thejuliemeister

Musings from an unsuspecting navy wife


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How Howard the Duck almost killed me

Everyone has an arch-nemesis. This does not have to be a person. It could be an irresistible snack food, control-top panty hose, itchy shirt collars, or that smug bitch from high school (you know who you are). I firmly believe that everyone should have something non-threatening to direct any excess anger towards.

My arch-nemesis is Howard the Duck. If you don’t easily recall 1986, let me refresh your memory. Howard the Duck is an anthropomorphic duck from outer space, who eventually nearly makes it with a punk Lea Thompson (I wish I had her hair from this movie). There were no CGI characters at the time, so Howard was played by a man in an over-sized, and wildly terrifying duck suit. (For some reason, characters seem way too accepting of this creepy duck man throughout the film.)

This, along with “Playduck Magazine,” and a separate instance of duck titties, should be enough to set any child of the 80’s against the horrifying film. But for me, it holds a special significance. Howard the Duck literally almost killed me. Let me explain.

I’m the youngest of two. My mother discovered after more than a day of hard labor with my sister that she could not physically give birth. Her doctor nonchalantly told her that had she been pregnant 100 years ago, she would have died. Thank God modern medicine allows for miracles and C-sections. My older sister is now pregnant with her first, continuing the line. We couldn’t be happier.

My mother’s pregnancy with me was high risk. My mom has a heart murmur and suffered from angina during the pregnancy. She had to go on bed rest for the last few months. There was also a serious risk that I would need a complete blood transfusion at birth. But she sincerely wanted me, and I’m grateful. She took particular care to stay healthy for both my sister and I.

Mom works for an insurance company located in Marin County, California. George Lucas lives a few short miles from her office, and Industrial Light and Magic was also housed nearby. (Fun fact: George Lucas lives in Lucas Valley. It was already called Lucas Valley when he moved there.)

The proximity to the Star Wars magnate should have meant nothing to my mother and father. But there was one day when Georgie Lucas needed to shoot aerial shots for a new film that he probably thought was going to recreate the magic of Star Wars (it didn’t). Although the film was notionally set in Cleveland, Marin could totally do the trick.

Georgie and his crew decided to shoot one of the aerial scenes at the office building where my mom still works. The shot was filmed in the winter. Normally Marin is pretty temperate, but winter temps can go below freezing overnight.

To prepare for shooting, they decided to spray down the whole employee parking lot to make it look nice and fresh for filming. Totally logical. Unfortunately, this water froze forming a lovely sheen of black ice. It probably looked great on film.

That day, in her high-risk pregnancy, my mom arrived early to work. Only a few of her co-workers knew she was pregnant at this point. She stepped out of her car, and slipped on the ice. Her body fell full force on the concrete.

A friend who knew was nearby and helped her stand. She was terrified. Mom said she thought for certain she would miscarry from the spill.

Somehow, I survived. I was full-term and healthy. The film was Howard the Duck. It came out a month after I did. There were pretty much no positive reviews. I recently sat through the film to see if it was any good. It wasn’t.

This is one of the unremarkable shots that nearly snuffed me out:

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At least we get another view of Lea Michelle’s panties in the same scene.

After watching the film, I realized how unfortunate it would have been if anyone had died in order to bring Howard the Duck into the word. My mom jokes now that it would have been sad had my life been cut short thanks to the worst film ever made. I may be biased, but I tend to agree.

I wonder how many people have died to usher in films, good and bad. Is it possible that profitable producers are actually mass murderers? Unlikely. But it is likely that film crews over the years have been less than cautious with bystanders when constructing sets and setting up perfect scenes.

For years I’ve said that an anthropomorphic duck nearly took my life. Really it was the idiotic production crew, and probably George Lucas’ ego. Thanks, Georgie.

I guess my real plea here would be to ask for a little common sense and consideration. My father frequently comments that people are idiots for failing to recognize a logical outcome of their actions. I cannot fathom how anyone could not foresee that hosing down concrete in mid-winter would generate a layer of ice, and that this ice might pose a risk to the regular working folks trying to get into the office. But hindsight provides more clarity, and those morons didn’t even realize their actions could have killed me. Jerks.

