Just Another Snarky Navy Wife

A Short Documentary You Should See

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Fri, 04 Sep 2015 15:45:00 +0000

Watch this. Trust me.
The Next Part from Shoulder2ShoulderInc on Vimeo.

You can read about this awesome family here.

Dear Harlequin...

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Fri, 29 May 2015 01:56:00 +0000

I don't know what issue Harlequin has--that most romance publishers have--with tippy-tapping their keyboards to find out what even motherfucking Wikipedia might have to offer regarding uniform regulations, but I'm done.

I've seen good people, good authors, get handed shitty fucking covers on their military romances, and I've had it.

Wikipedia, industry. You can haz it.

Today, I saw this gem. It's fucking fantastic in so many ways. Yay, Harlequin!

But watch carefully. There are SO many party fouls going on with that uniform, Commander Joe Navy!

Oh, wait. He's not Navy. He's a Marine. This is a book trailer pimping this book:

This book, you guys. THIS MOTHERFUCKING BOOK.

Ms. Morgan, I'm sorry Harlequin fucked up your cover and what should have been a fantastic fucking book trailer. I'll be the first to admit I don't find anything sexy about being married to the military, but nobody deserves this. It's the equivalent of some yahoo in the art department putting a fucking electric pole in the background of your Western historical romance. That's just fucking wrong.

Everyone should read this book just to make it up to the author. And everyone should, meanwhile, mock Harlequin mercilessly for their inability to research military uniforms, like EVER.

Here, Harlequin's art department! Let me help you! Click This Link Right Here, Yes This One That Has Linky Colors On It Yes Right Here, Yes. Here. Yes. Good Job. Now get back to work fucking up more military romance covers because I will very much enjoy mocking you endlessly until you manage to get them right.

PS We also judge you when your editors don't catch wrong shit in the text, too. Just so you know.

When Milspouses Attack...

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Thu, 09 Apr 2015 18:23:00 +0000

Once upon a time, an author at SpouseBuzz wrote a tongue-in-cheek article, one of those kitschy and lighthearted "X reasons why" posts comparing the milkid experience to the First Kid experience.

And lo, the screechers lost their shit.

How dare you compare the White House to base housing?
How dare you compare PCS to the Obama kids' jetsetting?
How dare you compare my precious, speshul snowflakes to the kids of a man I hate because he's black and/or Democrat, though I will claim it's because he hates the military despite his downright charitable policies--compared to those of his predecessor--toward military families.

It says a lot when you know for a fact that, had the author compared milsprogs to Jenna and Barbara Bush, the response would have been cooing and "aw, cute article, though y'know, not really comparable."

But no. Once again, divisiveness and coddletwattery. Why?

Why?

This kind of response is why we can't have nice things. When combined with the professional bullies of the mil-community (those who sling the word "dependa" like a white Mississippi nonagenarian slings the n-word), we see why thee's a military-civilian divide.

How can we narrow that divide when we intentionally, purposefully, willfully create a divide within our own ranks? And when the civilian community sees this kind of Speshul Snowflake screeching and How Dare Thees and Thou Shalt Bow Before My Incomparable Martyrdoms, what impression do they come away with?

Wow, those military people sure are a bunch of self-important and entitled cockbags.

And you know what? I don't blame them. I don't blame them for clinging to their side of the divide between us. Who'd want to lean over and lend a hand when chances are pretty awesome they'll pull back a nub? Who'd want to stop, listen, and understand when the decibel and pitch emanating from the screechers is all but a guarantee of going deaf? Who'd want to give a single fuck for a group that clearly has enough of everything they need that this is what they focus on? This bullshit. This political divisiveness. This enduring willful ignorance.

You screechers...I'm sickened by your behavior. And I'm sad for this community. My family only has a handful of years left (less if YodaMan is passed over this year), and I will not look back when I go. You are the reason this community can't have nice things, and judging by the proliferation of your vitriol and toxic hatred in online communities, you're taking over.

You can have it. When all you've got is a wasteland and nary a civilian willing to give you the time of day, maybe you'll reconsider your juvenility, hostility, and inability to take a break from the Very Serious Matter of Being Married to the Military™. Or maybe you won't. Either way, you'll have what you deserve. Enjoy the wasteland.

Dear ISIL

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Fri, 20 Feb 2015 20:43:00 +0000

There was a call out recently on the Books of Face, asking for opposing decisions on mil-bloggers' responses to this ISIL threat*. I jokingly responded that I'd offer my view, but it would come with...well, my brand of snark, and I know other, more respectable blogs aren't down with the f-bombs and the threats of cuntpunting. But then I thought...why not offer my opinion on my own damned blog? So here's my opinion: ISIL might be media- and social media-savvy, they are definitely evil, and they can most definitely go fuck themselves so hard, they do that Poltergeist house thing straight into another dimension.

This, only with ISIL and their own tiny dicks. (Relevant portion at 2:40)

ISIL is why Muslims can't have nice things. Well, ISIL and what happens when tiny minds generalize an entire religion's adherants based on the actions of a few. But ISIL is the source of this, and I think they're doing it on purpose. I think they're trying to incite an all-out holy war. I think they want Westerners so scared of what they might do--based on a few threats their script kiddies managed to drum up on unclassified computer systems--that our knee jerk reaction is to follow up with a might-as-well-be or actually-is religious war. Their actions are so inhuman, so despicable, so contrary to everything a moral society elevates as good and right, that they are over the top.

They want us to respond. They want us scared.

So this is my message to ISIL:

I'm not scared. Fuck you and your egocentrism. Fuck you and your blatant disregard for life and dignity and freedom. Fuck you and your insipid script kiddies.

You remind me of this story by Clive Barker called "Rawhead Rex." It's about this monster in a forbidden field who rises when the stone holding him captive is moved. So he runs around this town, trying to eat as many people as he can (especially the babies because his personal mantra is apparently Eat All Teh Baybeez), but he's scared shitless of menstruating women. He smells that menstrual blood, and he's fucking out of there like a vagina dentata monster is fast on his heels. Mind, he also kidnaps some women and ties them up in the woods and rapes them so they have his little monster babies (and I bet he eats them, but only if he can get close enough given the immense fear he has of vaginas doing what they were built to do). At the end, he's undone by a mother goddess figurine, a Venus of Willendorf-style stone idol. His fear paralyzes him, and he's trapped under the stone in the field once more.

He and his baby-eating are driven by fear. He's walking man-junk with a tiny peen. So he tortures the town and eats all the things (except for chicks on the rag--one benefit of dealing with menses, at least), but he is a fear-driven beast at heart, and he rages and RAWRs and swings his peen around to make a statement.

But he is pathetic, and he isn't scary. He is a mockery to monsters everywhere (sorry, Mr. Barker, but it's sadly true; love the Yattering, though!), and he makes it easy to point and laugh as he RAWRs around with his peen-head and his peen-body and his powerless T-rex flailing and mindless nomnomnomallthebaybeez murder. He's like Wolverine, only Wolverpeen, with the claws but also the ridiculously singular focus and not even on the hotness radar.

You are also pathetic. You are easy to mock because you are a mockery and not real Muslims. You are powerless and prone to T-rex flailing, and though that flailing is like dangerous and has consequences for the unfortunate people who get in your way, it is infantile. You will be destroyed by your own nature. It might take time, but that just gives you more opportunity to dig your hole in the field deeper.

And in the meantime, I refuse to be scared because you are too pathetic to fear. I will continue to identify myself online--both on this anonymous blog and in my IRL accounts--as a milspouse because fuck you, fuck your walking man-junk flailing, fuck your ignorance, fuck your fear, fuck your posturing, fuck your laughable wannabe-hacker script kiddies, and fuck your disgusting lack of humanity.

PS Fuck you some more.

PPS I'm sculpting a stone vagina dentata just for you. And then I'mma hex it. May all your dicks rot off, you impotent cockwits.

* They are not ISIS. Isis is a fierce and powerful mother goddess who protects and heals. That this acronym uses her name is a fucking travesty, and I refuse to do it. They are ISIL. Evil ISIL.

Science, Bitches.

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Thu, 05 Feb 2015 20:25:00 +0000

I'd like to be one of those enlightened people who can gently and positively persuade those who revel in intentional ignorance. But I honestly don't think persuasion is a thing, thanks to conservative politicians wading into matters of science and declaring them moot. The way our society works these days, once Fox or MSNBC has declared something an Issue, a line is drawn, and people cling to their side of the line while lobbing fear-soaked accusations and volatile declarations at each other.

But when you're talking about science and fact, there is no opinion. No, that's wrong. Here's some science: vaccines do what they are intended to do--they protect a society from dangerous outbreaks of preventable diseases. Here's an opinion in that scientific fact: if you don't vaccinate your children or yourself because of religious for philosophical or whatever reason (not because you physically or financially can't), fuck you. You're as good as someone who willfully, intentionally, drinks a bottle of vodka and then hops in the car for a joyride.

Now a quick note: I never consistently got a flu vaccine because I was never in the recommended demographic, and then I never needed it because everyone around me would fall to its feet and I did not (my one superpower--I don't catch the flu). Then my grandmother developed Guillain-Barre, a disease my cousin had when I was a baby and that left both of them unable to walk and in severe pain, and now I refuse the flu shot (it's been traced to onset of GB). I can't have it. I also can't have smallpox because I have a history of eczema. My mother had severe eczema as a child, came too close to a child who'd been vaccinated against smallpox, and nearly had her arm amputated from the resulting reaction. I almost got the smallpox vax in Bahrain, but they weeded me out for reasons of eczema--an issue severe enough that my husband couldn't get the vaccine, either, in case it transferred to me. So obviously I understand some can't have certain or all vaccines. I get that. Those are the people who rely on the rest of us for herd immunity. Right?

Now ask me why I have an inhaler. Glad you asked. Let me tell you a story.

In 1989, I was a high school freshman in Texas. I'd gotten the MMR twice. The second time was because my mother was told the first vaccination might not have "taken." I don't know if that's because it was a wonky batch or if they did a serum titer on me and found I didn't have immunity. Point is, I'd had MMR twice and was bebopping along nicely, only coming down with the usual kid illnesses.

