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!

Standing out

I am a pretty happy person. I tend to be optimistic, although realistic, about life in general. As such, a few weeks prior to my deployment I started to get my head in the right place. Thinking about all the good things and postivie things that were going to come from this experience. One of those things, which may seem minor to some, is that I got to be away from any children for a full 6 months. That has been great. Love it.

However, being someplace without any children has one drawback that I never saw comming. When I (meaning me in particular) am someplace where there are no children, I become the smallest thing walking around the joint. When I first got here, people would stare and laugh and I didn't quite understand why. I was very self-concious. Was my reflective belt on wrong? Did my PT shose have too much pink in them? Am I walking crooked? I had no idea what was wrong and I was none too happy about it.

Then a few days ago I was standing by a sink, washing my hands, and two army women were standing next to me. I hear the all too familiar giggling and one of them say "No, don't say anything to her!" and the other, much to the dismay of her friend says to me, "I am sooo sorry to stare, but I just have to ask...how short are you?" So that's it. Got it. "4 feet 9 inches." I smile as I walk away listening to the "Oh my god" and "Wow!" as I go.

Since then, many more people than I ever really imagined would even care have acutally stopped staring long enough to ask me the same question. I am not sure why they all have asked me how "short" I am as opposed to how "tall" I am. It used to be "tall". Maybe it is an army thing. I don't think anyone in the Air Force has asked yet. I have gotten pretty good at deciphering when people are laughing at me as opposed to just laughing in general when I walk by. Sometimes I will just say "4 foot 9" as I am walking and I will hear the table of 4, 5, or 6 people bust up laughing with "Damn! She heard you!" or whatever else they might be saying.

I have always had a pretty good sense of humor about my height. It's good to know they are staring at me because I am short and it wasn't that my reflective belt was all askew or something tragic like that.

Hashimoto's

If you are like me, you probably thought that Hashimoto's was just was me misspelling an atomic bomb location in Japan. However, it is not. Hashimoto's is an auto-immune disorder. Named for the physician who first discovered it. From my readings (as a non-medical professional), an autoimmune disorder is when your body turns on itself. Your immune system attacks an otherwise healthy organ (or something) as if it is an enemy and tries to destroy it. In the case of Hashimoto's, your body's organ of choice is your thyroid.

Hashimoto's itself does not cause symptoms. What causes symptoms is the destruction of your thyroid. As your thyroid is being attacked it's function slows down, and your symptoms are those of a thyroid which can no longer function effectively because it has come under attack (it is a losing fight). THOSE symptoms sucks socks.

For years I figured these symptoms were just a fluke and would go away on their own eventually. Maybe if I changed my diet and exercised more, life would improve. After all, that is the answer to everything now a days, right? Diet and exercise. I gave it a shot. For several years. I began to think, maybe if I step out of my house with the right foot instead of my left foot every morning, things would improve (A joke, people. Come on.). Sometimes, as is the case with Hashimoto's, my thyroid would kick into gear and I would drop weight suddenly and my hair would stop falling out, and my need to sleep during the day finally went away and I would think FINALLY the exercise and fewer calories are starting to work! Then, just as suddenly as it came on, it would go away. I knew I wasn't doing anything differently. Still, I blamed myself. Where else could I look to blame, right?

When I was first told that I had this I figured no big deal. I was grateful that my provider was astute enough to actually LOOK for it and run a test specifically for Hashimoto's (none of which I knew she did until I had an appointment to go over the results). If nothing else, I felt somewhat validated because it put a real reason why all my working out and eating less had not resulted in weight loss (and actually I gained weight. A LOT OF IT). She put me on medication and I fully expected my life (and my weight) would just return to normal. Boy was I wrong.

