Tuesday, February 21

What if I don't wanna Semper the Gumby up??

Oh, Uncle Sam...I love you. And by that I mean, "Really?" ...douche.

It's my turn to bitch about work-ups, yay. Go me. Oh, and pass the wine, will you...?

Surprisingly this stretch of time sans-Mr. Wookie has gone by pretty smoothly...minus the lack of shaving my legs. There's no smooth there. But I digress... I feel like I've finally come back into the swing of things where the house is quiet, the dishes stack up in the sink (because I don't HAVE to lift a damn finger until 24 hours until he's home...because I CAN live like that...), and my magazines can stretch across the coffee table screaming Martha Stewart: Living, Marie Claire, Crate & Barrel, and Outside.

Although Day #3 did have me as a whiny little bitch who fell off their bike after their 3rd try at staying up. In reality, I was waiving the bitch flag way too soon. Where my proverbial ball sack was then, I don't know. But needless to say my sack had tucked itself into the depths of my closet next to my clutches, purses, and lesbian hats only meant for days where I haven't showered and need to run to the market for Cheerios, almond milk, and liquor (priorities, people).

But then my proverbial chod emerged victoriously in dealing with cooking for one, drinking for two one, and becoming the super hero who stays back at home, manages life, finds a spare hour of "meh" sunshine to take a nap on the hammock (amidst 3 weekends...seriously, California needs to shape the hell up...this is NOT Californian weather), and who's on par with her 2 corks a week of finding sanity.

Last weekend, I did put on the 'boy' shorts though. I don't want to reference cliche gender roles, especially when I can barely give a booger about them and my distaste for the 50's socioeconomic scene, but it shouldn't be surprising when I write that Mr. Wookie loves to tend him some yard and outdoor space. The man being part gorilla, has a thing for foraging and ensuring his naturescape is in peak condition. So what happens when the Resident Orangutan has to deal with yard work for this month.....??


Well I do it. But...let's just say that I thought it wasn't necessary to mow the lawn every weekend. Overkill. So when I drug out the mower to trudge over our 4 acres of land, I was met with some long ass blades. Shit. Apparently there's a reason behind weekly mowing. It's easier. Well shit. There goes every Saturday morning while he's gone. Let me just go put on my lesbian cargo shorts, muscle shirt, and backwards cap. And someone call Lindsay Lohan....I hear she's still dabbling these days...

And the esteemed moment of the mow job?? So when you leafblow your yard, is it a blow job? Oh...when a one Sweet Pea takes a MASSIVE deuce rightbetween the freshly mowed track of grass and where it meets with the long blades. So now I have to maneuver my mower around the turd, making sure to not get my wheels in it, and finish the mowing without another poop land on the yard before I finish. So now the yard looks fabulous...except for the random long patch of grass where a gem was born. Maybe the dog does have my genetics...

But let's talk about last night, shall we?? Because after all, that's the point of this dear post. There have been spots of conversation between Mr. Wookie and I. When he's swamped with pre-dawn briefs and late night de-briefs, it's not uncommon to goes days without chatting. But then sometimes the clouds will part and time will be granted for a phone call. EEeeeekk. And last night was one of those days. It was past 8pm when I got the text, "Hey baby, just got out of an AOM (All Officer Meeting)..." so that's my cue to blow up his phone with Hey, how goes things? How's the snow/sun/crazy weather?? Miss me? What's for dinner? How's everyone? Miss me? How are your flights? How many sorties do you have now? How was the Admiral's meet and greet? Has Running Buddy's Husband broken the plane yet? (Yup, true stories...)

I'm happy...or at least...I was happy that we've crested the halfway to this fun and exciting detachment. In what is supposed to be less than 10 days (ish), I'm supposed to have a caveman artifact that resembles Mr. Wookie grace my area code. I'm supposed to get a massive hug, supposed to make a Gucci steak dinner as a belated Valentine's Day celebration (I wonder if I can still get VD cards....haha, sorry, had to), and welcome him back for a few days before his next TAD mission.


Oh, no, let's have him come home later than expected, stay for maybe 24 hours, and then pack his suitcase again for more Mr. Wookie Is So Awesome, We Want More Of Him. Okay, it may not be in the same persuasion as his detachment now, but still....I couldn't help but be slightly miffed that we're gathering a mighty petite end of this dowel (get it?? short end of the stick??) where everyone else gets massive hugs, dinner buddies, and Jeopardy partners...but not me. Wah wah wah.

So that's my boo life moment as of last night. Although it's muuuuch easier extending when there's already been a separation factor. It stinks when TADs are supposed to be a few days then turn into a few weeks. What's a week-ish more when it's been weeks already?

Good thing I've stocked up on wine for just such occasions. We don't need more depression in this house....

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