Dear Abby

Yesterday I was reading the Dear Abby column in our local Stars and Stripes newspaper (which I enjoy reading when I am overseas) and while I will read it every day and 3 seconds after I am done with it the memory of the letters written are gone, yesterday's was different. I can't stop thinking about this letter.

A woman was writing in for some advice about her neighbors (on both sides of her home). The lots are tiny, separated by only the driveway and both sets of neighbors are smokers. They insist on throwing their cigarette butts into her yard. She has, until now, simply gone out with a trash bag and picked up the butts from her yard. I am thinking to myself as I am reading this, "Hell nah! You need to walk you ass over there and tell those nasty ass people to stop throwing their nasty ass butts into your yard!" The next part of her letter addresses my idea, although much less rudely. She said she had thought of saying something to them, but they are trouble makers and rather than stir up the pot, for the sake and safety of her two year old children who like to play in the front yard (and subsequently pick up cigarette butts and put them in their mouths which is where everything goes when you are two), she would rather not. The advice Dear Abby gave her was probably spot on. She told the writer (paraphrasing here) that she was smart not to confront the troublemaker neighbors. She needed to keep picking up the butts and just have her children play in the backyard with her keeping a close watch on them.

I was troubled by this on so many levels that I probably don't have the room to address all of it here. Now, normally I am a hard-ass when it comes to people popping out puppies that they can't afford to feed, clothe and shelter properly and safely. I am not really sure why I am feeling compassionate for this particular advice seeker. But I find her situation disheartening. To live in a place where you are forced to submit to the actions of others because you are too afraid for yourself and your family to ask that the people giving you issue refrain from doing so, must be just horrible. Her children can't go outside and play. I can't imagine what it would have been like as a child to not be allowed to go outside and play. My entire wonder-filled childhood memory bank is chock full of memories of me going off ALONE through the woods, the trails, or the streets and the shopping centers. Without fear. And I promise you that if my father even for one second feared for our safety he would never have allowed that wandering, or adventuring to take place. And we grew up dirt poor.

My very first home that I bought with my own money was a condo in what used to be a fairly upscale part of Ft Lauderdale called "Inverrary". Over the past several decades it went from owner-occupied condos to renters. Because renters generally bring down property values (people just don't care if they don't own it) in the majority of neighborhoods, my neighbors were no different. I was in my condo one day and some new renters (one of MANY horrible neighbors) had moved into the unit one floor below me. I would sit out on my terrace and smell the pot as it wafted upwards (i plead the 5th on my opinion of this particular item), but what really bothered me was their music. It was so loud it shook my condo constantly. All day and all night. I remember taking my bar stools that sat at my kitchen counter and slamming them on the floor (his ceiling) in the hopes that he would turn it down so I could sleep, but it never worked. Finally I got fed up one Saturday morning and I marched my ass down to his unit and banged on his door. He refused to answer so I banged and banged and finally kicked the door over and over again for close to an hour before he finally opened the door and said "WHAT??!!" Well, the guy that stood before me was about 6' 1", heroin thin, prison tattoos, and had gold teeth. I actually hesitated for a second, but my stubborn ass wasn't going to let this go after coming this far.

I proceeded to tell him that his f'n music and his f'n pot smoking were making my life miserable and if he didn't believe it that he needed to come up to my unit and listen to what it sounds like from there so he could see what the hell I was talking about. He told me he can't come up. I asked him why not and he proceeds to lift up the leg of his pants and show me the police monitor bracelet around his ankle. Charming. OK then. But after all that, he agreed to turn down his music. And he did it. I imagine that the ankle bracelet kept me sort of safe because he couldn't really come up and kill me in the middle of the night without risking the alarm going off at police headquarters, but still.

My point is, obviously you can't call the police on someone for throwing cigarette butts onto your lawn because that is just a waste of police resources. You can't just tell her to move because we all know in this day, it is just not always that simple. I suppose she could do what I did and risk the consequences of asking them to not throw their butts in her lawn any more. But if she or the neighbors come of as confrontational, she could be putting herself and her kids in danger. I don't know if I have any better advice than what Dear Abby gave her. But I do know that I feel for her and how horrible it must be to live in a bad situation day after day and never be able to find a way out. Very few people love their job so most people will look forward to coming home at night. They look to their home as a sanctuary and a break from their lives day to day. This woman doesn't have that. Going home is no better than going to work. Perhaps she tried and for her efforts she got stuck with lousy neighbors. I am pretty darn grateful that I am not in her situation today.

3 Lobsters In To a 12 Lobster Tour

I arrived to this deployment on "lobster night". I had just gotten done with 34 hours of air travel, zero sleep and the feeling of dried salt on my cheeks from the tears cried after leaving the love of my life for the next 6 months. It was exactly 30 nights ago tonight.

After going through the drama of getting into the compound of my deployed location, and believe you me, it is DRAMA, I was finally met by the guy I replaced (whom I knew from several previous assignments) and we picked up the key to my bunk and went off to chow. As we were walking along in the dark, with the tiny desert rocks crunching beneath our feet, he says to me, "You got here on a good night. It's lobster night." I wasn't really thinking too seriously about what he said, because I really didn't know my own name by that point, but as we walked into the DFAC (military for chow hall), sure enough, there were lobster tails steaming away behind the counter. Mashed potato's and corn ON the cob too. I grabbed me a plate. This was fan-fricken-tastic. I don't have so much as a RED lobster where I live, but here I am. With real lobster tails on my plate. Oh, and lest I forget...drawn butter. GAWD!

As we sit down and I am stuffing my face with rockin' lobster I ask if we eat this good all the time? He tells me that lobster night is every other Wednesday and has been since he got there. Awesome.

A part of me is almost ashamed to admit how happy I have been since I got here. The food is good (even if it is not lobster every night) and the salad fixin's are always fresh, I have a room where I sleep that is in a solid building, I work in a place that has afforded me the opportunity to work directly with people that I would otherwise NEVER have the opportunity to work with in my career, and tonight was lobster night, yet again. What more could anyone ask? I clearly have it better than most who are deployed. Hell, I even have it better than those poor Spam-eatin' cruise ship passengers who are currently stranded out in the middle of the ocean.

Time is pretty relative. I think everyone who is deployed, happy or not, counts down the days until they can be back with the people they love again. While I am not a clock-watcher per se, I count down too. There are several ways that military people tick off the days on their calenders. Modern technology has made this pretty easy. There are several Excell spreadsheets out there that do it for you. "The Donut Of Freedom" "The Donut of Misery", "The Circle Of Freedom" etc. They all count down the days you have served, the days you have remaining, and as each day goes by a circle with a picture emerges. My picture turns from a desloate desert to a white sandy beach with each day.

But tonight as I was chatting with my love, happily telling him that it was lobster night, he was supporitvely cheerful right along with me and told me that I was now 3 lobster nights in to at 12 lobster night tour. I like his countdown clock the best. Only 9 more lobster nights to go!