Gin & Juice - AKA Don't fry chicken when you're drunk

After an exhausting day, I am FINALLY at home, after lugging groceries from the underground garage to our apartment. When I get inside, I see the hubby on the computer, draining the last of a MGD. I’ve had a long day and he’s already set the standard so I decide to make myself a little after-work drink as well. Only I always forget that my drinks get you to’ up. And this one was no exception. Mixed up a little concoction of OJ, citrus vodka and triple sec, with a splash of grenadine. Thought I’d be OK because I used the Smirnoff and not the Grey Goose, but dammit if my juice to alcohol ratio is out of whack and by the time the chicken finished, marinating I was feeling pretty dang good.

So, the oil’s in the pan heating and I start to season and batter the chicken. By the time I put the first piece of chicken in the oil, I’m actually tipsy. But I’m still trying to maintain. So I got the chicken sizzling, mashing the potatoes and have peas boiling on the stove. But I’m also totally violating the cardinal rule of the kitchen – pot handles should never face out! So of course I almost knock over the chicken in it’s hot a$$ grease AND the peas. I regain my composure in enough time to prevent any catastrophes, but it’s a struggle. I guess the bratwurst I ate for lunch wasn’t good enough to let me sip on a lil’ something without overdoing it.

It’s going OK, despite my failed attempt to get on the computer and fry chicken at the same time – I kept envisioning myself typing away as a grease fire blazed in kitchen. And in Germany, there is no law that each apartment has to be equipped with a fire extinguisher. I was told that we had one for the tenants to share – and it’s in the basement. It got kind of perilous when I tried to make gravy, though. I had lots of grease in the pan and I didn’t want to pour it out because I wanted it to fry a second batch of chicken the next day. So I figure I’ll take the grease off the heat, get a smaller pan, put some drippings in it and make the gravy. Only when I started to do it, the grease was sloshing everywhere – much like my mind at this point. I’m able to set it down without starting a fire and proceed to make my gravy. So I’m putting in flour, stirring it around as usual, with my cup of water next to me. And I put in more and more flour until it had thickened up a bit. But right before putting in the water, a clear voice came through in my muddled mind – “Doesn’t it thicken up AFTER I put the water in?” It does. So I have this thick mess of flour and grease, and I hear the hubby turning off the water in the shower. So, what do I do? The only thing I could do – throw it away.

“I was going to make gravy but I changed my mind,” I told him.

The meal was damn good though – but don’t try this at home - you might end up burning the house down.

Mad World

Wow.

In two weeks, I may not have a job.

And I found this out from the newspaper.

According to the article the firings are being announced “as early as possible to allow our affected employees and their families to prepare.”

WTF? Since when did two weeks allow you enough time to do anything, let alone find a new job? And it’s not like in the states where you can pick up the classifieds and start making phone calls. Most jobs over here for Americans (the ones who don’t speak German anyway) are government jobs – the same ones being cut. So what do I do?

On the one hand, I am telling myself not to worry about it – that God will make a way for , that this may be a blessing in disguise, or that I won’t even be affected by this. But at the same time, I can’t help but wonder – and worry – at least a little bit.

The positive me (yes, there IS one) says that if I lose my job, what’s the worst that can happen? We don’t pay rent or utilities so we don’t NEED my paycheck to survive. And we are trying to move into a new place, a move that will be at government expense, that is big enough for a home office. A place where I can go and write and actually have the time to devote to it. Positive me says maybe this is the break I needed, the thing to get me off my butt and push myself to write until I finish something – not having to worry about squeezing in time between work and church and sorority and FRG and just plain Army stuff.

But the negative me, the one I’m trying to push down, says what are you going to do without a job? Although we don’t need my check, it was nice. I could finally buy what I wanted, not having to worry about the balance in my account and whether I should write a check for those groceries because I get paid tomorrow and it won’t hit my account until Friday. Negative me remembers my first few months living in Germany – months spent without a job, months spent depressed. Negative me says, what if I spend all day in my “home office” and come out with nothing. Or I get called on to do even more than I’m doing now, because in the world’s eyes I’m not working, no matter how dedicated I try to remain – they will say Sansamor can do it, she doesn’t have a job OR kids.

