Pitchen' a tent in the bedroom.

What I wanted was a package on the doorstep. Well...I got that. But it wasn't for me. Wah wah.

Instead, it was for Mr. Wookie. For months, he's been looking for an "ultra light" camping tent that fits his budget and requirements for low poundage, duel doors, sleeps 2, and a color other than green and yellow. ;) I even looked at Christmas time for the poor boy, but all I found was $$$$$ and that's not the way Christmas should be spent. Instead, I got him a sleeping bag and called it good.

Remember this shot from Christmas??

Please do not pay attention to the pile of laundry in the foreground, the pile of shit on the bed,...just the piles of stuff everywhere. Mmmmkay?? We've been busy....thanks!

Apparently massive Googling efforts later, he found a 40% off coupon code for a $400 tent. So while it was technically $20 "over budget," sometimes your dreams are too cheap for what you want to happen. Now we have this beauty of a 3-lb tent ready for backpacking along the Sierra Nevadas, Las Padres National Park, and any place else that needs one gorilla and one lesbian to grace its presence.


Yes, California is technically an all-season camping location, although there's something to be said about 40-degree nights (yes, I know.....y'all in places where 40-degree highs are scoffing at me right now!). I don't like frigid camping. Those outings are better left to men with hair on their peaches and the ability to not bitch at being cold. I will complain that I'm cold, will refuse to drink more hot chocolate because that'll just make me have to pee. And peeing while camping is NOT glamorous. Because that's a lot of skin real estate to expose to take a leak in nature - and the temporary warmth of pissing myself will only make me cry as my crotch freezes for the night. And no one likes an ice crotch.

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.

The house is whole again.

Yesterday was spent in anticipation as I was expecting the caravan back from NAS Practicing Defending Freedom to creep it's way back home. Because Mr. Wookie had the best luck while his command was detached, he was slated with being "on duty" the day the birds flew off. So instead of packing out via aircraft, or air lift, he got to wave a cute hanky at the command as everyone else got to leave while he was stuck an extra day. Okay, maybe not everyone else - a huge majority didn't POV and therefore got the faster route home.

Yes, I was bitter at this. Yes, I was annoyed that I had to wait in order to get my 2-minute hug, pour a cocktail, enjoy my dinner buddy, then start his laundry. And yes, I spent the majority of yesterday while he was en route to dig out the home from the crustiness of military separation. I'm pretty sure Mr. Wookie would think I live in rundown Bosnian conditions with the level of squalor I'm capable of maintaining. So like a good housekeeper, I made it look like a model home.

But then an hour earlier than I expected, the door opened. No dog bark, no nothing - just a happy-to-be-home Mr. Wookie. "I'm so happy to be back in California - where are my shorts??"

Oh, I love you too. Yes, I've missed you. But apparently you've missed the weather. Let me tell you, it's been 'meh' at best while you've been gone. Instead most weekends are spent indoors because the temperature just hasn't breached shorts' weather yet. Until you came home. Maybe it's a sign. He's meant to be home. So I'll be sure to expect earthquakes, blizzards, and the Second Coming while he's deployed. Yay.

How did that hour get shaved off? Oh.....the driver hit 100mph a few times on the drive.

Oh, that's all.

At about the time he was expected to arrive home, he was getting the phone calls from his sailors that they had made it back to base as well (as he was on duty and responsible for all those POVing back to NAS North-of-Malibu). All is well. Everyone is home. Everyone is happy.

And I'm happy to have my yard maintainer back home. While I dutifully took over his responsibilities while he was gone, I'm happy to bring him a beer mid-mow as a loyal housemate.


Until he leaves again? Very soon.

I miss one of these two things.

Countdown has commenced. Or rather, maybe I should say impatience has began....

Of these two things, I miss one. Okay, of these three things, I really miss one. The mustache....not so much. I dream of the days where Mr. Wookie will be living the glorious life on the USS Not Here and have a complete access to this razor gathering dust. But until then, I'm getting giddy like a school girl that I'll have a hot date for Act of Valor, a belated steak dinner, and someone to help me polish off a bottle of wine in one night. Versus leaning on my crutch of needing three nights to kill a bottle (remember: my goals!!).

