OK, I am not sure where to start here. The fact that you have to read a book in order to learn how to read a text message. Then there is the fact that if you send me a 300 word message, I am fairly sure that I don’t care how many characters you use. As a general rule, I usually see something shiny out of the corner of my eye and by the time I have read the first line of your text, I have lost interest in whatever you have to say. And my final WTF (see, I can be taught), why the hell are we selling books that teach people how to spell incorrectly?? I see a whole new line in the “…For Dummies” series.

I should have realized what the world was in for when I started chatting online, and saw for the first time “A/S/L”. And then we started to amuse each other, which caused us to LOL. And then you could play wavs in your private AOL chatroom, and that caused us to ROFL. Then we realized we could play nasty wavs, and we started LMAO. Well, I LMAO. You laughed your own off. And if anyone out there says they thought that it would end there, STFU, are you kidding?

Because someone decided that just jumping on the internet at every waking moment was not enough. Now we needed to have electronic social media leashes. It wasn’t bad enough that you couldn’t prove that you were home with the flu, because your boss could GPS your phone, no, now we had to learn a whole new way to type poorly.

And it isn’t even just the acronyms. We actually change the spelling of the words. “You” became “u”. “Your/You’re” became “ur”. And IDK know if it even matters if you meant your or you’re because apparently the Laws of the Interwebz don’t require you to actually use the word that you mean. Now, those examples are one thing. They sort of make some sense, since it is kind of like an abbreviation. Kind of.

But we have yet to cover my pet peeve in the world of texting. IMO, it is just stoopid to change the wurds by simply spelling them wrong. Especially if it makes the original word longer! “My” has become “mai”. Not only that, but now LOLs have been changed to “lulz”. FFS. Really? Does it really surprise ANYONE that autocorrect spits out some really random crap? Some programmer made it so that if you were going to text like a moron, then you probably wouldn’t even notice that you just asked your MIL if your FIL still used bondage. And for the record, that one was really not my fault. Vonage. I meant Vonage. BTW, if you want to laugh until you cry, you really should check out www.damnyouautocorrect.com.

In the meantime, I am going back to the tried and true acronyms that actually make sense and don’t look like a SNAFU. We already know that our kids are FUBARed, so BOHICA people…

But first, I am off to text my BFF Rose.

Kthxbai!

Here is my take: Call whine-one-one, someone needs a waahmbulance. This is my story, I can be as immature as I want. I may even throw in a neener neener at some point.

I agree our economy has gone to crap. Our country is divided. And who, exactly, is surprised by this? This is not news. We were divided over slavery. Over equal rights for women. Over abortion. Over global warming. We have always, and will always have, something to separate the masses.

We, as a country, do need a change. We can blame it on Wall Street. We can blame it on the President. We can blame it on the Donkeys and Elephants. The Haves. The Have Nots. Or we can fix our OWN lives. Yes, someone has more money than me. Maybe he worked harder, invested smarter. Or maybe he is smart enough not spend his annual salary on shoes. (Even if they are really, really cute shoes.) What I am trying to get at is, if we want change, why are we working against ourselves?

It seems rather simple to me. If I want to improve MY economy, I don’t ditch work, call in sick, or quit my job to go sit on the street and complain that someone has more money than me. I know it is not as simple as that, but you know me, I can reduce the war in Iraq to bullies and Legos.

There are complaints about taxes. And those complaints will never go away. But I am slightly curious as to why we have people occupying the streets to protest the economy and taxes. Do the not see that they are creating a vicious circle? Sit, complain, riot (I know, not in all cases), draw large crowds of upset people. Then what happens? Our already strained system has to pay overtime to police officers to attempt to maintain peace. Our businesses suffer because there is no one working the drive thru at Burger King to sell the Whoppers. Because he is on the street complaining that someone has more money than him.

I will never pretend to understand any of this. And don’t try to explain it to me. As I watch, the only change I see is people’s view of our country. The morale sinking. People complaining they have no reason to love this country anymore. Their pride gone.

