For those who aren't "in the know", Chris messed up his back pretty bad while deployed to Iraq and has begun the process of getting medically discharged/retired from the military. At first, I was super duper excited. The idea of making money based on your ability and not your rank, being able to finally buy a house, choosing where we want to live instead of being told.... it all sounds amazing! But then reality sunk in. And panic.
One afternoon, seven years ago, I had just moved into my first on-post home in Fort Bragg, NC. I loved my new house and neighborhood and was happy to be reunited with my husband after eight months of training separated us. I walked across the street to my new neighbor's home to return a platter, and when she opened her door I couldn't help but notice the hand painted sign hanging on her wall. It read, "Home is where the Army says it is." It made me smile, but at that time I was completely naive as to how serious that sign really was.
Three years later, the Army said vacate your house and be in San Antonio in three weeks. Of course, there was a catch. Our orders were only for six months so on-post housing wouldn't be an option. And try to find a rent house or apartment with a six month contract option. So, I fibbed about our orders and rented a house site-unseen. Four months later the Army said get ready to move again, only they had no idea where they were sending us. First it was DC, then El Paso, then we were staying in San Antonio, then El Paso again. Finally, NINE DAYS before we were supposed to report to wherever we were going, we got orders for Fort Lewis, WA. I was stoked. Anything was better than El Paso.
Again, our orders were for less than the required 18 months to receive on-post housing, so I rented an apartment on-line, we hired some guys to load our Penske since I was too pregnant with Bonnie to do any heavy lifting, and in eight short days we relocated ourselves to Washington.
Five months later I had Bonnie, then Chris graduated from Cardiac Cath school and we somehow lucked out and had our orders for Fort Lewis extended to three years. It was too good to be true though. Right after renewing our lease agreement with our apartment, the hospital decided that where we were in Lacey was too far for Chris' on-call requirements and we were ordered to relocate to somewhere closer...... in 30 days. Thankfully there was on-post housing available, so we packed up again (well, the movers packed up. I had given up on DITY moves at this point) and moved 15 miles down the road.
So now here I sit, contemplating move #14.... yes, I said 14.... and now that I actually have a choice of where to go, I'm at a total loss. Home isn't where the Army says it is anymore. Home is where I say it is. Only I don't know where that is.
The logical answer to the "where is home" question is Amarillo, TX. It's where I was born and where I grew up. It's where my parents, sister, and a vast amount of extended family are. Chris' parents and sisters are just a couple hours away and most of our closest friends still live in the area. But would I consider it home?
No, probably not. While I desperately want to be closer to family (and built in baby sitters), Amarillo just doesn't feel like home anymore. Being on the outside looking in, you notice things you didn't see before. While they have the BEST restaurant selection of anywhere I've ever been, not to mention great Mexican food, I think lack of options means more healthy eating at home plus lots of money saved. Amarillo is one of those places where everyone is always trying to keep up with the Jones'. Everyone has the same red accent wall, the same $40,000 SUV, the same rhinestone studded "Fat Baby" cowboy boots. They spend $300 on seasonal hand bags and just as much on the exact same hair do that everyone else there has. And don't get me wrong, I miss having options when it comes to finding a church home, but churches there are nuts! It's like they're in competition for the biggest buildings and the biggest debt. I love my friends and family, but I also love trees. And the ocean. And the mountains. And not having to eat dirt every time I go outside. So while Amarillo is still an option, I don't know that I would call it "home".
Then there's the other places with job openings: Denver, Dallas, Austin, Albuquerque, places in Kentucky, North Carolina, South Carolina, New Hampshire, Colorado, Texas and Tennessee. We need to go where the jobs are, but since we get a choice, we want to actually like where we're going. Apparently, finding home is harder than I anticipated.
So, while I completely agreed with my neighbor's sign in the beginning, the Army has also taught me that no matter how many times we change physical homes, the old saying is even more true: Home is where the heart is. To quote the most awesome Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros, since my kids, my husband and even my annoying dog are my heart, then "Home is wherever I'm with you." : )
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Dancing in the Mine Fields
He who loses money, loses much;
He who loses a friend, loses more;
He who loses faith, loses all. ~Irish proverb
Yesterday I paid my stupidly expensive yet supposedly necessary cell phone bill, spent more on groceries than the previous trip because most dairy products cost up to a dollar more now than two weeks ago, and put $75 worth of gas in my thirsty SUV. Last time gas was up to $3.70 a gallon, we had to cancel family activities and eat hot dogs for a week.