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....

Oh Internet, thanks for being a ****

I don't know if it's my computer, our router, or the fact that the Internet likes to play with my heart strings. But sometimes it doesn't work...for just me. Mr Wookie will be connected and gaming (when he's actually here), and my computer will mock me with "Unable to connect...diagnose the issues." Well suck my toe....

So yesterday I was able to get a little juice off the wireless to squeeze out a webcam session with the Sheriff, Baby Sister, and Little Man. Then it pooped out on me. Instead of spending my weekend away on blogging (which I actually wanted to do!), I did yard work. Because when the Cave Wookie is away....the grass still grows and someone (being me) has to mow it.

And no, there is no real Mexican gardener. Even when outsourcing yard work to the ghetto-er parts of the County, they still charge way too much just because it's California. So for 14 minutes, I can mow my own lawn. Thanks El Mexicanos....

The skewed reality of military life.

You may have seen themes like this popping up on Facebook and I find them hilarious. Let's join in...

It's all about perception.

You mean Mr. Wookie doesn't Captain a ship as an English Naval Officer??? Not that I like Russell Crowe (he seems...dirty), but that's a GREAT movie. Shouldn't everyone be a Lord Nelson fan also!?!?

Considering a lot of our friends are military (strange how civilian friends can whittle their way out of your life?), I'd hope most know what Mr. Wookie actually does...considering many are in the air community also. But the few SWOs (Surface Warefare Officers) we know may not have a clue what he does, and that's okay. I mean, they totally drive the boat, right? ;)

And while I'd love to be whisked away in my dress, so pretty much gravity makes the back of the dress hang down so my ass is just welcome for peering eyes...I'm pretty sure I wasn't working in a iPad factory like Officer & A Gentleman. Instead I was freshly 19 and meeting this meek boy from Louisiana (OMG, please tell me you haven't married your cousin before??) and we'd have lunch dates (and a few dinner dates - face it, we weren't rich in college) at the college eateries and usually hang in for dinner. That and the boy can cook! Plus he lived in the dorms. Unless I wanted to deal with his weird roommate, the sluts down the hall, and the sound of porn coming through random doors...we skeedaddled to my place.

But I'll give Mr. Wookie complete credit. He wanted to be an aviator. And he is.

Now he's spending his time as NAS Practicing Defending Freedom racking up his "sortie completions." Babe, what the heck is that? "It's a completed operation flight." Oh...why not just call it that!??!! You say 'sortie,' and I think 'shortie' and that you'll be rapping T-Pain with an autotune mic.

Although Wednesday night did make my day with a Google Chat session. It was over 2 hours! Somehow he de-briefed early enough to make it "home" (the lovely BOQ) for a reasonably-hour'd dinner and to power up his laptop to chat with his favorite lady. EEEEEeeeeeeek! Oh the little things that make my heart skip beats. That and when the wine bottle drips empty.

"My husband's in the shower."

Last night was my first run-in with OMG, what if I get mass-murdered and Mr. Wookie's not here to defend me, help kill the guy, and dump his body in international waters?!?!


The night was like every other night. If every other night involves single-person dinners, a couple glasses of wine, a dog that thinks she's entitled to lick the top of my feet right off, and the back door open. Remember, it's California. Our game of 'play ball' can extend out the back door, into the grass, and around the corner of the house. Why run the 100 meter dash when you can run a marathon, right?


All of a sudden, Sweet Pea takes off. BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK towards the front gate.


Oh shit....."Sweet Pea, come here....here....come here....here here...."


And like any good dog...she doesn't come. She just barks. So in my bare feet I follow the circular step stone path around the side of the house. "Sweet Pea?" And there she is. Tail not wagging. Aggressive stance. She's got someone cornered outside the gate. Good girl. There's a reason why I like having her around. She just proved her keep tonight.


