Oh, good ol' Bank of America...

I saw a commercial a couple months ago and it made me half laugh and half cringe. It’s supposed to be about Bank of America’s risk-free CDs they offer, but to me it was about something very different. I wrote down the script as I watched the commercial. Here it is:

“With most 9 month CDs, you won’t see your money for 9 months. What if you couldn’t see the sky for 9 months? Or hug your best friend or have a Cherry-Berry-Double-Swirl for 9 months? This is America! You can have breakfast at 3 in the afternoon, wear white after labor day, have Halloween in July. And with Bank of America’s risk-free CD, you can get your money out before 9 months without an early withdrawal fee. Wouldn’t you like to have that kind of freedom? Now you can, with Bank of America.”

I feel like I haven’t seen the sky in 7 ½ months. I haven’t hugged my best friend in 7 ½ months. And I haven’t been able to get a Cherry-Berry-Double-Swirl with the man that I want to share it with for 7 ½ months. And you know why I haven’t done those things? Because this is America. Sure, you can have breakfast at 3 in the afternoon (or at 2 in the morning, as Aaron and I have done on several occasions… Thank God for Denny’s!), or have Halloween in July, but how much do those things count for if you don’t have the one person around to do them with? My sky, my best friend, my Cherry-Berry-Double-Swirl, is putting his life on the line so that everyone else can see their skies, hug their best friends, and eat all the ice cream they want, and still take their money out of a CD before 9 months. If that’s not the ultimate sacrifice, what is?

Blue in the face

I just bought a Bluetooth thingamabobber. And yes, that is its technical name. “It’s the law now,” I reasoned, so I made my way to the Verizon store. After essentially being wined and dined and encouraged to buy the one that was $30 more (But it was silver! And designed by David Beckham! Psshhh.), I settled for the cheaper one, because I really didn’t think I would use it much. So I bought the thingamabobber, brought it home, charged it up, called my sister, and left her a message. I didn’t know if I was using it the right way, so later, when Aaron called me, I talked to him on it for a little while. And damn it, I liked it. “Why?? Why do I like it so much?” I asked myself. I now had what I thought was a rational fear of turning into that woman who carried a grande soy mocha frappachino with two pumps of hazelnut and light whip (don’t tell me if that’s not a real drink, I just made it up. I stick with the simple non-fat Chai…) in one hand, a Gucci purse in the other, with perfectly straight blonde hair falling over a light pink cable knit cardigan, the outfit complete with slim-fitting khaki pants and cute white heels, all the while talking way, way too loud on her Bluetooth thingamabobber about how she was so upset that she couldn’t get a walk-in appointment at the nail salon. And I really didn’t want people to look at me like I look at the slightly disheveled man walking down the street, seemingly talking to himself with arm gestures and everything, but in reality has the little device hooked to his ear but hidden in his greasy hair.

Any way I looked at it, I really didn’t want to like it. But I did. And it got me thinking a little bit about technology and about the good old days, as I’ll call them, back when I could get on an airplane with my trusty turbulence-resistant Discman and a good book and be completely entertained on a cross country flight. Two weeks ago, when I went to Chicago for the weekend, I was disgusted by how many different little pieces of technology I packed with me. Here was my list: my laptop, the power cord for the laptop, DVDs to play on my laptop, my digital camera, the battery charger for the camera, the cable that connects my camera to my computer, my Ipod, the Ipod charger, my Blackberry, and the charger for my Blackberry. Now if that’s not sad enough, part of me feels like I really need each and every one of those things. Without one of them I'm afraid I would be bored. What has the world come to? And now I have the Bluetooth thingamabobber and its charger to add to that list. It’s pathetic, I know.

Tomorrow I’m off to Northern California for the weekend to go to my best friend Bonnie’s baby shower. I think I might try to challenge myself. I’m not going to bring my laptop, and we’ll see how it goes. But I’m bringing my Bluetooth.