For now, I’ll try to hold negative me off, I’ll try not to worry about it, I’ll try to stay calm. After all, my boss could come back in an hour and say, don’t worry about it. You’re permanent now, not temporary – they can’t fire you.

But for now, I’ll wait, and I’ll pray – because really – there’s nothing else I can do.

The Baddest B@#$h

Yeah, I know I've been MIA for a while, but I have been BUSY!! Why the baddest b#$%$h, you might ask? Because I've been on FI-YAH! First off, I've been super stressed about everything I've been doing lately. So it feels good that some of it has started to pay off. I've been a little worried about my job, but I decided a while back to put it in God's hands. See, the job I have is temporary and is supposed to end 30 June. That means I will be out of a job in a little over a month. But, I know in my heart that's not going to happen. So, anyway, ignoring all possibilities that my job may soon be over, I dove headfirst into my biggest "assignment" yet. Like I've said before, my job title is customer relations, leaving most people to think that I'm a receptionist. But I write policies, make sure they're adhered to, grant exceptions to policy, and somehow, have been spearheading my division's participation in the FDP. Since only Woodstock and RR2 know what the hell I'm talking about, let me explain. I mentioned that the guys here will be deploying soon (although it's been delayed, which means I have at least another couple months with my baby; YAY!!). FDP means Family Deployment Preparation, a half-day thing that all the married couples come through to give them information about what to expect from the different agencies in the community. I have to do the briefing for my department, which means twice a day, I speak for 10 minutes to up to 200 bored-out-of-their minds married couples. But I found something out after agonizing since January over the thought of doing this - I'm pretty good. As much as I talk, people often find it hard to believe that I don't like speaking in public, but I don't. I almost froze up a couple of Sundays ago while doing the church announcements (The Pastor was LOOKING at me!!) And I often have flashbacks of one day yeeeeaaarrrssss ago when I led the choir at church. .....

.......As soon as the music began, I started laughing. And I couldn't stop. Most people I've met since college have never seen this side of me, but I'm a giggle box. And sometimes, once I start laughing, I cannot stop. Seriously. So, I'm leading this song, and laughing hard as hell, trying to make the congregation think that my shaking shoulders are a result of me being so into the spirit. I think it's OK, for a minute, until we get to a part in the song where it's a kind of call and response thing. I try to keep it moving, but when I open my mouth, the only thing that comes out are giggles. I mean, I'm almost guffawing, while trying to lead the choir. So I do the only thing I can think of - I make that "keep singing this part" hand signal over and over until I calm down enough to finish the song.

So this little episode replays itself in my mind everytime I get up to speak in front of more than, say, 5 people. But I do it, and I'm good!

"You've done this before," said the guy in charge, smiling at me. Afterward, my boss gives me thumbs up. I do it again that afternoon, but instead of 4 stars, it's more like 2 1/2. There are fewer people; they look pissed off, and it seems like the Colonel's eyes are boring into me. I imagine him thinking, "What in the hell is she talking about?" So I stumble over a few words, I say a few too many umms, and I almost forget to introduce the Commander as the speaker after me.

But it's OK. I survived. I didn't beat myself up or drown my sorrows in the Snickers miniatures we have on our table for customers. I laugh it off, go home and go to sleep. And when I wake up, I make myself a strong cup of coffee, go into work and do it again.

And that time, I kicked ass.

Mo' Money, Mo' Problems

When I decided as a teenager that I wanted to be a journalist, I’d resigned myself to the fact that I probably wouldn’t make a lot of money. Reading books where young reporters ate beans out of cans to candlelight, I was content when my first full-time job (two jobs actually – one part-time) paid enough for me to pay rent on an apartment the day it was actually due (no post-dated check required), eat out, and know at the end of the month, I still had a little bit of money in my bank account. But what did surprise me was when I told a friend how much my full-time job was paying.

