Dear Mr. Limbaugh,

When I was young and had not yet learned that I had a brain and the permission obligation to use it, I watched your show on late-night television a handful of times. I heard you on the radio a time or two, as well. Then, as I said, I grew a brain and flexed it once or twice, and that's when I became a lefty.

So, I don't listen to your show and haven't heard it in at least 15 years. Therefore, I can only make certain assumptions about the person you are now.

Your desire to see Obama fail leads me to believe you are:

1. One of those "support the troops" types who spent $2.99 to put a yellow ribbon magnet on the back of your car. However, you have never actually done anything that required your time, money, or energy to help out either the soldiers, sailors, marines, etc. or the military families stuck with the smidgen of support the Bush-led military deemed sufficient to keep troop morale up. Have you served in the military, sir?
2. A hypocrite and burlap sack of steam, ready to hurl insults and take glee in the failure of your enemies while taking great offense when your enemies engage in the same.
3. More concerned about being right than healthy, safe, secure, and free.
4. A narcissist.
5. The type to crow long and loud that you're a patriot, but your insistence is the same as the whoring, embezzling, self-righteous, judgmental minister who enjoys reminding everyone what an excellent Christian he is.

Anyone who would wish this country ill (and hoping our country fails does just that) is an enemy of the United States. Even as I fight disgust that I have to share my country with you, I delight in the knowledge that you, sir, are not an American, in spite of the print on your birth certificate. Maybe one of these days, you'll do us all a favor and find another country to darken.

Yours with sincerity,
Anchored Away

Holy mother of ...

I was out with the ‘rents tonight, enjoying a sprog-free evening at the bookstore, when my shoe phone rang. It was a Virginia number and one not plugged into this phone (my husband’s old phone that I inherited when he went away).

 

“Hello?” say I.

“Hey, babe,” says the YodaMan.

“What up?” ask I.

“I’ll be in Alabammy at nine in the morning.”

I blink. I stutter. It comes out sounding like, “Bu-wha-huh-y-b-w WHAT?”

 

Thanks to his diligence in prepping for check out and getting to the ECRC before the hordes had descended, he completed his check out in a record 4 hours. Then, thanks to the awesomeness that is Kimba, he secured transportation hither and thither and yon and is taking a red eye tonight.

 

The sprogs will be thrilled (and it turns out they were telling the babysitter that Daddy was on an airplane flying over the house RIGHT THIS SECOND). I’m also thrilled, but at the same time, I’m completely unprepared. I had a timeline. I had plans. And now, I’m scouring my craptastic room, where I’ve had to store everything I own in Alabammy, and trying to cram shit in some kind of order in which two people can survive for a week. GAHHHHHHH!!!!! And also, SQUEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

 

What a night. :) It’s time to get my dance on.

 

Note to the world: Kimba is a total rock star! I hope he didn’t chintz you on dinner, chica. ;)

He'll be coming 'round the ECRC when he comes

Now that YodaMan is on his way to the States and out of Kuwait, I’m assuming the whole OPSEC thing is done. Last I heard, he was in Europe (perhaps Deutschland?) after a grueling 12+ hour clusterfuck in Kuwait for customs. They started the process at 4:30 in the afternoon, and he called at 3am his time to say that they still had a few hours left to go. Egads.

 

But he’s on his way. The flight was delayed and pushed up again and delayed and pushed up again, and all kinds of further clusterfuckage occurred. The Navy had can-exed the flight reservations from Baltimore to San Diego, only to tell everyone that, gee, um, sorry, the flight is now full so you’ll have to get hotel rooms in Baltimore and wait for the next available. O.o The what-the-fuckery continues....

 

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (as my Calc4 prof used to say as he began squigglings meant to represent a vector field), we’re wondering if this delay means he won’t make his flight to us in Alabammy next week. I guess only time and the ECRC will tell, but I’m not holding my breath after some of the stories I’ve heard.  Try these on for size:

 

·         CDR Dude* is extended in Afghanistan. Much gnashing of teeth commences. After he’s past his original departure date, into his extension, he calls home to chat with Ms. Dude. His wife says, “Why did your command call to say you’re UA and to ask where the hell you are?” Much blinking ensues. Turns out ECRC canceled the extension and forgot to mention it to anyone except his command. Major Dude spends several anxious days getting his ass back to the States before someone can start bringing him up on charges. For, um, doing his job.