Baby Girl Chucky

I was accosted by a baby today. Full on assault. And the thing is, I couldn’t really get back at her because, well, she’s a baby. All I could do was give her a nice little smile and look the other way. I guess a little background is needed in order for me to not sound like a completely soul-less ass. My dad and stepmom (along with other step-relatives) are in Antioch, IL for the 4th of July, and at the last minute I decided to head out that way to spend the weekend with them. As was to be expected, it has proven to be an incredibly busy travel weekend, but I think I got the worst of the worst. After scrambling to pack a weekend’s worth of clothes for unpredictable and unknown weather after work today, I rushed out of my apartment and started driving toward the airport. I got there with time to spare, time that was then eaten up with trying to find a long term parking lot that wasn’t either full or $17 a day. I finally found an empty spot in the $12 lot, got my stuff out, and started walking toward what I thought was my terminal in the 103 degree, breezeless heat. So, there I was, walking at a brisk pace, sweat running down my back, pulling my suitcase behind me. I finally got to the terminal, went inside, and low-and-behold, I was at the wrong one. The right one was about a quarter mile of sweating down the road. Wonderful.

I wasn’t going to let it get me down though. I made it to the right terminal, checked in, went through security (at which point I had to take so much off that I may as well should have gone through naked), and boarded my first flight to Phoenix all within the span of about 7 minutes. The first flight went off without a hitch – although I did have the dreaded middle seat. Oh, and when the woman sitting in the aisle stood up when we got to the gate, she smelled like baby poo. But that’s beside the point. I stepped off the plane and found myself in a place that was more oppressively hot and more desert-like than Riverside. Ugh. Not a fan. The 108 degree blast of air was quickly rectified (and then some) by an overactive air conditioner that gave me the chills. Walking into that airport was like walking into a real-life version of Frogger, the game that my brother and I were so infatuated with playing whenever our Chinese babysitters in San Francisco took us for a night. Darting between people rushing every which way while trying to hold a fruit cup, pretzel, and a phone in one hand and luggage in the other is not quite as fun as jumping from lily pad to lily pad while sitting on a nice plush couch with a controller in your hands. Speaking of that fruit cup and pretzel, I found people in Phoenix (or at least the people at the Phoenix airport) to have a complete disregard for other people’s personal space. My boundaries were invaded relentlessly while I was there, the most blatantly while I was waiting in line for said fruit cup and pretzel. I got into line, and WHOOSH!!!, all of a sudden a woman was standing thisclose to me. Her face was literally 6 inches away from mine. It was the kind of close that you would only want your husband or best friend or mother to experience. She was so close that her pores could have spoken to me, and I would have seen each one moving. Anyway, enough with the pores.

I finally made it on to my second flight, the one flying into Chicago. My seat: 21B. Another middle seat. No big deal, I thought, it’s only a 3 ½ hour flight. It won’t be that bad. I shouldn’t have been so optimistic. I trudged down the aisle, stopping at row 21. I looked at my seat, but I couldn’t see much of it. Now, before I go any further, I need to say something. I am not a mean person. Nor am I racist or religion-ist or size-ist, or any other -ist for that matter. BUT. And there is a but. I do believe that when it comes to airplanes and the already miniscule amount of legroom, armroom, and headroom they give you, if you are overweight, you should have to buy an extra ticket. Yes, there was a very, VERY large man sitting in the aisle seat. I told him that I was sitting in the middle seat, so he started to get up, and that’s when I saw them: a mother and her 1 ½ year old baby sitting in the window seat. So. In a row that, with three people sitting in it, has you running for the exit as soon as the plane touches down, there were essentially five people. The woman, her baby, me, and a man twice my size. Thanks to the large man on one side and the baby on the other, the armrests couldn’t even be lowered. As I squeezed into my seat, I think I said out loud (but under my breath, hopefully), “Oh, heaven help me…”