Long story short....I'm being peddled. "Do you have a table in your house we could sit down at?" Umm....buddy. That's a mega red flag. You obviously didn't pass How to Murder 101. You don't ask to sit down at my table unless you're pouring me a glass of wine and we're discussing the socio-economics of Serbia in the 1960's.


So I give you my front light near my gate. That's all you get. Now what are you selling again?? Children's books for low-income families. Okay, I'm listening. You'll throw in a car wash. I'm listening. It's tax deductible. Der. But I'm listening. How much do the books costs? Wait, I'm sorry. I was listening. $55 a book?? Wait, what?? And you want me to buy 4 books??


Umm....sniff sniff


Ahhh, yes. Let's weave in a story about how your dad's a Marine, and how he's making you pay your education. Umm...shouldn't you? Otherwise you're just another golden-spoon child who hasn't earned anything. But go ahead...I'm listening. Oh, let's weave in a story about how you grew up in Oregon (really, you're just toying with my heart)...cute that you actually know cities in Oregon, maybe I actually believe you on that one, but still...sniff sniff


And yes....let's discuss how you got engaged last night...Valentine's Day.................


I'll just leave it at that. You, my dear readers, can assume my mental monologue that occurred with that gem of information. Actually, let's try something new. You tell ME what you thought I was thinking with that gem of information... Use the comments. Please. Best response gets a high five. And a cocktail of their choice. When they visit my County (see how I did just that...especially for some people with family out here...*coughcough*).


"Do you have any information I can look over before I make my decision??"


Oh....you don't.....you "have to turn it in tomorrow." I thought this was for your application to culinary school. And so if this is your dream, why are you waiting until the very last night to accomplish this??


Sniff sniff.


Do you smell something fishy?? I sure do. Who doesn't have information their fundraising?? A form, maybe some contact information, and ....you know....maybe some Tax ID numbers...not just one laminated (shittily) page. And why are you waiting until night?? Do you know how unsafe that makes me feel while you try and rip off people?? Yes, I'm quite glad I had my vicious attack dog with access to my front gate. While she's not trained to bite male genitalia (yet), she at least made his butthole pucker.


So I bid him adieu, saying I don't make impulse purchases without waiting 3 days (no, really...I don't). And he walked himself to the yard's gate. I heard the gate close. And I walked inside my house, calling my guard dog behind me. I quickly locked the front door. I walked straight to the back door. I locked that too. I don't trust people. I just realized I was alone tonight and could die without anyone knowing (minus the whole not showing up for work the next morning). My (great) neighbors do know Mr. Wookie is active duty and not home at this moment, but is that enough?. Would they know my screams meant business and an intruder was invading?? I don't know. And I don't want to find out. I realized tonight I need a way to make it look like Mr. Wookie is home. Because I don't know if people believe the whole "my husband's in the shower" (because the whole "my awesome lifetime domestic male partner is in the shower" is just too long to say...).

Yup, those are tampons in my cart.

Sometimes I wonder why I'm wired the way I am. Why my cynicism is so strong, how I couldn't give a bigger bird poop on a Ferrari about Whitney Houston, and why I'm so stubborn against gender roles...I have no idea. But I'm not complaining at all. I like being independent. I can care for myself. I can make my own money. And I have a boy that knows I'm not after his paycheck, the lifestyle, or child support. All I really want is a trust fund, but barking up that tree just leaves you with a sore throat.


I was on my lunch break yesterday. I'm fortunate to work 12 miles from my home. So with that, there are some lunch breaks that I take advantage of and do a little grocery shopping at the nearby Vons to help make better time of my daily schedule. Yesterday was kinda that day - although the need was something a bit more pressing and unedible. Yup, it was purchasing those lady items.


There's been only one recorded time in the history of Wookie & Co., that'd I'd ask Mr. Wookie to pick up those unmentionable items that men shan't dare view, touch, nor purchase. Really, guys!?!? I'd be willing to pick up any remedy for a boy (whether athlete's foot, jock itch, or back waxing strips - not that I've had purchase those - those are just the items I think of when it comes to dudes....), but stop the blog presses should a guy pick up a darn box o' tampons (ensuring it's the brand AND size she wants).