Well, THIS I can fix. I can give you back that pride. Go to an airport, find the USO and see a soldier, clinging to his family, waiting to reboard and head back to war. Find out when a flight of returning soldiers is coming in, and sit there and just watch the faces of the families waiting. Watch the faces of everyone there when the banging on the door begins, the fake smoke comes out, and Springsteen starts blaring from the speakers.

Go to a school and watch mom or dad coming home and surprising their children. Heck, you can Google that and see as many as you can stand to watch. While you are Googling, look up The Fallen Soldier’s Table.
Ask the small child of a soldier when holidays are. We all know Christmas is December 25th. But for many military families, it falls on a different day. When mom comes home for R&R. When dad is not on patrol and has a minute to open presents via Skype. For instance, last year, we celebrated Chranksgiving. The first week of December was the only time we could assemble most of the family and so we combined the holidays into one.

And if you ever thought it was impossible to cry with pride, do this one thing. Watch a Fallen Soldier as he comes home. The streets, lined with people. Children waving flags. Police directing traffic, although they don’t need to because everyone stops to watch. Other soldiers saluting their fallen friend, while trying to hide their tears. Military spouses, there to comfort each other, friends they have never met. Strangers saluting, crying, waving, cheering for this amazing, courageous person.

The U.S. military has been called the nation’s largest legalized gang. Spend some time with a Veteran. Of any war. Listen to his stories. My grandfather is a Lieutenant Colonel (retired), who served in the Army Air Corps. He is in his late 80’s and can recite names and ranks of those he flew with, those he lost and those who made it through. And he will tell you, it is not the nation’s largest gang. It is the nation’s largest family.

Next time you want to play hooky and occupy some place, occupy a VA hospital. Occupy the Disabled Veteran’s Association. Occupy the USO. Since you have that time to spare, go occupy someplace where you can make someone smile. Someplace where you really can make a difference. Someplace that makes you wonder why you ever questioned your pride in this country, and reiterates your pride in yourself.

Pick your battles wisely. Fight them effectively.

Before I go any futher, let me say that I am, simply put, average. I am well read. I am articulate. But I am not a college graduate. I do not proclaim to be a politician. I do not swear to have the answers. As a matter of fact, the more I learn, the more questions I have.

For those who haven’t heard, we, as a country, appear to be having a little unemployment crisis. I don’t want to judge anyone, or belittle anyone by calling it a litte crisis. I know that to some, it is a breaking point in their lives.

There are more sides to this story that to a stop sign. There are those who think that the people who have run out of benefits should ‘just get a job’. There are those who think that this all could be avoided if everyone just took personal responsibility. There are those who think that this is solely the fault of the Republican party. There are those who feel that the government owes it to the unemployed to keep paying them, no matter what. And there are those who think that the solution is to legalize marijuana and everything will be peachy keen. Of course a lot of those people would be upset to realize that they would then have to pay taxes on that income.

I digress. Not everyone is going to agree on a cause or a solution. I can see valid points on every side of this stop sign. I have been the employed one, irritated at those ‘sitting home on vacation, collecting unemployment’. More recently, I was the one who sat at home, wishing I could be working at a job I hated, just to avoid unemployment. I have been the one wondering why the Republicans won’t just sign the damn bill. I have been the one wondering why the Democrats can’t just let go of their bone so the other side will sign.

And I am always the one wondering, if we want an ‘Everyone Wears Purple Day’, why can’t we just write a bill requiring everyone to wear purple? Why does the same bill also have to include ‘Dogs Can’t Eat Socks’ and ‘Highways Must Now Be Called Tarantulas’? Again, I am not a college graduate, or a politician. But why do we have to lump a bunch of unrelated crap together, just to get our way?

Of course, I am also the one who watched the news about a certain general’s employment status thinking, ‘Oh great, now I have to fight HIM for a job at McDonald’s?’