“Oh, Sansamor,” she said, eying me with pity in her eyes. I think she said more, but that’s all I remember. That moment of pity; that split second when I felt like everything I stood for was being reflected in my paltry paycheck. I’d never cared about money before, but in that instant I felt naked – I felt unworthy, and I didn’t like it. I rationalized that I was doing what I loved and that it was only a stepping stone for something greater. I was writing, I was editing, and I supervised (Ok, only two interns, but STILL!). And although she made more money than I did (I assumed based on the reaction, but I never asked) she wasn’t doing what she loved. I also had only myself and a small dog to support, while she had a child and a car note. Even so, I never again told anyone how much money I make.

An article I read in the Fashion & Style section of the New York Times tells me that I’m not the only one feeling alienated by the size of my bank account. The article talks about “Keeping up with the Joneses” and how people of different economic status often feel uncomfortable, some about their wealth, others – like me – about their lack of it. A friend confided in me recently that she and her long-time best friend just had a falling out over money. Friend (I’ll call you DR just in case you’re trying to keep this on the low!) has been well taken care of by her parents. They were blessed enough to be able to provide her with a car during college and later, after she graduated from Grad school and was working. Well, apparently BF thought DR was acting “spoiled” when she lamented about not being able to get the new car she wanted. Now they haven’t spoken in weeks.

When did money become the measuring stick by which we measured our worth? Not that there is anything wrong with money – we all need some – but I don’t appreciate being made to feel like less of a person because of my perceived bank account. And I’m sure those more fortunate of us shouldn’t be made to feel bad because they didn’t grow up broke.

Here, in a military community, I think it’s even worse. Everyone tries to one-up the other, getting the latest BMW, Mercedes or Volvo. Buying up the Coach and Dooney bags as they come into the PX, and sporting fake Louis Vuitton and Christian Dior that we KNOW they got in the back room of some store in Czech. I’ve even been at a party where someone broke out the laptop to pull up the military pay scale so they could compare their pay to the rest of the guests!

Even though I make more money now, that’s not what defines me. But sometimes it’s hard not to get swept up in the comparison. Several weeks ago, an acquaintance speaking about his car (butter leather seats, heated seats standard) called my car a piece of shit. I’ve had my little ’96 Mazda Protégé since I was a freshman in college, and it has admittedly seen hard times, but it still stung. I was tempted to shoot back, we could afford something else if we wanted to – something better than what they have, but what would that have proven?

Just keep this in mind the next time you’re met by awkward silence from a friend after you make a crack about their financial status, or low-paying job, or when you look at a friend’s engagement ring, silently thinking how small it is.

We know what you’re thinking.

And it doesn’t feel good.

Hey Mama

Anyone who knows me, also knows that I'm not too keen on children. I'm totally not ready for my own yet, and can usually only take others' in small doses - no offense to my friends with kids. But you already know this. Plus, your kids aren't bad ass food court kids either, but I digress. Even so, I have buried in the deep recesses of my mind that I will have kids eventually. However, even deeper in the recesses is the fear that I will be the worst.mother.ever.

This seems to be evidenced by what I will refer to as "Plant Cemetary."

The Army is doing this thing to promote clean-up and beautification so they gave out free flowers. My co-worker, being nice, picked up some for me. Me, being a smart ass, motioned to the plant/tree next to my computer.

"Don't you see how this plant looks?" I could practically see the damn thing dying right before my eyes. I think I've watered the plant probably 5 X's in the 7 months I've worked there. And 3 of those times was with carbonated water I'd left sitting in a cup overnight.

But I figured, what's the worst that could happen and we planned to meet at our cars after work so i could get the flowers.

The "flowers" turned out to be 4 plants in a plastic thing. I saw maybe one flower out of the four.

"Are they going to get more flower-y?" I asked, my nose turned up?
Then she hands me a bag of soil. SOIL!!!!
"What am I supposed to do with that?"

