I haven’t disappeared, I’ve just been baking in the heat.

Blogging, like most other areas of my life, used to be something I scheduled. (Because even inspiration can be placed on a timeline for someone as by the book as myself.) Then, when things started to get a little crazy, I stopped cold turkey. But what used to be an issue of priorities has now become another bout of perfectionism gone haywire.

Let me just begin by saying this- when I was younger and writing in a diary seemed like something every little girl should do, I used to tear out entries if I didn’t like how they sounded. Granted, I had a placed a massive lock on the outside to prevent anyone from reading my innermost thoughts, but the point was that I wasn’t satisfied with anything short of perfection. Thus, it was only a matter of time before I began judging the writing I was putting up for all of the online world to see (or at least the meager audience that I had acquired).

Inspiration, it turns out, is also a problem when leaving my house has ceased to be an everyday occurrence. No, it’s not depression, it’s an absolute hatred of the god awful heat. Heat meaning 100 degrees IN THE SHADE. Seriously. I’ve never before felt as if my skin was cooking two minutes after stepping outside.

I can blame my writing hiatus partly on the fact that I’m in the midst of a series of processes. Learning to live with my honey, for one, is a PROCESS (capitals seemed necessary for that one). How could it not be when I’m used to being comfortable and he’s used to a lifestyle of survival? My challenge this week: getting him to agree to a rendezvous at the farmers market this weekend. For some reason, he’s completely against fresh produce. Go figure.

Another process: accepting and recognizing the perfection in everyday life. After the homecoming was over, and I settled into a “routine,” I began to forget what both of our lives were like when he was away. I’m reminding myself to feel a little gratitude for the shopping trips, the movie dates, and even the arguments that we couldn’t have had if the deployment would have ended differently.

Most of all, I’m learning to redefine the individual me while still staying connected to this relationship I’ve waited so long to fully experience.

I’ve missed you blogger world. Here’s to checking in more regularly.

And Here Comes the Sun…

For the better part of the last three years I have waited for a significant change to happen in my otherwise middle of the road kind of existence. Perhaps the universe was backed up with requests and received all of mine at the SAME TIME. Nonetheless, the past three weeks has left my life looking like Heidi Montag post surgery. In a good way, of course.

After seven months of panic attacks and limited communication, my high school sweetheart came home from war. (Strange how retro that sounds now.) This was precluded by a week of hearing that the homecoming date was being pushed back yet again- another indication that organization is not one of the Marine Corps strong suits. However, every cloud has a silver lining and mine was wine guzzling and antique shopping with the other perturbed Marine wives/girlfriends. Without them I very well could have pulled all my hair out.

Three o’ clock in the morning on April 30th we were all dolled up and ready for those few seconds we had waited too long for. While I will undoubtedly experience other reunions in my life, I don’t know if I will ever again experience the massive amount of love and respect that this one garnered from everyone present. And for that I am truly grateful that I have loved someone who couldn’t be entirely mine for the past 3+ years of my life.

For those who left on October 4 and never came home and for those who sustained injuries that will forever change their way of life, my heart goes out to you. I know that the brotherhood of men that my love left with ensured that I attended his homecoming and not his funeral. I am forever indebted to all of you.

Because pictures (and videos) speak a thousand words, here is the video of the 3rd Battalion 4th Marines homecoming from Afghanistan. For anyone without an immediate connection to the military who doesn’t fully understand the sacrifice involved, this is what it’s all about.

I will now always have this as my reminder that all challenges come to an end and a little bit of faith can move mountains.

Please Get Out of My Room…Thanks.

Cohabitation, in my “this is my space, please kindly remove yourself from it” mindset, has never been an idea that I snuggled up to. Not only does my sanity depend on the fact that I can remove myself from all other living, breathing, and talking beings, but my experience with roommates has been severely limited to family members who (I’m hoping) would never pour bleach on my clothes or steal my pricier belongings (I suppose I’m channeling the Bad Girls Club here…). I’m stubborn, picky, and am prone to noise induced panic attacks. Crazy? Just a bit.

While my post-high school living situation did include a brief stint with my honey in the deserts of California, I feel like in knowing our time together was limited (he was in the midst of shipping off to Iraq), I was able to not let (all) of my anxieties get the best of me. But this time, as I prepare for his homecoming and a 2nd move, cohabitation has taken on a kind of permanence that makes me giddy with excitement and sick to my stomach all at the same time. Our communication over the past 6+ months has been limited to skype chats, 3am text sessions, and facebook messaging…so how on earth can that be translated into bed sharing, chore sharing, and overall life sharing with the simple flip of a switch?

Although I’d like to site his lack of cleanliness and attachment to video games as the main reason for my concern, in truth I am dreading those issues that will point to me being the one that needs to shift, change, and cave just a little bit to let him in. Deep down I know that as long as I stay attached to my way of doing things and closed off to sharing anything in my space, the more I can convince myself that I am right and everyone else is WRONG.

