Remember that time I waxed my legs?

Oh, you don't, do you? Why not? It was monumental. Oh...wait, I know why. That was today!


You know your friends when you can text Mommy McD a picture of your shiny legs.

Earlier today, these gams were covered in yetty fur. Okay, okay, not really...I mean, come on. There's something us Gingers are good at - it's having blonde, thin leg hair! In case you didn't know Gingers are terrible candidates for electrolysis. :( So instead, we get to settle for hot wax being applied in thin layers while a piece of cloth rips out the roots. All while gabbing with my Kat Von D-esque waxer lady about how this really didn't hurt all that much. Let me compare it for you. Dentist = pain in the ass. Pap smear = just plain annoying. Leg waxing = easy.

Now you're probably thinking how gross it is to go the necessary weeks in order to have the hair ripped out. But think about it. I'm. from. Oregon. Not shaving my legs for a few days is child's play. I mean, please...let's try something that actually takes work. Although grossing you out might be a bad thing. Do I want to tell you the last time I shaved my legs? No. Well...maybe. Will I actually gross you out? What if I just skip over how long it had been. Yes, that's a good call. Don't worry about it, guys. Let's just say there was an appropriate amount of time to let these little gams represent more like little lambs. Sorry, that was lame.

Anways, back to the ripping of skin. I had actually tried waxing my own legs in high school. Okay, it was technically that "sugaring" craze that was all the fad. Sugar, honey, and probably badger sperm, but any way - that. was. painful. Not only could I not get the temperature right, who actually wants to rip the cloth off their own leg???? It's the worst thing ever. You know when the rip is happening, so your erector pili totally clench up (woah - I just dropped that knowledge bomb of anatomy on you). I would never try that again. So basically that was what I was remembering today when I stripped my pants off and sat on the table. Although in preparation for hanging out in my 'roos, I did wear rockin' cute ones.

So at first, I didn't want to watch - I didn't want to fear the rip. But then after the first couple strips on the shin, I realized, Hey, this actually ain't too bad. And then before you knew it, it was time for the knee.

I even got extensive compliments for having ideal peach fuzz (umm, thanks?).

And now I can't stop rubbing my legs. This is fantastic. I need to do this more often. I can avoid spending 3 years shaving my long-ass legs each morning (not like I did), and just have the hair ripped out. I. love. it.

Not that not having shaved legs prevents me from wearing shorts or skirts. Please. A little peach fuzz never hurt anyone. Leg hair is the new black in Oregon. And I like to bring a little piece of home where ever I go.

If I could relive any age. It'd be 24.

With each birthday I wince a little more as I'm closer to needing Juviderm, a boob lift, a newer version of Mr. Wookie, and more candles on my cake. At 20, I thought 25 was old. At 25, I thought 28 was ancient. Now I have a sibling, his wife, and friends in the 30's category, and I can't believe I'm almost there. Shit. Where'd my young appeal go? Where did the 'it's appropriate to get black-out drunk at 21 and stand out on the corner in my underwear because I was dared?' (Umm...parents, totally...uh...not true).


But unlike people my age who are telling me to 'settle down' and that I need to grow up, I feel like there's a little something wrong and that you're only as old as you feel - and let's be honest, I feel pretty spry...as long as I've had my 8+ hours of sleep. Uninterrupted.


Yeah, I think I'm in geriatric country seeing as I'm in bed a little after 9pm after I rinse out my glass of Metamucil and put my dentures to soak. Fail.


So when you work next to someone who just turned the ripe age of 24, you can't help but tell her that was your favorite year. I had just graduated college months before, and had spent a few weeks galavanting around the German countryside and cityscape as the first member of the family to 'jump the Pond' spending my hard-earned money with style. Then later that year, I was literally on an extended vacation with Mr. Wookie while he was stashed in Florida before flight school (we extended the need for one-way ticket back to Oregon as long as we could). Don't know about my thoughts on Florida? Read here. We were traveling all over the Southeast, hitting up Disney World as my birthday present, and enjoying that new found money commissioning earns you. And also enjoying the quality of life 4 fresh Ensigns gets when you combine BAH and rent out a $2,000/month home complete with semi-indoor pool. I had maybe a few hundred dollars to my name, my life in storage back home, and not a care in the world in terms of responsibility (didn't have any) or needing to begin my career (it's true, you have the rest of your life to work).


There's something about traveling when you're young. I say 'do it.' While you regret purchasing that hat in Berlin, you'll always have the memories of experiencing another culture and seeing more outside of your own community. The hat may make my pictures look dated, but the times I had there in the Englischer Garden in Munich with my litre mug and pretzel remind me of a time where locals would come up to me and yammer on in their native tongue. Uhhh, sorry y'all. I'm an imposter. That sense of accomplishment that I'm capable of traveling outside the country without being identified as an American...that is until I speak; I love that. And I want more of that.