And then there was an outbreak of measles. It spread through the city and was big news--big enough that my mother got nervous about my first failed vaccination. So she took my sister and me back for another vaccination, just in case. I might have already been exposed to measles at that point, though--two weeks later, I was sick.

Oh my gods, I was sick. I really can't remember much from the days and days I spent at home in bed, mostly sleeping, sometimes moaning. I do remember the day it settled in my chest, though. I woke from a nap feeling for the first time in my life like someone had dropped a gigantic weight on my chest. I felt like I was getting oxygen, and I wasn't really coughing, but holy cow, my chest was so tight, I didn't feel like I was really breathing. I called my mom at work and told her I wasn't okay. I think she came home. I don't know. Like I said, it all kind of runs together.

I think I ended up on antibiotics and expectorants and stuff, and after a couple of weeks, I finally came out of the dark cave of my room and saw sunlight (that didn't hurt to see) for the first time in what felt like forever. I went back to school. Things went back to normal.

A few weeks later, my chest was hurting again. It hurt bad a lot of the time, but it was always a little tight and funky. We went to the doc, got cough medicine, and went home. Didn't help. Went back, got a referral to other docs. I ended up going to an allergist to see if I had asthma, and I even ended up at a cardiologist to figure out what was going on. We went through several visits where I was diagnosed with asthma and then costocondritis (inflammation of the cartilege between the ribs).

When the therapy for costocondritis didn't work, the cardiologist informed me he'd only ever misdiagnosed that one time, and it turned out to be bone cancer. So I went through a ton of x-rays and scans to see if I was a 15yo (I'd had a birthday at this point) girl with one foot in the cancer grave. The scans came back negative. A week later. That was the worst week ever.

We went to Alabama, where my mom's family lives, for a visit, and while we were there, I saw the pediatrician my aunt worked for. He started simple--blood test and x-rays--and found the issue. I apparently had a sneaky case of walking pneumonia. I'd probably had it since the measles, and the round of antibiotics I'd had didn't completely take care of it. I had a very long round of antibiotics and a very long relationship with yogurt, and then I was able to breathe without pain. It was glorious.

It didn't last. About two months later, it came back. More antibiotics. More rejoicing.

And then it came back. This went on, every few months, until I was in college. My lungs were that damaged from the measles.

A few years after my last bout of pneumonia, I was married and living in San Diego. And all of a sudden, I had trouble breathing again. I told the good folks at Balboa (The Pride of Navy Medicine!) my medical history, and they did fun things like running blood gas tests, and lo, they decided I had asthma. So I got an inhaler. I didn't really need it much--mostly when allergies kicked up. But I just didn't have very good lung capacity anymore, either. That has persisted. It came back worse than ever after our stint in the moldy Monterey house, and even though I've recovered from that nonsense, I do now need a preventive (on top of a rescue) inhaler.

Here's the kicker: I was lucky. My measles diagnosis was "attenuated." That means mild. The doc believed that third vaccine helped reduce the severity of my case. Let me say this again.

My measles was MILD.

And this is its legacy: a mom who does BJJ but has to take frequent breaks during rolls to catch her breath, and whose lips turn blue even with the inhaler, if she has too much weight on her chest during a roll. A woman who wants desperately to completely C25K but ends up curled in a ball, struggling to breathe, in the second and third week. A milspouse who has to be so very careful about where they go, how bad the allergies or molds might be, because she's so susceptible to bad reactions now. And a woman with a love of the sciences who is absofuckinglutely OUTRAGED that there are selfish, self-centered, egocentric, morally reprehensible people who could be putting her own children--who might also have an issue with developing immunity to measles--in danger of having the same long-term health problems.

And, sleeping baby Jesus, the little babies. The immune-suppressed children who can't be vaccinated. I don't even fucking like kids, and I can recognize that carelessly--or, I think it could be argued, purposely--exposing them to the risks of these horrible preventable diseases is about the most evil thing you can do.

So I wish I had it in me to calmly show the fuckwits and thundercunts what their "philosophical" stance is doing to our society and what that says about the ethics of their philosophy. I wish I had it in me to constructively relay what horrible, evil people this makes them. But I don't have it in me. I lost that ability when I lost lung function and was told I was 15 and probably had bone cancer. I lost it when I lost access to one antibiotic because it's no longer effective for me.

My field of fucks to give about pulling them gently up to reason and sanity went fallow long, long ago. The only thing we can do is make sure everyone who deliberately contributes to the continued outbreaks of preventable diseases is charged with crimes. And those crimes should be equivalent to walking up to a child and purposely maiming them, disfiguring them, or murdering them. Maybe if the punishment for being a dickbeast were commensurate with the crime they were committing, reason would insert itself in their feeble brains.

And these politicians who are wading into the anti-vaxxer pool (careful, thar be mumps in that water), if they decide to start pushing legislation around "choice" in vaccines, should be sued. Sue the fucking frilly thongs off that guy.

Because science, bitches.

An Open Letter to Congress

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Sun, 25 Jan 2015 04:51:00 +0000

Dear Members of Congress,

I would specifically appeal to my senators and congressman here, but my congressman has banned me from his Facebook page for accusing the lot of you of acting like a bunch of pre-teens fighting over glitter nail polish and 7 jeans during a looming shutdown (therefore, I know he throws away my emails and letters), one senator is the typical I-am-deaf-to-your-reasoning-because-I-have-opinions-and-they-are-already-purchased-by-a-company-paying-me-all-teh-monies, and the other senator hasn't had a chance to blow me off yet because he's brand spanking new.

So for all the good it will do us, I will appeal to the lot of you and hope someone is listening and actually gives a good goddamn.

First, who is this "us" I speak of? Military spouses. We are a silent minority, toiling in the background, and expected--even in this more enlightened age--to stay quiet and docile and not make a fuss. More of us feel empowered with technology to speak our minds, but we're still largely ignored. We matter even less than service members do.

But here's the thing: we do matter. We are the wizards behind the curtain, the ones who make things happen while the service members are busy with the tasks you and the Commander in Chief pass down. We are the gear the military would have issued our service members if the government had wanted our men and women in uniform to have spouses, the ones who are given lip service for all we do and endure but understanding all the while that our struggles don't matter. We are the uncounted, the ignored, the ever-present and ever-struggling, and it's about damned time we were heard.

I have been a milspouse for twenty years now, and in that time, I have never heard of or seen a politician or military commander acknowledge the price we pay--our careers pay--to keep our families as whole as the military will allow. This misstep isn't just nonsensical. It's insulting because the struggle isn't new, we have not kept our challenges quiet, and yet we are still ignored.

Many of us are welcomed into the military life with a swat on the butt and a "Welcome to the [service], Mrs/Mr X," and are expected to put our needs aside to support the important career in the family: that of the service member. Yes, they have important jobs. Yes, there are legal ramifications if they don't follow orders. And they're gone so frequently and for potentially long stretches, and we want to be a family, so we follow them around the world in hopes that we can make the times together really matter.

We didn't come into this life without goals and aspirations. Many of us stepped into this new role of milspouse with at least the first steps toward a particular career, and many of us have had to abandon those aspirations because they're not compatible with this life.

We didn't all come into this life thinking we'd have to completely change course or even endure long stretches of unemployment on our resumes, and yet that's what's happened.

We didn't step into our roles thinking, "Well, I guess I'd better find some kind of volunteer position to fill this resume gap. And I guess I'd better find a way to shave off some of our expenses so we can survive the next few years without my paycheck." We didn't think we'd have to sacrifice our financial goals to be with the men or women we love.

We might have known what we were getting into when we married into the military, or when the military joined our marriages, but you can't really know what sacrifices are required or how soul-sucking those sacrifices can be until you've lived it.

And the thing is, this particular sacrifice--this giving up our career goals, our economic safety nets, our own retirements--is pointless. Technology today is not what it was when I embarked on this Navy adventure twenty years ago. Today, we have email, Skype, webinars, VoIP, secure networks, high speed internet. We have tools that mean our physical presence is unnecessary. We can still attend meetings, even when they're happening five time zones away. We can still pop in on a team member to discuss an issue, brainstorm new ideas, confab on a project, or just chat and build camaraderie...we just won't physically be in their cubicle.

We milspouses are adaptable creatures. Semper Gumby is our motto, and so is Get Out of My Way For I Have Shit to Do. We are flexible. We are adventurous. We are strong and proud and motivated. We have dreams and goals, and most of us have to shelve those until our spouses leave the service, or else we have to agree to spend the bulk of our marriages living apart...and what kind of marriage is that? Those milspouses, the ones who pursue their own dreams far from their spouses--they are sacrificing just as much as those of us who follow our spouses. The problem is that we're damned if we do and damned if we don't--the sacrifice rests squarely on us. Give up on being with the person who inspires us to be our best selves, or give up on what lights a fire in us? Civilian spouses are not required to make this Solomon decision*.

But dear Congress, don't believe for a second that this doesn't affect the service members and their ability to do their jobs. Especially as you chip away at the benefits your military personnel have earned through egregious toil in the last decade-plus, they are feeling the financial pinch when their spouses have to leave a job during a PCS and can't find anything (even minimum wage) at the next duty station because their resume looks like a typical milspouse's, and who wants to hire someone who's only going to be here two years, anyway?

Don't believe for a second service members' morale isn't affected when their spouses are completely unfulfilled by the administrative assistant job they scored only because they hid their MBA degree on their resume.

Don't believe for a second that there isn't a tiny sliver of toxic resentment chipping away at some of these marriages, affecting the service member's ability to stay focused at work.

Don't believe this problem of underemployed and unemployed milspouses isn't a major issue for you, the ones who send the service members off to war.

We spouses get a lot of lip service, and in those few cases where we see a tiny ray of hope in the form of not-lip service (MyCAA, anyone?), it is yanked away from us. And if it returns (MyCAA, anyone?), it is restricted and restrictive, limiting spouses to pre-approved "careers" that, while great jobs, don't actually offer any upward mobility. Medical transcriptionists don't often climb the ladder to CEO, do they? An associate degree opens a door, but where does it lead?

A milspouse should have the opportunity and ability to take a job--whether for fun or extra money or as the next rung on the career ladder--any job, anywhere. Some jobs are impossible to make portable (you can't telework a sous chef position), but so many jobs are.

Again: So many jobs are or can be made portable. Because technology!

