Oh, the Virginia storms

"The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain." - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Mr. Wookie saw this rainstorm coming before it ever hit our house. I just sat in my office working until the world grew dark, the wind whipped the trees, and then the rain threw itself down the house...washing the new grass seed from the back yard (so close, but still so far from having a lawn). And now we're at 100% humidity this morning and the clouds still lingering, like a blanket fort without circulation. So I hunker inside until I have to leave at 5:10pm for my Tuesday night yoga class. California would never treat us like this. How rude, Virginia, how rude. 

The great ol' pajama commute.

“A mind troubled by doubt cannot focus on the course to victory.” -Arthur Golden

In my 100 days in Norfolk, I've had 100 days minus all weekends to adjust to what's known as the great "pajama commute." My day typically starts with the Jack Johnson alarm clock crooning in my ear. Of course I hit snooze a million few times because I like the indulgence of a warm bed and cozy sheets before I drag ass downstairs for the IV of Oregonian Happiness (coffee). There are times where I bound up instead and make the cups o' joe for Mr. Wookie and I; he's gracious in his 'thank you' as I plop the cup on his nightstand. Other times, he's the body who traipses downstairs for the coffee duty. Most mornings, we lounge in bed with coffee, discussing each other's schedules, time frames for him coming home, my schedule for the day (work, yoga, new Knives Group meetings, etc.), and hankerings for dinner.

Of course, I complain that "I have to go to work." It makes me feel like I still matter to the work force. Though sometimes I forget what it's like to be an applicable member of my office. I come in 3 hours ahead of California and have no contact with coworkers until 11am EST. Then it's full-force busy as I make things happen remotely to my customers, vendors, and team. And the worst part: 4pm EST is my I.WANT.TO.STAB.SOMEONE. time frame because everyone is back from lunch in California and they need everything done before I'm gone for the day. It's like a sample sale at Kleinfeld's. Watch out.

But who am I to complain? I have the incredibly lucky position to be able to work from home, in my pajamas, with my customers and contacts, while earning $__,000/year + commission. My 'complaints' are no different than anyone working in a conventional office. I just happen to get the perk of lunchtime laundry, meal planning, crockpot prep for dinner, and nahnahnahnah nahnahnahnah Batman HAMMOCK TIME!

Thursdays are turning into my favorite for multiple reasons though. 

a.) IT'S ALMOST THE END OF THE WORK WEEK. I love weekends just like the next working gal.

b.) There's an amazing, West Coast-born yoga instructor who kicks.ass.and.takes.names.

c.) I get excited for DATE NIGHT in the 757. There are sooo many great eateries in our douche-y little neighborhood and there's never a dull moment of bad food, poor drinks, shoddy people watching, a few homeless making their way from one ghetto to the other ghetto, and the sometimes run-in's with his new squadronmates.

So here's to showering every couple days and the debate to purchase more pajamas. Life is rough.

The backyard. Wanna visit?

This is the last picture I'm told I'll receive until I jump across the States and welcome myself to our house. Man, he's mean. All I want to do is know EXACTLY where everything is so I'm not a freakin' stranger around my own possessions when I arrive. And he prefers to egg me on with little to no information as to the decorative status of our home. I was told to, "Get better and get here." Oh, right. Because it's quite simple to scream through the next few days that are my last in my office before boarding a tormenting cross-country flight to a State that has non-California weather all with a smile on my face? And have I mentioned I caught ANOTHER cold that's kicked my ass? Seriously. So much for being a beacon of health in my last days as a "Californian." But hey, this means I'm the culprit on the airplane that's going to be hacking up a lung. Maybe the seat next to be will be clear.

"Do You Really Need to Work?"

We're taking a brief hiatus from the 25 Days of Christmas in part to a mega illness that I contracted (it's HIV, yo!) and the mental recovery of dropping the "work bomb."

I've toiled and I've troubled with this for a short bit. It was a mid-morning text from the boat (he really just emails my phone number, but that way we can have a 'conversation' when he's not flying/being awesome) when the words rang out. "We have Orders."

Gulp.

I remember exactly the day the last time this happened. I couldn't wait to give my two-week's notice then. I was burnt out and over the 'office drama' that everyone complained about (umm, I don't do drama). So one Friday, I walked into my boss' office and put my letter on her desk. "We're moving in 2 weeks." And that was it. My old job was a great blip on the employment radar. I learned a lot in life and corporate atmosphere (I worked as an Event Planner for a Legal 100 Law Firm). But damn, it wasn't hard to leave.

Now enter life in beautiful California. Other than this nasty cold spell that's plagued most of the Nation, life is perfect here....when he's not deployed, when our dog doesn't die, and when it's not rainy (like this morning). And so with a lot of counseling from past "work at home"-ers and business friends who makes sales look like stealing candy from a baby, I went forth with the plan to tell my boss the news of Wookie & Co.'s future. Almost everyone was in agreeance, "tell them early so they'll make the arrangements to keep a position for you just across the country."

Holy shit, I was an internal hot-mess.

