Since You’ve Been Gone…

Recently I was approached by an acquaintance that only had one question for me, OK, two questions. The first was “You’re not dead?”, and the second was “What in the hell have you been up to?”. The answer to that is quite long – 15 years long.

In 2007 I met B Daddy. In 2007 I married B Daddy. In 2008 B Daddy got orders to Fort Bliss, Texas. In 2011 B Daddy got orders to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. In 2012 B Daddy got orders to Fort Belvoir, Virginia. In 2016 B Daddy decided he was moving on, and my story with B Daddy ends, and my story begins again.

Since all the spawn had moved out east, I decided to stay in Virginia. The grandspawn was in elementary school, and daycare is expensive, so I got a 4 story townhouse with Dra, Nik, and Kai. I went back to the bar and restaurant industry, and decided that living with the girls gave me time to lick my wounds, and an excuse not to date. I worked mornings, I picked up Kai after school, and I spent evenings with the girls. It worked for me. I started to heal.

After about a year, I decided to dip my toe into the dating pool. The water was not cold, it was gross. Gross and slimy and did I mention gross? Listening to co-workers, I chose to dip my toeinto Tinder. Which was actually what some of those men wanted – pictures of my feet. One even asked if I would meet him, and bring a pair of socks for him. No wannabe rich diamond buying swindler for me. I was not that lucky. It was the most awful experience ever. Entertaining at times, but awful. I did meet one guy that I thought might be interesting. Right up until I noticed the fishnet pantyhose hanging on a chair in several photos. I was miffed, assuming he had a significant other. Nope. They were his. He proved it by sending me a photo of him wearing them. That was the end of that potential relationship. It was not so much the cross dressing as it was that he had nicer legs than I did. I had to draw a line somewhere.

I gave it a few months, then the kids introduced me to Plenty of Fish. The first guy I met was PERFECT. A perfect friend. He is a great guy, and we are still friends. Then came a guy who lived in his parent’s basement. Not one to judge, I talked to him for about a month, then agreed to meet in person. He stood me up. After that came a guy who owned his own home, was a government contractor, competed in triathalons, and made me feel like a teenager. We had a few dates, and then it was time to maybe take it further. The address he gave me was a hotel. Make that motel. Why was a man that owned his own home taking me to a motel? Perhaps there was not enough room in bed for both me and his wife. Nope, nope, and nope.

It had been a couple of years since “The Text”, and mom called from Colorado to tell me that she had to have a knee replacement. I drove home to help her out. A couple of weeks turned into a month. Mom lives in a small town of 605. She lives off grid. A month of very little in the way of electronics, little to no social media, and lots of long talks with mom. Talks eventually turned to why I was staying in Virginia, where I hated life. I hated that I worked 19 miles from home, and my commute was roughly 90 minutes, if I was lucky. The reality was there was nothing to keep me in Virginia, other than the spawn. I did not want to leave them, but it was time to admit that I could not heal while living in the middle of a rat race. Mom and I looked at a few houses before I went back to Virginia, but did not really find anything that we liked. We decided to keep looking, and I headed home to Virginia.

I was not even back to Virginia when mom sent me a text to tell me that she had put an offer on a house. The offer was accepted, and she would close in 30 days. It was August, 2017, I returned to Virginia, told the spawn the news, packed my crap, and by January 2018, I was on my way back to Colorado, with the youngest spawn. He was not happy on the east coast either, and needed a change. I have to admit, the moment that I saw the Rocky Mountains, I cried. I was back. I was home.

A couple of years later, and the pandemic would hit, and the rest of the spawn would also find their ways west. Nik and Kai are in the Denver area. Dra is with me. Cody is married and living nearby. Where it started, it shall end. I am older, slightly wiser, and still healing.

And still single. Despite what may have been whispered in my ear, I am OK with it. I have a job that I love, I joined a pool league, and I have my four legged beasties.

I am good. And getting better.

Life After…

Six years. It has only been six years since I received the text that would rock my world. Change the future that I had seen and worked towards. Six years since B Daddy sent me a text asking for a divorce. I know that you are saying “A text?” Yes. A text. I went through all the stages of grief in about ten minutes, circling back to anger rather quickly. Wasn’t I worth more than a text? Yes, but the question was irrelevant, because it had happened. I could not go back and change it. I could delete the text, I could throw away my phone, but it was still there, out in the cyberverse – my marriage was over.

In the past six years, I have found myself and lost myself repeatedly. I do not have regrets regarding my marraige, other than the fact that it ended. It was almost ten years of happiness and growth. Unfortunately that growth took B Daddy and I different places. In fact, I do not even know where B Daddy calls home these days. Perhaps that is for the best, although it seems odd that I spent nine years knowing exactly where we wanted to be by now, and now we do not communicate at all. Maybe we did not really communicate even then. Marriages die for a reason, even if I cannot find it.