At first, the baby girl was cute. She was smiley and had several teeth growing in, and would laugh when I looked at her. But apparently she didn’t like something about me after about 5 minutes, because that’s when I saw the devil in her. I have never seen the hairy eyeball like I did tonight. Her face morphed from a happy smile to a disturbed, exorcism-worthy snarl. Honestly, it was quite frightening. And I’m not being sarcastic or witty now. It was the kind of look that made my spine tingle. From that time on, I tried not to look at her. It was kind of hard not to though. When she wasn’t sleeping, she was staring at me. I put my headphones on, started playing Jack Johnson, and pretended to be asleep for a while. But I could still feel her stare. Every so often, I would be jolted out of my calm Jack Johnson stupor by a little hand with a big slap. Yes, that’s right, the little devil baby was slapping me. My leg was usually the target, but a couple times she got my shoulder and once she got my face. I know what you’re thinking – she’s a baby, and babies are kind of spastic when they move, so maybe I was a mistake. Nope. Not a mistake. I would look over at her and she would be giving me the death stare. At one point, the mom even told me that she beats up all of the other little babies her age in her play groups. Jeepers creepers. Needless to say, once the plane touched down, I was off like a prom dress. As soon as I could get by the man in the aisle, that is.

It is now almost 3am local Chicago time, and I have another few hours before my stepsisters’ flight comes in. Once they get here, we’ll pick up our rental car and drive about an hour out to Antioch, where the rest of the family is waiting for us. Until then, I’m at the Chicago O’Hare International Airport USO (United Service Organizations) lounge, which is actually really nice. It’s for military personnel and their families to pass time at the airport… There’s a movie room with a big flat screen TV and comfy chairs, an eating area with plenty of snacks and drinks, a few computers with internet, and even a dark room with cots that you can pass out in for however long you need to. Sometimes it really does pay to be in or associated with the military. Well, I need to find an outlet so I can charge my laptop. I hope everyone has a fun and safe 4th of July!

There aren't as many druggies and/or crazies there as you think...

So I just received the latest Women's Health magazine in the mail today. I always enjoy Women's Health, because it satisfies the bit of girliness in me ("65 Skin, Hair, & Makeup Problems Solved!" - what would I do without that article??) and also the health conscious athlete ("We've Got You Covered - Don't miss a single muscle with part five of our 20-minute workout series"), and it even does a little something for my husband ("56 Reasons to Have Sex"). But I mostly like it because it has random little facts here and there, like how deoderant really doesn't cause cancer, or that 42% of women said that if they had their cell phones, they would go places after dark that they normally wouldn't (don't worry, honey, I'm not one of those 42%...). But what caught my attention the most in this issue was a little quarter-page article called "States of Mind." It described a survey spearheaded by the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration that was administered to 136,110 Americans ages 12 and older to track state-by-state substance use and mental health patterns. Here are a few of their findings:

Serious psychological distress (ages 18 and up):
Lowest: Hawaii (8.8%)
Highest: Utah (14.4%)

Major depressive episode (ages 18 and up):
Lowest: Hawaii (5%)
Highest: Nevada (9.4%)

Pain reliever abuse:
Lowest: Hawaii (3.9%)
Highest: Oklahoma (6.7%)

Notice any trends? I wonder how the results came out that way... Oh wait, I think I know. It might have to do with the 500+ beaches to relax on and soak in the Vitamin D and good vibes, or maybe it's the lush mountain greenery just begging you to inhale the pure oxygen it is gifting you. Or could it be the laid back "Hawaii time" atmosphere, that sometimes gets annoying when you have a meeting and your counterpart shows up a half hour late in an aloha shirt and swim trunks, straight out of a surfing session, but that hardly ever gets stressful? It's a combination of all of these things and more, and I can't wait to move back there to cleanse my body, mind, and spirit.

On a completely different note, I am watching Nashville Star on TV right now. Billy Ray Cyrus must be the world's WORST host of all time. All I have to say is WOW. Absolutely horrible. Ok, that's all. I'm going to bed. Goodnight!

Electricity

What is it about the human touch that makes everything feel alright? It could be a kiss on the cheek from a mom, a hug from a best friend, or the fingers of a soul mate running through your hair; no matter what kind of touch or who it is from, as long as it is genuine it will comfort you. Have you ever noticed that when you are having a bad day and have been doing everything you can to not break down throughout the entire day, all it takes is a concerned friend’s hand on your shoulder or the warmth of your mom’s hug or your husband’s caring hands on your face to unzip whatever strong front you have put up and let the tears flow out? What is it about human touch that makes us open up like that? Is it the touch? Or is it the person doing the touching?