I poured open the knowledge that our bags will be packed in a few months and the caravan across the great United States will begin. While we won't have a resident canine in tow to help make the miles more enjoyable with her lovable slobber and room-clearing flatulence, we have a petite gatita that's made a better friend than I could have imagined. So while we plan on shipping my car because it makes one less ass-pain, she'll be free to roam about the cabin as long as her tray table is in it's original location upon arrival each night and we can smuggle her into the hotel room like ninjas. Honesty is overrated.

What was I expected out of this? Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn, I wanted to provide ample opportunity so they can realize I'm not a commodity to lose. I wanted them to realize they have a few months to get everything in order for a remote Mrs. Wookie to answer the phone a week, "Good morning, this is Ashley" to my sales accounts and constant contacts. I wanted this not to be a band-aid-rip-off shock that I'm just moving without notice. I want them to pour over my sales records and customer loyalty. I want them to realize I'm a 'need' to the team.

But then the words left my boss' mouth as she soaked in the news...

"Do you really need to work?"

I. hate. these. words. And I can sense she was coming from a good place, however they just made me cringe. But she did warn that there is the reality that her upper management won't want a so-remote Mrs. Wookie, and that's the slice of pie I'll have to dollop with a mega coating of cool whip.

Who wants to help eat my feelings?

Define "need." Do we financially need me to work? No. We are fine with just one income (his). But what does that leave me? I get to be a housewife? Ummm...no thanks. Why did I go to college then? What would I do all day? I already feel like an incomplete person just after relocation because I have nothing 'going for me.' Yes, it's nice to settle into the house and explore the new area...but after 2 weeks, the jig is up. I'm a feminist with a pretty sturdy foundation that women can do a lot in this world (minus throwup after being kicked in the crotch) and that includes hustling a non-1950's Secretary paycheck. So why would I want to decline the twice-monthly deposits into the ol' bank account?

So my conversation ended just before the 5:30pm mark. I knew my boss needed a cocktail to soak in the news. And I need a drive home to escape. So into the car I got, tears brimming at my eyes, feeling like a failed at trying to negotiate my own future and happiness amidst Uncle Sam. I sent Mr. Wookie an email, but what I really wanted was a hug. A big, deep bearhug.

Once home, I didn't open the margaritas. I didn't open a bottle of wine. And I didn't open a beer. I sat on the couch with my loving feline, obtuse to any knowledge that I just dropped the "work bomb" as we've coined it. She just wanted a place to snuggle while my feet were propped onto the coffee table. And together we watched Jeopardy and then a marathon of Say Yes to the (Overpriced) Dress before calling it a night. But still...I tossed and turned the whole night. What will come of this? Will they make the arrangements to super-remote me? Will they offer a handshake and stack of letters of recommendation instead?

Part of me wishes I would have waited until Mr. Wookie is home that way I could have had the comfort of an actual hug with this situation. But out of discomfort comes growth, and this deployment has just reassured that I'm still as bad ass as I thought I could be (though sometimes it's nice to be a chickenshit, lol). So I just wait for my hug now in __ days (and get to cleaning the house before he comes home - crap!).

And yes, I've already started my secret Pinterest board for my Job Search 2014. I've worked hard for my resume, why give up now? So the suits and heels will get dusted off once we're settled, I'll start networking my old connections, and something will happen. Something always happens.

The Yays & Nays of a Mid-Deployment Move

Yay for the "circling of the wagons" that is the extended military family. One email to 3 people (the CO's wife, XO's wife, and our "Knives Group" President) had me connected and CC'd to 2 new families in the area collecting their HHG that week. I promised wine and the swift stealing of boxes for their kind donation to my situation.

Nay to our property manager "trying to help find a new place." You said you'd help to make yourself feel better, but in reality...you don't give a shit and I'm just another liability to get off your chest. Suck it. I don't need your help. I got myself and my very-determined personality. If I can build a career around Uncle Sam, I can find a new home in a non-stabbing neighborhood.

Yay to Mr. Wookie being the most supportive ever with the situation. His humor in the situation definitely helped break the tension and ulcer forming that was going on in my stomach. "Babe, just think, you won't be bored during deployment." Seriously. True love.

Nay to the very limited stock of rentals that were potential homes. Our location in California is awesome - but with that, you do have to be sure to stay out of the "Mexican strawberry-picking ghetto" that is the Just-North-of-Malibu area. And with that, you typically do have to pay over BAH to ensure safety. Oh, and throw in, "I have a female cat." and you're met with NO PETS. Awesome. Just awesome.

Yay to the stars aligning with a 2-bed, 3 bath, w/ loft condo that's a football throw to the beach to help end our stay in sunny California. Mr. Wookie got what he wanted (beach), and I got my safety (hello gated community!). And a little granite in the kitchen neeeeever hurt anyone.

Nay to the CREAM CARPET that's in the condo. Dear owners, I drink red wine. I also spill wine before I begin to enjoy it. So there goes the new rule: No red wine indoors. Boo.

Yay to the 5-lbs that was lost over the 3 weeks of home searching as I lost any appetite because of the stress. I may or may not have bragged some more to Mr. Wookie about my looks.

Nay to the lack of concentration at my desk while at work. Who knew the brain needed nutrients?

Yay to my boss being completely understanding in my frazzled state of mind. Seriously. Awesome.

Nay to the panic that poor Mittens suffered in the "What's going on in my home?" She's barely a year old and already has a move under her belt collar? She's starting to shape into a solid Navy brat.