Currently I call Grand Junction, Colorado home. I have been back here since 2018, and my life is nothing like it was in 2008 when I left. I have become a homebody. A stick in the mud. I have only met up with one person from my past, although I have run into a few more. I could not tell you what bars exist here anymore, with the exception of the one that two of my spawn co-manage. Where bowling was once a huge part of my life, I have only set foot in the bowling alley once since I returned, and that was because my place of employment held our Christmas party there. The town has grown, but it still has a small town feel, and I am out of place here.

I miss my friends. And yet they are within a few miles, less than a ten minute drive. I still do not see them. If there was one thing that has changed about me since the text, it would be my self confidence. My health has taken a turn in the years since I left my life in Virginia. It has changed my looks, it has changed my energy, it has changed my confidence. It has changed me.

My heath has also caused me to reevaluate my career. I am currently happily employed working in public health. It is not a permanent situation, because I work in pandemic response, and God willing, we will not be in a pandemic forever. I love my job, as stressful as it can be, it only takes one patient/case to make me realize how much my work means to the community. I have never had that before. I mean, yes, there was always an alcoholic that was thankful that I kept the bar open an extra hour, but obviously, that is not the same.

I do not know where I am going with this blog. If you read it in the past, you know that I had a clear vision. I was going to finish the alphabet, at the very least. Now, I am going to write when I want, and about what I want, and see where it goes. Feel free to join me on this journey to find out where this road goes.

Until then my friends…

The Birth of A Verbal Assassin…

This is the first in a series of papers that I have been writing for school.  For my English class, I was required to write a paper about a positive change in my life.  For me, it was this, my blog; it was you, my readers; it was my voice.

 

The Birth of a Verbal Assassin

            It was a day like any other.  For most people.  For me, it would be remembered as the day that it all changed.  I grew up as a daydreamer.  My parents would tell me I was lazy.  My teacher’s would say I had potential, if only I would use it.  I would stare blankly, letting their words bounce off my invisible force field, never reaching their target.  While they were diagnosing me, I was writing my stories in my head, page after page, book after book.

It took me years for my stories to make it out of my head, and onto paper.  I started small, a creative writing essay, maybe a poem here and there.  When I was in grade school, my stories would always have a big star on them when they were handed back by the teacher.  Once I got into middle school, my teachers would look at punctuation and dangling thingies, by high school, my stories came back with more criticism than praise.  The final straw didn’t come until college.

As a college freshman, I was so excited to see creative writing offered as part of the curriculum.  I thought I was finally at a point where my stories would be praised and revered and quoted and used as examples of excellence to the students that came after me.  I knew I was a literary genius, and finally, someone else would realize it too.  I could hardly wait until our first assignment.  Little did I know how wrong, and right, I would be.

The year was 1993.  The home computer was in its infancy.  College papers were either hand written or composed on a typewriter.  If you were lucky, maybe even a word processor.  Mine were written on a typewriter, and not even an automatic one.  Since was the going to be the paper of all time, I was careful.  I typed slowly, determined not to mar my genius with correction fluid.  I labored for days to make it perfect.  I read, reread and read some more.  Finally, after a week, I was ready.  It was time to turn the masterpiece in.

At the time, it seemed like months before the papers were graded and returned.  I was probably closer to two or three days.  It didn’t matter, because when I got it back, time stood still.  A “D”.  I got a “D”?  The hastily scribbled note from my professor read “Poorly written, terrible content, be thankful accountants don’t need imagination.”  My eyes teared instantly.  I was devastated.  Were my parents and teachers right in the beginning?

I would get the answer almost a decade later.  They were wrong.  And so was that English professor.  But I wasn’t angry, because thanks to that professor, I would launch my dream, in the form of a blog, The Verbal Assassin.  I developed a sharp tongue, a sharper wit, and my voice.  My voice, my rules.  As a parent, I should say the best moment of my life was when I held  my first child.  Yeah.  Whatever.  I love my kids, but eventually, they will grow up and they will find their own voices.  Not the Verbal Assassin.  That was mine.  It will always be mine.  I give it life, I make it breathe.  I am its voice.

That is my legacy.  I learned to write for me, the real me, not the person my instructors thought I should be, but the person that I actually am.  And nobody can grade that.

 

 

The Verbal Assassin and The Bus Monitor…

The following is my opinion.  You are not required to share it.  Heck, you are not even required to keep reading.

I am sure everyone has read the recent drama, involving a 68 year old bus monitor, and several middle school students.  If you don’t know what I am talking about, simply Google it, or do a search on YouTube.