Despite these little butterfly jitters, I have begun thrift and craft store shopping so that we can have a champagne inspired pad on a PBR budget. I’m convinced (since signing on to write for Calfinder) that this is absolutely possible. My first project that I have attempted to tackle: fixing up picture frames and removing the pictures circa 1999. Next up?….Not entirely sure.

Got any suggestions? Wine bottle candle holders, film strip curtains, I’m up for anything. Give me your best tips and I will be sure to post pictures of the finished product.

Sloppy Hugs and Make-Believe

When I was earning a paycheck by watching after other people’s kids, there were plenty of times I loathed going to work. I couldn’t stand the thought of being called to the bathroom to wipe another little behind, to reread Curious George for the 28th time that day, to explain why we couldn’t watch another hour of TV (although if I didn’t fear that I was being nanny cammed I might have given in to that one). There were those times when I seemed to relive the same five minutes 20 times over because entertaining a child miraculously made time slow down to an excruciating speed. I remember hating pool time, dreading bed time, and thinking of ways to get out of make-believe time.

But yesterday, during a spontaneous trip to the Natural History Museum, I found myself stopping to smile at a group of kids holding hands, eyes glued to a replica of Mars. And I suddenly remembered how much I miss these jobs. I miss all the little ones that I watched grow from diapers and trains to big kid beds and homework. I miss the times when I had to sit down and explain multiplication in a way that a 2nd grader could understand. I miss the sloppy hugs and the faces that would light up when I walked through the door. I miss the kids whose lives I had hoped to touch but who really touched mine instead.

I thought, as we often do, that this was a part of my life that was better left in the past. I thought that with a degree and a dream there was no time to slow down for something that wouldn’t put me on the direct route to where I want to go. But with writing jobs banging on my door and a future that is brighter than I could imagine, there are times that playing a game of make-believe with a kid that still talks about Santa Claus sounds absolutely perfect.

To all of the families who brought me into their homes and trusted me with their most precious possession- thank you. Without your kids, I wouldn’t be who I am today.

Side Note:

*ATTENTION: to my fantastic blogging friends and fabulous readers*

I entered into a writing contest on Trazzler. Because I would fancy nothing more than the awesome trip to San Francisco that they are offering I need all the votes I can get. Find me here: http://www.trazzler.com/users/kayla33, sign up, and click save under each one of my trips. Thanks in advance for the support and I’ll be sure to mention you all in my acceptance speech (not that I get one, but you catch my drift).

It’s my pity party and I’ll cry if I want to…

My rational mind often tells me that loneliness is a choice.  And deep down I know that when I feel as if I am on some secluded island while the rest of the world is partying on the mainland it’s only because I took the boat over myself.  At this point in time, however, when my “plus one” is in a war zone and pretty much unavailable, it’s pretty damn hard to ignore the deafening silence that comes with single-dome. 

The problem is, I’m not single.  I can’t fill the void with some shameful sex-capades or go on a series of horrific blind dates in order to forge some sort of connection with another human being (not that any of that sounds even remotely appealing). Instead I have to be ok with an ample amount of “me” time, or playing voyeur to all those relationships that have sprouted up around me when I do go out with friends.  Both tend to be a little exhausting.  (I suppose this might be how nuns feel- while they are waiting to join forces with the big man upstairs they have to be ok wearing a chastity belt…)

 It’s a strange sort of limbo that I find myself in.  I am comfortable with and completely used to going “stag” to events, and don’t require an escort if I decide to meet some friends at a bar.  I have learned when to say “when” and go home alone when being around crowds is too much to handle.  But then when I get an invitation to a work party and quickly realize that I will have to scrounge for an available and completely platonic “plus one” I remember how much I miss having a significant other that resides in the same area code.  And that just sucks.

 Part of me knows that I will look back years from now when my hair is sufficiently dyed to cover the gray, and be grateful for how strong all of this has made me.  My life experience will tell me that these trials made me independent and allowed me to bring the most complete version of myself into a healthy relationship.  But as I sit here alone on a Saturday night feeling particularly pathetic I’ll forgo all those grown-up insights and throw myself a good ole’ fashioned pity party.  And yes, you all are invited.

Civilian Commitment or Military Marriage?

We were high school sweethearts, attending school dances with horrifically hip outfits holding hands and smooching outside of the gym. While the under classmen were gossiping about how long we would last, I was planning our hypothetical wedding. So when my boyfriend of two years decided to join the Marines shortly after graduation with a fervor I would never understand, I committed myself to seeing us through. I just wasn’t ready to set those wedding plans in motion quite yet.