Ok, so maybe not every day of the week, but we ate a lot of hot dogs. And I'm pretty sure those few months in the spring/summer of 2008 are the reason my oldest daughter, Annabelle, can no longer stand spaghetti. To say that money was tight that summer would be a serious understatement. But we made it out unscathed....again.
In the ten and a half years that Chris and I have been married, we've seen our fair share of financial hardships. We didn't exactly start off the "right" way. We had our son Luke just three months after getting married. I was a full time student and Chris was a part time key holder at American Eagle. We moved from our first apartment, where our neighbor was a "working girl" and the steps leading up to my door were usually covered with crack heads and "Johns" whose pants were three sizes too big, most likely to conceal a weapon or paraphernalia of some kind. Our second apartment was too expensive, and after months of quarrelling over which bills should get paid and which will have to wait (and several meals prepared on a Coleman stove because the electric bill was beaten out by the rent), we celebrated our first anniversary by moving in with my parents and teenage sister.
Shortly after moving in with Mom and Dad, Chris was blessed with a good paying job and Annabelle was born. The plan was to stay put and save as much as we could, but with Chris working 12 hour days that started at 1am and the house becoming smaller with each passing day, we bailed much earlier than we should have, moved into another too expensive apartment and bought a car (so smart). As dumb as it was, I just laugh it off because, after all, I wasn't even old enough to legally consume alcohol and was bringing home $3,000 a month.
We could have done well, but we fell into the materialistic culture that is uniquely Amarillo, and found ourselves barely making it from paycheck to paycheck once again. Chris was tired of his job and wanted something that better suited his personality. Apparently that job was building fences on a cattle ranch outside Wichita Falls.
I was concerned about the (MASSIVE) cut in pay, but was reassured that rent-free living was to be provided once the property was cleaned up. Plus, if there is one personal trait that I can be proud of, it's my intense level of commitment to my husband. I have always had faith that our family's best interests were his top priorities and that he'd never steer us wrong. While that faith has been tested to very near it's breaking point more than once, I'm glad I stuck it out.
Chris went down to the ranch ahead of us while I moved back in with my parents. Knowing it would only be for a month or two made staying there a lot easier. Of course, in tiny towns miles away from what I would consider civilization, there are very few rent homes available. We had two choices 1) a one bedroom with a huge yard and garage and a living room big enough to hold a couch and a full size bed or 2) a two bedroom for the same price with a small yard, no garage and the lingering odor of the dead body that was locked up in the sweltering home for several days before the neighbors noticed the stench. While the man was very old and died of natural causes, I couldn't handle the possibility of ghosts tormenting me, so we opted for the one bedroom and hoped to make it work. After all, it too was only supposed to be temporary.
After waiting six months for news on the ranch house, we finally got it. The land owner decided not to let us use it. Instead, he planned to spend several million renovating it and turning it into a hunting lodge. A two bedroom bunk house to be used once or twice a year by his wealthy lawyer friends who like to get drunk and shoot birds. Awesome. It was downhill from there.
After suffering through a Red River summer with nothing but a single window AC unit to keep us cool and spending far too much time back in Amarillo because I was miserable in my own home, an old 3 bedroom farm house in a nearby town became available, so we jumped on it. The rent was a little higher and our lack of "cash up front" caused a delay in the turning on of our electricity. We spent two snow filled weeks in February cooking dinner on the trusty old Coleman stove and sleeping under layers of blankets and sleeping bags, all four of us in the same bed so that the kids didn't freeze. During the day, the kids and I would play inside for a while, then go sit in the car with the heater on to warm up (we were too poor to actually go anywhere), then back inside again.
We managed to make it through those two weeks and tried to make home in Byers, but it just wasn't us. Chris continued to butt heads with the ranch owner and our landlord was always dropping by to "inspect" things. Even though I kept the house clean, she was always nagging about the back lot not being mowed and blah, blah, blah. We put up with it for five more months, but when I noticed a large lump on the side of my neck but couldn't get it checked out because we had no money and no health insurance, Chris decided it was time to get serious and joined the Army.