·         Several reports are coming back to the saildiers that they’re getting to ECRC only to be told, “Yeah, um, we decided that we’re extending you here at ECRC for a month, so, um, just grab that chair, stick your thumb up your ass, and when you’ve got a minute, call home to let your family know you’re not going to see them as planned. Oh, did we forget to tell you about that? Oops. Here’s a wet wipe for your poo-encrusted thumb.”

·         Other reports are coming back that, no matter how prepared saildiers are for their check out, no matter how many items they’ve knocked off before coming back to the States, ECRC is apparently too busy jacking off in the back room to get their shit together. So saildiers are taking much longer than anticipated to get checked out.

 

Ahhhhh. I totally <3 the Navy.

 

In other news, I got two packages from Afghanistan yesterday.  One contains an assortment of jewelry. I’m not a jewelry person. Never have been. Forget to wear it all the time. However, I have claimed my new blood-diamond-free ruby engagement ring that replaces the original (that was likely stolen by a former roommate with a gimme complex). I am wearing it now with great delight. I have also claimed a couple of beautiful star sapphire necklaces, one of which the husband designed just for me (star sapphire at the center of a ruby-pointed pentacle – Star Goddess what what? My husband soooo rocks). I have also claimed another necklace/earring set of mysterious but gorgeous stones. There was also a gargantuan ball of what looks like lapis lazuli and weighs eight point two ass-tons. I shit you not. I don’t know what YodaMan had planned for that, but it’s Mine. All. Mine. Of course, there were several other gorgeous pieces in there. The intended recipients may or may not get them. Just sayin’.

 

And can I wig out with you for a second? See, there were two heavy belt buckles in there, identical. Decorated with a star and a hammer and sickle in the center of it. Not shocking at all, considering. But then I’m wondering how anyone in Afghanistan got hold of two Soviet soldiers’ belt buckles. And now I have the queasies at the idea that someone took those off dead bodies. Egads.

 

I hate to end this post with such a gruesome thought, but.... Well. Yeah.

 

* names changed to protect the victims

Because we haven't looked at the google lately...

The latest in amazing Google searches! Enjoy, but please be aware that this list has become very much NSFW....

 

Wife cigar – remains a favorite for some bizarre reason

Afghanistan penis - um

Angst doesn’t hurt so much when I’m drunk – word

Are there whores in the Navy – the Navy is an equal opportunity employer and hires man-whores as well as woman-whores

Ass – just ass, folks

Did Blackbeard have a wife

Do people like life in the Navy? – there are a few freaks out there. ;)

Do they give a pap smear at bct army – if it’s a military medical facility, they’re at least going to ask you when your last one was, even if you’re in there for a hang nail

Does being a Navy officer wife suck – May I present to you...my blog!

Got a cold wife can you help

Groogling

Kimba + navy – uh oh, they’re on to you!

Kimba ass - ???

Military spouse job description – what a great idea for a blog post! Writing that down....

My military detailer sucks – welcome to the military

Naughty navy wife – you’ve come to the right blog

Navy detailer function – to fuck up your shit

Navy wife says she was born to be fucked – well, it’s a good thing she’s a milspouse – she’s come to the right place to get screwed All. The. Time. Though generally it’s quite an unpleasant experience.

Penis in Afghanistan

Screwed by the Navy

Team Yodaman – word up!

Tiny penis love – awwww, how sweet! You love a detailer?

Wife feminizing husbands – we should be so lucky! Do away with stupid gender bollocks!

Wife with tiny cock – to make a sly reference to the movie Clerks, we don’t have chicks with dicks around here.

Willow Magdalena – that’s *my* idea! Back off!!! I might never have a daughter, but that name is freaking reserved, yo. :sigh: Okay, I’ll share.

Just another snarky navy wifelittle. Snarky. Different – fascinating....

 

 

Now, allow me to say once again that I am aware that there are rare and wonderful detailers out there. However, given the angst that I and a few friends have endured the last couple of years over certain detailers (not to mention a habit of detailers to cause angst that serves absolutely no purpose), I’m willing to light up any and every detailer. If your detailer is awesomesauce, comment here, and I shall acknowledge.