After three months of boot camp and scribbled out letters written by flashlight, he was dumped in the desert- to live…for the next four years. Already anticipating that he would be placed at a duty station neighboring California’s sunny beaches, I cried. The town, dubbed 29 Palms for the circle of 29 palm trees that reside somewhere in the town, is tucked away on a massive stretch of desert some fifty miles from the lush retirement communities in Palm Springs, California. But 29 Palms is as far removed from the posh faux green landscapes of its neighboring towns as Coloradans are from Russia- or Antarctica for that matter. Most of the population of the town is concentrated within the confines of the base itself, a sprawling gated enclave that is virtually self-sustained. This of course allows Marines to have as little contact with the slightly off kilter population of the town itself as possible. And if choices are what these lonely Marines are looking for…well they just won’t find those in this neck of the woods. Even if they wanted to support the pitfalls of corporate America by visiting a Walmart, they would have to drive to the next armpit desert town some twenty-five miles away.

I had moved from Denver to 29 Palms in August, breathing in the stale air that was no competition for the air conditioning that attempted to churn through my sauna of a car. My dad huffed along behind me, his foot heavy on the gas of the 91 Honda that was on its last leg. Pulling into the KFC along the “main street” of the town, my stomach caught in my throat with the force of an oncoming train. Truth be told, I had moved without ever setting eyes on the town, save for a movie I ordered on TV entitled 29 Palms- which I’m still convinced didn’t actually take place in the town. I was simply a committed girlfriend that was willing to put her city life on hold for a stint in a sweltering sandbox. It was love that made me do it.

So I tried, with all the conviction I could muster, to make our newly rented “furnished” (meaning stains included) one bedroom apartment a home. And while I scrubbed the food particles from the previous renters off of the kitchen table, I felt simply like I was playing house- busying myself with chores while waiting for my other half to waltz through the door in his undeniably sexy uniform. This, I would soon learn, was the occupation of a good portion of the female population of 29 Palms.

Complaining to my boyfriend that I couldn’t last in this lonely god-forsaken town much longer he did what any good (and slightly perturbed) boyfriend would do- tried to help me make friends. So the next night he planned a double date with a friend and his wife- a girl that had left beauty school at the ripe age of 19 to chain herself to a boy that she had known a mere three months before he signed his life away to the Marine Corps. We met at the Applebee’s thirty miles outside of town (yes, even restaurant chains like Applebee’s couldn’t see the purpose of infiltrating a town like 29 Palms). Awkwardly we attempted to forge conversations until we simply let our significant others take control by talking about their shitty chain of command while we nodded superficially. I silently rejoiced when we decided to take our double date back to their place where we could break up the monotony with some alcohol. Unfortunately for me, this just opened up the flood gates for the unhappy wife to tell me her woes. She was unemployed, as her husband liked it, and entertained only by the cable that he recently allowed her to hook up. They had one car that he refused to let her take while he was at work, thus she sweltered in the heat box that they called a house while attempting to teach her dog (her one true companion, it seemed) unimpressive tricks. I smiled politely at her list of complaints, feeling a pang of sadness for her that was quickly replaced by a disgust at her inability to stand up for herself. I wondered if she thought that it all was worth it for that shiny ring on her finger. Exchanging numbers at the end of the night, I hoped it was a mere formality and she had no intention of calling me- just as I had no intention of answering my phone.

Sensing that I wasn’t jumping for joy over his choice in my friends, my boyfriend attempted to redeem himself by telling me that there was going to be a picnic that I could go to for his platoon where maybe I could meet my own set of bosom buddies. Painting my nails and picking out my perfect picnic attire (I had little else to do considering that the cable company had yet to trek out to our neck of the woods) I anticipated all of the people I would meet. Then came the news that I in fact wouldn’t be welcome to attend since I was merely a girlfriend a not a full fledged wife. After all, leaving my life at the drop of a hat and relocating to what could be considered hell on earth was not a significant enough display of my commitment to my other half. Or of course enduring the year of separation before hand. This was when it quickly became apparent to me that while the rest of the country had made leaps and bounds in recognizing relationships outside of the conventional realm, the Marine Corps was clearly making judgments of its own and would love to see its’ men and women living their lives like a black and white TV show. Separation of religious ideals and government run organizations? I think not.

For the remainder of my glorious stay in the overlooked deserts of California, I was reminded over and over again how insignificant our relationship truly was in the eyes of the United States military. When weekends were cut short because another miserable Marine was driving drunk, defacing some hotel in a neighboring town, or punching someone’s face in, my boyfriend and all of his “single” comrades were forced to cut their vacation time short in order to repent for the sins of the one who broke the rules. All this went on, of course, while the married Marines were allowed to continue on as if nothing had happened. When the barracks rooms and other facilities needed cleaning, who added another two hours onto their work day in order to complete the task? Single Marines. Those who were lucky enough to be married needed time to spend with their loved ones after all.