I remember girls in high school, and even college, being sooooo embarrassed with buying tampons, mattress pads (known as maxi pads), and everything else meant for the nether regions. Seriously. Buck up, ladies. It happens. Which is worse: buying tampons or cigarettes?? Hello, tampons actually help, don't cause tuberculosis, and are cheaper than a cigarette habit.


So yesterday in all my glory, I throw (literally) the goods on the conveyor belt. I wait patiently for the woman in front of me trying to return her sacks of groceries otherwise the check would bounce (and I shifted between feeling sorry for the girl, since I don't know the back story, and feeling like she should realize you can't return items without a receipt - for all they know you stole the stuff!). But then she got the clue that a Ginger on her lunch break was trying to buy items of necessity and got out of my way.


Cashier looks at goods on belt. "So how is your day?"


I wrestled with how to answer that...Crampy? Just peachy? Avoiding babies like the plague? Why don't you carry Playtex Ultra? You wouldn't happen to have any chocolate would you? You really should stock wine near the tampon aisle, just sayin'... I'm on my lunch break buying tampons, how do you think I am??


"Fine."

Happy Hallmark Profit Day!

[via]

While I decompose on my couch, let's do 10 random facts on Sunday!

I'm trying desperately to find the balance between staying busy (both mentally and physically) and dusting off the cobwebs of this dear blog. It's important to continue to speak my mind and express how life is while he's away since I'm trying to stay busy.


But let's have 10 fun facts inspired by my Baby Sister!


1. I cleaned the Master Bath's toilet yesterday. While it wasn't as torturous as I remember cleaning a toilet, it's definitely not my favorite part of cleaning the house. But this is definitely something that Mr. Wookie prefers (cleaning bathrooms versus vacuuming, anything else) - who am I to take that away from him?


2. I've set a new goal for detachments, boat time, and deployment. I will enjoy a bottle of wine a week. Red wine is healthy....so who am I to turn away something for my health?? Right???? And it goes without saying this week was a double dose of health. I've added TWO corks to my stash...


3. I'm trying desperately to unEarth my vehicle from the layers and layers of dog hair that has imbedded into the back and front seats (who am I to keep Sweet Pea from riding shotgun while we roll around around town)...so far I've tried wet sponges, velcro, and tape. Last ditch effort: kitchen gloves....


4. I don't like coconut. I think it tastes foul. Although I'll eat it in German Chocolate cake because that's The Sheriff's favorite cake - who am I to lower myself on the ladder for a trust fund later in life??


5. While Tuesday I was mentioning that I was ready to hang up the military lifestyle because I was tired of the loneliness-inspired separation (hahahaah - Ginger....so soon!), I think 72 hours is my breaking-in point. Because after that night, I settled into my own routine. (Maybe the wine is helping...)


6. The Vow looks terrible. Awful. I have zero desire to see it.


7. There's nothing like crawling into crisp, freshly washed flannel sheets. I did that last night. I got home from my monthly "Wives" meeting, put on some flannel pajama pants (see a trend?), poured a glass of wine, watched some Iron Chef America, then called it a night before 9pm. Throw in my electric mattress pad on heat setting 6, and it's heaven. I'm surprised I even crawl out of bed at all....


8. I haven't made coffee in my house since he left. And so with that, I...uh...hadn't cleaned out the coffee filter since then. Uhhh.....gross. Time to clean the coffee maker....because I'm pretty sure a touch of moldy coffee grounds isn't the same hint of flavor that Bailey's provides...


9. It's obvious I don't live the same lifestyle as the Duggars (hello...my name doesn't start with a "J"), but I love them. Not that my vag wants to pop out 19 children, but I think it's an entertaining family with great morals, decent fashion sense (come on! It could be a whole lot worse!), and fabulous attachment to their siblings.


10. Have you seen the blog Advanced Style??? These women are FABULOUS. I can't wait to rack up the years and be as stellar as they are. So here's taking care of my health with fruits, veggies, healthy foods....and wine.....right??? It's all about those antioxidants... ;)                                                                             

Let me just cause a cackle...