 

Sweet, Sweet Change

It seems inarguable to me that George W. Bush will be remembered by history not only as the man who preceded Obama but whose failures and mistakes almost certainly helped to usher in the era of Obama.

You ask what George Bush's legacy is? It's Barack Obama -- plain and simple.

 

From Deus Ex Malcontent.

 

Thanks for the linky, ArmyWife.

So behind...

Yeah, I’ve been a complete bum lately. I haven’t checked around other people’s blogs in a while, and I am thoroughly ashamed. Really, it’s happening lately only when people leave a comment here, and I do that “Hey, I remember her! What’s she been up to lately?” thing, and then I feel like an asshole when I scroll back and see I’ve been tagged for a meme or referenced or something. :sigh:

 

So, thanks to Miss Val, I am meming.

 

The rules:
List 10 honest things about yourself.
Pass around some linky love, seven to be honest.

 

1.       I’m a total slob. I hate cleaning. Like any decent American full of entitlement and excuses, I attribute this slobbish compulsion to a childhood full of white glove inspections with a Marine daddy. I like to think I rebelled, but when I’m being honest with myself, I know I’m a slob because I’m lazy.

2.       I love writing, but I’m currently battling a rather consuming phobia of both failure and success. I have requests from editors and agents, and I have yet to submit anything. Because I’m a dork.

3.       I have waaaaay too  many blogs, but they each serve a purpose. Sometimes I want to link to something on another blog, but I don’t want to give up my anonymity, such as it is.

4.       I often imagine gruesome death for people who piss me off, file away those images, and dream of a day when those people show up in a line at a book signing, and I can laugh my arse off knowing the bad guy who dies in the book is totally based on them.

5.       I’m a Pagan who uses ecstatic trance possessory work, and yet I distrust folks who sell books and audiotapes and iPod shizzle and who claim they’re channeling. I also distrust most psychics. Er, I mean “psychics” who sell their services.

6.       Noises bug the crap out of me. White noise is one thing. Your stereo bass cranked up loud enough I can hear you three streets away? You suck. You can’t manage to close your mouth when you shove a wad of food in there? You suck. Clinking dishes? Drive me crazy, especially when someone is beating the shit out of their plate/bowl with a utensil because they’re so vigorously going after that lllllaaaaaaaasssssst crumb of food.

7.       I lied to my husband today. I told him I’ve been working out with a trainer, doing Weight Watchers, and taking bellydance classes, and yet I’ve seen no results. The truth is that I’ve seen results, but they’re not near what I expected to have at this point, and that pisses me off. So I’m lowering his expectations so he’s as pleased as he would have been if I’d shredded as many pounds as I’d intended.

8.       I’m ready to sell all my crafting supplies in order to take up bellydancing classes and buy a pair of Melodia pants. I’m *seriously* ready.

9.       I need a job, but I resent that I have to go back to work. I’m pissed that I gave up my career for the Navy, and now the Navy is making my employment necessary once more, except I’m reduced to minimum wage gigs. And that PISSES ME OFF.

10.   I don’t want any more children, but sometimes I dream of adopting a little girl. I think it would be awesome to raise a little third-wave feminazi who’s not afraid to shake her fist at The Man.

 

To tag... Kimba (though I know she scoffs at the Memery), LAW, Slightly Salty, Feminist Military Spouse, Never Apart in Heart, Tucker, Lopsided Mom

Ding Dong the IA's Done

YodaMan is in Kuwait. He’s coming home. He hands off his weapon tomorrow (today?). He flies back to the States in mere days. He checks out with those bastards at ECRC, and then he flies here.

 

I’m seriously so happy I could cry. It’s been a long two years of hell, and now we’re looking at two years of school. No deployments. No duty. Just bliss.

 

If anyone knows the protocol for being able to meet returning saildiers at their airline gate, I’d be much obliged for that info.

 

And now for a moment of angst...

 

I hope I still like my husband. I hope I haven’t turned into a ravening bitch. Okay, I hope I haven’t become *more* of a ravening bitch. I really hope I can find a job that pays a decent amount and lets me have a life between school and sprogs. I really, really hope.