The upshot is this.  A 68 year old woman in Greece, NY was working as a bus monitor, when a group of middle schoolers were taped harassing her.  The students called her fat, called her names, and even poked at her.  The video has been viewed by almost as many people who watched Tommy Lee and Pam’s home movies.  Once the video went viral, a fund was set up for her, with the intent that she get a good vacation.

Did I donate?  Nope.  Do I have anything against anyone who did?  Nope.  Do I have an opinion on this?  Natch!

First of all, let me say that the little brats involved would not have lasted 3 days in my household.  Because once I found out that one of my spawn had behaved this way, the outcome would have been different.  Basically, once my son (or daughter) woke up from the withinaninchofyourlife beating that he or she received, said spawn would then be required to sit next to the bus monitor for the rest of his or her school career.  Yes, my child would be that bus monitor’s bitch.

That part of my opinion always gets cheers.  The next part, not so much.

This video did not sicken me.  It did not make me feel horrible for that bus monitor.  It made me angry.  It made me angry that children would behave that way.  It made me angry that not one child on that bus stepped in.  It made me angry that the bus driver didn’t notice what was happening.  And it made me VERY angry that the bus monitor just sat there, and let it continue.

Yes, I said it.  I place some blame on the poor, elderly bus lady.

I don’t need to justify why I am a cold hearted bitch, but I will anyway.

To save time, the role of our bus monitor will be referred to as BM.  The children will be playing the role of LB (Little Bastards).

First of all, BM had been a school bus driver for 20 years.  She has been a bus monitor for 3 years.  You do not have to have been around teenagers for more than an hour to realize that, with the rise of child abuse laws, and political correctness, teenagers these days are little shits.  Not every one of them, but the majority of them.  This was not BM’s first rodeo.  She had been driving a bus back when the Columbine tragedy occurred.  She had been driving a bus during an unfortunate era, one that has seen the rise of self importance, and the decline of, well, most things.

I understand that BM is 68 years old.  She works part time.  She is, for all intents and purposes, a public servant, which means she is also underpaid.

But (and I know you were waiting for that), she WAS paid.  She was paid a crappy salary to do a crappy job.  And at that, I feel that she failed.  She did not do her job. Which was to get up, have the driver stop the bus and make the LBs call their parents and explain why they needed a ride home.

For those of you still reading, those who have not indignantly scrolled to the end to leave an undoubtedly nasty comment, I shall explain.

It is always easier to play armchair quarterback, Monday morning quarterback, whatever you would like to call it.  It is much easier for me to say “If it had been me…”.  Maybe BM felt safer just sitting silently.  Oh, wait, she didn’t do that either.  In the video, you can see where she plays in to the LBs, thus dragging it out.  And then one of the LBs actually pokes at her. What the hell?  Once one person has touched another person, in an unwanted manner, that is ASSAULT.  Period.  And STILL she let it go on.  She failed to do her job.  Which, in part, was to prevent or stop such behavior.

Then there is the ‘vacation fund’ set up for her.  Does she deserve it?  I don’t know, that is not for me to decide.  Nor is it any of my business.  It is not MY money, and if everyone out there wants to give her THEIR money, yay for them.

Here is why I did not, and will not donate.  What happened was unfortunate.  It never should have happened.  Even more unfortunate is the fact that it has happened before, and it will happen again.  Heck, it is probably happening as I type, and as you read.  The cries of outrage sicken me more than the act itself.  Every day, someone is bullied and someone is bullying.  Why are we all shocked and sickened over this one incident?  Because she is an elderly woman?  So what.  And by so what, I mean so what?  Does her age make bullying worse?  At what age is it OK to be bullied?  At what age is it better or worse?  I am almost 43, and I still get bullied at my age.  Is it OK for me to be bullied because I am too old for the kids menu, but too young for the seniors menu?

What the LBs did was inexcusable (or if you are the school district where it happened, it is uninexcusable).  Should they be held accountable?  Ab-so-fucking-lutely.  They should be taken to the nearest senior center and sat down with a large stack of bed pans to wash.  Should I give my money to BM because someone was not nice to her today?  Maybe.  But I am not going to.

Bullying is a disgusting part of life.  It should not exist.  But it does.  And let us all be honest, it always will exist.  As long as there are differences in age, sex, class, salary, social standing or anything else, there will be a form of bullying.

I really wish, to the center of my heart, that this was an isolated incident.  But it wasn’t.  It wasn’t the first time.  We know that because we already have thousands of anti-bullying campaigns going on around the nation.

It wasn’t the last.  We know that because we already have thousands of anti-bullying campaigns going on around the nation…

The Oatmeal and The Army…

I have always said that I have seen and heard it all. That nothing could amaze me anymore. Surprisingly, I was wrong. Even more surprisingly, the source of my amazement came in the form of an attorney, and a Sergeant Major.