Yay to the pain and torment that is moving without muscle being over. Yay to the superb professional movers that were hired for the heavy stuff that I couldn't lift alone (appliances, big ass furniture, etc.). Yay to Mr. Wookie meeting me "halfway" in the moving process - he wanted to sponsor movers for the entire process while I wanted to pay other Junior Officers from a sister squadron to help. So in the end, we hired pros for the big shit and I used Mr. Wookie's Jeep for a 2-day push of the remaining boxes of stuff.

the deep secret we've been keeping.

There's no easy way to write this post. Instead, I'd much rather hide beneath a rock and pretend life didn't hate me so much. But instead I'm kicked when I'm down and life just strolls on.

This picture isn't a joke. This is our life. For the last almost-couple weeks we've hid a deep, dark secret. One where the normal Mrs. Wookie would joke that the secret involved a pregnancy stick and a bottle of tequila. But instead, this secret has made us sick to our stomachs, dry heaving, and crying for the first few days.

We've been forced to say 'goodbye' to our beloved Bulldog. We've been forced begin a life without the wag of a nubbin' tail. And we were forced to escape to a weekend in San Diego to try and forget about the sadness that faced our home back at NAS Just-North-of-Malibu. Thank goodness San Diego has a lot of distractions, and a lot of good bars.

Sweet Pea passed away just short of two weeks ago. And I've never been in more emotional pain. I've never felt like my heart had crumbled within my body, leaving a swollen mental state that I didn't get to hold her as she passed away.

I don't like that animals prefer to cross over alone. It's not fair. They think they don't want to cause their owners grief and sorrow - but I know that lies more in the pain that I feel now. I would have wanted to know her last breathe, to rub her belly, scratch her head, tell her how much I loved her, what she meant to us, and how we'll absolutely never forget her. But I didn't. We had to do it the 'natural' way - and that means she passed away without letting us know, thanking us for the hospitality we provided over the last year and a half, and that she was ever thankful for the treats, hugs, appropriate scolds, and plentiful room on the bed when Mr. Wookie was gone.

I've tried to write this post in my head a million times over, but it never gets any easier. There's no more beautiful way than to describe Sweet Pea's last day in a home that loved her. She passed away on her favorite rug, on the floor between where her owners loved to give her extensive belly rubs and let her lick the steak juice from their plates. It looked like she just went to sleep - and I still wanted to kiss her cute, smooshy face.

And now she's gone.

No more thoughts of 'How do we PCS with a dog?' No more car rides to run random errands. No more stuffing Kong treats. And no more strategically leaving the bedroom door  cracked so she's nose it open and join her mom and dad.

I never imagined that she was older than she was. We never imagined that she wasn't young and spry when not a grey hair was on her muzzle and her age never showed. And when Bulldogs don't show their age or wear 'n tear in life, it's hard to know their age when they've been rescued until their time comes. They're durable and hearty and she was that way until the very end. So that age guesstimate of 3 or 4 was clearly a little short.

She was my everything.

I've never cried so hard in my life. I've never wept to a dog asking, "Sweet Pea, wake up" and been so disheartened. I've never felt so helpless in my life as we tearfully gathered up the bin of treats, the food dishes, the bedding, the hair brush, and everything else that had fur stuck to it. I didn't want to say goodbye when we dropped 'her' off at the emergency vet care office, signing away the paperwork to have her cremated, knowing I couldn't just dispose of her like it's just carbon. I dry-heaved knowing that our life drastically changed...for the worse. My dear puppy angel....is truly an angel now.

But now I'm fearing and loathing life. Mr. Wookie leaves very shortly for a fair amount of the summer and I've left picking up the pieces of my broken heart for a dog passing before I was ready. I'm very bitter. All I want to do is take a picture of life and target practice. Because I feel like it is shitting on me right now. And I'm not happy.

This is the hardest thing we've ever had to do. So we apologize for the silence, but in all honesty, we deserve it.

This will be a multi-part theme, so please don't wonder if I don't answer your questions right away.

A laptop without Internet is merely an expensive paperweight.

I'm coming down from my fume, but sometimes when life hands you lemons...you just want to throw them at someone's head, even if it is Mr. Wookie, and not care if he loses an eye. Blogging. It's a selfish game. I want to talk about my day, and the Internet is screwing that up for me. Doesn't it care that I went to the dentist today for a little attention, came back to work under the effects of a numb face, and wondering if people on the other end of the phone call think I've hit the 'It's 5 o'clock somewhere' concept at my desk. Umm...no, not drunk, just impaired in another capacity.


Either way, Internet has been spotty since Sunday (thanks to our provider). Why is it that each area only has one provider for shitty Internet (and is Internet supposed to be capitalized?)? Are they trying to just piss people off. Well either way, it was only that Mr. Wookie was able to have things working properly was Time Warner spared my seething phone call of anger and pissidness (real word). I have a phone voice. I can connive you into feeling terrible about my story. I can convince you to upgrading my shipment to Next Day Air (true story). I can dazzle you with my brilliance. Dance, puppet, dance.