So Howard, I will continue to despise you, but I think perhaps calling you my arch-nemesis is a bit too harsh. I’m sure if it were up to you, you would have stayed in comic books and not become the object of ridicule the big screen has made of you. My true arch-nemesis must instead shift to George Lucas. If nearly preventing my birth wasn’t enough to make me hate George Lucas, Jar Jar Binks certainly is.   Therefore Mr. Lucas, I will now direct any excess anger towards you, cursing your name at every stubbed toe or broken hair-tie. It’s a small price, and one I feel justified in claiming, because you brought the worst film of all time into the world, and came close to taking me out in the process.


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Military Spouses: Why we do what we do

Memes are the inside jokes for people who spend too much time on the Internet to actually socialize and generate inside jokes with friends. This notion was recently appropriately commemorated with a meme on the front page of Reddit (AKA the Front Page of the Internet), signaling that indeed, nerds know they are nerds. (As a Redditor with lots of fake Reddit points or “Karma,” and not a single Karma-whoring tit shot to my posting repertoire, I’m well qualified to diagnose my own kind.)

Memes usually consist of a picture that signifies something. There’s the Actual Advice Mallard who gives pieces of legitimate advice. There’s also Confession Bear who states deep dark secrets that range from a love of nose picking to actual murder. Chances are that if there is a very particular story or emotion that you need to evoke, there is a meme to match it.

One meme that usually garners nods of approval is Captain Hindsight, who originated in South Park. This spandex-clad Captain points one finger to the sky and states platitudes of things that really, people should have seen coming.

About a year ago I was browsing the interwebs and came across a Captain Hindsight that I wanted to slap across his smug cartoon face. This was it:

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The image had thousands of views and many accolades as to its accuracy. For the first time, I cursed all of those morons out there on the Internet. These were supposed to be my people. How could they be so naïve?

On the one hand, I understand where the Captain’s coming from. People should always go into a marriage with open eyes and clear expectations. But how could they assume that a difficult career trajectory was the only aspect in determining whom you marry?

It made me think about a lot of things, including why I married a military man. I never wanted to marry someone in the Navy. Why would I subject my life to constant interruptions from moving, a poor chance at a steady career, and a spouse who would be intermittently absent? Really, it didn’t sound like a good deal.

But before I met my husband, I didn’t have a good idea of what being married would mean. I didn’t know what to look for. I’d had my heart broken more than once and I couldn’t fathom what it would take to commit to a life with someone.

Now I know. My spouse is someone who I never tire of. I feel more myself when he is next to me than I do sitting alone. He is the one person who can make me angrier than I knew possible, and also the only one I want to comfort me when I am down. He knows all of me and accepts it. And I know and love him back.

When you find someone who does that, how can you not try to form a life together? It is literally the foundation for why people should get married. And with any partnership, there is a give and take.

I gave up my home. I gave up a good job with a free graduate education. I gave up seeing my family as often as I wanted, and I gave up the consistency of living in the same area for an extended period.

In exchange I got the ability to take some time away from an office to explore my true passions. I got a man who enjoys cooking and allows me to eat like an adult instead of foraging like a feral child. I got a dog and started to form a new family. I got to experience living in new places and meeting new people. I will get to live in Hawaii soon.

My husband made concessions as well. He gave up on the hope of retiring to a state without income tax, because he thought it only fair I could decide where we live after the Navy. He gave up playing video games until dawn. He gave up assuming that all free time was “his” time, and now knows it’s “our” time.

For his part, he got someone task-focused in his life that happily took over budgeting until all debt was paid off. He got the ability to never worry if the stockpile of toilet paper is low. He got a new drive and passion in his career, because it’s not just him anymore.

We both got a lot in the end. We got each other. We both get to know we’re married to someone who knows and loves us- flaws and all. We both get to wake up to each other. We both get to look forward to what our future looks like together. We get to know that no matter what, we’re in it together.

In Plato’s Symposium, Aristophones tells a crowd of drunken philosophers that in the beginning, there were circle people. These beings had two heads, four arms, four legs and one body. In that form, the circle people were so powerful they tried to take on Olympus. Zeus decided to chop them in half to reduce their power, creating singular beings. These single people do not feel whole, so they are always questing after their other halves. Once two separated beings find each other, they never want to be apart again. And that is the origin of love.

I found my other half. And no, I honestly do not want to deal with the stresses of being a military spouse. There are many benefits, to be certain, but I hate that I have to be separated by deployments from the person I love, I hate moving frequently, and I hate that I don’t always get to pick where I live. I imagine that most partnerships involve sacrifices and stresses that are balanced against the benefits. So while there are downsides to this lifestyle that I’d prefer not to have, I wouldn’t change it, because the scales are heavily stacked in favor of being whole.