Yeah, I am disgressing again. The reason for my heavy heart? I love my country. I get to live here and mock it. Or I can cheer it. I can marvel at it’s dedication to causes. Or I can roll my eyes at it’s sometimes stupidity. But regardless, I love my country. So to read, for almost three hours, comment after comment of anger and hatred for same said country, yes, my heart is heavy.

I don’t want people to hate my country. It makes me feel sad. These are strangers, but it makes me feel like when my siblings fought with my parents. It rocked my stability. I mean, I always wished I was an only child, but when it came down to it, I didn’t want to do all the chores by myself. So I took the good with the bad. I knew it might always be a dysfunctional family, but it was mine. And I was willing to fight to keep it together.

This is my country. I might not always agree with it. I might not always like it. But it is mine and I love it. I can’t stand the level of anger and hatred that I am seeing. It makes me sad. And it scares me. So maybe it is time for a little Kumbayah. Maybe it is time to clean house. I don’t know.

I don’t know what to do and I feel like I should be doing something. But for now, I will just try to hang on. I will kiss my husband, hug my kids and snuggle with my dog and cat. And I will hope. And yes, I will pray.

Until their doucheness starts to show. And then I don’t care. About the rank. About the seniority. About the age.

I have witnessed the whole “My stripes are bigger than your stripes” thing before. You know, the Army version of penis envy. It isn’t pretty. Although it is occasionally amusing.

A couple of years ago, I had a Staff Sergeant try to pull rank on me when I did his taxes. One of those “You have to play nice with me because I am a SSG in the US Army” Yeah? Well. What exactly does that mean to me, a civilian, in my civilian tax office? I will tell you, it means that you get to follow the same IRS rules as everyone else.

Oh, and this one time? At the PX? Well, I was outside and this idiot came barreling through the parking lot, going about 40 miles an hour. I said, kind of loud, not realizing that his window was down, “Geez asshole, this is a parking lot, not a raceway.” This particular douche stopped his car and came and threw his rank at me. He demanded to know who I was, and who my husband was.

As he was yelling at me, I stared at a spot over his shoulder and grinned. Oddly, that seemed to irritate him. He began to turn purple. And then a spiffy shade of green as he looked at a spot over my shoulder. I turned, expecting to see an MP. Instead, I saw a Sergeant Major. The SFC explained my horrible behavior to the SGM, who then turned to me, apologized and told me to have a nice day.

As I got to my car, I turned to watch the scene playing out behind me. It involved the SGM throwing out a bit of his own rank. Last thing I heard was “If I ever witness this behavior again, being called an asshole will be the least of your worries”

OK, so sometimes rank comes in handy.

But not today. Today I learned a valuable lesson. Did you know that when 4 vehicles are stopped at a four way stop, it isn’t first stop, first go. Apparently, vehicles go by rank. Thank you Captain Douche for teaching me this valuable driving lesson…

OK, so that was really my only disclaimer.

Lately, I have felt like I should put a disclaimer on everything I do. “Sorry maam, the oxygen thing was not my idea. It was either Adam and Eve, Adam and Steve, evolution or the Big Bang Theory.” I was recently at Wal Mart and exhaled a too loudly for the tastes of the lady behind me. Meh. Whatever.

The worst part is actually that I think I need disclaimers on my Facebook statuses. Or is it stati…? Anyway, There is nothing more annoying than the inevitable “Oh my God, are you talking about me?”

Oh, except the “Oh my God I can’t believe you said that about me!”

Let’s get one thing straight. If it was about you, or you, or you, I am the one and only Verbal Assassin. If I am talking about you, I generally leave no doubt.

The truth is, most of my irritated and snarky status updates are about the way I am feeling in general at the moment I typed aforementioned status.

I am starting to feel like I need to preface each status like a TV show:

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All bitching, moaning, pricks, and traitor twats featured here are either the product of the author’s imagination, or a group of real people too large and or ridiculous to mention.

Maybe that would then stop my having to apologize to everyone on this planet, excluding the Pope. Cuz I am totally down with the Pope. He knows I would never diss anyone in a position to make me go straight to hell without passing Go or collecting $200.