But now...it's not them. It's my laptop. First it was a battery issue. I wanted more. There's me getting greedy again. And now, is it too much to ask for effin' connectivity so I can blog from somewhere other than Mr. Wookie's World Headquarters of Videogame Dominance??? I'm about ready to throw the laptop out the window and start chiseling these updates on stone in order to be heard.


This obviously has me researching any and all other options available to make me and my computer happy. I don't want a 2-year contract a la AT&T. I don't want something that resembles Will Smith's phone in Fresh Prince connected to my USB port. But I want something that will allow me to lounge on my couch, in my pajama pants, and not be stuck in Mr. Wookie's very-uncomfortable chair. Now, I know I bitched about being stuck on the couch when I didn't have a battery that would hold a charge...and so you know, I'm. eating. my. words. Although Mr. Wookie's desk is closer to the kitchen and thusly...(you guessed it)...closer to the wine that is helping calm me down. Mom, I promise it's not a dependency. It's a necessity. Wink.


But hey - we're starting off May right! With a blogpost! And maybe more deep thoughts will come your way this week. Or, you'll continue to hear my wrath of a laptop's connection gone AWOL. Or both. :)

Things that bore me.

1.) Baby showers. It's come to my recent text-versations with Mommy McD that she was intended to attend a baby shower in the near future and how we both dread the concept (Yes, McD has shot children out of her uterus in a couple different methods, however, we both agree showers, "sprinkles," and full on dumps are boring and not-for-us). I empathize with her. While I know way too many men right now attached to the Navy (men that aren't currently dating and hopefully won't impregnate any time soon), I like to avoid baby showers like the best of them.


Let's start off with the concept...Oh, you got knocked up. Now I'm supposed to buy you a gift?? How about you budget for things you want pre-baby...before you let your birth control get dusty. Yes, I know people are usually excited for babies, but what if I don't want to buy you a gift. Or, (and this is usually the case) I don't want to contribute to your landfill capabilities with disposable diapers - but I'm too cheap to buy you BPA-free nursing items - so I'll settle for Johnson & Johnson bath products. That and (I'm so alone in this) I don't like the smell of baby. It smells....weird.


Secondly, games are...something for sleepovers when I'm 13 and wanting to prank Billy Corrington because he's cute and I once saw his penis in 4th grade (that was a rude awakening about trying to hang off the legs of someone on the monkey bars. Elastic bands stretch......enough said). I don't like the 'Guess her circumferance' game, I don't "smell" the melted candy in the diaper, I don't want to collect diaper pins - I'd rather sit around and make the pregnant lady jealous as I sip a cocktail, bend over with ease, and poop on a regular basis.


2.) Nights Mr. Wookie isn't home. Yup - he's gone. Here for.....(doing the math...)....about 38 hours. Then gone. Yes, military life is glorious (it's a steady paycheck, although I seriously feel for the ERB candidates who don't get the news they're staying in). Thank GOODNESS I have a been-getting-better-and-better support group here. It's taken a year-plus to get where I'm at (and it helps when awesome people check into our squadron). Monthly meetings with the "Knives" are entertaining. And thankfully there's the new Junior Officer wife with a pension for homemade dinners, gin and lemonades, and pajamas pants while watching Bridesmaids.


I hope this stays - I can't deal with thunder cunts.


Yup, I said that.


3.) LA-area news crews. LAY OFF THE BOTOX!!!! I can't tell your emotions when you read the news because you have a weekly appointment with Dr. 90210. Seriously...


4.) Republican debates. While debates are necessary and a great way to learn how candidates deal with certain questions, handle stress, delegate answers, and all that jazz, I prefer to catch it in the style of ESPN. I just like the highlights. Do I need to see every eye roll of Newt Gingrich when asked about his personal life and how he's on Wife #425 (it is funny)? No...I've already formulated an opinion on that topic...so there's no amount of footage to come back from multiple divorces and infidelities.


5.) Traditional quilts. I've been doing quite a bit of research into quilting as I'm still debating what my big 'deployment project' will be. While the idea of making a quilt, pouring my stitches, thimble sweat, and rotary trimming into something so laborious makes me both excited and nervous, I can't help but want to gag at the thought of a quilt pattern that resembles something from the Oregon Trail. Thank goodness Googling "modern quilt patterns" brings goodness and light - and everything else that's biblical.


6.) Pulling weeds.

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.....??


...uhh...


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.


NO SOUP FOR YOU!


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....

This is the post where I say we're doing much better here.

That Monday is a distant memory. Time it took to heal, to reflect, to grieve, to clean the house from a long weekend away, to put the head down and work hard at a job after tearfully telling the boss you'll need a few hours on Thursday for a memorial service. Since then, there've been less and less tears, more wishful thinking on life and its capabilities, the painful reality that the human body can turn on the soul that it keeps, and the solid increase and invested foundation of hugs and love that will remind each of us how lucky we are we have each other, our health, and (for right now) the same zip code.


I can't imagine not being here in 3 years. But in the world we're in today, that could be a reality. I keep thinking back to the great life our friend lived. And I want the same. Minus the ocean boat.....I don't do deep waters.


But this afternoon I felt like my golden self. I reigned my verbal tirade in the blatant stupidity of teenagers riding their bikes in the middle of the street with their helmets haphazardly flopping on their skull. I'm back to talking to the back of vehicles as I crawl my way along the California freeway systems knowing failure in turn signal use results in most accidents. That's a nice way of saying California drivers are stupid. Not aggressive like on the East Coast, just stupid.