 

If anyone know of any jobs for tech writing (work from home, even) or teaching creative writing, please don’t hesitate to ping me. I’ll be in Monterey by mid-March and available for work soon thereafter.

 

...end angst.

 

Had school last week. As always, it was fab with tons of great information about popular fiction markets, mad skillz, etc. I heard some awesome thesis presentations that I know will be published. And in the middle of it all, I came down with some wicked food poisoning that landed me in the emergency room with an IV and a CAT scan. Woot! Action. Adventure. A Jedi craves not these things. [Name the movie, and you get mad props.]

 

Our special speaker for the residency was Stephanie Bond, crazy-mad prolific author of romance and mystery novels. I swear, if we could run a USB cable between our brains, it would take her three days to download her industry knowledge to me. Just. Wow. I thought I knew a good bit about the romance industry, but I were mistook. Verily. I’m prepared to take on a particular publisher that I had once eschewed. All it took was Ms. Bond declaring that one particular line was hard to break into, and now I’m determined. I shall break in! Oh yes, I shall pwn the line. I shall take it from The Official Line of Vamps and Weres and Secret Gubment Special Ops Programs to The Official Line of All Things Paranormal and Darkly Snarky with –NEW! – Bonus Kinky Sex and 99% Special Ops Free.

 

Clearly, my mad rambling has gone too far. I’m still wiped from the week o’ puke and need some rest. I’ll check back in soon. Pinky swear.

Reason #521 why BushCo should take a vacay...

And by vacay, I mean prison. And by prison, I mean hard fucking labor and not one of those cushy federal spas.

Motherfucking THIS.


Via Kimba, and you can follow the yellow brick road from there.

*Edited to repair Micro$oft diaper-crapping.

If You Send a Soldier a Care Package...

Of course, as YodaMan is wrapping up his time in Afghanistan, I’m only just learning what the high-value care packages contain. Apparently, when they come in, personal stuff is removed if the package was meant for a particular person, and then everything else is shared around. The care packages that weren’t sent by family or friend for a particular person go into a pile to share around. Some things remain in the pile for quite some time, other things find homes outside the area, and other things cause brawls and are immediately gone.

 

For example, says YodaMan, for some reason, we get a metric shit-ton of lotion here. And, sez I, that’s because the “what to send a soldier” care package lists include things like lotion and baby wipes. And sez he, those probably work a lot better for the folks in Iraq, but they’re useless to us.

 

So what, I asked, are the brawl-worthy items? Because it would be nice to know for those of us who don’t want to go to the expense to send something nobody needs.

 

Behold! I present the What Everyone Wants in Kabul list:

 

·         Starbucks

·         Splenda and Equal (nobody likes the pink stuff, which is what’s at the exchange)

·         Books and Magazines (but please, no more Golf Digest! Maxim’s great, but they can get that at the exchange)

·         Toothbrushes

·         Febreeze

·         Electrical air freshener that can run off a two-prong 220v

·         Most of them plan to lose weight over there, and they’re looking for stuff like protein powder, protein bars, beef jerky, cashews, and almonds – protein-y stuff, yo

 

What NOT to send:

·         Lotion

·         Pink sweetener

·         Golf Digest

·         Playboy (even if there are no naughty pics – they can still get in trouble if they’re caught with it, so it automatically gets trashed)

·         DVDs (they have plenty)

·         Sweets (though apparently home-baked stuff is an exception)

·         Peanuts are okay, but they’re not so popular and are available at the exchange

·         Alcohol (they can get in bad trouble if caught with that, too)

 

Also, if you, your kid, or your kid’s class wants to write to those folks, know that everyone wants to write them, and they all want a response. And, um, they’re kinda busy. They end up getting a buttload of cards and letters from little kids who want to get a personalized letter back, and they just get overwhelmed by it. And then they feel guilty. Really, really guilty. So do a soldier/saildier/airldier a favor and write a letter that includes the phrase “Instead of writing back to me, write a letter to your family unless CNN is hounding you to tell them about your special pen pal, in which case my publicist’s phone number is xxx-xxx-xxxx.”  

 

So there you have it, folks! And, um, consider this a gentle prodding to send a saildier a care package. It’s probably b/c of the economy, but the number of packages they receive has declined drastically, and they can use the morale boosters, especially now.