It has been found (not surprisingly) that men tend to limit themselves to ritual touching, like shaking hands or patting each other on the back, while women touch much more warmly and gently, with hugs for example, to express support, comfort, and affection. But what about the touch between husband and wife? (Or husband and husband or wife and wife if you live in Vermont or now California…) There is some kind of electricity there that fuels the fire of life. So then what happens when you don’t have that all-powerful touch? What happens when that electricity has been rerouted for the time being? Are you just supposed to deal with an electricity –free life? Or do you dig out the candles from your emergency kit while you wait for the electrician to come fiddle with the circuit breaker so you can have some light? The candles might not give off enough light or power to live a perfect life, but they create a soft glow that can lead you down dark hallways or help you read the words on a page in a book. During a deployment, the candlelight comes from various sources - jobs, working out, friends, family, volunteering, etc. Every time you have a good day, it’s like adding a candle. Have a bad day, though, and you might as well blow all but one of them out. But all you need is one. That single candle is like one of those trick birthday candles that never go out no matter how hard you blow. I used to hate not being able to blow those damn things out, but now it’s my saving grace. There seems to always be a twinkle of light in my heart that allows me to go about my everyday life, regardless of if it is the result of 10 fully burning candles or one little spark from that last trick candle that won’t let the flame die. That spark is guiding me down a long, dark tunnel, at the end of which there doesn’t seem to be a light.

That’s ok, though, I can light my own way.

He's been in Iraq for too long.

Today I got a surprise in the mail. Well, technically it wasn't really a surprise, since I've been waiting for it for almost three weeks, but I finally got it. A box that was packed with love and care in the sandy, dusty, smelly armpit of the world (or so I see it) traveled out of that hell and made it here, to the land of the free. In it were traces of my husband - CD's and DVD's that he thought I would like, the first season of Heroes that he watched in about two days flat, an Iraqi-made puzzle ring that is one of the most frustrating things I've attempted to put together but that will be intensely satisfying once that attempt finds it full potential, two little teddy bears, some magazines, and a very funny "You Know You Have Been in Iraq Too Long When..." list. I have a feeling that when I start to think about what the soldiers over there are going through too seriously, all I will have to do is pull out this list and have a little chuckle. Here's a little sampling of it:

You Know You Have Been in Iraq Too Long When...

• You start humming with the Arabic song playing on the radio on the shuttle bus
• You start picturing your wife in traditional Arab dress
• You drink the water from the tap because you want to drop 20 pounds in two weeks
• Your idea of a fun Thursday night is to go to the Palace pool to watch the State Department folks get drunk, naked and try to pick each other up
• You make the new guy show you his count down timer just to make you feel better about your time you have left in country.
• You forget there are other colors than brown that can be found in places other than power point slides
• When you call home and your kids ask "Who is this?"
• You find it completely acceptable to pick your nose while talking to a complete stranger or member of the opposite sex
• You go on R&R, you duct tape your child to the roof of your car, hand him a pellet rifle, and assign him a sector of fire for the ride to The Olive Garden
• During the BUA, "DIV asked MNSTC-I for the FRAGO that MNC-I was supposed to publish, but couldn't because MNF-I hadn't weighed in, since they were too inundated with MOD and MOI wargaming the JCC's within the ISF to square us away!" is a valid comment and generates no questions.
• You're in the Air Force, and you're on the plane home because an Air Force tour is too short to have been a long Iraq tour. Ignore this, you won't get it.

Sorry to those who might be offended by that last one, but I have to admit it kind of struck a chord with me. If Aaron were Air Force (or Marines or Navy for that matter), chances are that he would either be home by now or be coming home soon. Instead, we get to wait as long as it takes to create a human life. Ugh. Anyways, I like the list. Along with the other goodies in the well traveled box, it lifted my spirits and made me smile. That's all I can ask for.