In an effort to express the snark is trying to come back...I just had to post this...

Parents, all sets, don't hate me. But this is a hilaaaaarious. #ginger'sback

Ummm, yeah...are you back yet?

Mrs. Wookie...you're cool...you really are, but are you done being all sad and stuff? I mean, I get it...January was tough on you. But come on...I need laughter. You're killing me here with all your existentialism and enlightened outlook on life. I need angry back. I need hostility. I need eff-bombs. Get your shit together. There are people who compare you to..well...a crazy, Ginger blogger. And they need some loving. So put down that damn wine glass and get to gettin'.


So yeah....I need to come back.


And I mostly have. I just haven't known what to say. After that day in January happened, I just wanted to take a break from chronicling every fart, snort, loogie, and wine bottle cork added to my collection. I knew Mr. Wookie was leaving, and starting the long schedule of being here and gone (and gone and here and gone), and I really just wanted to spend some time with him. So I did that. Can you blame me? I can't.


But now Mr. Wookie's practicing his defense of freedom and I'm left here to...pick my ass.


Last night I hit the "I'm bored" mark. Oh shit. It's less than a week in and I'm waiving the "Can I please have my Jeopardy teammate back?" Never mind the 16-minute phone call I got where I actually got to chat with him while he was between work and scrounging for dinner. I had this hit to my ego. I now just want to take care of the boy. I can't believe it.  My pride...gone. This fem-Nazi (me!) is asking for her Mr. Wookie back so she can gladly bask in the "Can I get you a cocktail, babe?", "No, I'll do the dishes, babe.", or "Want me to make some dinner, babe?"


What the heck is wrong with me??


This is not right. This is not 1950's. And he's not Don Draper.


Last Saturday I had a mission for the weekend - I wanted to create a semi-meal plan for what to do for the next week. I needed something to keep me healthily fulfilled other than Honey Nut Cheerios. While I usually catalog meal plans into the cultist behaviors of Stroller Mafias, I knew I didn't have a chance to make it a full week once I drag my tush home from work, chill with my dog, pour a glass (or three) of leftover Super Bowl merlot and then creating a lavish 4-course meal. No....I need a plan.


So as of this weekend, I've actually made real food for dinner. And you know what?? IT'S EFFIN' BORING. I knew cooking for one would be the lamest thing since Steven Hawking's chances on Dancing With the Stars. And I'm right. Although I will say having zero Mr. Wookie in the house lent itself to a joyous Kardashian marathon on Saturday...or Sunday....one of those days. Have I mentioned that I've had wine in the house? ;)


So long blog post short...I'm bored, I'm trying to stay busy, but I think the key to my issue is the need to stay mentally busy. I'm physically busy. Now I just need a project to keep my head "in the game" - or at least out of the wine cabinet.


Or not. I mean, let's be honest. Wine is healthy. Who am I to deter doctor's orders??

Work-ups: Navy's training wheels.

I wouldn't turn down this work-ups cycle by any means. I was mostly calm as the days ticked down to where he'd be leaving for weeks. It was in November when I thought February was so far off, because it was actually months away. We still had Christmas to tackle and enjoy, and there were a million wake-ups together with kisses and cuddling before the first command detachment of this pre-deployment cycle. But now that time is here and I'm (so far) calm with it all. Well...at least until Murphy shows up and annoys me. She's never been kind in the past, but I'm planning on restocking the bar...so Murphy, bring.it.on.


That morning he left, I only asked one thing: please let me know when you get there. As he was initially slated to transfer with the aircraft, plans changed when he was told he wasn't moving with the bird. Did he care? Meh. Did I? Well...it meant I got one more night with him versus those that moved the planes. So obviously I enjoyed that extra 24 hours of having another human in the house. One more night to sleep next to him, one more night to tackle all the laundry he may need, one more night to stew over the weather of his destination and how expansive it can be (freezing to frying), and one more night of co-cooking with him. And let's not forget one more night of a Jeopardy mate.