So. If my status says “My granddaughter just spit on bananas.” Well, she is 5 months old and spits on everything. It doesn’t necessarily mean that she spits on everyone whose name rhymes with banana.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that some of what I post as status is not dead on balls accurate (it is an industry term… watch My Cousin Vinny).

And one more thing. If my status is ambiguous, it may just be because I am irked enough to say something, but not petty enough to air all my dirty panties online.

Oh, and one more one more thing. It is MY page. If it bothers you, feel free to remove me as a friend.

Now. I have to go back to my room and decide which pair of shoes needs to be sacrificed so that B Daddy has someplace to put his combat boots when he gets home!

And I survived it all. I made it through with most of me intact.

So why am I losing my sanity now?

The light at the end of the tunnel is not an oncoming train. It is my husband. It is B Daddy, with one of his spiffy gadgets, lighting his way home.

And yet I am crying. I can’t stop. I am losing my mind. I feel like my heart is breaking. Maybe it is the return of everyone else’s loved ones. Maybe it is jealousy. Maybe it is anticipation. Maybe it is relief. Or maybe it is just impatience.

Thank you to everyone who has stood by me. Who has listened to me. Who has loved me. Who has tolerated me.

To the tried and true… Our Roses.

To the shiny and new… Those who stood with Nate.

And to you know who… I love you Nate. Thank you for loving me. Me. The irrationally rational me. The logically illogical me. The perfectly imperfect me. Me.

Earlier this week, I did go with friends to see their husbands off the plane. It was very emotional for me. And by that, I mean I was shooting mental daggers at said friends because I was pouty and jealous. Regardless, it was an amazing experience. One can that only be topped by the return of MY husband.

The whole welcome home shindig is very theatrical. The plane lands in a spot that seems to be the complete other end of the tarmac. Officers are lined up waiting to welcome and thank the soldiers. The band is playing. At least you think this is what is going on, because it is about a quarter of a mile away, and the wind is blowing the other direction.

The soldiers, who have now been flying, and who have slept only sitting up for days now have to cross the tarmac. Past the cheering families and friends. Into a room for their briefing and some homecoming paperwork.

Meanwhile, aforementioned families and friends have gone back inside to wait for their loved ones to be released.

And meanwhile again, the soldiers are now done with the official stuff and now walk back outside, around the building and to the big rolling garage door.

At this point, it was after midnight and my back was hurting and my dedication was waning. Then it started.

A very loud banging on the metal door. A wall of smoke blowing across the door. Bruce Springsteen blaring Born in the USA. And the door starts to roll up.

I don’t care how tired you are. How cold hearted you are. Because you are suddenly the proudest, most emotional American ever. Well, other than the other 500 people in the room.

This is the easy part of redeployment. The parts after that, I am hoping will go smoothly.

That is where you, my dedicated readers (both of you) come in.

We love you. We thank you for your support. But get lost. Give my soldier time to readjust. Regardless of whether or not your soldier has seen combat, your soldier has been living by a whole other set of rules.

Respect these 2 things: Recognize that personal space is important. I have watched the slight panic in many eyes as they are rushed by crowds. Yeah, your soldier has been around other people for the past year. But they were just like him.

Thingy number two? Don’t ask how much combat was seen, or if he fired his weapon, or if he killed someone. Because regardless of his reaction, I may throw a neck punch or two. He (or she) will talk about everything when, and if they are comfortable.

OK, three things. Regardless how long it takes him to readjust, he is not broken. There is not something “wrong” with him. He may need someone to talk to. He may need help sleeping. But he did it for YOU, not for the extra monthly pennies.

Now, ask me in a few weeks if I was able to practice what I preach. Because it 2 weeks, that chick in jammie pants tackling her husband on the tarmac? That will be me. Very happily, that will be me…

In my line of work, I often feel like a cross between a priest and a bartender. I hear confessions. I hear whining. I hear bragging. I hear complaining. Good times.