 


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The Hover

Of all my shortcomings, the one that I am perhaps most ashamed of is my utter inability to complete “the hover.” If you are unfamiliar with this terminology, let me explain. “The hover” is a urinating technique for ladies, which consists of utilizing significant quadriceps strength to squat lightly over a public toilet to pee without touching flesh to the offending porcelain throne. I imagine it looks something like this:

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My quads are spectacular. Years of running have rendered them too large for skinny jeans. Unfortunately, my balance is lacking. All attempts at the hover have ended with me falling over and trying not to pee on myself. I like to say I’m “too tall” for it, but really, I lack the skill.

In California, this was an infrequent problem. The law requires that all public restrooms provide toilet seat covers. That thin sheet of recycled paper provides an obviously impervious barrier to all creepy crawlies. I was stunned to discover that this legislation doesn’t extend to all 50 states. Simply unrolling toilet paper and gingerly placing it on the toilet seat seems insufficient. Surely, germs can make their way through the perforation.

But there’s a bigger problem. One I’ve witnessed my whole life, but has intensified living since a toilet-seat coverless world.

Piss. Piss everywhere. How can anyone get more pee on the toilet than in it?

There’s only one reason I can think of for this smelly yellow phenomenon: the hover. It has to be the hover. Somehow, everyone on the East Coast is capable of unleashing a violent stream of urine from on high without once touching a cheek down. The aftermath is horrendous.

Ladies, I get it. Public bathrooms are gross. You don’t want to sit on something where hundreds of people pee and poo on the regular. But do you really need to make the whole thing worse? And if you can’t deign to sit on the seat, can you at least clean up after yourself? If you don’t want to wipe up your own pee, what makes you think someone else wants to?

Not everyone is capable of peeing from a distance. It’s selfish and rude to pee on toilet seats without cleaning up. What if an old lady with bad vision or a pregnant woman was the next one in? Would you want your grandmother or pregnant friend to inadvertently sit in your pee? Of course not. So why leave it there?

The worst is when you catch the culprit. Have you ever walked into a stall as someone walks out, only to discover the remnants of a torrential downpour all over the toilet and floor? Then when you walk out to find a cleaner stall, the messy pee-er is casually washing her hands like nothing happened. But you both know what she did. No level of stink-eye can convey the disdain in my heart for this free-peeing soul.

So can we all agree that after a wee we’ll check the seat? It’s the right thing to do, the courteous thing to do, and the sanitary thing to do. Let’s all band together to make sure that the poor disadvantaged few among us who are incapable of the hover aren’t sentenced to a life of wiping up pee that doesn’t belong to them before achieving relief. Let’s all clean up our on pee.


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How Can I Miss You When You Won’t Go Away?

My dad has a song for everything. I remember once watching “I love the 90’s” on VH1 when my dad walked into the room, changed the channel, and stated: “2000 zero zero party over, oops out of time.” I couldn’t even be mad. He’d partied like it’s 1999 to assert television dominance. Somewhere, Prince smiled.

Part of having a song for everything includes listening to obscure bands from bygone eras. He is, in fact, the original hipster. For a time when I was in high school my father worked from home, and occasionally I’d walk through the front door to music blaring from the turntable and my dad rocking out at the computer. That was how I was introduced to Dan Hicks and his Hot Licks, a Northern California band from the 70’s that still play in the area from time to time. We even saw them perform once.

“How can I miss you when you won’t go away” is a Dan Hicks classic song. When I left for college I bought a few Dan Hicks CD’s and this song was always a favorite that reminded me of home. In fact, I surprised my dad at my wedding by blaring this song during our daddy-daughter dance. We both laughed.  Here he is reacting to the song choice:

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But it was a bit sad, too. We all knew that my first military PCS would be two short months after the wedding. I’d never lived more than a car ride away from my closest friends and family. Now it was my turn to move 3,000 miles away.

Leaving my family has by far been the most difficult part of marrying a military man. Sometimes I’ll find myself on Google Earth looking down at my parent’s place and noting whether or not the red truck is in the driveway.