So that morning, after I threw myself on the couch in my pajamas, sleep deprived from the early wake-up to send him off, I hunkered in for a short nap - drawing the comfy blanket off the back of the couch, kicking it out over my feet, and waiting for Sweet Pea to realize oh, okay, nap time....then closing my eyes.


The house is now quiet. His computer shut down to avoid drawing the unnecessary power. His desk littered with documents that didn't need to make this trip. And his nightstand empty. No phone power cords. No laptop next to the bed as nights can be spent tapping away at the keyboard. With his job, work doesn't end at 5pm. No, work ends (at the squadron at least) when the Skipper signs the next day's schedule. Whenever that may be. And even then, there still may be more to do...but all he wants to do is leave work. So in my training, I've learned to fall asleep to the sound of the Navy's need of burning the midnight oil.


He did mention one thing before he left. He's going to be very busy. Early mornings, late nights. Briefs, flights, de-briefs, sims, and more acronyms than I care to ever know. So while he's technically on land, it's more like he's at sea. But this will always be good training. I hear pre-deployment is worse than actual deployment (which I don't know if I believe that or not...yet). And since it's been years since we've had to navigate the long-distance relationship dance, I'm feeling nostalgic for my strength when he was in the beginnings of flight school in Pensacola and I was enjoying my life in Oregon. Will that strength return? Will time fly by? Will being settled in our duty station make it easier or harder? How soon will I make this deployment my bitch? Military separation - where holidays and celebrations will come and go, a card and care package will be sent off, and the long travel time for shore-based affections to reach its sailor.


But there's always a silver lining. The same day he left, I kneeled down, in my hallway, peering into my linen cabinet. I spied the yellow happiness that lay folded on the top shelf. My flannel sheets. A mark of military separation. There they were. Just waiting for me. They felt so happy sliding onto the mattress. Their bright yellow hue - the color of cheer - I can't not be content when I slide into them after a long day of talking to myself, the dog, the fridge, the TV, the Santa Anas, and my dad's phone (which doesn't like to connect via  a call - I don't get it...it apparently hates me and is competing for the trust fund also).


The emails from the fellow ladies have been in full. There's a scheduled Valentine's Dinner (with margaritas!) during that week. There's our monthly get-together, which brings the new wife of the wedding we attended (whom I've made it my point to give her the welcome I didn't get). And there are pedicures. Yes.


So while this may not be a multi-month separation that's coming thanks to Uncle Sam - it's here. I want to wish that deployment farther away with every breath I take, yet I want it here now so we can begin the deployment already. I'm not ready for him to be gone, to an undisclosed location, operating mission's potentially in harm's way, and being a man I'm so proud of. But I've never been more ready. He loves what he does and he's good at what he does. He's only going to do great things while deployed. And no, that doesn't include the mustache. Lest forget the 'stache....

Mrs. Wookie...militarily single...

It was this week. My alarm screeched to life at 4:30am. I pop up my head from drooling on my pillow, turn off the alarm, and let gravity take my head back down...and somehow avoiding the slobber that had found a new home. Then I panic...what if I fall back asleep?

10 minutes later...his alarm screeches to life. I scoot over to the middle of the bed and wrap my arm his back while he reaches to shut off the alarm. I hunker in for a fumbling hug, mixed with tiredness and the reality that this warm body next to me will be leaving in an hour.

Now the birds are gone. The maintenance team. The command. All gone.

It's surreal having the house to myself. The holyshitthey'reactuallygone reaction hasn't set in.


What's on the agenda? Well there's the grocery store to hit up for soy milk, butter, cereal, and produce. There's the meal plan to write up since I'll be eating solo for a chunk of time. There's the house to clean. There's my office to straighten up. And there may be some thrifting thrown in as I need more food storage but don't want to buy Tupperware - plus Goodwill usually has old school Corningware for pennies on the dollar.


And depending on the weather and wind of today, there may need to be hammock time.

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.

The week that pained our hearts.

