Category: Army Wife

Break My Stuff, Before You Go-Go

Our household goods arrived yesterday, which sounds like it could be a good thing. It was getting tiresome, sitting on a mattress on the floor, to watch tv. And my washer and dryer are back, so laundry can happen in-house again, which (believe me) is exciting.

Of course now there are so many boxes, we can barely navigate our way through this house, which is feeling smaller by the second. I was getting sassier and sassier, as Justin kept reminding me, “you keep saying it’ll be fine; it’s only 11 months.”

And then, upon finding the 3rd broken item, I lost my cool. And had an epic blowup tantrum.

“YEAH! Join the army! We’ll take care of you. Give us 20 years and we’ll force you to move and break all your shit! You should be grateful that we’ve only broken half your shit! Maybe next time we can break more!!!!!!”

Justin calmly stood there and didn’t once tell me to calm down or stop swearing, which I appreciate. When I was finished freaking out, he said, “but nothing in the kitchen was broken, right??”

I guess some packing person needs a gold star for successfully packing plates without breaking any. Heck, they stole (or lost) most of our silverware during the last move, so Justin didn’t even trust them with our spoons this time. He was taking no chances.

Honestly, every move we trust them with less and less…which is kind of how we ended up in the “too much stuff and not enough uhaul” situation.

When I told him he needs to find the brackets for the kids’ shelves, so I can bolt them to the walls, he whispered, “but you didn’t fill out the paperwork to drill holes in the walls yet.” We’re paying ____ a month for a shoebox! I don’t give a shit about their stupid paperwork! “Actually Sammi, it’s [more].”

You aren’t helping!!!!!!

Justin also informed me that there is a spouse briefing at the exact same time as the open house for the middle school, which seems like terrible planning on this stupid, stupid school’s part (it might not be stupid. I might just be feeling angsty still). So guess who won’t be going to the spouse brief. This is how I get a reputation for being “standoffish.” I guess today won’t be the day I learn how to properly curtsy to officer wives, or pour tea and serve crumpets. Or whatever they expect me to do. Guess what—I’m not in the army, ya bunch of crusty butts.

:::Deep breath:::

So, this morning I am quietly sitting in my “living room” that barely fits my couch, drinking my coffee and listening to the traffic noises from the highway outside our “house.” I’m once again trying to channel Bob Marley, convincing myself that “every little thing, is gonna be alright.” And maybe we’re done finding broken items. And maybe all we have to do at this point is figure out how to get everything to fit.

Things Gone Wrong: Let Me Count the Ways…

Ok, so the drive here wasn’t the best. But surely things can only get better, right??

Wrong.

1am Sunday night, Justin texts me from his hotel room: housing needs shot records, rabies certificates, photos, and also they need to be registered—where exactly, nobody knows. Monday morning I was calling the vet asking for everything we needed, and thankfully our Georgia vet was amazing. Justin said “tasteful photos, please.” So…like…

Next: The Unpacking of the Truck. All was well until I said, “let’s put the gym rack in the middle of the garage for now.” Then we pulled out the 5’ tall paper cupboard. I then stepped backward, tripped over the rack, fell on my whole ass, and the paper cupboard landed on top of me…

…is what Justin wants you to think happened. I’m pretty sure he used some kind of mind powers to move the rack into my way, and then he threw the cabinet on top of me.

But also, as I lay there, laughing and dying, he did quickly pull the cabinet off me. While I whined, “no please. Just put it back and let me die here.” He wouldn’t—probably because he still needed my help getting the last few items out of the truck. I have bruises galore to prove that moving is not for the faint of heart.

We’re in lower enlisted housing, which is not the end of the world, apart from the fact that we pay a lot more “rent” than our neighbors, and we’re a good 10-20 years older than everyone living here. But, it’s all they had available, and it’s only a year. The house has lots of storage space, but we could do with a bit more living space. Again, it is what it is, and it’s only a year.

We went from a 3/4 acre back yard, to this. The dogs looked at me like it was obviously some kind of joke.

From there, we returned the truck, which seemed like a way bigger event than it needed to be.

Quick trip to grab items we needed, like trash cans, towels, soap—items that got tossed in The Purge.