Growing up I wanted to be the one who traveled in the family. I saw the world as this amazing place of culture, history, natural beauty, personality, and excitement. I just needed an accomplice.


With Mr. Wookie as my designated travel partner, we've had a chance to do just that. And I feel incredibly lucky for all we've been able to do. There have been so many trips that, looking back, have been the foundation to my dreams. At the dawn of my change in employment last year, I felt a sense of accomplish then. Until then, I didn't see myself as having aptly pursued my dream. I wanted to have passport stamps that rivaled UN Ambassadors. I wanted to send postcards home, with the foreign stamps of exciting foods and ample drinks. I wanted my family to know the tokens of lands faraway isn't a way to rub in my lifestyle choices, but a standing verbato that I love them, miss them, and wish them the best in life. This is what I wanted for my life - I just want to share it.


Then an epiphanial moment caught me off-guard. In my inner core I felt the sense of satisfaction. Inner happiness not in a smug way, but in a sucre bleu! My dreams are there, a reality.


So if I have yet only 3 years left on this Earth. It's been a good one. I am quite happy.


Thank you to everyone for your thoughtful words as we decompressed from an emotional journey.

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.

One post of sense, curses, and cents.

It's happening. I'm turning into that sad sack of limpdick that's craving Lean Cuisines for lunch at work, spends today's lunch hour grocery shopping since we were left to last night foraging our fridge for anything that went together ("So...prime rib leftover....nachos?"), and subsequently passed by the frozen meal section before saying, SELF...NOT A FUCKING CHANCE.

Apparently my vag is taking over my whole body. Because never have I felt the need for high sodium, 2-minutes-on-high with a spork in my life. So apparently a sunny lunchtime spent at the picnic table outside my building will want me to count points, wear a pedometer, and wanting to powerwalk at lunch in my suit and sneakers.

Not that I actually wear a suit anymore. Bitches....this be California. My suits are getting staler than festering tequila shots the morning after. I wear jeans. And I wear casual pants. And I wear cotton, and Birkenstocks, and pretty much work in weekend wear since all my interaction is with coworkers. No high-paying legal clients like Virginia. I'm pretty sure no one knows what a 4-piece suit is here....

Usually my lunch is leftovers, which can be boring eating the same meal within a 24-hour timeframe. Sometimes I'm just not in the mood for leftover spaghetti. Or leftover chicken. Or leftover anything. I'm bored. And PB&J can only handle this inner 5-year-old for awhile. So when today's microwave wafted of Lean Cuisine lasagna....I'm almost threw my panties at it.

But I can't do it. I can't eat that. I have pride. Lesbian pride.

It doesn't help that NO ONE EATS IN THE BREAK ROOM. No one. So I'm left to eating outside by myself. Never have a felt like a Glee freshman just wanting someone throw a slushie in my face. Because then I'd at least talk with someone. Nope. Going home for lunch or going out to eat is the thing. Well...it takes me between 18-26 minutes to get home...so that's a waste of gas. Plus, I consider eating out every workday excessive and financially wasteful when you can easily cut meal costs by PACKING A FREAKIN' LUNCH. Seriously people....$5 bucks a day is $25 a week...which is $100 a month....which is $1,200 a year. Umm...that's like 3 sports bra in this big-boobed world (for those following the Facebook discussion).

Did this post have a purpose?? Absolutely not. I just assumed you all missed me and my eloquent ability to ramble like a drunken sailor. You now know I eat alone at work and have a love/hate relationship with Elizabeth Kostova's second novel. It...well....sucks. It's not keeping me entertained at all. But for $4 for the book (thanks to Borders for closing), I can't give up. But I just may. Because I have brain cells to survive....and I have new books on my Christmas list that sound more fascinating.

When BAH topples more than $15...

I struggle about whether or not to post this since everyone will have varying different opinions and outcomes on the matter. But for the sake of blogging and being honest, this is honesty...


Yesterday put us in a bad mood collectively. Okay, maybe not a bad mood. But a surreal mood. It was like a collectively kick to the taint. And it taint pretty. (Sorry, I had to.)


Because I'm Facebook friends with awesome milbloggers, it came 'round the circle that BAH (Basic Allowance for Housing) rates were published for the new year. On average, rates continue with the average cost of living increase. I get it. I learned about inflation in high school. It'll always be there. In some form or another. And you just learn to live with it. No more "Back in my day..." because those days are gone. Gone are the days of $1 extra large Slurpees. Those puppies now cost you $1.85. Communists...


So last night, being the curious person I am as I read the conversation that BAH at certain stations were dropping and some were rising, I had to inquire into our own well-being. I plugged in our little location and his little rank to see what little dip his BAH could possible take.


And like a blonde, I completely forgot his new BAH figure thanks to his promotion over the summer. I thought, "meh, not that bad."...so I read it out loud to Mr. Wookie. Ohhh......I was wrong. Hehe...woops.