It was Monday morning. We barely cracked the door to our home a handful of hours prior, thanks to a slight delay from Dulles to LAX. But we scrounged for dinner and then crawled into bed. Our bed. That set of sheets and comforter, with an extra blanket on my side for warmth, that would allow us a re-coop from our long weekend of travels. We were exhausted, but exhilarated to be home and able to sleep in on a holiday.


The sun rose later, breaking through the clouds and streaming into the bedroom. I didn't want to acknowledge it - but it was there. Like an unfortunate and unwanted 'good morning, Mrs. Wookie' even though it didn't make me coffee. I laid there quietly hoping sleep would drift me under again for a few more hours of rest and relaxation.


But it didn't. The sun streamed steadily through the half-moon window informing me that it's beyond late and that I needed to rise for the day. The house needed cleaning, laundry was piling up thanks to our suitcase, the dog needed to be fetched from the boarding hotel, and today was the day to recharge after skipping across country and back.


So out of bed I crawled, fumbling for my phone that had lost battery power mid-night, and scrounged for the wall charger. I made my way out to the kitchen when a voicemail popped through....

LAX is a layer in Hell. Welcome.

It started at 5:00am last Thursday morning. It started with a knock on the door. And it started with a phone call. The knock on the door was from 1/4 of the vehicular party to LAX. The phone call was from the other 1/4 of the party. The knock on the door was on time. The phone call was not.


"Hey, I just woke up."


Our driver. Overslept. His alarm.


There's a reason why I don't like to travel with people. I don't trust people. I don't like to wait on people. My maneuvers are much better choreograph'd around timely airport arrivals, necessary beer stops, snacks galore, and zero stress as I deal with old people, strollers, and foreigners in my tornado-like path through security.


His cut-off was 5:30am. Then, we were leaving his ass. He shows up at 5:27am.


I sat behind the driver's seat, since he's a staggering 5'6", this provides ample leg room than sitting behind Mr. Wookie. I impatiently watch the clock tick a minute and another minute as we're cutting the morning close to hit our flight. The street lights pass, faster and faster, as we pace the Sheriff's Deputy on his morning commute somewhere important. With each Church we pass, I pray we make our flight. I've never missed a flight. And I was not going to now. My eyes singed into the back of his skull. I couldn't have been more irate, more concerned, more annoyed, and more irritated.


We check the rental car (would you believe it's cheaper to rent a car and ditch it at LAX than park your actual car?), and hit the shuttle. The driver slowly churns his sweet time through the 7 gates of LAX. Each one mocking us as we pass it. Each minute ticking by closer to the boarding time to our flight. Each stomach cell ulcerating, eating away at my patience, my silence a tale-tell sign that I'm stressing and unsure that I won't murder someone for being late with their alarm. It's not my fault. I was up at early. I showered. I was ready.


But we make it through. I praise God for all of that. We made it. Somehow. With a few minutes to spare. Then as a collective unit of 7 (half of JOPA plus me), we boarded our flight. We tetris'd seats to force the late guy to sit bitch. And I got to snuggle up to the left bicep of my adorable Mr. Wookie. I dug out my trail mix since I don't fly without snacks. Because a hungry Ginger is a snarky Ginger. Oh wait, I'm always snarky....


But wait, this morning gets better. Much better....

How to survive a 3-day bender...

Have you missed the crickets over here? Probably not since I'm never full of anything more than hot air, or hot methane, or Ginger locks on the floor as I shed more than a warthog - when really, I need those delicate locks since I don't want to resemble Smeegle.

Mr. Wookie and I ventured away to the land of the 757. And we threw it down. We love this city. The moment that the doors of the Marriot cracked and we strolled down Granby Street feeling the excitement in the air for the past energy felt, it was magic. There we were. On a vacation meant for the books. We were invited a squadronmate's wedding, a 3-day event, and a cross-country adventure for half of the JOPA that was not-quietly granted leave for this event.

What happens when you take away half of the flight crew in a Command?? Well they'll pay for it tomorrow. But between last Wednesday night and tomorrow morning, we intended to (and did) rip this city up.