She says she wants to travel before getting tied down with marriage and kids - and as a pretty stiff feminist in that realm, I can only fuel the fire. Yes, there are instances where you can travel after marriage and kids (as in OCONUS orders with the Army, etc.), but how many people do you know that say they'll travel but then never actually do? I know lots. There is a certain gusto that being single and uterinely unused brings to life. You can do stupid things (tattoos, Vegas, that porn career you've always dreamed of). The notion that there's literally nothing holding you back. You can die without anyone relying on you for support. Life gets much more difficult after you spawn. With a dog, you can just board them. With a human...you have to either connive Grandma and Grandpa for take them for a few weeks.....or.....uhh, I got nothing. See? Much more difficult. And even if you're trying to take in a European babymoon, you're still lacking a lot of the culture (because who really goes to Germany for the food - COME ON, it's all about the beer!). 


This may be why I'm fretting about growing older - because with more age comes actual responsibility (please don't think I actually have babies on the brain or are incubating), and that squashes the chances of seeing the world like a leaf blown through the wind. Instead of the idea of spending months abroad, with a Europass and a rucksack, there's the daunting horror that you only have 2-weeks paid vacation a year and that chumply amount is barely worth one country overseas (in my opinion; I'd rather travel one country in fervor, than sporadically jump around and barely see any city without depth).


So you can tell I'm hoarding my vacation days as there's Uncle Sam's sponsored 'vacation' for Mr. Wookie later this year and we don't know POM leave might be or what kind of trip we can make out of it. Part of me thinks that with the schedule that's slated for the squadron, the changes that have occurred, the increase in boat time, and the way the deployment date has yo-yo'd more than Kirstie Alley's weight (is it this month? or that month? or months from that original guestimated month?)...my inner event planner is having heart palpitations. I. want. to. know. Will we have the chance to go on a small vacay? Or will we receive notice like this last stint away? A text one afternoon saying, "Hey baby, I've leaving in a couple hours." Oh, okay, no worries. Glad I gave you a 'I'll miss you' hug this morning. Wait - not. Instead, I probably mentioned for the billionth time that you put a wet towel on the bed. again. and asked if you left me any coffee. Love you. Mean it.


Hopefully after this duty station, and this deployment, we can enjoy another round of leisure and frivolity. I'm dying to introduce Mr. Wookie to Scotland.


Please don't hate me because I don't have kids, throw my feminism around like a Italian talks with their hands, or am a Ginger. Actually, go on and judge the Ginger aspect. We're awesome and I can take it. I just can't take sunburns.

I love you. But you can leave now.

This whole work-ups cycle is an interesting one. While I still am not used to having plans change on me literally the night before his bags are packed and by the front door (hello...there's snuggling with my pooch to do), there's a certain amount of hair growth on the peaches when Uncle Sam requires a couple weeks ago. And if I could have it my way, I'd much rather have the Japan-esque type of deployment that Mr. Wookie's sister squadron is more accustomed to (out for a few months, in for a few months, like clockwork).

Instead, there's us. A squadron that's been stagnant for more than a year as the USS Defending Freedom has been in the docks prepping for its next great adventure for Mr. Wookie's squadron. And with that, you can sense the amount of backlog that karma has stored up for the next available deployment for these guys. It wasn't too long ago that we went to the Squadron Pre-Deployment Meeting (gulp). While some of it was information that I kinda had my head wrapped around (i.e. scheduled auto-drafts from Mr. Wookie's personal account to the home account), some things made me panic...despite having months left in this preparation. I don't have a will yet. We need to have passwords written down. And our bed hasn't been pimped out yet.

Wait? What? Mrs. Wookie....that's not on a deployment checklist.

It's not? Hello....if he's going to be spending months on a boat with a bunch of dudes, few ladies, port calls being the only brink of sanity, and a plethora of flight hours being chalked....I'm going to be sleeping in a glorious new bed. It's only fair, right? I must be comfortable. I'm keeping this sad homefire lit. I want plush and cozy. :)

But let's break out the ground rules first. We're not actually dropping money on a new bed. Our mattress is still within an appropriate lifespan for a mattress, so I'm happy to not part with the coin for a new mattress. Those things aren't cheap. So if I'm able to put a little blush, lipstick, and mascara on my current digs - I'll do just that.

So first up: new sheets. :) And because I'm never one to drop full-price...thank you Tuesday Morning for the sateen sheets. They're gorgeous and crisp. And add a punch of color to the room. Don't know what Tuesday Morning is? Think Ross...but for home items (also similiar to a Home Goods, but that's a good 20-mile drive from me). It's fabulous. Not a beautiful store, but beautiful prices on things.