Let’s start with the attorney, but to do that, let me first introduce the players. We start with Matt Inman, the creator and artist behind The Oatmeal, mix in a little FunnyJunk, stir in the possibility of a lawsuit, and viola! What you end up with is a Kool-Aid that tastes good, and is very entertaining. I highly recommend you head to Popehat, and read Part I, Part II, Part III, and finally, Part IV.

If you are still reading this, you have had a giggle or two at The Oatmeal’s response, you have been amazed at the amount of money that the Bear Love Good, Cancer Bad campaign has raised, and you have been floored by the reaction of the potential plaintiff’s attorney.

This has been a learning experience for me. I have learned that not all lawyer-at-the-bottom-of-the-sea jokes are that far off base. I have learned that, contrary to every history class I have ever taken, apparently Walt Disney was the root cause of World War II.  I have also learned that no matter how hard you try, sometimes douchebaggery trumps philanthropy. Hopefully, that last thing is a lesson short lived. So far, Indiegogo is standing behind The Oatmeal and not removing the fundraiser like opposing counsel had requested.

Carry on Matt, may your Oatmeal will continue to feed us, long after the dust settles.

As promised, there is the Army…

Recently, the new Sergeant Major of the Army released the proposed changes to the Army’s grooming standards.  Some of the changes are common sense. Women can’t have talons on their fingers. Soldiers cannot have mutton chops. Blue and green hair is out of the question. Want to gauge your ears in the Army? Too bad. Don’t even get me started on the proposed regulation that would prevent soldiers from growing any facial hair, even while on leave. B Daddy has a very strict no shave policy while on leave.

And then there are tattoos.

Let me get this out of the way by saying, yes, joining the Army is voluntary. Yes, it is an employer and there are rules. If the SMA wants a regulation stating tattoos cannot be visible while in uniform, okey doke.

HOWEVER.

To The Army Times, SMA Chandler made the following comment. “…the Army says you are part of the same organization. We all generally look the same. And we do not want you to stand out from the rest of the Army.” Really? While he does go on to say “Yes, we want you to set yourself apart and do great things and so on, but that does not mean tattooing yourself or doing other extreme things that draw attention to you, the individual”, it is a sentiment that I disagree with.

Let me take on the role of conspiracy theorist for a minute. It may start with tattoos, but where does it end? Why should we stop there? Let’s have a cookie cutter army. Let’s have Hitler’s blond hair, blue eyed army. Wait, if we are going to have them all identical, then we can do away with promotions and awards. No more ASVAB tests, because everyone is the same. No more performance evaluations. Wait. Will the women be gone? Or will they get their own army of cookie cutters?

I know that I sound extreme. And I am sure most people think it is simply because I have so many of my own tattoos. But it isn’t. I am not in the Army. And when I start a new job, they either hire me with the tattoos, or they don’t. However if they DO hire me, and I excel at my job, I don’t expect to have to defend being the person that they hired in the first place.

Basically, the Army opened the door. They let people in with tattoos. They held the door open as soldiers got tattoos after they joined. I just don’t see how the Army will be able to close the door at this point.

Let me close with one last rant. As an Army wife, there are a few things that people say that completely irritate me, and unfortunately, SMA Chandler said one of those things. In his Army Times interview, he said “You chose to join the Army, …The Army didn’t choose to join you.” To me, that is just another way of saying “Just suck it…”

Maybe I should just get The Oatmeal to cartoon my response. Or maybe I should ask that wonderful attorney to sue for me. Better yet, maybe I should just grab my husband and go check out our new counter tops… Yeah. I pick that one too.

Plz Read Mai Blog. K? Thx. Bai.

Today I was at the local shoppette, waiting in line and browsing the magazines to see if Brangelina was adopting a 73rd baby, and lo and behold, there was a book that caught my eye. TXT-pedia – Your Guide to Understanding Texting – Guaranteed to Help You Send a 300 Word Text in 100 Characters or Less.

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 http://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!

Rank, Schmank, Spank…

Let me start by saying that I show B Daddy’s superiors respect. But only because I give everyone that same courtesy when I first meet them. I give them the benefit of the doubt and respect.

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…

The Frustrations of an Assassin…

It has been one hell of a year. The deployment. The grandbaby. The son in law. The job. The business. The friends.

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.

The ABCs of Being an Army Wife… R

Redeployment. It is supposed to be a wonderful, happy occasion. I will let you know. Because I have not yet had the pleasure of holding up my bedazzled sign for B Daddy.

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…

How Are We Related…

…Let me count the ways…

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.