Government sparks so many jobs. Proven need sparks even more. Lip service will no longer cut it. Listen to us. Hear our voices. Spark a change.

Incentivize milspouse employment. Incentivize jobs that are portable, that offer upward mobility, and that are as flexible as milspouses are.

Incentivize employing milspouses and ensure companies can't discriminate against milspouses with lower pay or by passing us over just because we are milspouses (this does happen--all the time).

We should not be forced to sacrifice our dreams, our goals, our careers--or our families--because our spouses are serving this great country.

Do right by us for once, Congress. We've earned it.

Semper Gumby,
Snarky

*Nearly all, anyway. There are civilian families forced into this position.

Who's Your Hero?

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Sat, 20 Dec 2014 05:53:00 +0000

Lots of kids who are asked this question will shoot back a few different kinds of answers:

my parent
my friend, who's dealing with something major
a sportsing person
someone in a field I'd like to go into some day
Neil deGrasse Tyson

A hero is not an official designation. It's not an official military award. It's not even specific to the military. Anyone can be a hero: it's their actions in general and their attitude that define heroism.

My sprogs are my heroes*. I won't call them CHAMPS because that's a fucking stupid name. But I sure as fuck won't call them BRATS because that's also a stupid fucking name. They're just brats, and they are heroic for overcoming all that they have. That isn't stolen valor. Stolen valor is lying about your service. Big. Fucking. Difference.

Huge.

Everyone can be a hero. But if someone's attitude is pissy and pretentious and self-serving and entitled, then they really don't deserve that designation. So by all means, they should refuse the label. But should they continue to flail and screech about STOOOOOLEN VAAAAALOR, and I will continue to mock them.

It is Just. A Fucking. Label. Everybody calm your tits and quit looking for excuses to be outraged martyrs.

Oh, and I'm delighted at the shaming that's being done by some: If you lower yourselves enough to use free babysitting services from people who are trying to co-opt our [please to insert wiggledy fingers here] "heritage" and [please to insert wiggledy fingers here] "culture", then it doesn't matter how at the end of your fucking rope you are or how long you've been fighting the culture of suck-it-up aka [please to insert wiggledy fingers here] "proud milspouse culture" to get through this fucking deployment; you are a terrible parent.

My gods. That's a lovely sentiment to pass along to milspouses who are struggling. Fucking. Lovely. And just like a spoiled fucking brat not to consider the strain mil-brats put on mil-spouses but instead throw themselves on the floor and have a destructive and self-serving tantrum about imagined insults and faked abuses. *deep ujayii breathing*

I have half a mind to turn off comments. Judging by the other post comments, (gods help me) if they find this post and decide to bring their "arguments" here, I will drown in the stoopid again. But no. I will leave it open so everyone can see how crazy these people are.

* Also, Neil deGrasse Tyson is my hero, for reasons of obviousness.

So was Judith Resnick, also for reasons.

These days, I kinda find Susan Elizabeth Phillips heroic because of her skillz with the wordz. Same for Stephen King.

Jesus Crispy Christ on a Cracker. I swore I was going to let all these insane fuckers yell each other deaf and move along, but I cannot abide the awe-inspiring levels of judgment, entitlement, and even stupidity. Jesus, even the ones who can present intelligent arguments have to pull out the martyr complex, but I suppose the whole argument falls apart if there isn't a veneer of "stop! thief! yer steelin' mah culture! yer steelin' mah pa's valor!"

Also, I doubt the creds of anyone claiming to be a military brat if they're shocked by my language. I learned these words during my time as a midshipman, so Bitch. Please. Oh, wait. I mean STOOOOOOLEN BRAT TIIIIIIITLE!

Joyful Yule! Ish.

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Fri, 19 Dec 2014 21:03:00 +0000

One of the biggest challenges I've faced as a milspouse is the ability to maintain my spiritual path. I work better with a group to inspire, motivate, and teach me, as well as giving me an opportunity to share and teach what I've learned.

So holidays are hard. Each solar and lunar holy day ends up hitting me, and I'm caught off guard, unsure of how to celebrate when it's just me, and I have all this other shit going on. What's the point of going all out if the only one who benefits is me? So at most, I'll bake something or I'll light a candle or I'll sit outside and enjoy the sun/moon. That's all well and good, but it just doesn't fill me like ritual does.

Christians have it easy in the US. There are so many churches, and chances are good you can find one of your denomination--or very close to it--no matter where you're stationed. Worse comes to worst, you can hit up a chaplain's services. But when you're Pagan, and especially when you're not specifically Gardnerian/Alexandrian Wiccan, it's not so easy to fall into a group. I got exceptionally lucky finding my path in San Diego with a coven that was exactly what I needed to make my first steps, and then again in Boulder with a coven that pushed me well past the limitations I thought I had. I had to start another group a few years later because there wasn't anything already running in the area, but there was a need. And since then...nothing. My one foray back into the fold happened in San Diego, but that fell apart fast.

The thing about being Pagan is that your path is personalized. You're the absolute final say in your path, the direction you'll move, and even the microsteps of magic working (much like prayer, only more active) and shadow work and training. You determine what's right for you, though if you're half-assing it, chances are good your teacher will call you on it and probably refuse to grant a degree or whatever advancement acknowledges your growth.

You can't just walk into the corner church, see if it blows your skirt up, and keep going. The work you do is personal and revealing, and not just anyone can join a group this intimate, so there's the additional limitation of making sure you gel with each other and that you each have something for the other.

So each PCS means another search for local folk of your spiritual tribe, and if you luck out and find the Pagans who activate your Velcro, it's a coup...and it'll only last a couple or three years. Then you're off to the next great search. And on and on.

I really despise this fact. I hate that, the longer it takes us to retire (we're able to now, hollah!), the longer it'll take me to find or set up a new group and get things rolling again. I hate that my need for group practice limits my spiritual growth. I hate that the best I can do is set up daily practice goals with friends online. I hate that the only training I can do is online and costs many, many pennies...and I don't contribute anything besides my pennies.

But this Sunday is the Solstice, and that means the Oak King is going to kick the Holly King's ass and bring the wutwut via the strengthening sun. It means colder days are coming, but so is the light. It means challenge before the first seedlings burst through the soil to bring new life.

So I will have to take this lesson of the solstice--of stark times ahead and great reward in the future--as part of my path. I can't do anything about the vast wasteland of neopagans here, but I can continue planting my seeds and celebrating each step closer to warmth and light and growth in my future.

Joyous Yule, my peeps. May the birth of the Sun and the blessings of the gods bring you great fortune and growth and joy in the year ahead.

Holy Mother, in whom we live, move, and have our being,

From you all things emerge, and unto you all things return.

Open us our hearts this blessed day.

Touch our bodies and our minds.

Walk with us through the gates of power,

In shadow and starlight,

In fire meeting earth,

In the wind on the ocean,

And the sweet kiss of life.

Blessed be our journey.

--T. Thorn Coyle (with Victor Anderson)

EFMP WTF

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Wed, 17 Dec 2014 21:13:00 +0000

One of my sprogs has been "in the system" since he was wee. California has a First Five Years program, where littles can get services they might qualify for once they hit Kindergarten but...aren't in Kindergarten yet. My sprog was referred there because of some small issues, mostly speech-related. But as we tested and as I read, the more I wondered if he weren't just a wee bit autistic.

We were told time and again--once by Stanford, where they used a language-based exam to test his IQ and told us he would never be able to care for himself--that our brilliant but speech-delayed and socially incapable child had no issues aside from his speech. Finally, in August of this year (he's 10 now), he was assessed by a developmental pediatrician and told he's most definitely on the spectrum. Hallelujer--this qualified him for services nobody would give us before.

So now he's in speech again, as well as occupational therapy. But they also put him in ABA therapy, which I'd never heard of. Since this diagnosis, I've learned that ABA is the holy grail for ASD kids and adults.

As referrals came in for these services, we also got news that our sprog was a level 4 EFM.

Um. What?

That was kinda shocking. The boy has overcome so much without therapy that his teachers were surprised by the services (though not, it seems, by the diagnosis). He's capable of getting himself ready for school, and if I were a bad mom, he'd be able to charge on with his day without me. He feeds himself, bathes himself, does his homework and chores with very little prompting (homework, always; chores...need prompting), knows the rules and refuses to break them, etc. He's very high functioning and wicked bright, and he's certainly not so bad off that I need respite care or that he will fall into a pit of doom without these services. They're a fucking relief to have because his life will be so much easier with them...but level 4?

I sure as shit hope there aren't limits on anything surrounding these EFMP levels. I hope nobody else's kid ends up missing out because mine was given such a major designation. It's already affected us - the 9-month and greater waiting list for services where we're headed meant we had to have permission to go forward with these orders. If we get some paperwork fast, we can get him on those waiting lists now and be able to breeze right in when we get there. No big deal, right? Except level 4. Apparently it's a big deal.

I guess this is one more WTF about the military I will never comprehend. I'm glad the program is there, but I'm not sure about the consistency of the designations. I don't have very high hopes on that front...

And now for something completely different

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Mon, 15 Dec 2014 14:41:00 +0000

Because genre fiction fucking rocks.

On Good Wifeys and Social Media

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Sun, 14 Dec 2014 22:05:00 +0000

There's a time and place to publicly call out assholery and to ask folks--individuals or the masses--to check their attitudes, privilege, bigotry, etc.

But I'll just throw out there right now: it's tacky as fuck to bitch and gossip online about a spouse within your SO's command*. Don't do it. Unless, of course, your life's purpose is to be a shitty milspouse and a shitty human being. Then, by all means, fulfill your life's purpose. Embrace that shit, don your pearls, put your hair into a judgmental bun, and go for it.

There's a special level of gauche involved in taking to social media to bitch and whine about another milspouse. It's worse when the bitching and whining all relates to a bullshit definition of what makes a good milspouse.

So first, dear judgmental milspouses, you are not precious. You are not speshul and deserving of snowflake status. You wear no crown, and you have zero responsibilities relating to your spouse's job unless you choose to take on volunteer obligations.

And please to note: choose. Volunteer. YOU.

Back when women weren't allowed to have credit in their own names and couldn't get birth control unless they were married and had their husbands' permission, a milspouse had to take part, had to contribute, had to be social and deal almost exclusively with other milspouses. Their husbands' careers depended on it.