In His Own Words

I have been relaying what I thought was Aaron’s views on the war, where he is, and what he is doing for 6 months now. I have been acting as the middleman between a world I am getting to know and a world I used to know, thinking that I have been doing a relatively good job of it. I email my family and closest friends once a month with news, achievements, and stories from the world they will never know. I started a blog to kind of do the same, but mostly to use words as therapy as I muddle through dozens of CNN and MSNBC and FOX news reports that blare “3 Soldiers Killed in Baghdad,” “Al Sadr: New Force to Fight U.S. in Iraq,” and “1 in 8 Returning Soldiers Suffers from PTSD.” We friends, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, and wives back home are bombarded by this news coming from every direction – TV, radio, internet, newspapers – that cannot be ignored, as most Americans do. When we see those headlines, they don’t serve as pure news or information. When most would respond with “Damn George Bush” or “Iraq still must have weapons of mass destruction” or “Those soldiers knew what they were getting themselves into,” the first (and usually only) thought that races a shot of adrenaline to the finish line of the brain is “Please don’t let that be my husband/son/daughter/brother/sister. Please.”

I never knew the extent of the mind-twisting inner turmoil that Aaron and his fellow soldiers are feeling with respect to what they are doing. Whenever I would ask him what was going on in his head, he would usually say confidently, “This is my job. This is what I have been trained to do, this is what I do love doing, and I can’t let politics influence that. Once you start thinking politically, you lose sight of the mission, and above all, you need to keep your mind on the mission.” And then, a couple days ago, he emailed me and opened a little window into his mind. I want you all to read it, really read it and feel it, since there is nothing that I could write that would even come close to matching the raw sentiments that came from Aaron’s own soul. Here it is:

“I thought I’d share this with you. This country, this shit hole they call the cradle of civilization, hasn't managed to keep anything alive or keep anything from withering away and dying. As you drive around here all you see is dusty old torn down buildings, crops, people, animals, children withering away, and us stuck in the middle. Sometimes I feel like we’re this country's last hope. And then I feel like I want to completely obliterate this whole place with a MOAB, affectionately called "Mother of all bombs" by us, but actually called a Massive Ordinance Air Blast Bomb. It’s the biggest bomb short of it being a nuclear explosion. One would take out Texas. OK, that's enough with the morbid talking. My point was that one flower of all things kept my hopes up, if just for a little. At the new COP, among all the debris and the new construction and all the clearing of trees and grass they were doing, I noticed that there was a Sunflower - of all flowers, a Sunflower. Standing there all by itself, looking proud and beautiful and full of life. I’ve taken a liking to them because they always look towards the sun, kinda like they’re always looking towards the sky for something good. And it reminds me of the sun’s rays as they hit my skin and how wonderful that feels. To think that a flower feels this too is really amazing. Every day when we drove to the new COP, the first thing I would do is look toward the Sunflower and almost instantly, all that crap I saw on the way there, all the sadness, would go away. Two days ago though, I noticed that the sunflower had died. Withered away and turned brown like everything else in this place. And it made me sad. It really did. I was reminded of all the bad, the hatred, and all the darkness there is in the world. I think they've since cleared all that area now, which again is an all sad reminder that we are here. That we are not going anywhere. And that things......honestly….aren't getting any better.
That’s all.
Me.”

I read that email when I was in my car (thanks to my Blackberry), stopped at a red light, and when the light turned green again I actually had to pull over. I didn’t cry, I didn’t scream, I just sat. I sat and thought. My heart hurt in almost the same way as it did when I waved goodbye to the buses pulling away from the troop at Schofield 6 months earlier. To know that this man that I am so inextricably connected to is hurting in any way – physically, mentally, or emotionally – and that I can’t do anything about it, not even give him a simple hug or hold his hand, makes my heart sink down into the depths of my gut. And to know that he can’t be the only soldier over there that feels this way, and that not one of those men can be held by their loved ones and feel any sort of physical-turned-emotional comfort from them kind of rocks me to the core. This is not how the world is supposed to be. This is not how peace on Earth is made.

I feel like I am a changed person. Six months ago I was brutally awoken to the true realities of the distant world around me, going from being an inwardly thinking, see the world through rose-colored-glasses 24 year old girl to a not-so-innocent, slightly cynical but still partly hopeful young woman. In this new world that I am getting to know it’s all about give and take, but I can’t help to hope that this war won’t take what I have given it for good. I want my husband back.