More often than not, I hear things that I could have gone my entire life without knowing. Basically, what it comes down to is that in addition to 60 hours of continuing education, I also have to practice my “non reaction” face.

For instance. The “WTF” face is not appropriate when you client tells you that his child’s name is Jeaux. Pronounced Joe. Or when Mr. Jones informs you that he just named their new son Winchester Kahr Jones.

Recently however, I got the biggest challenge of all. I had to remain interested, yet expessionless, when a client explained that he has recently divorced his wife, with whom he has a baby boy, and was recently remarried. To his step daughter. Who is now pregnant.

I was distracted a tad after that. I am fairly shre that I hurt my brain trying to figure out his new family tree. His son has a half sister, who is also his step mom. And his new baby’s uncle will also be the step brother. Or is it half brother?

By the way, geneaology.com doesn’t cover such situations, I checked.

A traditional family tree wouldn’t be helpful. I am thinking this is a family tree that John Madden should explain. He can use his spiffy little screen, with lots of Xs and Os and arrows. Or would it be easiest to simply make a circle?

Sigh. And just think, you thought my job was dull. Pfft. Taxes are way cool and interesting and stuff.

Or not.

Not what you were expecting. Or perhaps it was.

I have never regretted having my children. And as much as I hate to say it, I don’t even regret their paternal units.

I look back and wonder what I saw in them. What was I thinking? Was it alcohol? Percocet? Wishful thinking? Or maybe I saw something in them. Something that could be salvaged in a single ejaculation, one that would later become one of my wonderful children.

I love my spawn. Which forces me to tolerate their donors. At least at face value.

However. Late at night. When I am sitting in my room. Contemplating the life I have lived (A.K.A. watching Bad Girls Club), I am also cursing same said donors. They suck. I am not perfect. But really. They suck.

I am not your typical June Cleaver. B Daddy and I are not Ozzie and Harriet. OK, so maybe we are more like the Bundys or the Griffins. But you know what? Meh. That is all I have to say about that.

I am not perfect. The fruit of my loins is all a bit off kilter too. But when that day finally comes. When B Daddy frees my soul from my bedazzled jar.

I will have loved. I will have owned the hookerest boots. The come fuck me-est pumps. I will have had the best of friends. The happiest of times. The hardest of lessons. I will have lived.

What a gorgeous web we weave.

When first we practice to believe…

You know, one day, my life story will be written. The book will be read. The movie will be made. And the screenplay will win an Oscar.

The last thing I want is to be up on that stage, in front of all those hunky men that I have killed batteries with, and not know who to thank.

I guess I should start working on that speech now. Make my list. Check it twice. Make sure I thank them all. Naughty and nice.

Of course I would have to thank the Academy. The Tool Academy. For it has been the home of so many tools, most of whom have made me who I am today. Without them, my story would have been dull.

There was BS. Really, those were his initials. And his claim to fame. Without his enormous stupidity, I never would have realized that there was life beyond BullShit.

Of course there were also my Baby Daddies. Without them, I would not be able to teach my children how not to grow up.

I mustn’t ever forget the Traitor Twats of the world. They are the women who have made me realize that being a bitch is a God given talent. It is not something you can learn. And it is not something to take lightly.

With the gift of Bitchdom comes great responsibility. You cannot just arbitratrily act like a snatch and expect to be honored as a bitch.

To the shoemaker and his elves. If you had not sacrificed your nights of sleep, I would not have the amazingly shoegasmic heels upon which I stand.

To my BFF. Without you, I would not have anyone to reassure me that this dress does not make me ass look big.

And last but not least, to B Daddy. Without whose unwavering support, I would not have been able to afford aforementioned Manolo Blahniks. For that, I love you always.

To the people who paid good money to watch my life story. Don’t you feel so much snarkier for having seen my movie? And to answer your question, no, you can never have those 2 hours back. All you can hope is that you learned from my story. Learned that you too, can only hope to be the world’s next Verbal Assassin…