What I didn't miss?? The ear-piercing wind of Downtown. The cold that will rot your bones despite the drinks.

What did I love?? Stepping into a bar that wasn't my favorite back when I was a local, where there's a live 2-man band, the keyboardist with a killer half sleeve, and she's rockin' our "Ur So Gay." Umm...yes. This is my night.

But for now, it's laundry, picking up a pooch from the dog hotel, a sinkful of dishes that we left for post-vacation, and a backyard with a hammock calling my name.

Her adoption day that came.

I don't know what to say about her adoption day. That time last year I can't really remember what I was feeling. I guess to say it was uncertainty as we brought home a dog with a checkered past. I guess there was the thankfulness that Mr. Wookie had previous dog owning skills. I relied solely on my ability to live with a cat. So yes, that means she succumbed to behavior correction like one would with a cat - with a squirt bottle. And yes, she responded accordingly.

In a year's time she's lost weight and gained weight. She's had dual ear infections that we had to wrangle her for her ear drops because she's better perfecting Houdini's escaping methods while you try and keep her head still. We've tried to trim her nails. She's whined. So we've allowed the lovely pavement to its job on walks. We've barked at dogs, lunged at dogs, tried to chase squirrels and birds. Oh, and the one time she fell down a waterfall. Yeaaaaah...Mr. Wookie was on dog duty that weekend while I was in Oregon. Apparently she thinks herself to be a Golden Retriever, was out camping with Mr. Wookie and squadronmates, saw a squirrel, took off, chased it up a rock cliff, lost her balance, and tumbled into a swimming hole.

Mr. Wookie froze, beer in hand, saying "Mrs. Wookie is going to kill me."

Instead, she swam to the edge, shook herself off, said 'Shit,' and moped back over to the group knowing a rock wall defeated her past life as a mountain goat. No bruises, just a bruised ego. And now we know this dense dog can swim. Olympics 2012, here we come.

In a year's time, we dropped some money on private lessons knowing we can't group train her. She came to us like a hot mess on Jerry Springer. But private lessons lasted all of a handful of months as by the time we got to the 'aggression training' of it all, it was merely her sitting next to a 'trainer dog' and constantly growling at it. "She'll progress out of it." I saw no progress and felt it better to can the lessons than proceed on pouring money down the drain. What we got out of the initial lessons was a better ability for her to respond to commands and be a better dog. And improve she did.

And in the first week of the year's time, we learned she was housebroken and could do tricks. While 'shake' still eludes us, we're content with the rest of her line-up. If only she understand, "Dog, put a cork in that asshole! You smell! You don't get to just cropdust the house."

I did really think a year would bring along the perfect dog though. But she's not. She still gets really excited on walks and wants to pull but then the martingale collar pinches and she (sometimes) backs off. If not, we changed directions until she figures it out. Yes, sometimes it's back and forth, but eventually she remembers that the Ginger walking her is in control and when she plays her cards right - treats.

In a year's time, she still doesn't like the wind and she'll sit outside the door to whine at night. The one time we let her in the room, bringing in her bed by my side, she fell right asleep. The other time she slept with me while Mr. Wookie away, she stayed at attention while the wind howled.

In this next year's time, her job will be a protector, provider, and therapeutic release. She can hear the front gate open and will respond with barking. She can come when called and will not deny hugs and affection. And she'll give plenty of kisses when she senses you're down on your luck, usually when crying emotions and Uncle Sam that just don't mix, and just need a (proverbial) hug.

We still don't have a keyword for her to attack male genital in case of a home invasion - but we're researching our home defense options. And we still don't have her standing on hind legs at the bar making mommy a cocktail. We definitely don't have her doing voiceover work to pay for her $.33 tennis ball habit (Play It Again Sports used balls....haha, I said used balls....hhahahaha, I did it again...).

But if she does that, she might as well pick up her own poop, mow the lawn, and unwind my hammock when the Santa Anas are douches and in town.

But until then, we'll renew her lease for another year. I guess so....