While Army life is no walk in the park, I'll leave those stories for another day. So far, though the military doesn't pay much (most soldiers, including us, are below what the federal government considers "poverty" levels), it's been a reliable source of income. Until now.
On March 12, an article was quietly published in the Army Times. It didn't merit front page news, in fact, it was buried in the middle somewhere. To sum it up briefly, the article warned that if congress doesn't pass a spending bill and the government shuts down, soldiers will not get paid. A continuance was passed the day after the article was written, allowing the federal government to keep functioning for another three weeks, but if there is no permanent budget signed by the president before April 8th, we will not receive our April 15th check. Or our May 1st. Civilians will be sent home without pay, but soldiers have been issued a stern warning: Don't report on the 15th and you'll go to jail. You'll be AWOL.
Now, I doubt that if every soldier in the entire active military decided not to report on the 15th, that they could issue UCMJ for half a million people, but there's going to be those few brown nosers that would throw a wrench in the military-wide strike plan. So, report to duty every day without pay for as long as congress takes to pass a budget. Medical clinics will be closed because they're run by civilians, but the soldiers who work in them still have to report. Commissary's, gas stations, PX's will remain open, but since they are also run by civilians, soldiers will replace them....even though no one will have the money to buy groceries. Gate guards will be replaced by MPs, leaving the crime fighting on the back burner.
All that aside, the situation in my own house will be dire. We're putting off paying bills on the 1st until we know for sure what's going to happen on the 15th. By doing that, we should have enough to get groceries and keep gas in the car, since Chris will still have to drive to work every day. I'm confident that we will be able to make it for a month, but any longer than that and I'm not so sure.
We have been through some pretty rough spots in the past and those have prepared me for situations like this. I have faith that everything will turn out alright in the long run. After all, the last ten years of dancing in the mine fields has left us with a few battle scars, but we're still here.
So on this (day after) Saint Patrick's day, when we celebrate man's ability to persevere as long as he has faith, raise a glass with me and toast to the important things. Knowing where you're going by learning from where you've been, and always standing side-by-side, arm-in-arm with the ones who matter most.
I have known many, liked not a few, loved only one, I drink to you. ~Traditional Irish Toast
He who loses a friend, loses more;
He who loses faith, loses all. ~Irish proverb
Yesterday I paid my stupidly expensive yet supposedly necessary cell phone bill, spent more on groceries than the previous trip because most dairy products cost up to a dollar more now than two weeks ago, and put $75 worth of gas in my thirsty SUV. Last time gas was up to $3.70 a gallon, we had to cancel family activities and eat hot dogs for a week.
Ok, so maybe not every day of the week, but we ate a lot of hot dogs. And I'm pretty sure those few months in the spring/summer of 2008 are the reason my oldest daughter, Annabelle, can no longer stand spaghetti. To say that money was tight that summer would be a serious understatement. But we made it out unscathed....again.
In the ten and a half years that Chris and I have been married, we've seen our fair share of financial hardships. We didn't exactly start off the "right" way. We had our son Luke just three months after getting married. I was a full time student and Chris was a part time key holder at American Eagle. We moved from our first apartment, where our neighbor was a "working girl" and the steps leading up to my door were usually covered with crack heads and "Johns" whose pants were three sizes too big, most likely to conceal a weapon or paraphernalia of some kind. Our second apartment was too expensive, and after months of quarrelling over which bills should get paid and which will have to wait (and several meals prepared on a Coleman stove because the electric bill was beaten out by the rent), we celebrated our first anniversary by moving in with my parents and teenage sister.
Shortly after moving in with Mom and Dad, Chris was blessed with a good paying job and Annabelle was born. The plan was to stay put and save as much as we could, but with Chris working 12 hour days that started at 1am and the house becoming smaller with each passing day, we bailed much earlier than we should have, moved into another too expensive apartment and bought a car (so smart). As dumb as it was, I just laugh it off because, after all, I wasn't even old enough to legally consume alcohol and was bringing home $3,000 a month.
We could have done well, but we fell into the materialistic culture that is uniquely Amarillo, and found ourselves barely making it from paycheck to paycheck once again. Chris was tired of his job and wanted something that better suited his personality. Apparently that job was building fences on a cattle ranch outside Wichita Falls.