You would not believe all the things your thyroid does. It plays a significant role in several of your body's functions. Your metabolism (and not in a good way as explained above), your body temperature (unless you really enjoy being cold all the time, this is not in a good way either), your energy level (unless you really didn't have anything better to do during the day than sleep because you just can't stay awake, this one pretty much sucks too). And several other things that simply cause vanity woes (pale skin, hair falling out, eyebrows fall out, etc.). From what I have read, many people suffer from depression with this as well. I am NOT one of those unlucky ones. Don't get me wrong, I am fat, cold, uncomfortable and sleepy all the time, but I am still a happy person. I swear I am!

I am not an activist, or a commiserative person, really. I think I just needed to write it out. Now that I am about 7 months into this, and the reality that my symptoms may never go away, I am angry about it. Not angry about LIFE, just about Hashimoto's.

I am leaving for deployment in the next couple of weeks and when I get back, I am going to try an alternative, homeopathic medication, to see if I can get symptom relief. I am really looking forward to giving it a shot. Of course, I am an optimist anyway, so I always think the 'next' thing I try is going to work. I have faith!! This time, it is going to work! It IS going to work...right?

Crime and punishment

Getting a ticket sucks. Based on that statement, you would think that I am about to gripe about having just gotten a ticket. However, I am not. I didn't get a ticket. Didn't even get pulled over.

But Eric and I were driving down the highway and saw some poor guy who did get pulled over and it got me thinking. I am sure that what I am about to talk about is not a new thought. It is probably as old as getting tickets themselves, but I am a little slower than the average bear so I am just now putting two and two together.

The punishment for getting a ticket does not fit the crime. Not even close. The punishment for getting a ticket is so much worse than the 'crime' of speeding that I cannot believe that they are still allowed to hand out such punishments willy-nilly.

Think about this for a moment. You are driving down a road where the speed limit is 60. You are cruising along at, say 69 MPH. Criminal! Yes, here in NC they will pull you over in a heartbeat for going 5-10 MPH over the speed limit. You look in your rear view mirror and see those dastardly blue lights. Which might actually be pretty if it weren't for the message they are giving you.

You give the trooper your best plea for mercy. "But officer, my dog bit me and I have ice cream in the back seat and I lost my job and had a fight with my husband and the economy has me stressed and Kagen is now on the Supreme Court and it made me sleep late this morning and I couldn't get to Starbucks before 7am..." All this pleading because you were going 9 MPH over the speed limit. You criminal.

But do you know WHY you are pleading? You are pleading with the probably really hot, but effin' heartless trooper because you know you are going to PAY for this ticket. You are going to pay dearly. The ticket you are now holding in your pissed off little digits is going to haunt you. FOR YEARS.

You will not only be paying well over $100 dollars for the ticket itself, but you will likely decide to go to court to try and get the ticket thrown out. Maybe the cop wont show up! Yeah! No WAY he'll show up! Guess what? He doesn't have to show up. Now you don't just have to pay for the ticket but you have to pay for court costs too. Now your cost is up to $224. Sigh. But wait...there's more...about 3 months later, when you have forgotten that you even got pulled over, you get a notice from your insurance company that your rates are going up by 25% because you were speeding. For the next 3 years. It would have been 35% but since you were doing less than 10 MPH over the speed limit they are going to cut you a break. Oh THANK YOU dear insurance company!

So, for going 9 MPH over the speed limit, when you figure in all the costs to include the increase in your insurance premiums, you are out well over $1000 dollars and on probation for 3 years. And that ticket stays on your record and follows you around for countless years afterwards.

Penalty for possession of 1 ounce of marijuana in the state of Colorado: "One ounce or less is a petty offense that requires a court appearance but with no incarceration and a maximum fine of $100."

How does that feel, you criminal?

Am I the problem?

I don't drink alcohol. It isn't some religious extremist declaration or anything. I don't like the smell of it, I don't like the taste of it, and most importantly my system doesn't react well to it. And not in a that's-what-happens-when-you-drink-too-much way, smart asses. I get very ill from very small amounts. As in, less than half a glass small.