Apparently this isn't good. This isn't a little dip. This is a DIP. So I feverishly Google all I can about the BAH rates for the new year. Blah...blah....a third of all duty stations are taking slight cuts. Blah blah...our exact duty station is one of the hardest cuts made to BAH across all hands. Oh, but D.C. feels the need to pad their BAH 10%....and some hole in Texas... So despite the beautiful Californian December sun, now those that are even the tightest of budgets have to figure out how to make those ends meet with this news.


This isn't good. This isn't good for anyone in our area. We live in practically Malibu which makes the cost of living and property taxes out of this world. So the chunk taken out of BAH is a solid chunk. And to compare, I looked up our beautiful location of Norfolk, Virginia. That dip is $15. I could do $15. I'd love $15. I'd give $30. But for us, he's been reduced to a rank-lower for BAH. Promotion...shomotion...


But then I was told about the promotion restructuring that's occurring. Starting sometime in the future, there are longer timeframes between commissioning and your first promotion....and then your second promotion. So what took Mr. Wookie 4 years to acquire as a new Lieutenant, will take Ensigns SIX years to acquire. Wow.


So we wallowed for a good couple hours. I think he was more down than I. But we have to look on the upside. Yes, his housing is down. But I'm working. I'm making good money. We're not near foreclosure (that and you'd have own a home to lose it...wah wah). We budget for a zombie apocalypse (not kidding about the weaponry, kidding with the Extreme Couponing). We'll be fine...I just worry about others....


Life isn't fair. Do I feel like our duty station is being axed apart without reason? Well...yes. Why our station? I know there will be plenty of sailors where this cut completely effects their livelihood. All hands are being cut at least $100 from their BAH (obviously an E-5 or an O-5 will have more cut than an E-1). For young sailors with families, this is a rough pill to swallow. A hundred dollars can be the difference in making or breaking...


And to only have a marginal removal to our hypothetical BAH in Virginia. That's mind-boggling to us. Norfolk is cheap to live in. California...that's the hidden gem of this duty station. Come here, lounge in the sun, pay for sunscreen, and expect low quality housing for high dimes. If you don't want to live where shootings and stabbings occur, you have to live in the decent neighborhoods. And when demand exceeds supply...


So goodbye 7.4% of BAH. You've apparently overstayed your welcome. Now please, take your coffee mug to the sink and softly close the door on your way out. You wouldn't want to wake the dog. She likes her sleep.


I hope others have faired better. I truly do. We're hearty, us Oregonians. This won't get us down. But there's always a fellow milbloggers that takes a larger hit. And for that I offer massive hugs, vodka tonics, and a hangover-free morning. Seriously... Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, kiss my ass, kiss his ass, kiss your ass...

Douchebag Property Mgmt, here to screw you.

It's been 2 months since I let loose a steady stream of tears that Native Americans would have considered not canoeing down because they were treacherous and emotional. I was a mixture of irritation and bitchiness. And I cracked.


In regards to our previous condo, we had given notice like good tenant informing that in 31 days we'd be vacating the dwelling we called home for 370 days (our lease was prorated). Our landlord understood, no hard feelings. I may have also forged the vessel saying we were 'moving on base' because of a housing deal they had going on. Why? Because people are less likely to try and convince you otherwise when it's Uncle Sam's involving. So we lied. We wanted new digs. The end.


We hit the snag when it came to the property management. Snatches.


They required you fill out a form to move out (seriously??), you have only a 4-hour window to move out (wtf??), you have to pay to move out (SHUT THE FRONT DOOR!?). They maintain it's to ensure there's no damage to the building upon moveout. Riiight.


So yes, the almighty property management charges you $75 to move out during the week and $125 to move out on the weekends.


But let's get back to the crying...


First, don't think we didn't try to fight this every which way, because when a Ginger gets angry....watch.out. We kept maintaining that it wasn't in our lease, so we weren't going to pay it. We were alone in that fight. The property management says it's the "tenants' responsibility," so take it up with your owners. So I went to our landlord..."It's not in our lease." Sorry Ginger, dickhole says we have to pay it. What.the.FRONT.DOOR?!?!


Then we found out, pay up or risk being assessed a $500 fee for an "improper move-out."


$125 > $500


With Mr. Wookie doing all the calls to trying to get us out of this, there wasn't anyway Uncle Sam would let him leave work to fork over our funds.


So I'm forced to leave work early. Forced to drive down to the property management. Forced to sign over money and an application with our intentions (umm...move out of this Communistic place?). Forced to not 300-style kick the pregnant lady for being the snatch that's all cheery in taking my money. And forced to wrap my head around this short window to move an entire home out of the old place.


Phew. That's in place. We're ready to move the next day. I call Mr. Wookie to confirm the news that we got the time frame on Saturday to put 3 JO's to work being our slaves. Then...a call comes in, unknown, so I let it roll to voicemail.


"Hi Ashley, this is Mary (her real name - bitch), from Douchebag Property Management, we've received your application, but unfortunately it seems to be too late to process. Your move won't happen this weekend. We're closed now. Please call again Monday."


F*** you! I absolutely lost it. After all the emotion put in to fighting this issue, and finally surrendering to the douche-ish ways that were to be with this move, and having to pay to move out of our building...we lose...again. I was red, I was blotchy, I was blubbery, and I was all sorts of Mr.-Wookie-didn't-want-to-see-me-cry-because-it-just-makes-him-angrier.