I was concerned about the (MASSIVE) cut in pay, but was reassured that rent-free living was to be provided once the property was cleaned up. Plus, if there is one personal trait that I can be proud of, it's my intense level of commitment to my husband. I have always had faith that our family's best interests were his top priorities and that he'd never steer us wrong. While that faith has been tested to very near it's breaking point more than once, I'm glad I stuck it out.
Chris went down to the ranch ahead of us while I moved back in with my parents. Knowing it would only be for a month or two made staying there a lot easier. Of course, in tiny towns miles away from what I would consider civilization, there are very few rent homes available. We had two choices 1) a one bedroom with a huge yard and garage and a living room big enough to hold a couch and a full size bed or 2) a two bedroom for the same price with a small yard, no garage and the lingering odor of the dead body that was locked up in the sweltering home for several days before the neighbors noticed the stench. While the man was very old and died of natural causes, I couldn't handle the possibility of ghosts tormenting me, so we opted for the one bedroom and hoped to make it work. After all, it too was only supposed to be temporary.
After waiting six months for news on the ranch house, we finally got it. The land owner decided not to let us use it. Instead, he planned to spend several million renovating it and turning it into a hunting lodge. A two bedroom bunk house to be used once or twice a year by his wealthy lawyer friends who like to get drunk and shoot birds. Awesome. It was downhill from there.
After suffering through a Red River summer with nothing but a single window AC unit to keep us cool and spending far too much time back in Amarillo because I was miserable in my own home, an old 3 bedroom farm house in a nearby town became available, so we jumped on it. The rent was a little higher and our lack of "cash up front" caused a delay in the turning on of our electricity. We spent two snow filled weeks in February cooking dinner on the trusty old Coleman stove and sleeping under layers of blankets and sleeping bags, all four of us in the same bed so that the kids didn't freeze. During the day, the kids and I would play inside for a while, then go sit in the car with the heater on to warm up (we were too poor to actually go anywhere), then back inside again.
We managed to make it through those two weeks and tried to make home in Byers, but it just wasn't us. Chris continued to butt heads with the ranch owner and our landlord was always dropping by to "inspect" things. Even though I kept the house clean, she was always nagging about the back lot not being mowed and blah, blah, blah. We put up with it for five more months, but when I noticed a large lump on the side of my neck but couldn't get it checked out because we had no money and no health insurance, Chris decided it was time to get serious and joined the Army.
While Army life is no walk in the park, I'll leave those stories for another day. So far, though the military doesn't pay much (most soldiers, including us, are below what the federal government considers "poverty" levels), it's been a reliable source of income. Until now.
On March 12, an article was quietly published in the Army Times. It didn't merit front page news, in fact, it was buried in the middle somewhere. To sum it up briefly, the article warned that if congress doesn't pass a spending bill and the government shuts down, soldiers will not get paid. A continuance was passed the day after the article was written, allowing the federal government to keep functioning for another three weeks, but if there is no permanent budget signed by the president before April 8th, we will not receive our April 15th check. Or our May 1st. Civilians will be sent home without pay, but soldiers have been issued a stern warning: Don't report on the 15th and you'll go to jail. You'll be AWOL.
Now, I doubt that if every soldier in the entire active military decided not to report on the 15th, that they could issue UCMJ for half a million people, but there's going to be those few brown nosers that would throw a wrench in the military-wide strike plan. So, report to duty every day without pay for as long as congress takes to pass a budget. Medical clinics will be closed because they're run by civilians, but the soldiers who work in them still have to report. Commissary's, gas stations, PX's will remain open, but since they are also run by civilians, soldiers will replace them....even though no one will have the money to buy groceries. Gate guards will be replaced by MPs, leaving the crime fighting on the back burner.
All that aside, the situation in my own house will be dire. We're putting off paying bills on the 1st until we know for sure what's going to happen on the 15th. By doing that, we should have enough to get groceries and keep gas in the car, since Chris will still have to drive to work every day. I'm confident that we will be able to make it for a month, but any longer than that and I'm not so sure.