I used to visit every few weeks. My folks live just north of San Francisco in beautiful Marin County. It’s just a hop skip and a jump to the Carneros region with some of the world’s best wines. I felt a comfort there that can only come from feeling truly at home.

Now at least with technology it’s easier to stay in contact. We FaceTime on holidays, and we have a long-standing tradition of sending what we dub “neener-neener” pictures to tease each other like small children about whatever neat thing we’re up to. My mom, the other runner in our family, might send me a picture of herself holding a glass of bubbly wine at a picturesque winery. The same winery where as I child I had my first unexpected taste of sparkling water and in my disgust, and much to my mother’s horror, opened my mouth to let it dribble down my front. In response I might neener-neener back a view of the Atlantic coast from my run route.

In this case, all she needed to do to set off my jealousy was send a picture of champagne flutes:

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My dad sends me neener-neener pictures of him smoking a stogie while playing a new instrument. I’ve lost count of how many ukuleles he owns. I’ll send back an audio file of me playing classic rock. Every time I smell a cigar I think of him.

The one set of neener-neeners that always gets me are of my sister’s growing baby bump. I wish so much that I was there to see her grow. As kids, I begrudged my sister every glass of water she asked me to grab while I was up. Now I would happily get up of my own accord to get her anything, if only I could be there. I’ve yet to come up with anything I can neener-neener back.

At least I can see them all. 30 years ago if I wanted a progress report of my sister’s baby bump, or my dad’s ukes or my mom’s trips to wine country, they would have to use a film camera, wait for the photos to develop, then snail mail them across the country. Now I can get photos instantly or see them live when we talk, and for that I am grateful.

There’s a silver lining to the military lifestyle that I didn’t expect. All of the spouses that I meet are in the same boat. We’re all transplants trying to get along in new areas. We all have families elsewhere. I guess that’s where the military family comes in.

I have forged strong bonds with other spouses. I have been amazed by how women will rally to help each other. There’s a program to make meals for new moms, and there’s an unofficial support network to reach out to women (or men) while their spouse is gone. Last year Cameron had to be out of town for Valentine’s Day. I was bummed since it was our first married V-Day, and we hadn’t been in town very long. So my new friend Sally took me out to dinner to be my Valentine as her husband was also away. It made me feel cared for more than she knows. Little acts of caring are countless in the military family, and it helps to make me feel at home.

This year Cameron and I will move to the farthest reaches of the states to settle in Hawaii. I will still miss my family. That will never change, but I am glad to be able to see and speak with them easily. My mom has often told me that I can come home anytime I want while Cam is deployed, and I may. I may not need to though. From what I’ve seen and experienced spouses are good at banding together. I’m less anxious about this move because I know there will be a support network when I get there.

The past few years have been an amazing journey of growth and learning for me. I met the love of my life and went from a California hippie to a New England navy wife. I ran my first and second marathons and realized that I am stronger than I knew. I made friends that I truly love having in my life, even when they move half the world away. There have been numerous ups and downs, but even missing my fam, I’m actually happier now than I can ever recall.

I guess the Greatful Dead say it best, and I’m sure my singing father would approve:

Sometimes the light’s all shining on me

Other times I can barely see

Lately it occurs to me

What a long strange trip it’s been


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My First Marathon

When I set out to run my first marathon I had two goals:

  1. Finish.
  2. Do not poop yourself in the process.

I would have been satisfied with only the first goal.  I assumed a slight tinkle midway through was a foregone conclusion.  At least that I could pass off as sweat.

In the end I met both goals, (though at least one fart seemed it might have had questionable intentions) but it was the most grueling event of my life. 

The idea of training for a marathon came on slowly.  I signed up for my first half marathon on a lark a few years back as someone who could barely jog a 5K and walked most of the way.  Doubling that distance seemed a Herculean feat that only super-humans or the clinically insane could perform.

I slowly started running for realsies about 2 years after the first half marathon as a way to facilitate weight loss.  After 6 months of running with a goal and a training plan, I was able to run a half marathon and smash my previous personal record.  I also lost 40 pounds. 

An idea started to germinate.  Maybe I could be one of those criminally insane people and double the distance.  I ran 3 more half marathons and I was sold.  My husband, Cameron, and I were set to embark on our first military move as a couple from Monterey, CA to New England a week after my November running of the Big Sur Half Marathon.  Giddy off of that race, I signed up for a marathon in Rhode Island the following May. 