You have to re-pot them, she answered.

WTF?

Now at that point I should have politely declined the flowers, but no, I try to be positive.

"Maybe I'll start gardening," my obviously delusional alter ego says. "I can use it as a
way to relax."

So I decide to take the plants home. Except, you know, I had a meeting after work so I had a lot of stuff to bring inside, so I left the plants in the car until the morning. Only, when the morning comes, I'm REALLY busy because I had to put a relaxer in my hair. I'd been rocking the head scarf thing all this week, and you know that just SCREAMS bad hair day when you do it too long. Either that or I'd converted to Islam, but either way, it ain't right. So, I'll just get the plants after work.

Only when I get off work, they're DEAD. I thought for sure I left a window down ....


And the lady at church had the NERVE to ask me to be a part of the children's ministry - really, would YOU want me watching your kids?

Caught Up

Well, I’ve gone and done it. When I got to Germany almost a year ago to the day, it was as if a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. For the first time in my life I had nothing to do! And although, I wanted to work really, really bad, I kind of enjoyed that feeling for a while. And now, I’m right back where I started and I don’t even know how it got like this.

My situation is like that of an overachieving high school student. You know the ones – play varsity sports, in the band, holds an office in student government, all while holding a part-time job. Except I’m not an overachiever. In fact, I’d almost call myself an underachiever. So how did I end up so involved?

Right before I left Tallahassee, I had almost reached the breaking point. My insides were what it must feel like for a skimpy triangle top struggling to cover some DDs – as in stretched to the limit. Knowing that it could snap at any moment. I was teaching a 7 a.m. class twice a week, after which I went to work full-time as associate editor of a weekly paper. Full-time meaning that I often worked at home after close of business and on weekends. I was also active with my sorority and OES chapter, including meetings, fundraisers and the like. So when I got here, doing nothing was like a breath of fresh air.

But slowly, that nothing became a whole lot. And a whole lot is now more than I think I’ve ever done in my life. At my first “Army spouse” get together, otherwise known as FRG stuff (Family Readiness Group), I was asked to be FRG leader. Not knowing enough about it, I agreed. That’s how they trap you I guess. As an officer’s wife, I’m “automatically” a part of the coffee group. In a moment of tedium-induced panic, I volunteered to be coffee group treasurer. “Anybody want to be treasurer? Who wants to be treasurer? Anybody? Anybody?” And so on and so forth for 10 minutes.

And of course, my first mission was to join the AKA graduate chapter here, where we meet monthly in a city 2 hours away. Now that we’re stepping, it looks like every Saturday is going to be filled.

I’ve also become the church secretary/PR person. So I’m pretty much in charge of anything administrative that comes out of the church, like church bulletins and stuff.

So my schedule is pretty much: Monday – nothing – except for steering committee once a month
Tuesday – German class; Wednesday – 2 days gone with FRG and Steering committee; Thursday – Church ; Friday – church twice a month; Saturday – prayer (although I rarely go); once a month sorority meetings; step practice; Sunday – church; grocery shopping; rest.

Not to mention that I work full-time, full-time wife, chef, etc. etc. and need to show both Woodstock and Taz some TLC on the regular. I’m getting tired just thinking about it. Of course all this leaves me with little “me” time and the me time I do have needs to be spent in the gym, which of course, it’s not, so I am getting fatter and fatter each week, and really, I’m not a cute fat.

So, what to do, what to do? Really, all of this stuff started out innocently enough but has somehow grown to overwhelming proportions. I don’t want to have that stressed out feeling all the time, which was all too common for me in Tallahassee. And I have little time for the stuff I really want to do like going to this writing workshop on Thursdays.

Woodstock says I say yes to much, and maybe that’s true. But now that I’ve agreed to do stuff, how do I maintain my sanity and still get everything done?