We have been through some pretty rough spots in the past and those have prepared me for situations like this. I have faith that everything will turn out alright in the long run. After all, the last ten years of dancing in the mine fields has left us with a few battle scars, but we're still here.
So on this (day after) Saint Patrick's day, when we celebrate man's ability to persevere as long as he has faith, raise a glass with me and toast to the important things. Knowing where you're going by learning from where you've been, and always standing side-by-side, arm-in-arm with the ones who matter most.
I have known many, liked not a few, loved only one, I drink to you. ~Traditional Irish Toast
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The Rita Project
Several days ago, I was bustling through the grocery store picking up a few staple items...milk, bread, Irish creme Coffee Mate...before heading home for a relaxing afternoon with Chris and the kids. Suffice to say, I was much more focused on the items going in my basket and the text alerts coming from my phone (no doubt my husband wanting to know if I was "Done yet?") than the dizzying crowds of people around me. It's for this reason that I was somewhat startled when I turned away from the vast wall of cheese products and nearly crashed into an elderly gentleman that moved in next to me. I quickly apologized and started to walk off when I thought I heard him say, "I bet you used to be quite fetching."
I don't know what compelled me to turn around and say, "I'm sorry?" because I was fully aware of what he had said and assumed he meant it as an insult since I nearly flattened him in my mad dash. At the same time, the woman behind him turned with a mortified look on her face.
"I'm SO sorry," she said to me. Then she turned to the man and said,"Dad, that was horrible! Why would you say that?"
I, flustered though I may have been, shrugged it off and and tried to tell the woman that it was no big deal when the man blurted out, "Don't apologize for me, Mary. I meant it as a complement." Mary and I both paused, both apparently waiting for an explanation of how telling someone they USED to be fetching is a complement. The man, who had to have been in his late 80's, shuffled over to me and placed his hand on my arm. He took a deep breath and straightened his hunched shoulders as best he could, as though he was about to reveal to me some great truth that had been passed down through the ages. The throngs of people clamoring down the isles around the three of us seemed to disappear.
"My dear," he said softly, "you are a very attractive woman. You carry yourself well and dress modestly but with class, which is something most young ladies your age lack. But that is not what prompted me to say what I said."
His grip on my arm loosened, though I'm not sure if it was because he realized he was squeezing it a little harder than necessary, or if his strength gave out just a little. His gray eyes, contemplating, took in every detail of my face. Then, reassured, he continued.
"When I saw your face, your strawberry blond hair wistfully falling across your brow, it took my breath away. It took my back to the first time I saw Rita Hayworth on the big screen. Back before color and the sound was all crackly. I said USED to because, while you're still very pretty, you look tired. And strained. Like you've lost yourself."
At this point I didn't know if I should smile and thank him or just start crying and run away. His daughter, who had to have been about the same age as my mother and probably endured many shopping trips with her father recently, appeared totally flabbergasted. Apparently, she was considering running away as well.
Not sure of what to say next, I mustered up the strength to smile at the man and said, "Ten years of marriage, military life and three children tend to take a toll on a woman's vivacity. But thank you, because you've made my day."
He dropped his hand and his face seemed to become a little firmer as he tried to stand up completely straight. I got a strange feeling that I was about to be issued an order of some sorts. I was right.
"Young lady, your children are blessed every time you smile. If you have a daughter, she needs to see the you on the inside come out, that way she can aspire to it. If you have a son, he needs to see the kind of woman he would want to marry and raise a family with. Your husband should feel a sense of pride every time you walk into a room. I know that being a wife and mother, especially in the military, is a heavy burden to bear, but God has blessed you beyond measure. You owe it to yourself and, frankly, you owe it to the world, to take care of yourself and be the most amazing, confident, loving woman you can be. The world will be a much more beautiful place when you figure this out. And I won't have to say USED TO next time."
With that, his shoulders dropped, he turned towards his daughter and grabbing the cart he muttered, "Come on, Mary. My feet hurt." And he shuffled off down the isle. Mary shook her head and told me to have a lovely afternoon, then trotted off to catch up.
At first I didn't really know how to interpret what had just taken place. Did I need to go home and strap on my running shoes and start an all water and rice cakes diet? Did I need to save every nickel and dime possible and partake in a relaxing spa day to rejuvenate? Finally, after three sleepless nights, I think I have figured it out. I need to be happy.
