of it. That was fine with me and whenever they needed me I would be there for them.
There were probably lot’s that didn’t like me.  I can be very fun and overbearing I know this. I knew I couldn’t make everyone happy.
There was ONE thing I wanted to do VERY MUCH though…
Have a proper naming ceremony for the girls.
‘Rack’ hosted, ‘Peep' cooked and ‘Junk’ and I put together the ROE (rules of engagement)
All the spouses were invited.
We did ton’s of jello shots and held extra large glow sticks as we told stories of each other so we could come up with names.
One of the girls had a Henna tattoo artist come in so most of us were half dressed waiting for our henna to dry.
We had a lot of rules…Some were ridiculous so I won’t share them all.

The trend continued and the next year we invited other Sqd’s to join in, and they did so with flare!
This time it was a ‘ChinaDoll’s’ house. The fire burned as the names were called out.

These women took this tradition, (twice is a tradition isn’t it?) and ‘made it there own’ when they moved to other bases. It has morphed to fit the needs of those involved.

If I told you I was proud it would not be because of what I started but what these women have become. Leaders, friends and the greatest spouses the Air Force could ask for. In time of need they are there for each other. That need is paramount now when with the op’s temo and the danger that their spouse’s are in is on a daily basis.

A toast to you my friends and military spouses everywhere…and the dear friends we have lost…may we all meet on the other side and drink together once again.

"Here's to you old friend, may you live a thousand years,

Just to sort of cheer things up, in this vale of human tears;

And may I live a thousand too-a thousand-less one day,

Because I wouldn't want to be on earth, and hear you'd passed away.”

A bit of my Childhood…and Pan Am and the Holiday Season...

I was talking to someone the other day and they asked me..
A…”Where are you from?”
This is a loaded question that I have no answer for.
Me…”I suppose I am a child of this planet.”

I was born in the bush in Liberia in 1971…there was a little hospital there.
I like to say ‘the bush’…it sounds cool. I like to sound cooler than I really am.

At the time we were living there things were peaceful and stable. This is before Samuel Doe starts off a bloody chain reaction that rips this wonderful country and people to pieces for the next 20+ years.

My father traveled back there several years ago for work. He came back home to us and told us our old house had been destroyed by mortar shells and he couldn’t find any of the people that used to work for our family. When I say worked for our family I mean the driver, the houseboy, the night watchmen and such…It sounds like we were rich doesn’t it? We weren’t. We were piss poor. We were in a Third World country though and the dollar went farther there.
If you ever ask me what my dad did for work I’ll tell you what I know. He was an Air Traffic Controller for Pan Am. However because of all the places he had to go the joke in the family was, “We know what your Dad does, he works for The Company.’”
I just had to call my Daddy and had to ask him if I could actually blog about this.
Me…”Dad, before I type all this out can you be honest with me? Did you work for the CIA?”
In the back of my friends that know my parents, family members and my mind we always wondered… an Ex Marine that speaks several languages and has contacts all over the world…
D…”You know I couldn’t tell you if I did or didn’t.”
I laugh.

The other day my middle son asked me if I knew anyone that worked for the CIA and I said…
…”I can confirm nor deny that, Bug.”

Me…”I know THAT Dad. I just don’t want to blog about something and get someone in trouble.”
D…”You can blog about anything you want, honey, I can handle myself.” He says to continue his myth.

My Dad, my older Brother and myself are three of THE biggest bull-shiters in the world. Into and out of trouble we bull-shit our way through life.

We moved and spent a few years living on Long Island. We still had no money and we were a family of 6 now. They had ‘friends’ that got things for them that had  ‘fallen off the truck’. We ate ground sirloin because of my parents ‘friends’.

My family moved to Oman. We lived there for 8 years. I spent my formative years living as a minority in an amazing country. We lived in Oman when the Iran Iraq war broke out and things changed drastically. We were no longer allowed to play ‘war’ because of the gunman on top of our building. We ended up roller skating a lot and looking for other trouble to get in. We got into a lot of trouble.

He really did work for Pan Am, I should clarify this. If we wanted to go somewhere he would bring home a stack of tickets and he would fill them out. We traveled for free all over the world. Cool Huh?! We still had no money. When we traveled we stayed with friends or at ‘Bug and Boards’, that was code for a cheap hotel. We also ate at ‘Choke and Pukes’.