Soldier

I was thinking about that Destiny’s Child song, talking about how they “need a soldier.” And I got news for ‘em. You don’t want one. It’s not fun. Trust me. I love my soldier-husband, but these days, they eventually have to do some soldiering. And this time that means Iraq.

I thought I’d sufficiently prepared myself for the future. I had my game face on, my mind at peace and my heart sufficiently hardened.

And then I went to the store, and all my steely resolve crumbled.

Walking into the PX, there is a stack of Walking into the PX, there is a stack of Gorilla footlockers there to greet customers right up front. They’re kinda like a hardcore, plastic version of those trunks we all took to college. There were other things around, Hooahs (They’re like the Army version of baby wipes – lame, I know) and various products they would need when they left. And when we drive on-post now, there are huge crates lining the sides of the roads. The crates they use to pack up their stuff and ship it to Iraq. I knew all along they would be leaving soon, but now there’s real physical evidence that he’s going to be gone for a year. And just when we were really starting to like each other.

It’s taken me almost this entire year we’ve been together to get into the swing of this marriage thing. And it’s been work. And I’m the person who has said many times that I don’t like to work hard unless I’m getting paid. See part of the problem? I’m a weird mixed breed of personalities. I need lots of attention but I’m a loner. I tell it like it is, but my feelings are easily hurt. I’m a control freak, but I don’t like making all the decisions. And for those of you who know me, when you put all that together, I’m not the easiest person to get along with. I tend to come across as rude. I’ve had to work on not being the person who walks into the room and starts asking for stuff before saying hello. Or asking about taking the recycleables out before saying good morning. It’s not that I’m TRYING to being rude, my mind is just always racing, thinking about the next thing that needs to be done, and sometimes that other stuff just comes out before my sense of decency has time to catch up.

I’m also a creature of habit. I like to do the same things, at the same time, in my own special way, everyday. When I lived alone, the routine was set: Come home. Walk Taz. Take 30-minute nap with the TV on, waking up just in time to catch Girlfriends reruns. Cook. Eat. Talk on phone. Shower. Talk on phone. Sleep.

I wasn’t really used to having someone in my space, messing up my flow. Only it wasn’t MY space anymore. It was ours. And I couldn’t just turn the TV off just because there was a game playing or turn up Avril Lavigne real loud when I was in one of my moods because now I had to be respectful of someone else. Plus, I’m irritable. And it doesn’t take much irritate me – bad hair day, fat day, can’t-find-the-right-outfit day – is enough to set me off. But I’ve been working on those things. I’ve gotten to the point where if I’m out somewhere and he’s at home, I’m EXCITED to get home to him, even if we aren’t going to be doing anything. When it’s 11:45, I get a little grin on my face because I know he’ll be stopping by for lunch at any moment.

And now he’s leaving. And I don’t feel like I can really talk to anyone about it.

Where I live this is life. It’s the norm. These people have been through this 3,4,5,6 or more times, but this is my first time. I’m nobody special here; my situation is not unique. So I’m feeling like, why burden somebody with real problems? And “outsiders” really don’t get it because they’ve never been through it. Hell, I don’t even “get it” yet. It’s easy for them to just say oh, no and move right on to the next thing because they’re not living it. And for those who ARE living it, who have kids to deal with, who have to play both parents to children who just want to know why daddy keeps leaving, I’m just another whiny new wife who thinks the world revolves around her. So I don’t say anything. I just go on like everything is OK, which I guess it is right now. But how about after sleeping in bed alone for a month? Or what about when I hear someone has been hurt or worse? I try not to think about it, but it’s so close it’s hard not to worry, and it’s hard to stay strong all the time.

My intention in starting this blog was just to write about how I feel about things, and keep my friends up to date on the happenings with me. I never wanted to be an “Army wife” blog about how hard it is during the deployment, and oh, woe is me. But the truth is, no matter how much I hate the term, I am an Army wife. And sometimes, that’s all I’m going to think about. So bear with me friends.

And if you want to help me feel better, send me tapes of the new seasons of all the new shows. Cause you know we ain’t got cable.