So Mr. Wookie sends an email to Mary (muahhaha - bitch). An email he wouldn't let me read (must have been bad, eh - bitch!). But I know he was furious. After being the point of contact throughout this whole process, you don't leave a voicemail for the other party stating your intentions. So 20 minutes later, we have a response. "Your move has been processed for Saturday. Have a good weekend." (Suck it - bitch!!).


Wookie for the win.


So we moved out, without too much further hassle. The JO's were wonderful for their muscles. And I even researched Small Claims Court, because I don't like being man-handled. But it just wasn't worth it to us to go after the owner, the landlord, and the court system for the small amount of money that'd be left post-fees. So we're washing it under the bridge. We're the better people. We know it.


And you better believe I had the world's biggest cocktail to help calm my nerves that day. But thinking about it now, I should have asked for an IV drip instead. Save myself the trip to the freezer for more ice and a refill.


So I can now join the ranks of the milspouses with good stories. I may need some Kahlua in my coffee if I keep reliving the nightmare though. Or maybe I should relive it...;)

Please don't be food poisoning...

Last night I was forced to "indulge" in a brandy on the rocks...because thanks to Google, having a cocktail might prevent the onset of food poisoning.


Yes, this is Mr. Wookie's logic.


About an hour after I had my dessert (leftover birthday tiramisu), I started to feel off. I thought maybe my blood sugar was dipping since dinner, but I knew it wasn't enough time for that to happen. Then I thought maybe I'm still dehydrated from our weekend backpacking trip, so I got my water bottle and started pounding the fluids. Then I voiced the uneasiness of my stomach with Mr. Wookie.


"Yeah, I felt that about 30 minutes ago."


Screeeeeech. What!?!?!


We've both experienced food poisoning before. The other time was in college. We had picked up Chinese take-out from a restaurant up on 53rd (Baby Sister, so you know which place), and had taken it back to his apartment for movies and grub. Fast forward, I'm feeling really woozy. So Mr. Wookie rolls over to Safeway (aka Vons to us SoCal-ers) and picks up a vat of Pepto.


Fast forward an hour, Mr. Wookie has joined me in exchanging the Pepto bottle as we both lean our head on the toilet. It was then you know you can almost face anything together. Minus...when the food poisoning makes a disastrous "exit." That's just a whole different can of worms meant for different sides of the house.


So I had an ounce of brandy on the rocks, felt decent enough to try sleeping, so I did.


Now it's morning. And the underlying "blah" feeling is still there. Do I eat my obligatory Cheerios for breakfast for fear of yacking them up? Or do I play it safe with some toast?? Mr. Wookie doesn't feel a thing thanks to his iron gullet (or it could have been that he immediately combated the feeling of queasiness with Scotch on the rocks instead of trying to tough it out??), so he's dressed for PT and ready for the day.


My dainty lady stomach - what the heck??

You may have heard today is my birthday.

Yes, it is. I'm gathering one more year on Earth as an awesome redhead with parents, siblings, adopted grandparents, parents, and siblings (I'm talking Mr. Wookie's crew).

But I never like birthdays. I mean, I do. Sometimes. When it's cheerful and happy, but then I realize that each day is one more day where a wrinkle will set in, gravity will havoc my flesh, and I'm thismuchcloser to Mr. Wookie trading me in for a new model (that's his joke since I'm actually older than he is - hmpphhhh!!!!).

But the party started early. On Tuesday to be exact. I came home from work with a homeless box on my stoop. Nope, definitely not a million dollars.

Holy peanut butter and fudgsicles, Batman! Shut your face. Shut the front door. What is this!?! Could my unabashed 'pinning' on Pinterest have led to the greatest Beaver Gear known to "eco-friendly people" (I'd say 'hippie,' but let's be honest - I shower. I vote (not just one party). But damn, do I recycle.)???? A bright-ass orange market basket for when I shop the farmer's markets. Do you know how difficult it is to load lettuce into a floppy polypropylene bag?? Darn difficult. But now I can load lettuce with ease. And poblano peppers, corn, eggs, strawberries, and radish shoots (no, really...delicious!).


And yes, I swear there's artwork in the bathroom that ties in the red hand towel and the shower curtain. It's just on the same wall as the mirror. Sorry folks.

And an awkward side view of the basket. More like an awkward pose, but that's my issue. #NextTopModelfail I'm pretty sure you could fit a newborn in here. Let's try!

So on today's schedule is pampering. No working. Not for me. I have my standard 8-week hair trim today, so I'll get a mad shampoo to make me giggle. And probably champagne. Then I have a nail appointment, because I felt like being pampered some more. And sometime today, I'll mosey down to Macy's to hopefully score a free makeover while getting a new lipgloss (we're almost out of our favorite MAC hot pink gloss).

Today started out great though. And a little misty-eyed. I was summoned for breakfast of a Queen. All this, and Mr. Wookie couldn't even join me (squadron PT is his priority). Yes, that's a mimosa. Yes, it was perfect. *wink* So my belly started out right this morning with french toast, pig product, mostly champagne, a cup o' coffee, and my favorite: Gerbera daisies. I still don't know where he hid those!?! That sneaky boy!!