I love Pan Am, even to this day. My memories of the dessert cart in First Class (when room was available), the really nice flight attendants (really nice because we were all Family), not to mention the friends I have to this date because of Pan Am.
I don’t miss getting bumped off flights because there was no room and having to sleep in the Bahrain International Airport on the hard plastic orange chairs...that were contoured so you couldn’t lay across them. Or any of the other Airports we got stuck in so numerous to count and name.
I wonder how my Mom did it. It was usually just her and us four Children as she traveled the globe as my Dad worked. She once took us to HongKong for a week. You know what I remember the most? The Eels in buckets on the docks and because I had the flu and she was busy shopping, her putting me in some corner of a shop so she could get her snake skin shoes made. I remember a lot more than that but this is MY Mother….I am SO her Daughter. This was also the woman that made us read, ‘The Ugly American’. A lesson in a book I’m sure you should all read.

One day we ended up in what is now called Mumbai, I’m old though, back then it was called Bombay. I don’t think it was a planned stop. My father was with us this time. I was probably 7 or 8 and remember it well. The memories, colours and smells vivid in my mind.
People were living in boxes on the side of the street, foul with the smell of human waste. Live animals, I’m not talking dogs and cats, I think they had all been eaten, were roaming aimlessly. I remember being so sad and thinking that there was nothing I could do to help. It was dark but the sky was orange, everything else the colour of dirt. I felt assaulted everywhere I turned, the smell’s, the sadness, their inescapable way of life. I just wanted to hide behind the powerful, giant figure that I called, ‘Daddy’.
I had been going to Souqs for years. Who knows what we had bought from the vendor on the kabob stick! So, not a lot bothered me even at a young age. This was different though. They weren’t the homeless people I see here in Colorado on the street today. These people were different and yet they weren’t, they were just like us. Born in different circumstances than ours. There were lepers all over the place and just normal people trying to make some kind of end’s meet asking my Dad for change, anything. Can you imagine their life? I can’t and I saw it. I had never wanted to run and hide so badly. I knew they were just like me, just born in a different country to different parents. Being born in Liberia, I could have been born to any number of couples….who knows how God works?
I hadn’t lived a sheltered life by any means. I remember crying. The people that crossed our path then are  probably all gone by now. Choosing another life to live in another time perhaps. I hope they are at peace now.

I had seen more than most at even this young age. The things I have seen, where I am from, where ever that is, have shaped part of me to be who I am today.

My parents have the most wonderful stories and have lived the most fascinating lives and thankfully they  carted us along.

If you are reading this, I don’t care how poor you think are. You are amongst the richest 1% of the people on the planet.

The Holiday Season has begun. Not to put a damper on your big purchase, but have you ever thought of donating even $5.00 to some group that makes a difference in the world? I don’t care which one. I speak for no group.
As a ‘child of this planet’ and the mother of three amazing adopted children, one of which came from a place so poor the majority of the people there lived on a dirt hill in boxes with no running water, just like those in Mumbai…
You could have been born to anyone on this planet, King or Queen, Popper or Stable hand. Think about it, then do something.

It takes a lot of work to be as vain as me

I like lookin’ good, don’t you?
It takes work for me though as nothing is handed to us on a silver plater…Unless we are dinning someplace really nice.

Women read magazines and see pictures of famous people and models that look stunning even though they have just given birth. They of course have personal trainers and chefs that are at their beck and call. Their photos have been airbrushed and we know it, but when we see them we judge ourselves.

We take our clothes off and look in the mirror.

Do you know what your man sees when he sees you naked? He sees you! He can probably trace his fingers along your stretch marks, each one precious to him, because you gave him life eternal, the gift of a child. He also sees the parts that bring him pleasure. He doesn’t see the cellulite and loves you for you.
I believe this with all my heart.

I was at the Kadena O’Club one night. The soon to be Majors were buying ALL the drinks…you know I was there!..another night at the Roxberry…
My youngest had only been with us for a couple of months.
This amazingly hot fighter pilot approaches me. (I could probably write a whole Blog on Fighter Pilots)
Him…"You look great for just having having a baby!”
We all know I had not given birth!
Me..”Thanks.”
I’m so taken a back I didn’t know what to say.
First...I didn’t just give birth!
I was a size 8 and weighed almost 140lbs. I’m 5.7. That is probably average and healthy.
Second…I didn’t know he knew I existed let alone had a ‘new’ baby. I remember what I was wearing; a light blue A-line skirt and a champaign coloured silk shirt.  I wore the A-line skirt to hide my 'saddle bags’.
I walked away with my hands full of drinks, my mind going a mile a minute.
I put the drinks down and go find him. He’s with his wife who has her midriff showing just a bit. She’s tall, long blond hair and beautiful. You know what else she is, very nice.
Me..”Hey!…I just need to clarify something. I didn’t give birth…to any of my children.”
Him…”Holy crap, you’re like a real live Angelina Jolie! That is even cooler.”
Me…”Not really, but no woman can be this small two months after giving birth”
This was before Heidi Klum ruined everything for Women that had birthed babies.
We chat for a bit, I walk away…I can’t stop thinking about it.