But these here days are a tad more enlightened. We are not paid to take part, we are not obligated by virtue of a marriage certificate to take part, and we don't have to unless it butters our biscuits to do so.

If you think it's your obligation to be a leader, I have a few things to note:

That's your fucking decision, and you have zero right to expect that of any other milspouse.
The training for CO spouses includes the appalling fact that NO SPOUSE IS REQUIRED TO TAKE ON ANY VOLUNTEER ROLES, EVER. Hell, the training for CO/XO billets includes the same tidbit.
It shows a severe deficit of character if you choose to take to social media to bitch about another milspouse.
It shows a failure of leadership if you take to the internet rather than take her to lunch and brainstorm ways to address your concerns. Though...
Keep in mind that another milspouse's decision to refuse a leadership/volunteer role is not actually a valid concern and doesn't need to be addressed.

I really can't believe this needs to be said, but obviously it does when this kind of thing is going on in 20-fucking-14.

So to sum up: Each milspouse has the right to determine how involved s/he wants to be as a milspouse. Each milspouse has the right to maintain that level of engagement and is never required, by virtue of the service member's job or otherwise, to take on leadership commitments. If you have a problem with this, you probably ought to get some perspective. If you bitch and gossip about someone who has a lower level of engagement than you do, you're an asshole. If you bitch and gossip online, where no privacy setting is ever going to allow your statements an expiration, you are an epic pissbiscuit.

Do better.

PS Divest yourself of your spouse's rank. You're a fucking civilian.

* It's tacky as hell to do it off the webz. But today, we're talking the fuckwittery of those who, for example, ask for "advice" on the web, especially when it's clearly an attempt to gather the voices and confirm they are Right and Correct and that their feelings of harumph are Valid and Good.

The Torture Report and The Near-Miss Shutdown

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Fri, 12 Dec 2014 04:21:00 +0000

I have been so ashamed of my country this week.

There's been one positive news bit to come from the release of the torture report: McCain has returned to his former sane self...though probably only for a brief moment. I'm sure he'll deep throat a teabag again soon enough.

But the contents of that report. I'm sick and disgusted, and I hope charges are brought against those who approved and ordered "enhanced interrogation techniques" because those were not fucking enhanced anything but tricky ways to dance around the word "torture."

I am heartbroken. What the fuck is wrong with our society that we can even debate whether this was okay?

And now to the near-miss shutdown tonight. I'm sure most of you are like "whu?" Because of course you are. The news is full of a lot of shit, including rehashing the same few stories and getting other opinions on the same news and etc. But tonight, there was very nearly another government shutdown care of our frabjous representatives in DC. It was narrowly averted...for now. By I think two days? That's great because there are civilians all throughout the service that are absolutely necessary for day-to-day operations. Without them, military folk--who won't necessarily see a paycheck, either--will have to fill in.

The last time this happened, there was a local exodus into real civilian jobs, away from the whims of our fuckwit representatives who have no qualms about taking away their income.

Hmmm. Sounds familiar, don't it? Fuck those guys.

Brats, CHAMPS, and OMG STFU You Entitled Little Shits

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Thu, 11 Dec 2014 21:16:00 +0000

I've tried very hard lately to curtail my insults because inner peace, motherfuckers. But I just today heard about the CHAMPS vs BRATS (what the fuck ever, but more about that bullshit later) brouhaha that has now made its way to SpouseBuzz, which is how a friend heard about it, which is how I found out. And now I have all the insults because what has happened is completely unconscionable and deserves an epic fucking smackdown.

BLUF: Jacey Eckhart is right. Those words will probably never again pass my fingers, but there you go.

Jacey is right because, regardless of what the CHAMPS people did or did not do, regardless of their military affiliation or non-affiliation, regardless of whether they chortled madly while USO touring (they *gasp* called it a vacay! how dare they enjoy themselves while helping to entertain the military! fucking heathen civilian beasts!) the BRATS are a horde of bullies and entitled little shits who have just done more damage to the military-civilian divide than they can ever imagine (mostly because their worlds obviously revolve only around them, so seeing beyond their tiny little ego-bound lives is a pretty massive undertaking). If this gets any traction outside of the military world...wow.

And it could. Why? Because one of you egotistical fucksticks published private details about the CEO online. And worse? She's a mil-fiancee. Worse than that? Her fiance is deployed.

*golf clap* Good job, assbiscuits. You've really outdone yourselves. Online harassment. Bullying. And now now you've added "threats" to your list by publishing addresses and personal details--that's unspoken permission and encouragement to those who are just a little bit that side of crazy or criminal, which makes your participation a threatening act.

Oh, and remember that other little drum you guys like to beat? ZOMG ISIS IS COMING FOR US EACH INDIVIDUALLY BATTEN THE HATCHES AND PREPARE FOR BEHEADING BECAUSE OBAMA. Yeah, good job advertising that military family to the terrorists. But, wait. I guess that doesn't matter to you guys, right? Because fuck her and fuck that and fuck everything let's set all this shit on fire just to make our point. Right?

Reading the comments here and here, I have the overwhelming sense that the people leading this charge are suffering from a martyr complex, are so enamored of their own tiny lives that they like the mil-civilian divide because it keeps them special and other and over here, away from the civilian masses.

You know what this sounds like? That other little bastion of entitled little pricks who want to feel special and hate the idea that there are multiple viewpoints within and without their culture and are fucking pissed that anyone would dare tread on their special space and are willing to harass and abuse and adopt a false front and then tantrum online to get their way: GamerGate.

Look at those comments. They can be boiled down to: It's all about ethics in ~~gaming journalism~~ non-profit work and for-profit books of which a fucking handful have sold.

Same thing, BRATS*.

Every one of you involved in this, and most especially those involved directly in the harassment and threats, should be ashamed of yourselves. You are NOT honorable. You are NOT responsible. You are NOT adaptable. You are NOT tolerant. What you are is a bunch of self-obsessed hypocrites, bullies, twatrockets, and buffoons, and you've just blackened the eye of the military community**.

Nice job showing the world how you revel in being a brat and eschew being a champ.

And one more *golf clap* just because your sins are so fucking epic.

Fuck off. Then fuck off some more. And then fuck off so hard you tear the space-time continuum and fuck off in an infinite Star Trek-like loop. And then, once you escape the time loop, fuck off again.

Fuckers.

ETA: What the actual fucking fuck is this steaming pile of fucking bullshit? Because nothing in the world could possibly be as important as 1) you and 2) tearing down anyone who's acting like...well, an American. Where the fuck is the outrage over shit that actually fucking matters or that's actually fucking hurting you/us? Priorities, motherfuckers. Get some.

* That is such an infantile thing y'all have done there. I'm a military brat. I will never be a fucking military BRAT. You might as well be balls-deep in a warm wad of virgin cotton candy with this shit. Daring to choose to do what is right is boldness? How about fucking surviving the mil-sprog life when you're surrounded by egotistical cockbeasts? That's bold right there. Responsibility...but of the Christian variety? Roger that, assburgers. Tolerant? Nice word - you'll put up with anyone, but not necessarily respect their decision or right to live their lives. *high five* And OMG that S addition- spunk. The way you dickbiscuits have acted, I'm inclined to think the spunk you mean is the jizz kind. Good job. Epic job, actually.

** Plus, you made me agree with Jacey Eckhart, which might just splinter this reality, so fuck you for that, too.

On Reunion Porn: Some Word Vomit

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Tue, 07 Oct 2014 14:15:00 +0000

A few months ago, a reporter asked for opinions on public surprise homecomings for military, and you know I couldn't keep my mouth shut. What I wrote to her was long and heartfelt, and what she chose to use for her article was definitely the good bits. But I still wanted the rest to be out there, too. Now that the article has come and gone, and nobody noticed (more's the pity - I had high hopes for a lot of entitled civilian wangst and an ensuing firestorm that might actually make a couple people stop and think), I've decided to offer what I sent to that reporter here.

I saw your Twitter request for opinions on publicized homecomings (aka reunion p0rn) of the surprise variety. I have so many opinions on this. I’ll try to be concise (and will probably fail).

First, I’m a milspouse of nearly 20 years. My husband was commissioned into the Navy in 1994, about two weeks before we were married. We met as midshipmen at the [college] NROTC. We’ve endured numerous lengthy underways, a geobachelor experience lasting about 18 months, six ship deployments, and one IA deployment to Afghanistan.

I find reunion p0rn problematic on a few different levels, but making them a surprise only exacerbates the issues, especially when a child is the recipient of the shock. It’s annoying enough when you’re pier-side after an eight-month deployment, the service members are coming down the brow, but everything is delayed because of media blocking the exit route in an attempt to get those reunion shots. It’s so much worse to see men and women arriving home from war, where the sacrifices and fear have been amplified, and the long-term effects are so much more severe.

Reunion p0rn is exploitation that many military families unfortunately participate in willingly. These televised moments are a small snapshot of the psychological deployment cycle—a moment of exuberant joy, almost universally—used to give civilians a feel-good moment and a sense of having participated in our lives. It’s a reminder to them that they “support the troops” even when they don’t give a second thought to the milspouse neighbor struggling so hard she can barely keep the yard mowed. These moments don’t serve military families, though, except for a moment of squee when a family sees themselves on the local news. They certainly don’t serve the larger military community in any way.

Why?

They don’t offer a truthful look at deployment. At best, civilians will see a very short report with teary eyes and proud-patriot words at deployment. And then they will see on infinite loop the moment when families come together again. Their takeaway: military families are proud, patriotic, strong, and happy to sacrifice. That surface view of reality is insulting and ignores the highly emotional and wide ranging experiences that begin the moment you find out a deployment is coming and continue through reunion and into reintegration. How many civilians know that we milspouses have recently (thanks to the community we’ve formed in the blogosphere) realized we’re not crazy because we walk through how we’ll respond if the chaplain and command representatives show up at our door with dress uniforms and condolences? How many civilians have known the guilt we feel when we’re so relieved that IED didn’t hit *our* husband? How many civilians know how often we’re up late at night, unable to sleep because we haven’t heard from our spouse in days, and that’s unusual? They don’t know. They have no idea because their only view of the deployment experience is reunion. Happy, tear-filled reunions that have so many layers beneath that joy, civilians cannot possibly comprehend.