Monday afternoon we went to the Commissary. It was meant to be a quick trip, for “just the essentials.” $300 and 60 varieties of beverages later, we determined that it is not smart to shop thirsty and sleep-drunk.

Tuesday we ran to the post office to pick up our mail key. The postman informed us that the previous tenants didn’t return the mail keys, so we would have to wait 7-10 business days for them to come out and re-key the box. Let’s go ahead and add it to the “things going well” list.

I figured out where to register the dogs, and that was relatively painless. Although, while waiting I listened to a Baby Soldier tell and Old Crusty Soldier that he and his wife keep their dogs locked up outside all day. OCS: “you realize we are in Texas and it is way to hot for that.” BS: “nah, they love it. Even my husky! Besides, we have great AC, so they can cook off when they come in.” FYI: it’s gotten up over 110° nearly every day we’ve been here.

We went to multiple stores, in search of bar stools, since we have no furniture until the 26th and have been using a mattress as a bed/couch/lounge area. No luck finding stools, so we decided to go to Walmart to pick up a sunshade for my van (because, over 110°), and possibly stools?

We settled on folding chairs and a table, and went to grab a sunshade……and the power went out. We were now in the back corner of a very dark and terrifying Walmart.

Honestly, there comes a point where you just start laughing at all of this. How in the world can this much keep going wrong? This is some kind of joke, correct??

Wednesday we looked up the address for the on-post laundromat, since we hadn’t done laundry in over a week. After driving around for 30 minutes, We found the correct building, only to find it was abandoned. I called the housing office to ask for the correct location: “oh, there hasn’t been a laundromat on post in years.” Then why is it listed in the directory!?!?

Thursday, Justin said, “how long is it supposed to take for the freezer to make ice?” I told him maybe we were using it faster than it was being made, but I did point out that the cabinet next to the fridge was extremely water damaged. By yesterday morning it was obvious that the ice maker was sounding like it was filling, but no ice was being made. Maintenance was called, and thankfully showed up within a few hours. The hose had come undone, the pipe had frozen, and now all should be well in the world.

Perhaps things are turning around, but honestly, Justin and I are very much laughing at how comical everything has become. Every time something goes sideways, Justin says, “do we put this on the list??”

Absolutely.

So far, this move easily ranks number one on the Worst Moves Ever list. If it continues like this, I can only assume the movers will arrive Tuesday with a truck full of broken everything.

BUT…I’m staying positive. It’s fine. We’re fine. It’s only a year. And it’s adding a whole new level of comedy to our lives. And, there was a lizard in our yard Wednesday. So maybe my Alabama Amphibians sent word that I’m cool.

Gather round, so he can tell you all about how awesome I am…in the amphibian community.

Moving Right Along

I don’t like moving. I know there are some military spouses that get “the itch,” but the only itch I have are my red ant bites.

Let the record show that I am not usually around for the move-out portion of any relocation. I typically pack up and run away. But no matter how many times I said, “Justin! I have grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle that requires I not participate in this,” he has only rolled his eyes and told me I’m spoiled.

It’s true. I won’t deny it.

Yesterday, after a thoroughly restless night of making and checking off lists in my head, I took my van in for an oil change. After signing the paperwork, I grabbed my keys and the dealership’s copies and headed out. “Ma’am. Those are my copies.” Of course they are—why would you make me sign papers meant for me.

From there, I headed to my next stop on my whirlwind tour of errands: the UPS store. I parked and looked at the store front, thinking, “why would the UPS store have tv moving boxes? Why did Justin want me to stop here??”

Oh yeah, just kidding—I was supposed to go to the UHaul store. So, off I went, to my actual stop on my tour.

While purchasing the magical tv box of transportation, I got a text from Justin, about an issue with our truck reservation. I paid for my box, thanked the lady, and walked out….all the way across a giant parking lot to my van…where I realized—I didn’t actually take the box. I turned around and the tiny cashier was chasing after me with the massive tv box. I have Moving Mush Brain.

Also, I’m beginning to wonder how Justin always does this by himself. I’m supposed to be the one with anxiety who freaks out about these things, but this man is in full panic mode.