Shucks...do I need anything?? Well besides a hair cut, manicure, and lip gloss....well company for dinner would be awesome. Unless Uncle Sam has other plans, which wouldn't surprise me. But then again, there's always the opened champagne bottle in the fridge.

Mrs. Wookie: Birthday Party of One!

Someone's getting older soon.

Here I am. 27. Getting ready to rock at Middle Sister's wedding.

I've never liked the concept of getting older. Just like how it falls into "change" - it's something I could do without. How did someone so spastic about not being in control of her life come about? I don't know. Obviously I blame my parents. But I don't know which side it came from. So until someone throws the other under the bus - or it's announced I'm the milk man's baby (which would be hilarious when I clearly look like my dad with his huge eyes and I look like my mom and her ginger hair) - I blame both.

Muhahaah - competition between the 'rents...

Anyways, back to my birthday. It's in exactly a week. For the last couple months, I've been excited. It seems like I've always had better "even" birthdays. 27 was different in that we just relocated cross-country, I wasn't working, employment was looking scarce, and I was just feeling overall left out from the great career chase that so many get to do that aren't attached to the military.

But maybe my tune has changed. 28 is feeling like a lucky number. That and it's the last even number before my balls drop super saggy and I hit that nauseating age of 30 where you're expected to have everything together, never get drunk, and keep the best house.

Umm...how about none of those?

Life will never be perfect since my job will change more than Kevin Federline has children, Mr. Wookie will be here for some holidays and gone for others, and my mom will always consider me old (umm...jokes on her...).

There is an upside to my birthday though. Christmas is right around the corner. Even with that pesky we-gave-infected-blankets-to-the-Natives holiday is in the way.

Let's get this birthday week started. I want a bottle champagne, a steak dinner, and a small cake to celebrate. That's it.

Yes, I'll share the steak and cake. I don't know about the bottle yet...

Who wants to get steamy with Mrs. Wookie??

This whole not-having-carpeting bit is an interesting one. I've definitely inherited my dad's inability to tolerate dirty floors/things sticking to my feet. Since we've moved to the new digs, I've lasted 3 days before needing to vacuum the wood floors. So yes, doing the math, we vacuum twice a week here. Or should I say I vacuum twice a week.

At any rate, any more than 4 days and I'm about to take the Sweets to get waxed.

And I knew there would come a day where the entire house would need mopping because flight boots can track in crap, dog paws can track in muck, I can track in ginger genes, and the wind can blow in leaves (as SoCal residents, the weather here is perma-gorgeous...so them doors stay open). I've been researching steam mops lately in the apprehension for battling such a square footage, but haven't necessarily found them necessary when a little elbow grease can suffice.

But to bring the post point to view, that day has come. Time to break out Mr. Mop.

So outside the resident canine and her shat goes, because as much as she loves the vacuum...dog hair + wet floor = itWILLbe5o'clockbecausei'llNEEDacocktail. Her bed, her toys, her blankets...pretty much everything of hers is outside like it's an episode of Cheaters. She will then park her ass on the mat, stare in the window, tilt her head, and eye-plead to come back inside.

Then I took my trusty...erm...cooler. I couldn't find the one bucket we own. But anyways...one cooler full of hot water should be big enough to tote around and complete the 1400+ square feet of flooring. Okay okay, it took 5 rounds of water changes, but the cooler served it's purpose until the bucket can be found. Plus, it's Mr. Wookie's cooler. So what do I care.

Oh, Mr. Libman Wonder Mop. You should be named "Mr. Libman No Wonder My Back Is Breaking Mop. Do they make mops for tall people or do I just have to stoop over for all eternity as payment for having a uterus and being made to keep house???

No, not bitter at all.

Actually, it's gladly done in exchange because Mr. Wookie prefers to clean toilets.

Hismamatotallyraisedhimright.

So I hump and I shlump and I rock out with my...anyways. I finish this doozster of a house. And I'm happy. I've done'd it. I totally stalled for 3 weeks in mopping since the floors were done right before we moved in. Why squash the professional cleaning crews good work, right? Even if the little bitch stole the left-by-the-previous-tenants hand soap.

Wrong.


I catch a glimpse of the flooring by the door. What's this???? One...mucky...left behind...stinkin'...(where's my cocktail??)...paw print. Luuuuuucyyyyy....you have some 'splainin' to do!! All that back-breakin' hard work. And there's still remnants of Sweet Pea tormenting me while she's still outside the door. That lowly paw print. There to mock me and my Libman Wonder Why That Paw Print Is Still There? Mop.

To me, this is a sign. Time to bring out the big guns. Time to get a steam mop.


And thusly, time to ask my awesome bloggers, "Who are you wearing? Which do you own?"

Consumer Reports threw their panties at the Eureka EnviroSteam Mop for under $75. Middle Sister got the Shark (cue Jaws music) for her bridal shower...Sister, thoughts?? And Mommy McD snagged one after she realized her house of a 45,000+ square feet is too much for a Swiffer. McD...who do you have??


And remember Winnie remember, I'm a mega hippie (minus the whole drawing electricity to power a steam mop when I could break my back for an hour every 2 weeks mopping with a conventional mop), so a reusable sponge/pad/mop mat is a MUST.


Ready, set, RECOMMEND!!!