They inevitably segue into the next image the civilian world sees: PTSD and the sometimes violent results when it’s untreated. This also does us no favors, as combat veterans are immediately under suspicion. Will she snap and pull out a gun? Does he go into rages at home and beat his family? Is this person in front of me dangerous??

Reunion p0rn puts the surprised milchild or milspouse in a very awkward position. Children have it worse than adults in these situations. Again, civilians have no idea that these kids have struggled so hard. Parents keep secrets during wartime deployments, but kids see through this. They might not know details—might have no idea that Mom is outside the wire and regularly convoying down oft-targeted roads, no idea that Dad is living in a tent in an FOB with insurgents on every side—but they feel the stress. They worry, too, and they often act out. Night terrors and nightmares are common. Violent outbursts happen among many families. Tears, changes in personality, suffering grades—these are common responses during deployment when kids miss their deployed parents, when the spouse or grandparent still at home doesn’t fill the empty spot in their lives. Surprise reunions don’t just ignore the layers of emotion and psychology beneath this desire to see the missing parent again—they gloss over the resentment, the longing, the fear, the anger, the desperation.

They also put the child in a position where she has to perform. Whether televised or not, if you put a child in front of all her classmates and then spring her just-returned father on her... That’s more than just an ugly cry. That’s a genie you’ve released from a bottle, and now that child is in public, dealing with a bevy of emotions she might not be prepared to deal with, in front of her peers or strangers, asked to put all of that on display. I’m not saying parents don’t know their kids and are being irresponsible parents, but I do think, in our desire to do something great for kids who have suffered so much, we don’t always consider the wider-ranging effects of our actions. A surprise of this magnitude seems like a great idea, and boy howdy do the civilians just loooove to watch them. What’s one more sacrifice for the entertainment of America?

It’s even worse when the reunion isn’t at the end of a deployment but at an R&R homecoming. R&Rs are incredibly difficult to navigate, a time when the demands on a couple or family put more pressure on them than they might be ready to deal with...and then the service member has to head back. It might seem like an oasis of happiness and calm, but it’s fraught with more worry and another heart-wrenching goodbye at the other side. That’s always at the back of everyone’s minds — even the kids.

At the end of our Afghanistan experience, my family mentioned calling the local TV station to let them know we would be welcoming my husband home at the airport, but I obviously had opinions and said no. I was doubly glad I stood my ground because my young boys reacted in a heartbreaking manner to their father’s return. The older one, who remembered his father despite the three nearly back-to-back deployments we’d dealt with, hid behind me. He didn’t know how to deal with his emotions. He was happy to see his father, but he was also conflicted. My younger one didn’t recognize his father despite the photos we showed every day, so he clung to me and refused to be held by this strange man. They were young enough that they probably would not have realized the significance of a camera in their faces. But if they were older and dealing with similar emotions...just imagine how hard that would have been. The cameras would have been long gone by the time they warmed up to their father.

Long gone when my husband decided to try driving again and nearly ran an aggressive driver off the road because it was a convoy habit.

Long gone when he no longer could read the responses of the child with minimal verbal skills.

Long gone when, in the middle of a stressful reintegration, we were under orders to move and leave behind the support system I’d built up and relied on so heavily during the last few years.

Thanks to the portrayal of the military experience by the media, and thanks to the stress put on military families every time we see a publicized reunion (surprise or no), the military-civilian divide is widening. Considering less than 1% of Americans serve [bear the brunt of the sacrifice demanded by politicians, most of whom have never served] and considering the level of sacrifice required by both service member and military dependent, this cavernous divide is untenable.

I apologize for not rereading this tome and for basically word-vomiting in your inbox, but I have a lot of work to do before my last day on this job. We’re moving to a country that doesn’t allow military dependents to keep their self-employed positions (which we milspouses often rely on to support a portable career)...something else you’ll never see publicized. I hope there’s something useful in here, but I’m happy to clarify if needed.

Dining Out...Kinda

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Sat, 04 Oct 2014 14:57:00 +0000

Back in the day, when I was a wee midshipman, I did a Dining Out with my battalion. It was...well, dress up as much as college kids can and go to a restaurant college kids can barely afford. And that was it. I've never experienced another Dining Out, and the Dining In description I got from the guys made it sound like a fucking stupid reason to ruin a uniform.

Cut to Bahrain. I was invited to a Dining Out, but I was at that stage of [unintended] pregnancy when you don't fit into regular clothes and you don't fit into maternity clothes, so you just look fat and dumpy and feel perpetually bloated and uncomfortable (because you haven't yet learned what pregnancy discomfort really is) and still take a chance at puking if you smell the wrong thing. Also, acne. Holy shit, the acne.

Needless to say, I didn't go. Instead, I went out with another like-minded milspouse for sandwiches and tea. In my jeans with a rubber band holding the button. Because of course. What I heard from YodaMan was confirmation of my excellent decision making skillz - it was a Dining In with all its reindeer games...and spouses. Beeeecause okay.

Cut to last weekend. YM told me to get a purty dress for a Dining Out, and I half-heartedly looked because dress shopping sucks sweaty, furry ballsack. And it sounded like an insane thing brewing--like a monster that only a bunch of chortling LTs could possibly come up with--with a schedule that looked more Dining In than Out and long, long, Jesus take the wheel, long hours. I found a sitter and, with the casually slut-shaming advice of certain SpouseBuzz authors in my head, found a dress I hoped would appropriately scandalize the SBers while still playing nice with that whole "this is a professional event, even if people are forced to make like F-14s landing on a carrier in front of the main table, which is totally professional, totally, sure, yeah" standard. I'm pretty sure I failed to show enough side boob to scandalize anyone, alas. But I totally took off a pair of failing Spanx in the parking garage, all ninja-like. Because I'm a badass and classy lady. I wonder if I'd get slut-shamed for hitching up my dress in the car in a dusky garage... One can dream.

The event didn't suck. The Vice needs to make better decisions in the future, though. IOW, he needs to not agree to take that position again. Ever. EVER. But then YM had some bourbon and decided to do the Vice's job of entertaining the crowd, and then it seemed like at least half of the room was drunk, and then things got interesting. But at that point, I'd had a pack of peanuts for dinner (because no food allergy modifications on that $65 plate of food, yo) and was, unbeknownst to me, getting sick. So I was tired, had a headache, was cold and trembly and foggy, and very much felt like one of a series of third wheels thanks to the WTF format.

It seems unfair to criticize when I was twelve hours out from full-on OMG I'M DYING END IT NOW and still four days from the puking portion of the fun, but I'mma say one thing anyway:

Please, for the love of all things holy and sacred and military, do not call a Dining In a Dining Out. Do not invite spouses. You end up dumbing down the fun for our sakes, and then nobody has fun. We all think you guys are acting like fucking clingleberries, and you guys think we're all fucking up the chi with our civilian lack of humor and indoctrination and perspective, and we're both right. So just...don't.

Times have definitely changed from the midshipman days of yore. If I'd lost $65 on a dinner and $55 for a dress (Macy's sale HOLLAH) back then, it would have meant Ramen for the rest of the quarter and maybe part of the next, too. Things could be worse.

That was a salute?

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Wed, 24 Sep 2014 14:23:00 +0000

Really, Mr. President? Don't get me wrong - I'll be the first to salute coffee, but to coffee salute a Marine...yeah, no. That's not cool, even if 90% of Marines tend toward the dickbag variety*. Don't do that.

I'm so fucking annoyed that this is even a news item right now. Really, Murrica? Don't we have better shit to worry about? Shit like, I dunno, going back to fucking Iraq? Boko Haram kidnappings? ISIS/ISIL killing innocent people and selling their daughters to a bunch of squicky fucks? Our own fucked up Congress, who've decided to vacay with pay while military are once again deployed to the Middle East? Come on, people. Let's get past this and remember there are things out there that actually fucking matter and will still fucking matter next year. This dill-fuck of a salute? Not so much.

I don't get why the president salutes back in the first place. A nod or other acknowledgement should suffice, as it does for any officer who is saluted when s/he's out of uniform. I've always felt uncomfortable that someone in civilian attire is rendering a salute, even if he is the highest ranking guy around. But, you know, Murrica!

Was this returned salute disrespectful? I doubt that was the intention, though that's how it's obviously been perceived. Isn't it also disrespectful to not know how to salute and yet still do that, out of uniform, and uncovered? Of course. But, you know, let's get butthurt when a civilian (even if he has a military role, he is a civilian) is doing it wrong despite not ever having been part of the the culture, indoctrination, or training the military has. Because in the grand scheme, this is what really matters, right?

* I speak from the experience of being a Marine brat and later being surrounded by universally dickbaggish Marine Options in ROTC, before I came to my senses and escaped with my soul intact. I'm pretty sure the dickbag is issued to them, and over time, most choose to merge rather than just wear it when they have to be particular hardasses. I saw something resembling a back of dick in a MO's seabag, so...

All the great things!

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Sat, 20 Sep 2014 05:54:00 +0000

We're not Belgium-bound. Also, we're months away from being able to retire.

Side note: I'M THAT FUCKING OLD, YO.

Aside from the fact that I can say shit like, "Twenty years ago, we didn't have this new-fangled technology called email and telephone when they were underway. No sirree! Talking to our menfolks only happened with a fucking Sprint card and a mythical beast called port calls*," things are looking up.

I quit my job. Belgium was going to take employment away from me, so I went ahead and cut ties so I could try to get ready to fill my time there with yet another degree. But this is all a blessing in disguise, since that job was slowly killing me. Also, it paid shit. So I'm much better off without it. And I'm even better off without it AND without Belgium. *jazz hands*

So now I need a job. Preferably one with an income.

In the meanwhile, since I have your attention, I want to know if you've accepted Espionage Cosmetics as your nerd enabler. If you back their Kickstarter part deux, you won't be disappointed. Opening your heart to nerd make-up (and particularly, in this case, nerd nail wraps) will bring you all kinds of squee and no-fuckin-way and shit. For realios. I'm wearing comic onomatopoeia wraps and holy shit are my fingers Pimped. Out.

Here's the thing about their Kickstarter: they're already funded. Two weeks in, bitches. Why? Because they fucking rock. So at this point, we're waiting to see them hit stretch goals so we can get Even Moar Nerdtastic Shit.