With that in mind, it should be no surprise that it is only on the rare occasion that I buy alcohol either. My fiance Eric, on the other hand, has a passion for the hops. His taste in brew is as eclectic and far reaching as pallet of the most passionate wine connoisseur. Or, like I am with steak. :)

While Eric is deployed, he doesn't get to drink at all. So when he is just about to come home, I like to make sure he has a little somethin' somethin' in his fridge. I stock him up on the diet Dr. Pepper, make sure the tank on the gas grill is full, and I buy at least a little of one of the beer's that he likes.

So I go to Target today. And, surprise surprise, they happen to have the beer I was looking for on their shelves! Bonus! So I go up to the register with my milk, bread, liquid plumber and the beer. The cashier looks at it and says "Is that alcohol?". I say yes it is. And I get momentarily excited because I think this is going to be a you-look-too-young-to-buy-liquor conversation. However, my mood quickly heads south when she says to me "Blue Law". I didn't understand what she said so I asked her to repeat it. Again, she says "Blue Law". I am standing there, clueless, and she apparently picked up on my confusion. She says to me "You must not be from North Carolina. It is against the law to sell alcohol to anyone before 2pm on Sundays." I was shocked. I am standing there with my mouth open, feeling like some derelict, raging alcoholic, who was trying to pull a fast one in defiance of some right-wing religious extremist North Carolina law. Trust me, that is exactly the look she was giving me, too. Poor little raging alcoholic. So addicted to the poison that she has to have it before 2pm on a Sunday. Tsk tsk tsk.

Of all the people in the world to make that mistake, it has to be me, right? The one freakin' person in this state who never drinks anything, never buys alcohol, and generally speaking really can't stand people who do, I am the one who gets busted, and subsequently denied, trying to buy it.

What's worse is I actually FELT embarrassed and ashamed! Then I was pissed off at myself for feeling like that! I don't have anything to be ashamed about! All I wanted to do was buy something special for my fiance who is coming back from the war and deserves to have it waiting for him when he gets home! Am I wrong, here? Is it just me who feels like the fact that a law like that even exists is just effin' stupid?

Try this one, North Carolina (and any other effin' state that has the same kind of stupid law), if a person wants to drink themselves to death before 2pm on a Sunday, it ain't up to you to save 'em. Let Darwin take care of their liver damaged sorry asses. But don't tell me when I can and can't buy alcohol.

The Dream of Independence

For my entire life I have worked. I have worked FOR someone since I was 12 years old. Forever dependent on someone else to pay my salary so that I can live in the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed. And love my life, I do.

I grew up with a father who was determined to be his own boss. As someone who worked for him, I saw the struggles which never seemed to end. I did the bookkeeping for his plastics/decorating business starting when I was, as I said earlier, 12 years old. Even at that young age, I had a grasp on how hard it was for him to make ends meet. His business was a tough one. His product didn't sell itself by any stretch of the imagination. It was a constant struggle for sales. Cold calls, long hours, zero benefit. As a result, I always swore I would never go into business for myself. I knew very early on that I was NOT a salesman. I knew that I could never work at a job that was straight commission. Hell, I didn't even want to work in a job that was PART commission. I have a fear of being without a paycheck. As such, I had sort of resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to be someone else's bitch for the rest of my life. Good enough. Or was it?

The older I get, the more I realize that working FOR someone sucks. A lot. I have always been independent, and I resent the fact that I am dependent on someone else for my money.

A couple of years ago I made a decision that once I am out of the military I will never work for anyone again. I (we) will own our own business, be it a franchise or something else. It has changed my perspective. Sometimes, when I am having a lousy day at work, and I think about throwing in the military towel, I remember my promise to myself never to work for anyone again. It makes me smile, but it also keeps me grounded. I can't just leave the military because I can't afford to (resentment enters here). I will not do it until I can fulfill the promise to myself to never work for someone else again. But it is going to take nine more years until I will be able to get out with a full retirement and benefits for the rest of my life. THEN, when I buy our franchise or whatever else it may be, and I fail miserably, I will still have a paycheck to fall back on. But I won't be dependent on someone else. Ever again.