Also also, I miss Bruce. So no less than 10 times a day I ask, “we made the right decision, didn’t we?” “Yes Sammi. He couldn’t breathe. You know that.” I do. But he’s been my travel companion on these adventures since just before I turned 24. He’s always been my copilot, and now the front seat will be empty (because I still won’t let my kids sit in the front seat, and Rufus & Emma are way too squirrelly to be up front. I don’t need a 75lb dog trying to sit in my lap while I drive).

See how well Rufus fits in my lap? I could totally drive like this…….

This is the point in moving where I just want to be driving to my next location. Let’s get this party started! 20 hours to El Paso, baby….except….we still have 3 more days of “prep.” I’m accustomed to a certain lifestyle! One that requires I not deal with any of this.

See?? Spoiled.

Grandma Got The Covid From Her Grandkids

True confessions: I hate that “Grandma got run over by a reindeer” song. It’s obnoxious. However, if people continue to be selfish, we’ll get a whole new parody, Covid-style.

What I am really having a hard time with, is the fact that a majority of these people have never missed a single family holiday get-together. So, as a person who hasn’t had Thanksgiving with family (beyond my husband and kids) since 2014, I am here to tell you, you will survive.

In 15 years, Justin and I have made it home for one Thanksgiving, back in 2006, before our wedding. In 15 years, we have made it home for 7 Christmases (ok, I managed to make it home for 10, but Justin doesn’t always have the luxury of just flying home). Ask any military family, and they can attest: you will survive.

And maybe you’re in the mindset, “it won’t get me.” Well, that is great for you, and I’m proud of your ability to stay positive…or, negative?? Either way, how much of a jerk will you feel like, if your need to spend the holidays with your relatives, ends up with a senior member of your family sick, or worse, dead? Will it have been worth it??

So, this holiday season, since so many people out there love to throw around the phrase “support our troops,” let’s play a game. Let’s all pretend we’re too far away to make it home for Thanksgiving, or Christmas. Let’s act like the soldiers stationed overseas, who don’t have the luxury of selfishly asking, “should I risk killing grandma??” We can all play soldier and spend one holiday season away from our immunocompromised relatives. If hundreds of thousands of military families stationed around the globe can do it year after year, I’m pretty sure you can suffer through this one.

Choose Your Own Adventure

Wednesday morning—yeah, Veteran’s Day—Justin checked his email on his work phone. “Well, I guess they didn’t accept my request to stay here. I just got an email that I need to rank my options for our next duty station.”

Another “choose your own adventure?!” But I thought this was the final adventure!?

I spent the past 48 hours going through the stages of grief: Denial and anger were obvious, and expected. The bargaining stage was…unexpected.

“Justin? What if you have a profile? They can’t PCS you if you’re injured, right?? So…who do you know that could sham a profile long enough for us to stay here until you can drop your retirement packet??”

This is when I get the you’re being ridiculous look. “Sammi. I can’t do that.”

“Ok, but what if I break your kneecaps?? Or maybe one…what injury could you stumble upon that would be enough to keep us here, but not bad enough to cause permanent damage…what about that shoulder of yours? What about that hamstring tear—is that something we could reenact??”

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and while it really isn’t that desperate, I’m being a big whiny baby. I don’t want to move. I feel like we just got here. Can’t we shout COVID and just stay here long enough to retire from here?

Of course not.

An army wife friend of mine shared this last week. And I almost spit my coffee everywhere.

This morning, Justin texted me to notify me that he had ranked his job options from 1 to 50. The top two would keep us here (yey). Then there are some university gigs: Alabama, Montana, Pennsylvania. This chapter of the adventure book is somewhat new, since Justin usually gets three options to choose from. Ranking 50 jobs and then holding your breath while duty stations fight over you? This is new. Or do you rank your jobs and then battle the other soldiers who chose that same duty station. Is this when Justin can put his combatives skills to the test? Is this like a Pokémon battle, Army duty station style? Fort Carson! I choose YOU (just kidding—everyone wants Fort Carson)!

As every soldier or spouse knows, nothing is set in stone until orders are in hand and the movers are at your door.

In the meantime, Justin and I will be looking at houses in Tuscaloosa…for funsies.

And now we come to stage 5: acceptance. I might not love the idea of moving again, but if it has to happen, might as well suck it up and embrace it…eventually…around March…when we actually find out if and where we’re going.

Emphasis on the If, since we definitely did the unthinkable when we spent six years at Fort Knox.