What kind of nerdtastic shit did they pull out before, you ask? How about shit like...

Star Trek uniforms, including [shut up] Wesley's weird gray stripey ensign thing. On your fucking fingers.
MST3K. On your fucking fingers.
Cthulhu. On your fucking fingers (not really - he's still slowly waking, so your fingers are safe...for now).
Steampunk. On your automaton's fingers. Or yours, if you fancy yourself an airship captain.
Binary. On your Perl-coding fingers. Or Java, if you're all new-fangled and shit.
And dice on your fingers you can shame. And space. And Science! And all kinds of great shit. See? See??
Plus! Jayne's hat on pretty colors. Jayne! Let's take a moment and purposely forget that Adam Baldwin is a walking bag of douched dicks and pretend like Jayne himself remains unsullied and awful and awesome with his hat.

So go check out their new designs at their Nailed It! But Wait...There's MOAR! campaign, geek out for a minute at all the fucking sweet literary shit, pine for some Red Sonja and Oracle (and no, the binary wraps don't count because Barbara would never use Windows and oh, hey, Blue Screen of Death) nails, hope that one day we might even see some Joe Hill and Neil Gaiman and Sheri Tepper and Scalzi and etc. Also, Battlestar Gallactica (the reboot because I will never get the vision of these dudes playing Triad in their 70s primetime tee vee version of a man-thong, and even if the original series didn't suck tit, that would have ruined the whole thing right there) and Stargate (especially SGU because *sob* I still can't believe they canceled it *sob*) and Farscape and The Tick!

Here, allow me to scald your brain with original BSG to prove my point above.

You're welcome.

Clearly there are many, many awesome things out there that should belong on your fingers. There are so many awesome 'verses to celebrate (on our nails), and everybody should want to team up with Espionage. Let us will this into existence with the power of our brains**!

Bee tee dubs, if you're out and about the Hampton Roads area tomorrow and see a short nerd with comics violence on her nails, hollah.

*No shit. But that was also counter-drug ops and underways the CO used because he hated his wife and preferred to volunteer the ship for every underway and also reserve weekends. And it was a frigate. And the email happened, but it was muy awkward and limited to 150 words and usually resulted in me accidentally reading other people's porny love letters, which ew.

**And dollars.

Military Medicine...Doesn't...Suck...As Much

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Wed, 10 Sep 2014 14:05:00 +0000

Jesus, take the wheel.

It's hard to admit that military medicine might not universally suck, and yet yesterday, the best thing that could happen to our family happened. And it happened at the hands of an Air Force doctor.

Some background: Elder sprog has been through the medical system and California's First Five system since he was about three years old. We'd noticed he had delayed speech development, and he was also having difficulty with motor skills and sensory triggers--loud noises would overwhelm him, for example. When we had him evaluated, he qualified for services, but each state we landed in, each school system, and even each new person who saw him came up with a different answer. All agreed he was smart--even his pre-K teachers would constantly bring us over to show us the new pulley system he engineered to put toys away, etc.--but he just wouldn't engage with other kids and certainly couldn't engage in imaginative play.

Nobody could agree on what was wrong with him, so I started researching.

And what I found was Asperger's. It just seemed to fit. So we went to the primary care doctor in Monterey--a civilian, which meant he listened to us, ahem--and got a referral for sprog's evaluation for Asperger's. Tricare sent us to Stanford, which has a great developmental department for kids with autism. We were psyched. Answers, at last! Unfortunately, only one of us could go to the evaluation because we were told it would be an all-day thing and younger sprog had something going on. So husband left and I stayed home to be sure younger sprog got to his whatever-the-hell-it-was.

That night, husband returned home, completely dejected. "They said there's no way it's Asperger's because of his speech delay," he said. "But they said his IQ is 67, and he'll never be able to live on his own."

We were devastated. And confused. Our bright, inquisitive child who already grasped some awesome engineering concepts was intellectually disabled? It just didn't fit. It was during spring break of his homeschool kindergarten year that our request for an IEP for him finally made it to the district psychologist. She took one look at his test scores and the Stanford write-up, and called me. During spring break. She wanted to take her week off to come talk to the sprog and see if she could evaluate him. I agreed, and she spent the week at our house, even bringing another psychologist with her one day.

His IQ, when he was submitted to a language-based exam, was 67. His IQ, when he was submitted to other types of exams, was closer to 160. Imagine that! Language delay...and can't complete a language-based exam. Stunning!

His favorite pastime, mazes, resulted in a moment of ah-ha for all of us. He got a little overwhelmed on one maze, and he was about to spool, so I asked if he could be allowed to finish it with one bit of advice. I showed him where he'd made a wrong turn (about halfway through the maze), he went back to that point and completed it. "Do you know the age that maze was meant to test?" the psychologist asked me. "Fifteen."

Sprog was five.

Alas, they said his language and sensory issues gave a false positive on autism tests, and they didn't think he was autistic. This was largely because he checked off common autism and Asperger's traits, but was missing one or two on each list, disqualifying him.

Apparently, that was key.

Yesterday, sprog finally made it through Tricare's referral system and into a developmental pediatrician's office. We were there well over two hours while a pediatrician evaluated sprog. I was stunned for those two hours because he knew all the right questions to ask and the right ways to phrase them. He continually pulled all the issues sprog has and made them very evident. He was interested in sprog. He was engaged. He built up great rapport with sprog very quickly. He was fabulous...and a military doctor, at Portsmouth Naval.

What the fucking fuck, amirite?

He looked at our evaluations, the teacher evaluations, past tests, current tests, and asked me to complete one more parent evaluation. And when it was done, he gave us a diagnosis and a way forward.

No false positive, he said. Our son is high-functioning autistic, and we are able to nail that definitive diagnosis because the DSM moved all of these diagnoses under the autism umbrella last year. He would be Asperger's, the doc said, but for the speech delay.

Finally, our child, with his various issues that nobody would take seriously (oh, he doesn't require services - he functions just fine! except for these "behavior" problems; we seriously need to get him over that, so please talk to him about appropriate responses) because we didn't have a diagnosis that made sense, has a diagnosis. It makes sense. It fits. And it opens up a world of options for us that we didn't have mere hours before.

We have referrals incoming, and we're going to get EFMP status. We are going to get our sprog help. We have a diagnosis we can take to the school. We have options. It took seven years to get to this point, but by gods we have options.

And we owe this treasure trove of winningness and awesome to an Air Force developmental pediatrician who listened, who gave a shit, who wanted our sprog to be able to find ways around and over his challenges so he can be and do anything he wants in life.

So it is with great regret that I rescind my statement that all military doctors suck. Not all military doctors suck. Apparently, the Air Force has some really specfuckingtacular ones.

Thank you, Air Force doctor. You have turned 2014 into an automagically amazing year. This is the year we felt hope.

The Sad State of Military Medicine

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Sat, 28 Jun 2014 04:43:00 +0000

It looks like the Army and the Navy are recapturing Tricare Prime members and forcing them back to MTFs. I can't say I'm surprised to read this since there's so much wanking about health care costs for service members and dependents. But still. This is fucking infuriating.

The article touches on one reason -- despite the claim that a significant percentage of appointments go unfilled, it's nearly impossible to get an appointment, especially not a same-day.

I've encountered this issue at the Boone clinic in Virginia Beach. I call the appointment line to ask for an appointment today or tomorrow - first available, please, because a sprog or I cannot breathe/eat/get a temp down/stop screaming from pain and haven't been able to for X many days/hours. Each time, I'm transferred (usually unsuccessfully) to the clinic's direct line.

And nobody picks up.

So I call back to the appointment line, and they say I should call at 7am tomorrow because that's when the openings will be filled. So we wait out another several hours of coughing/puking, fever hallucinations/screaming, and straight up at 7am, I call the clinic.

And nobody picks up.

So I call back. And call back. And call back. And nobody picks up. I get the husband to call the appointment line. And voila. We get an appointment. In three days.

The point is there are no appointments. Since we moved from Champus to Tricare, it's been impossible to get a timely appointment. In most places we've lived, we're told to head to the MTF's ER if we have same-day needs. Now I'm curious about these "unfilled appointments" they're apparently paying double for. How many of those were no-shows? How many of those were set aside for same-days that were somehow unneeded? How many were left empty for late patients or emergencies or long appointments? How many of these appointments are truly unfilled for lack of patients?

The other issue the article doesn't touch on is the fact that MTFs exist to treat service members. Families aren't just secondary priorities. We're considered a burden on the system. We get appointments only if no service member needs one. We get treatment only if there's room and time and money. And this makes sense. The military can't function if all their medical staff is focused on family when service members need attention. But at the same time, we rely on the insurance covering our family, and if our only option under that coverage is to be seen at an MTF whose command doesn't include us as anything more than a tertiary morale issue for the service member, how valuable is this insurance?

I remember when Tricare was born, and Champus died, and Balboa in San Diego was trying to convince everyone to go Prime. All the "prime" appointment times went to Prime members, even if we were dependents. They had special parking close to the entrance for Prime. Even dependents. But nowadays, that's gone. Standard members have freedom Prime members don't--they have to pay a small copay, but they can be seen by civilian doctors (though, to be fair, the number of docs is dwindling because Tricare doesn't pay for shit, and doctors have bills to pay) and still take their civilian prescriptions to the MTF pharmacy, which means their meds are free. They aren't part of the MTF cattle call, and they don't get the shit medical care that Prime members pay extra to be subjected to.

I'm starting to wonder if this isn't how the Pentagon slides the bulk of its healthcare burden into the service members' hands. Prime seems to cost them money, considering the restrictions and the aim for 100% appointment fill and the increasing cost passed to the service members. So are they trying to incentivize Standard?

One of the interviewees in the article mentioned she was losing a doctor she'd had for six years and would now have to start over with a new doctor who doesn't know her. What isn't mentioned is that doctor will have max 2 years with her. And then s/he will PCS. So continuity of care and a healthy patient-doctor relationship don't exist when you're treated at a MTF.

And we won't even get into the standard of care that MTFs have. For more information regarding my feelings on that issue, just look under the "navy medicine" label on this blog and check out my experiences at Pendleton's hospital.

This is sad news for all dependents, and it bodes ill for our medical future.