However, getting an extra couple of hours reprieve from the duties of a Marine or ensuring that your weekend won’t be interrupted by another Marines stupidity are minor reasons to tie the knot. Don’t worry though, the Marine Corps has plenty more perks to offer only their most elite men and women- those with a ring on their finger and a chain on their ankle. Married Marines receive a housing stipend so that they can live in peace outside of the dorm-like accommodations of the barracks without feeling it in their wallets. “Single” Marines simply don’t rate for such luxury accommodations. When a Marine is sent overseas to fight any war that the current administrations deems necessary those who are married will receive the added benefit of “separation pay” to make up for the time spent away from loved ones. Single Marines will instead perform the same duties for less pay since they, once again, don’t have loved ones that they will be separated from.

Thus comes the concept of the “contract marriage.” In order to capitalize on their time spent in some of the most dangerous places in the world, Marines will enter into a temporary marriage to beef up their paychecks. Yes, even these “loveless” marriages take precedence over those that have endured a military career but haven’t been topped off with a ceremony and a certificate- even though they will undoubtedly end in a hasty (albeit carefully timed out) divorce. These “wives” will hear about anything that happens to their husbands while they are away far before I or any other girlfriend will hear the news- that is if we ever hear. We, after all, are the “groupies” not the “real thing.”

It’s simple, a virtually painless way of reaping some sort of reward for an often times unappreciated job. I would have even agreed to be an accomplice to this practice if I wasn’t so dead set on “doing it right” and “waiting until I’m ready.” So while friends committed themselves in a weekend to childhood friends that could use a portion of the deployment pay themselves, I just hoped I would somehow hear when a mission went wrong or- god forbid- if something really horrible happened.

Last year, after enduring seven months of a deployment that left me constantly on edge, my boyfriend and I had planned on celebrating his return at that years Marine Corps ball. After perusing dress websites and sucking myself into horribly wretched department store gowns, I was informed that the remaining tickets for the ball had been reserved for married Marines. Surprise, surprise- once again I had been reminded that our sacrifices were petty compared to those with a different title.

Although I slowly adapted to the Marine Corps life (bitching all the way of course), I still kept one foot rooted firmly in the civilian life I was used to. And that life reminded me that getting married before being able to order an alcoholic beverage was not normal nor was it a path that I wanted to skip down. So I smiled politely every time another person would ask, “Why don’t you guys just get married?” Well, for some reason I would rather not have a gun toting, war raging, entity decide when I will commit myself to someone for the rest of my life. Call me crazy.

A Piece of Our History

Somehow I have a subscription to Time Magazine.  This would be only slightly odd except for the fact that I am the kind of person that avoids the news with the belief that it breeds fear and wreaks havoc, so I would guess that their purpose would be completely lost on me.  All the same, when my mom asked me if she could throw away the recent issue with the best pictures of 2009, I hesitated.  I had flipped through the magazine and stopped on a picture of a group of Marines sleeping in self-made holes in some desolate part of Afghanistan.  This, I told her, is a part of my history I can’t get rid of.   

My boyfriend is a Marine currently serving in Afghanistan.  I speak to him when he is able to call from a satellite phone that will cut off with the slightest bit of interference, and wait out the times when I know I won’t be hearing his voice anytime soon.  I send him packages with the things that I take for granted and the pictures of all the things that he has missed since he has been away.  Absentmindedly I will scan the articles on my MSN homepage, praying that the media hasn’t heard some news that I haven’t.   

When September 11 happened at the beginning of my 9^th grade year, I felt as unconnected to the nation’s sorrow and fear as one could possibly feel.  I didn’t know what the Twin Towers were, and I couldn’t begin to fathom the concept of terrorism.  Perhaps looking back on it now I’m not giving my adolescent self enough credit, but I also had no reason before that point to know otherwise.  After all, I could remember the all mighty sense of pride that was conveyed to us when we learned to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, so thinking of America as anything but untouchable was outside my own personal experience.  The September 11 attacks, to me, were a tragedy that happened on the other side of the country, to other people’s families.  I could never fathom the profound and far reaching affect they would have on my life years down the road.   

Fast forward eight years later and I know the war on terror more intimately then most people would care to.  I have said goodbyes so heart-wrenching I thought I would never recover- and had reunions that I couldn’t even manage to breathe through.  I have learned the cost of war so intimately that I could never imagine asking anyone else to pay the price.   

So when I have children and they begin to learn about these wars that will seem completely unconnected to their own existence, instead of showing them textbooks with numbers and facts I will show them the dried flowers I received when my love missed my college graduation, or the cards I sent with the hope that I could brighten his day.  After all, this war is more then the strategic move of a nation, it is a piece of our own personal history.