Do you know what I did the next day?!

I stood in front of the mirror.
I hadn’t worn shorts in forever. I wore capri pants all the time and skirts. I was curvaceous, yes, that should be ‘ok’. I never exercised, EVER! (That is NOT ok.) I had never played sports…unless you count volley ball when I was 18 in Cocoa Beach.
When I was younger, I was just small. I had as they say’ ‘let myself go’.

This was not about him or anyone else.
It was about what I thought about me.

I decided to change my physical self.
I started walking up and down the hills of Kadena pushing a double stroller with my 2 oldest in it, my youngest was sitting behind me on my back. I walked everywhere, the commissary, the BX and the post office. One day I went to the gym with them and put them behind the half glass ‘container for little people’. I got on the elliptical and went 3 miles.
A couple of weeks later I realized I could RUN…..and run I did. I became almost obsessive about it. Up and down hills…miles and miles…

My Ex would come home from work and I would head out. I was running 7+ miles a day up some very steep hills and I weighed 105Lbs. I wasn’t lifting weights at this time so I was very skinny and not defined.
My now Ex looked at me and said one day…”Yeah, I guess they really won’t go away.” He was referring to my ’saddle bags’. This did NOT make me mad, he was right. I had been telling him for years how much I hated that part of my body.

We ended up back in GA for a second go around at Moody AFB and my Ex said I could get them fixed if I wanted. I WANTED! So to the Dr. I went…I still have cellulite, but now I’m ok with it. It was about ME, not what others thought about me.

Those little ‘Angry Mom’ lines we get between our eyes…I hate those on me. I have them taken care of…yeah…I DO. I save up and once a year I go to my Dr. and she fixes them for me with Botox. I’m not ashamed of it and don’t care who knows. I actually WANT you to know. I wish I had as much money as Nickole Kidman…I would get my whole 5 head done!

I now work out hard and fast to take care of my body. I will lift weights for an hour and a half some days. I kick box and I run.
I realized nothing is handed to us they way we wish it was. I like my physical body better now than I ever did before. I will not deny it.
You should know the truth.
I had work done.
I like me better now because of it.
I also work VERY hard to keep it!
My breasts are not bionic…But I understand the women that have them, not fixed, they weren’t broken, but…done the way they want them! They do it for themselves.

I’m a Libra. I have this brilliant book...
Born on a Rotten Day 
'If you love One-Libra Woman'
“Everyone should have enough money to get plastic surgery.”
Beverly Johnson (October 13)

Veterans Day

I’ve never served in the military. I was however 'married' to the Air Force for 3 months shy of 14 years. My father is a Marine, once a Marine, always a Marine! My brothers and sister served in the Army. So many of my friends are not home with their families because they put their hands up and took a vow to defend our great Country. Girl friends of mine are living without their spouses for a year plus. Several of my good friends and one of my best friends are in Afghanistan for a year.

February 24th, 1991. My father was in Abu Dhabi working. He was not Active Duty, but working with the military in some context. He was gone for a year. 

June 26th, 1996. I had been married for 4 months. My now Ex-husband deployed THAT day. On the schedule was a brief stay at Khobar towers. I drop him off and return home, I turn on the news…they were his friends.

Dec 24th, 2002. I remember hearing the frustration in his voice. He was only supposed to gone for 3 months. It turned into a 5 month deployment.

Dec. 26th, 2004. There was an earthquake in the Indian Ocean. We were living in Okinawa and planning our NewYears Eve party at ‘Jacks’. The 33rd Rescue Sqd. deployed January 2nd (I think) for an undetermined amount of time.

I know what it was like for me but this is not about me.
This is about the men and women who serve in our Military.

I always wondered what it was like for them. 

To hear about…

The busted pipe or clogged toilet. 

The trouble their child is having in school.

The battery in the car dying and their spouse was stranded.

That their child was up all night sick.

And not being able to do anything to help but listen.

Or…

To have to go to another building to pee.

To have to stand in line to use a phone.
To have to share a room with a stranger or strangers.
To not have a day off for months.

To worry if the next bullet/missile is meant for them.

To not be able to hug their Spouse in times of distress.

I toss and turn in my bed worrying about you but it’s my bed in the safety of my home.
Thank you Veterans.