Working in Belgium

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Mon, 16 Jun 2014 10:53:00 +0000

So, with the news of our impending ~~doom~~ PCS on the distant horizon, I've begun the research and the making of plans and the realization that hoo-boy this is gonna fucking suck.

You might recall I used to be a software engineer. We went to Bahrain, where I did good and fun things and totally biffed my career trajectory because it was all under the auspices of system administration rather than any kind of programming. When I came back to the States, the only jobs I was getting calls for were sys admin--not my cuppa because I hate dealing with people (especially when they're freaking out because they don't know how to reboot their computer). So I went back to school and got a Master's degree in something I figured would help me attain a portable career -- creative writing. This degree would enable me to write better, teach college (where I'm allowed to be an asshole), or edit books.

I quickly found a job editing. I've been working for this company since I graduated three years ago. Huzzah!

But when I researched Belgium, I kept coming across warnings about getting a work permit and restrictions on jobs. When I dug down, I found some pretty fucking dire info: only jobs on base (read: commissary clerk, admin assistant, teacher, etc.) are allowed under the NATO SOFA. Not to diss on those jobs--they're just not for me. You might notice a trend there...dealing with people. Also, aside from teaching, none of these jobs has a really clear or stable career trajectory, which is key for me. I need a job that pushes me to learn and do more than I thought I could, to constantly improve myself, study, experiment, etc. Also, a retirement fund would sure as fuck be nice since I'm not earning one being a pearl-polishing wifey.

Anyway, I did more research because this is some bullshit info. And I kept finding the same thing: limited jobs qualify under the SOFA (the only European country with this kind of sploogetastic 50s throwback shit), and for the rest, you have to relinquish your SOFA status and become a Belgian resident. WTF?

I finally dug up a number for a military law office yonder and, after being spoken to by a very loud French speaker, I was connected with a very French-speaking Belgian lawyer who, I shit you not,

advised me on how best to break the law.

I'm not lying.

So I have to give up the editing gig. This portable job I pursued because it's portable and mil-friendly is not actually portable into Belgium. It's most definitely going to cost me hardcore to maintain, in both taxes and SOFA status, and making these meetings when I'm 6-7 hours ahead of East coast time and 8-10 hours ahead of company headquarters...yeah, no.

But even my backup plan is dangerous. "You will not be a high priority for the Belgian government," she said about a writing career because with this, at least, I would not be taking a job away from a European, and my income would be laughably low enough that I would not be depriving Belgium its due taxes. I just have to make sure I pay my American taxes and keep to American laws so "if the worst happens" (jail time? deportation?) I can show a "good faith effort" to be all legal in some way. O.o

She gave me a tiny glimmer of hope, though: there are American companies with Belgian offices that can employ Americans under the SOFA. The only thing is, they have to be willing to fill out egregious amounts of paperwork and file applications with NATO, the Belgian gubmint, etc. and possibly sacrifice a few goats (which is cool because apparently all their veg is fried in animal fat or doused in dairy, so no big on the goats because harvest time).

This means I have some planning and prep to do. I can write covertly and chance deportation/jail/community service, which in Belgium is probably forced friendliness and most likely entails system administration work, but I should establish that career post haste to show that this was something I brought with me. I can get some certifications to rejuice my not-very-portable software engineering mojo, in hopes (maybe, possibly, because I can't find much with my google-fu) there are Amurrican companies in Belgium that are happy to hire cantankerous Amurrican milspouses and do all that jazzy paperwork shit. But then I'd have to be okay with our next PCS dropping us somewhere there are--once again--no jobs to build up my career. Or I can settle in with the whole housewife thing and pretend to like putting my whole fucking life on hold--yet again--for my husband's career.

If you need me, I'll be in the corner.

Plotting revenge.

The Portable Job

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Fri, 23 May 2014 02:12:00 +0000

We milspouses know how important it is to find a portable career, something you can take with you no matter where you go. A lot of these jobs end up being home-based businesses or telecommute situations. And these work great for a lot of people. You have the opportunity to build up time with a company, build up experience, build up networking contacts via a job that you can maintain no matter where you land.

Unless, apparently, you're going to Belgium.

While I was researching our new home to get a feel for things, I looked at the information about jobs in the area. In short: you're fucked. Unless you want to work at the commissary an hour away...or the quickie mart on base...or similar. Which...no thanks. It's a fine job for people who have the ability to not hate people and screaming babies, but I'm allergic to assholes and badly behaved children, and commissaries etc. tend to be et up with those.

But something else I saw made my Scooby ears go "Rurh?" Something about needing a work permit to work off base. So I dug a little deeper. And this is what I found (emphasis mine):

We've seen some questions lately about running a home-based business while being stationed in Belgium. Here's a summary of what we've learned about that issue. "US personnel cannot have both NATO SOFA status and be engaged in a commercial activity. US dependents engaging in a commercial activity lose their NATO SOFA status and are immediately treated as an ordinary resident in Belgium. Please note that you will still retain most of your privileges as they come from your sponsor. This distinction between having NATO SOFA status or being considered an ordinary Belgian resident applies regardless of the type of commercial activity you are involved in (i.e., self-employment or employment with a off-post non government affiliated company) or where the business takes place (in US owned/leased housing or in privately leased housing or building)."

And what I found as far as the requirements were thusly:

A work permit costs 140 euros to apply for, and it's not guaranteed you'll get approval. No refund if you're denied. Sucker.
Refusals are common and often are due to the pay being insufficient. You can appeal, but you need your boss to write a letter about why it's important for you to work for less than what Belgium considers sufficient pay. If you're self-employed...not sure how this works.
You must pay nearly 1000 euros per quarter MINIMUM in just unemployment insurance. There are other taxes you also owe.
On top of this, you will be a Belgian resident. I don't know what this means as far as protections from random Belgian laws that you might find objectionable, as NATO claims you'd still have *some* protections via the service member. There's not a lot of detail about this.

In short, if your darlingest is stationed in Belgium, kiss your job--and possibly your career--goodbye. Even if you're drowning in student loan debt from that one time when you got a degree that would help you score a portable career.

Welcome to the 1950s, baby. This is Belgium.

Just when you thought it was safe...

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Wed, 14 May 2014 23:35:00 +0000

Looks like this here blog is about to be resurrected. Well, about to be...sometime this year or next.

It's PCS time (in a year), and we have word we're headed to northern Europe. As in where there's fucking permafrost and shit. Maybe not that far north, but godsdamned close. The climate is just like my most favoritest place ever--Monterey, where I was so fucking sick for two straight years that I ended up with a lovely autoimmune illness.

Oh. Fucking. Joy. I cannot fucking wait to be sick all the time again. I wonder if it'll actually kill me this time? Maybe. According to my doctor, Monterey very nearly killed me, so it's not outside of the realm of possibilities.

I did NOT want these orders. Like, I would rather have gotten the orders to Seoul. I'd rather go to fucking Guam or Diego Garcia. I hate the cold. I hate damp. I hate not being close to family. One of the things I have LOVED about being in Virginia has been proximity to my mom.

And even though I'm pretty fucking flamingly liberal, I cannot abide a nanny state. Jesus fucking wept, the shit you have to have in your car and on your bike there. Jesus. Fucking. Wept.

The cost of living? Would make a Southern Californian cry.

The housing? Would make a shack look palatial.

The employment opportunities? Ha! If I want to engage in fisticuffs over the thankless administrative assistant job that doesn't even pay a living wage, SURE. Opportunities motherfucking ahoy!

Meanwhile, we hear the only good thing about the job is when you get sent to Afghanistan. No, I'm not fucking kidding.

And holy shit, everyone who's said, "OMG so jealous of you!" I've asked them all what they liked about Europe. The only answer: the travel! And this is me holding my breath that there will ever be an opportunity to travel. Ever. Because the military. I've danced this fucking chicken dance mandated by the Navy for nearly 20 years now, and I know what comes after the cluck-twist-clap portion--a gigantic shaft up the ass sans lube and no reacharound.

I truly can't even. We had some time today where we thought this was off, that we were going to stay here in Virginia. My sprogs would get to finish elementary school here. They'd have this gigantic yard and the lovely cul-de-sac to ride bikes and skateboard and skate and all that shit. And then a writing conference was announced that's next year, and I thought *maybe*.

Nope. Hopes dashed. And on top of dashed hopes went the ashy remains of the hope we'd end up on base instead of in a city far, far away from the nearest base and the commissary and exchange and medical and all that shit. Far. Far. Away.

So...just fucking kill me now. Or else geobach. I don't know. Three years separated is a long fucking time, but so is three years living in the frozen hellmouth.

Uncounted

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Wed, 12 Mar 2014 14:44:00 +0000

I saw on the Facebooks today that CNN has a new interactive on their website called The Uncounted. It's all about military dependent suicide.

What's the big deal? Nothing new in our world, right? We've been watching this happen year after year. We even had a suicidal ideation comment on Left Face a couple of years ago, which was scary and awful and incredibly sad. Authors across the mil-sphere have tried to bring this to public attention, but it hasn't really caught on.

Now, though, we have a major news network placing the series front and center on their website. Families who struggle--spouses, parents, siblings, sprogs--do count. They do matter. But we've been told through the inaction, inattention, and disinterest of military brass, that we don't count. We remain uncounted.

Thinking about this subject today took me through a windy brain-journey that ended with memories of speech after speech where the CO thanks us, the spouses. "You have the hardest job in the Navy," they've told us year after year. "Keeping the home front secure is tough, but your support helps our sailors focus on their important and often dangerous jobs."

This has always bugged me, but this morning, I realized why, exactly, these moments of faux gratitude are so damaging.

It's because of the message underneath the thanks.

It's because these little love notes are actually reminders of what our jobs really are.

Keep the home front secure. Take care of all the financials so service members can focus on the job that really matters.

Keep the home front secure. Be the only parent, functionally a single parent, for kids who miss their deployed mom/dad and might be acting out. Even though you aren't financially doing it on your own, you need to function as if you've got all the bases covered so service members can focus on the job that really matters.

When shit goes sideways, don't whine to your deployed spouse about it. Because s/he has a bevy of more important issues to worry about on that ship. That job is important, and they can't be distracted.

Keep the home front secure. It's a tough job, but it's your job to do.