I love my husband and my kids and our little life that we've created. I am very happy with where we are headed, but I can't say that I'm content with where I'm at. I need to find a way to take the time I need for myself and work it in with the time I want and need to spend with my family.
So, after three sleepless nights, I think I have figured it out. I am going to start a "Rita Project". I am going to find a way to lose weight, make time for things I enjoy while not taking away from family time, and learn to be a more confident and productive individual. It won't be easy, but it will be worth it. Hold on to your hats boys.....and here's to Rita!
I don't know what compelled me to turn around and say, "I'm sorry?" because I was fully aware of what he had said and assumed he meant it as an insult since I nearly flattened him in my mad dash. At the same time, the woman behind him turned with a mortified look on her face.
"I'm SO sorry," she said to me. Then she turned to the man and said,"Dad, that was horrible! Why would you say that?"
I, flustered though I may have been, shrugged it off and and tried to tell the woman that it was no big deal when the man blurted out, "Don't apologize for me, Mary. I meant it as a complement." Mary and I both paused, both apparently waiting for an explanation of how telling someone they USED to be fetching is a complement. The man, who had to have been in his late 80's, shuffled over to me and placed his hand on my arm. He took a deep breath and straightened his hunched shoulders as best he could, as though he was about to reveal to me some great truth that had been passed down through the ages. The throngs of people clamoring down the isles around the three of us seemed to disappear.
"My dear," he said softly, "you are a very attractive woman. You carry yourself well and dress modestly but with class, which is something most young ladies your age lack. But that is not what prompted me to say what I said."
His grip on my arm loosened, though I'm not sure if it was because he realized he was squeezing it a little harder than necessary, or if his strength gave out just a little. His gray eyes, contemplating, took in every detail of my face. Then, reassured, he continued.
"When I saw your face, your strawberry blond hair wistfully falling across your brow, it took my breath away. It took my back to the first time I saw Rita Hayworth on the big screen. Back before color and the sound was all crackly. I said USED to because, while you're still very pretty, you look tired. And strained. Like you've lost yourself."
At this point I didn't know if I should smile and thank him or just start crying and run away. His daughter, who had to have been about the same age as my mother and probably endured many shopping trips with her father recently, appeared totally flabbergasted. Apparently, she was considering running away as well.
Not sure of what to say next, I mustered up the strength to smile at the man and said, "Ten years of marriage, military life and three children tend to take a toll on a woman's vivacity. But thank you, because you've made my day."
He dropped his hand and his face seemed to become a little firmer as he tried to stand up completely straight. I got a strange feeling that I was about to be issued an order of some sorts. I was right.
"Young lady, your children are blessed every time you smile. If you have a daughter, she needs to see the you on the inside come out, that way she can aspire to it. If you have a son, he needs to see the kind of woman he would want to marry and raise a family with. Your husband should feel a sense of pride every time you walk into a room. I know that being a wife and mother, especially in the military, is a heavy burden to bear, but God has blessed you beyond measure. You owe it to yourself and, frankly, you owe it to the world, to take care of yourself and be the most amazing, confident, loving woman you can be. The world will be a much more beautiful place when you figure this out. And I won't have to say USED TO next time."
With that, his shoulders dropped, he turned towards his daughter and grabbing the cart he muttered, "Come on, Mary. My feet hurt." And he shuffled off down the isle. Mary shook her head and told me to have a lovely afternoon, then trotted off to catch up.
At first I didn't really know how to interpret what had just taken place. Did I need to go home and strap on my running shoes and start an all water and rice cakes diet? Did I need to save every nickel and dime possible and partake in a relaxing spa day to rejuvenate? Finally, after three sleepless nights, I think I have figured it out. I need to be happy.
I love my husband and my kids and our little life that we've created. I am very happy with where we are headed, but I can't say that I'm content with where I'm at. I need to find a way to take the time I need for myself and work it in with the time I want and need to spend with my family.
So, after three sleepless nights, I think I have figured it out. I am going to start a "Rita Project". I am going to find a way to lose weight, make time for things I enjoy while not taking away from family time, and learn to be a more confident and productive individual. It won't be easy, but it will be worth it. Hold on to your hats boys.....and here's to Rita!
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