Goddamn Detailers - Beware the F-Bomb, for it is plentiful

YodaMan has been in Afghanistan for two weeks, has been in theater for three weeks, has tried to get in touch with his detailer (who is subordinate to my husband and yet is calling him by his first name without invitation...god complex much?) and the senior detailer, to no avail. If his detailer had been delivering as promised, the orders we so desperately need would be here right fucking now. Are they here? No. Why?

 

His detailer went on vacation. But wait! There’s more!

 

The senior detailer is also taking a vacation. So who’s detailing right now? :insert crickets sound bite:

 

That’s right, folks. You heard it here first. While our service members are fucking doing a lock and load during convoys and participating in memorial services for their brothers and sisters, the detailers are all kicking back, sipping on Mai Tais, boning their wives, playing with their sprogs, and enjoying the lifestyle that can only be had in good ol’ Memphis, Tennessee. That’s grits, baby, with a side of slow and easy.

 

The other day, I pulled a fast one. I e-mailed the wife of the admiral my husband worked for before his happy little IA began. I only wanted to know if there’s some kind of back door access to the personal property office (the folks who organize movers to come pick up your shit and transport it, for you civilian types) when you don’t have orders in hand. She didn’t answer me. Instead, she discussed it with the admiral. And they wanted me to call on her cell phone to chat about it.

 

I freaked out and backpedaled. The admiral had offered to be of assistance if any “funny business” happened during the IA. In my mind, I have visions of all kinds of horrible things happening that I’d require his assistance on, so I didn’t want to bother him with any kind of paltry orders issues. Plus, there’s the detailer retribution, which always sucks. YodaMan had that happen to his Bahrain orders, and the results were three year orders instead of one. In Bahrain. Yup. So we’d rather not make trouble, y’know?

 

Anyway, on the phone tonight with YodaMan, I was telling him that my mother is coming, once and for all, on September 8 to help me close up the house and move back to Bammy. If we get orders before then, we’ll be able to rent our house and not go into horrible debt. Otherwise, we’ll just hold off packing out the house until February when he comes home (er, when the detailer claims he’s coming home), which means we’ll be out a good 5 or 6 months of rent. YodaMan made the following declarations:

 

1.       E-mail the admiral’s wife and pass along the detailer information. YodaMan’s willing to bite back if that scumbag, piece of shit, bait-and-switch, “I did my IA in Tampa-stan” asshole detailer wants to come at him with retribution orders. Yay! I thought he was going to be mad at me. :)

2.       He’s got one more contact at Millington (for you civilian types, that’s the base where the detailers kick back and play god). He’ll call him in the morning, and if the guy says ‘them’s the breaks’ or ‘you’ll have to wait for the NPS slate’ (whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean), YodaMan is backing out of the Monterey orders and requesting more San Diego orders.

 

That second option would actually be a HUGE relief. The elder sprog would have his pre-school and the speech stuff he needs with the people who like him so much. Now, I hate this house, I hate this neighborhood, and I can’t wait to bail out of here and get into something rent-y, but I’m willing to stick it here for financial reasons. Plus, if I know we’re going to be here, I can apply for some jobs, and I can go ahead and get my kid on the waiting list for the local charter school (so he’s not stuck at the elementary school in this neighborhood, where the scores are so low, I wonder how the school even exists anymore). There’s nada that I can find in Monterey, but there’s stuff here. Maybe I could even switch gears and find something teaching.  Plus I have friends here. Good friends. Friends I adore. Friends who are VERY sad that I’m leaving, and who I’m VERY sad to leave behind.

 

Of course, since I’d prefer that outcome, it won’t happen. Because that’s the Navy way. Read Anchored Away’s mind, and do exactly the opposite. That’s the Navy’s unofficial motto.

 

So now I have new goals and tasks. Meanwhile, actions taken thus far on the detailers:

1.       E-mailed Congressman Berry. Complained mightily. I might make a more direct complaint, complete with names and dates just to make that god-complex asshole regret ever fucking with my husband.

2.       E-mailed the admiral’s wife to beg for her Navy-fu to provide info.

3.       Prepared a gnarly bitchcraft spell that I will happily unleash on the assholes who are fucking with my husband’s well-being and my family’s life.

4.       Brain-drafted letters to send to my senators and to the local rag. Maybe I’ll even send something to the Navy Times just to be a complete fucking bitch.

 

More to come.... I can’t wait to unleash the fury on this set of fucktards at Millington. Beware the angry snarky nay vee wife, for she is a tough bitch, and she has spent the last thirteen years sharpening her teeth for just such a battle.