Your job is support. And anything that distracts you from this job--your own career (which we don't actually want you to have, or else we wouldn't PCS you out of state every two fucking years), friends that don't understand what comes first in your life (the home front), interests that require your spouse take leave (while he's stationed on a ship? HA! Good fucking luck)--is to be avoided because it weakens the home front.

This might not be too awful if the job weren't compulsory or if there were compensation. But there is no compensation. All the money and benefits go to the service member. Only if you've given ten fucking years of your life to military marriage do you qualify for half of the service member's retirement (should s/he make it to retirement). And only if the worst happens do you ever receive benefits directly to your bank account. Because the employed person is the service member.

We don't fill out a W-2. We don't earn benefits or retirement of our own. Yet here we are with the "toughest job in the Navy." Lucky us.

A Modest Proposal

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Sat, 18 Jan 2014 01:40:00 +0000

A serious issue in the US military, one that has taken years to slowly percolate, has recently become a central point of concern and contention. It is one that most definitely needs to be addressed, as it affects military readiness. But finding a solution has been difficult as politicians and those representing service members butt heads over how best to define the issue and remedy the problem.

The issue: how to pay for all the things.

The solution, according to Congress, the President, and four gregarious taintgrenades, is "entitlement reform."

Which is a fun way of saying, "take away money earned from people who don't legally have the voices to complain and call it *fair*." It is the most popular solution according to most members of Congress and a whole lot of taintgrenades.

I would like to propose a modest solution that will solve many issues. It requires only three actions:

Congresscritters earn extremely generous entitlements for a quarter of the time served of military personnel. Clearly, it's only fair that they, too, share in the pain as the country learns fiscal responsibility. Instead of earning a generous retirement when they come into their political positions after having already established a career, and able to resume that career after their political terms have ended, and since they also have a very clear ability to earn a living from speaking engagements after their terms are over, they don't really need that retirement. Instead, this money should be forfeited in order to ensure we can balance our budget.
Retired generals and admirals have typically given thirty years of service or more when they retire. Those who go on to earn metric fucktons of cash through defense contractor work or "think tank" employment might have only ten years of retirement before they earn their full COLA. To be fair, they won't miss any of their retirement, as they were part of a minority (as officers of high rank) able to easily secure employment built on their military experience. For those ten years, until they reach age 62, their entire retirement could likewise be used to balance the budget. Extrapolating on the logic of Congress, service and earned entitlements are inversely proportional; therefore, those who've served longer deserve the entitlements less.
The staff of USA Today, Reiham Salam, Michael Moffett, Senator Hagel, Rep. Paul Ryan, and their cohorts have a flavor reminiscent of tea and crumpets. We should eat them. They would provide excellent sustenance during the months of unemployment. Warning: they're not vegan.

This proposal, which I offer with all modesty, could either ensure service members might have the COLA they were promised when they agreed to serve...or it could be a show of solidarity from those who believe military personnel are greedy bastards who got into this fucked up shitshow of a career path for the money.

Tee Vee Portrayals: Fox's Enlisted

noreply@blogger.com (Anchored Away) — Wed, 15 Jan 2014 07:04:00 +0000

First, I want to say to people who might or might not blog on Spousebuzz that the f-bomb is always okay. It's how we stay sane. And sometimes it slips out when our spouses are being unwitting dickbags.

It's fine.

Second, I want to say to people who might or might not comment on Spousebuzz when the OP says she's struggling with how we have to kinda give up our careers to follow our service members all over hell and back: your "maybe your childhood dream was actually to have lots of happy baybeez and lurve your husband" has earned you a big, fat gofuckyourself. You so missed the point, and your answer trivializes the OP's career goals and is just about a vat of viscous bollocks*. Slow claps to you. Very, very slow.

Third, a few Left Face bloggers got some links from a producer's assistant tonight so we could view the pilot episode and a few additional episodes of this new series called Enlisted. The pilot? Well, there's a good reason the producer, Kevin Biegel, apologized for it. I've heard a few say it's insulting, and I can definitely grok that when "Rear D" is portrayed as the sadsack crew who are even too dumb to figure out how to do jumping jacks and who wear American flag nail designs and who walk around with their blouses wide open, and no covers over their long hair**.

Here it is, if you want to see for yourself. You should probably pass, though.

Just. Wow. But Biegel insisted we at least try one post-pilot episode and reserve judgment until then. I tried two. And now I'm judging.

I have developed a kind of mil-life Bechdel test for TV, movies, books, etc. It goes a little something like this:

Are there milspouses/milsos (i.e. service members don't exist in a vacuum)?
Do they and/or the service member have to deal with some fucked up, stressy situations?
Do they get to avoid shitshows like reunion pr0n, dependapotamus or similar portrayals, and scenes that gloss over all the actual, real stressors they have to deal with on a daily basis?

If all three answers are "yes," congratulations! You get a cookie.

Clearly, very few portrayals of the military life on screen pass. Sadly, very few of the books I read as part of my day job pass this mil-Bechdel test. Most of the books I come across (or end up editing) gloss over #3 on this list. Hardcore. So do movies and the telly, when milspouses are even factored in.

And that's where I'm finding Enlisted also falls down. It's my kind of humor - very Scrubs only with soldiers on a base instead of doctors in a hospital. And like Scrubs, it takes a second from the verbal sparring and hijinks to glance through the peephole at more serious aspects of the military experience. But it still glosses. Take the second episode, for example (we will pretend the pilot never happened). The main character Pete *just wants to be alone*. It's kind of implied that he's maybe got a touch of the PTSD. That's just...well...

Again, I'm conflicted. On the one hand, it sucks that so much PTSD is in the media conveying the idea that every service member returning from Afghanistan (or Iraq back when) is a bomb waiting to explode in a PTSD flashback...which leads to almost a pathological need to touch on it in any mil-portrayal. On the other hand, couching this subject in humor is super tricksy, and I just don't think it came through the other side. Mostly because it was there vaguely for five seconds of a 22-minute episode, and by episode 3, it was gone. Maybe it comes in again later? I don't know. But it gets such light treatment, I don't know if I trust it coming around again. Better would have been for Pete to go through the ridiculousness that is the Army "suck it up" attitude that's been hard at work killing soldiers in record numbers of suicides. Or have this be a small running thread for a secondary character who's just come home. There are other ways to do this than "sometimes, because shit maybe got real over yonder, soldiers just need to be alone for a while." I didn't even get the whiff of PTSD until that comment was made, but it's at least a trope and bordering on a cliche to see this as shorthand for a psychological concern.

The second episode's serious moment is during an "FRG" meeting. The FRG meets in probably the nicest Army base housing I've ever seen (not that I've seen a lot, but jesus crispy christ do enlisted Army get shit on with some 3rd world housing units, and this looked more like the huge tracts of new faux-stucco North County San Diego houses). Then, it's like 5 women and a soldier who comes to mansplain to the wimminz how to get their FRG shit done (what??). Despite there being female soldiers all up in the cast, there were no mil-husbands in that living room. And their meeting discussions? Which color paper to use for the care packages.

Okay.

One wife speaks during the serious moment, and it is a totally fucking legit concern. Her DH has been deployed for over a year, and she's worried. Yes! This! This is precisely the shit we need in milspouse portrayals to close that military-civilian divide. This is the shit that will give civilians the context they need to understand why reunions are so fucking intimate and wonderful and difficult and awful and exciting all at the same time...and why reunion pr0n is therefore exploitative and voyeuristic and unbalanced in its storytelling. This is the shit we need.

But then she gets another line. And this line gives me a sad.

"Does he know I haz all the feels?" she asks the soldier who's never deployed ever.

And I tear out my hair. It's at this point I realize the producer does, indeed, have veterans advising him, but they're likely old dudes, judging by some of the milspouse portrayals. And he probably has ZERO milspouses advising. Because, yet again, we're an afterthought, and our own conflicts and struggles mean about jack and shit unless our lives can be turned into a completely ridiculous soap opera on Lifetime. Huzzah.

The show has some funny moments. I lolzed it up during the cooking contest, and I think YodaMan will have his own set of lulz if he sees the disaster preparedness training (zombies FTW!). I really like how Sgt Perez is portrayed. She's a kick ass woman, and even though she's a secondary character, she ninjas a lot of scenes and delivers some throat punches on her way out the door. (Just, please, for the love of all that is holy, don't develop a romance there. Leave this relationship in the friendzone, I beg you. I edit romance novels for a living, and *I* think this one's better left alone.)

The banter is fun, and though much of the setting is still unrealistic, it's better than the pilot's setting. Also, hairs were cut and blouses were buttoned and covers are appropriately doffed and donned as far as my Navy knowledge goes, so we're definitely on an upswing.

I guess we'll have to wait and see. I'm sure this season's shows are already written, edited, and in whatever pipeline teleplays go through. But if this show survives into another season, maybe it will pick up some meatier plot threads. Maybe it will pass my mil-Bechdel test later. For now, I'm going to have to urge everyone who's curious to miss the pilot, skip right to the second episode (really, here's all you missed: Pete punches his CO and is busted down and sent back to Florida, where his two brothers are also stationed), and judge for yourself. I think some will like it just fine. I think some will hate it with fire. Either way, I do believe Mr. Biegel when he says, "Please just know the show comes from a place of love for my family that did the job, not Hollywood holy-ier-than-though-ness."***

Me? I'll figure it out later, when I'm no longer worried about how we're going to make up the $100k Congress just cut from our retirement pay. For now, it's merely one more voice threatening to trivialize our trials and exploit our tribulations. I'm hoping it won't, but in the last 19 years of living in the lap of mil-luxury, I've learned to expect the worst, hope for the best, and invest in vegan cheez**** to get me through the rough patches.

* That's bull balls, in case you were wondering. Viscous ones.

** I know the other services do covers different than the Navy. Or maybe it's something about how they salute without a cover on? I can't remember. I just remember thinking how fucked up it was in ROTC. Consistency, people. No roof, cover on. No cover, no salute. Exception: fucky ship sitches. Ta da! Now nobody's confused unless they're on a fucky ship.

*** Though that's the second time this week a producer has dissed on Hollywood to me. Is this a thing?

**** Kite Hill, bitches. That's some tasty shit. So ridiculously expensive, but it's almond milk cultured just like real cheese. Om to the nom.