That ol' deployment crisis form.

This weekend was all joy as I knew I had the Commanding Officer's Wife nicely asking for all forms to be turned in as soon as possible. I wasn't the last one to turn it in. Just the second to last. Although I beg to mention that the last one to turn in is a salty wife with many a cruises under her belt. So I'm just pretending I'm salty by being late with my homework. Right??


I've known about that darn form for months now. At the November Wives Group meeting I hosted (I'm honorary, in case you forget that we're those awesome people who don't have each other's name tattoo'd on our foreheads), it was brought up that they need to be 'turned in' before the TADs begin as you never know.


I was ambitious as one point, but then you read the questions and then you start to think that the world will implode, the dog will be left owner-less, and WHO'LL EVER CONTINUE THIS SHITTY BLOG OF VODKA SERVITUDE??


Seriously.


The questions began as generic as name, birthday, cell phone, vehicle description, and address. But then it got into the deep stuff. You know. Like pet care.


Then I started to think....what if something happens to me?? Who'll take care of my dog???? And I get misty-eyed. Not that our dog is the crown jewels. But she's our sap story of dismay and rescue. And no one else really can have their heartstrings tug like ours.


That's the bitch about Mr. Wookie and I being each other's best friends in a super small duty station. We're each other's shoulder, each other's crutch, and each other's barmaid. But when he leaves in a few weeks for a handful of weeks, the thought of Sweet Pea not having one of us to belly rub her into torturous oblivion was a bit depression-inducing. Because really, who'd take our dog?? Who's dumb enough to deal with her? She's our dumb dog. Our dumb dog that sometimes we'll let her sleep with us under the conditions that she sleeps at the end of the bed, doesn't fart up a storm, and doesn't try to sneak up near our heads because she feels a pillow is necessary for her slobbering jowls also. Because of her distaste for fellow canines, she can't just go with another squadronmate's family - everyone has a dog her. We just have the cunt of the litter.


Thankfully I have a blessed soul that's my Middle Sister. She's literally our only hope. Should I become maimed while Mr. Wookie is on cruise, she's agreed to be a saint and take on dog ownership. I don't know if she'll ever forgive me. And I don't know if she knows what she's signed up for. But really, my instructions were easy. Food twice a day. Walk in the morning. Toys for her to chew. Belly rubs. Tennis ball habit. And a couple beds in the house since she doesn't like to doze off without one of her humans in eyesight.


But I completed my form and had it to the COW on Saturday night as we met over margaritas and Mexican food discussing the squadron's next movements, our next potlucks, movie nights for the kids, and potential plans for the unknown-to-us-yet port calls that may happen.


It's sobering filling out that paperwork. And that's just the Wives Group form. The first deployment meeting is in a few months where doomsday will meet Uncle Sam as the fates will be sealed that the boat is ready. Or at least, that's the plan. This'll be our first deployment and I just don't want to suck at it. No one wants to be the deployment bitch. I think the key is to just bitch at the deployment.


Dear Deployment,


This stinks. Although thanks for the extended time to not shave my legs. That's awesome. I can almost braid them. This is soo cool. Oh, yeah, bring him home in one piece, without a tobacco habit, a tattoo from Singapore, and a mustache. Especially not the mustache.


Much obliged,


Mrs. Wookie


Let's hope that envelope never has to open.