Next up: a featherbed. :) Although that's something that will require parting with a little bit of hard-earned money. I've got my eye on one and a half-off coupon up my sleeve (what up!). So when sound sleep is expected while kickin' it with the dog as I fight for sanity against having conversations with the resident canine, I'm getting that 2" of luxury beneath my body.

I hope Mr. Wookie isn't feeling too much like his bum is being kicked to the boat already. I hope he feels instead it's the training needed to survive the long months where he's emailing me from the Ready Room the 3 sentences that are his typical response to my novela-like emails. I've got something planned for him as well. It rhymes with 'shmail shmorder shbride."

Lady, enough with the hiatuses...

[via]

I have good news! We...have....a working charger for the laptop! And the crowd goes wild! With only a few headaches with chargers not working, there's finally light at the end of my tunnel.  I'm sitting at my dining room table and enjoying the free range (like chickens) that a laptop really does apply. Now if only the bloody marine layer would take a vacation and give me freakin' sunshine, I'd be a lot happier. My hammock is meant for peace and comfort time - not pants and Columbia fleece time.


It's been shockingly over 6 months since I ditched the psuedo-Mad Men gig of a design studio for the better-paying job in the e-commerce division of a major distributor (think Dunder Mifflin's Infinity website - but actually successful). With that has come more money and better benefits (I think everyone can agree this is good). Well...with more money comes that slow crossing off of things we've wanted for the house. You know, the big ticket items. Where big dollars are dropped. Like a compost bucket. Okay, okay, that's not big ticket...but it's been on the list for months, I just haven't found something I liked. No ceramic, no less-than-a-gallon capacity, no filters needed. Yes to dishwasher-friendly, yes to tolerably cute, yes to free shipping. *Purchased* Due here Thursday.


I don't want to onslaught with the world's longest blog post since there's so much to catch up on, there's just this overwhelming feeling that 2012 is taking a dump on me. January wasn't the easiest of months, and life has continued to play cruel games as Uncle Sam is desiring more time on the boat before deployment even begins. So while deployment may not be record setting in length, we're all thinking from here on out (until PCS) he'll be gone most of the time.


Oh, and I apologize in advance if you've seen some of the varying templates that I've been sweating and swearing over. Apparently asking for a new *free* 2-column, minimalist  blog template with a 960px header is asking for a gay man to have bad fashion sense. Impossible. So unless you have ideas, recommendations, or charitable designers that allow payment with vodka shots and 2 Advil...I continue my search.

Time to Swiffer duster the blog.

Check one, two....check, check...key strokes still here, fingers still working...

Want to know what the menu looks like this week? Well this is it. You guessed it. Mrs. Wookie is sleeping...well technically alone, since we're classifying Sweet Pea's allowance on Mr. Wookie's side of the bed for 7+ days away from the house. This run will be less than that time frame, so she's shafted to the dog bed. It it were up to me, we'd have a King-sized bed, she'd sleep in the middle, and her butt would face Mr. Wookie. But instead, since I like cuddling next to the resident Caveman and not smelling the asinine creations of the dog's backside...we're rocking the Queen.


I know, I know....it's been cobwebs on this here blog, and I feel like I have a good excuse for it.


No, it's not wine.


No, it's not vodka.


No, it's not a side life as a freckle model.


Oh goodness, I would die!


Instead, it's been a technical issue. In order to blog (successfully) in my opinion, you need 3 things. A laptop, a battery, and a charger. I have a laptop. Check. And as of a week ago, I've had a new battery. However, when you buy a more powerful battery to make your blogging more powerful (ha!), the sad charger of yesteryear is left being about as effective as Viagra with a geriatric coma patient. Yup, I need more power. Cue the Tim Taylor grunt.


So what's en route via USPS (what, no tracking numbers!?)?? My new charger. Thanks to Amazon for a new 90W charger without the mark up of Dell.com. I can't wait for you to come visit me. And be my friend. Because then I won't be tethered to the bloody wall with a freakin' cord stuck to the side of my computer.


I've tired of not having a real laptop. Instead, I have an ass mark in my couch since I'm stuck needing to draw power through the wall since my new battery isn't capable of actually charging on the low wattage adapter. So as soon as that cord arrives in my mailbox, I'll be doing the Ritz all the way to daily blogging entries (or at least more frequent than my blooger-flickin' existence).


My ultimate goal is to blog during my tediously long one-hour lunch break and make it useful. While reading is useful and entertaining when it's nonfiction and worthwhile, sometimes a Ginger likes to blog about the stupid crap that's going on her life (and sometimes a Ginger wants to make readers jealous with her mad hammock lounging, Vegas vacations, and COCKTAILS!). So wish me luck. And wish USPS a fast delivery time otherwise I may have to resort to poppin' more corks.


Or even when the charger does get here, I'll still be poppin' corks. Hello...Uncle Sam is never kind.