There is no way to understate what a terrible mistake that was.  I am a Californian, and up until that point, had never run out of state.  Monterey is ideal for runners.  There’s a great path along the ocean and the temperature is a perennial 65 Degrees.  I assumed training for my marathon from December through May would be just as easy as training for any of my other races. 

Then winter laughed in my face.  I recall trying to go out in a long-sleeved technical shirt, my “warm gear,” and nearly freezing to death.  I had to buy all new running clothes to fortify myself against the harshness of bitter, bitter cold.  My water froze once on a long run.  It was miserable.

Between cold weather and actual colds, I missed several training runs.  Cameron and our dog supported me through the longest runs by meeting me with water, energy gels, and face-licks every three miles.  Those support stops kept me motivated, but in the end my longest run pre-race was only 18 miles.  

The day of the race I was nervous.  I had trouble pooping before the start.  I told myself to walk as much as I needed to.  Time didn’t matter.  Poops didn’t matter.  Finishing was everything.  With that in mind, I made my way to the start area. 

My cousin, Jenna, had flown in from CA to run too.  She’s much faster and more experienced, so we didn’t plan to run in tandem.  But we lined up next to each other for the national anthem pre-race with all the other runners before the gun sounded the start.  Cameron was nearby just past the runner/spectator divider.  Jenna and I hugged after the anthem then she moved forward to a faster pace group.  Cameron smiled and gave me thumbs up for encouragement.  I just kept telling myself to walk as much as needed and I’d be ok.

The gun sounded and I was off.  Cameron promised to be there to check on me at miles 7 and 19.  I was glad to know there would be a friendly face in the crowd.

The first 7 miles were fairly easy.  I kept my pace slow and walked the water stops.  When I saw Cameron I gave him a kiss and high five then shuffled on.  I was doing it.  I could do it.

I started breaking down around mile 14.  I had walked a little before 14, but by this point I was walking several minutes at the start of each mile marker, then trudging along to the finish of that mile.  By mile 17 all I could think about was Cameron and the car at mile 19. 

“Just get to 19” I thought.  “Then you can quit.  Maybe fake an asthma attack.  Nobody would blame you then.”  I wasn’t thinking clearly anymore.  I couldn’t think at all really.  All of my energy was focused on getting to Cameron so I could go home.

A little past mile 19 I saw a bright pink “GO JULIE!” sign.  Cameron. Car.  Done.  I got to my husband, wrapped my sweaty arms around him and cried in agony. 

“It hurts!” I cried. 

“What hurts?”  He asked, clearly concerned. 

“Everything!” I responded.  I had hit the wall.  My whole body throbbed.  I thought my options were quitting or death. 

Cam put an arm around me to support a bit of weight and started walking me forward.  I tried to sit a few times in the road and he peeled me off the ground. 

He walked with me for over a mile.  Each step he made me repeat: “I can do it.”  I couldn’t, but I said it over and over.  Around mile 20 a small patch of fence arose to the right with no apparent purpose.  I sat on it and sobbed.  Cameron knelt before me and said the car was farther from me than the finish.  The finish was the only way forward.  It was a lie, but I believed.  I took an energy gel.  Cam helped me to stand.  I needed to run again.  We embraced then I slowly trudged off.

For the next 6.2 miles I jogged 5 minutes then walked 5.  It was slow going, but I hit my groove.  I was one of the last people to cross the line, but I finished, and Cameron was there with tears in his eyes.  Jenna had finished an hour before me.  We all hugged.

 

 

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“You did it!” Jenna exclaimed.  I didn’t do it.  We did it.  Cameron was as much to blame for my step over the finish line as I was.

I wish I could say the marathon was just a mental barrier I had to scale.  It wasn’t.  It was just as much, if not more physical than it was mental.  It took all of my strength, and some of Cameron’s to get me to the end.  But I crossed that finish and for over a week I kept the finisher medal in my purse as a reminder of just how much my body and mind can do. 

I’m not afraid of many things anymore.  Whenever I question my abilities to face something new I remind myself: “I’m a fucking marathoner!”  If I can do that, as long as Cameron is with me, I can do anything. 


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Skinny Minnie Me

A few years back my doctor suggested that I should lose a few pounds.  At 24 with a BMI above the recommended 25, I couldn’t precisely fault his logic.

“Just think,” he said.  “If you lose 2 pounds a week you’ll have lost the weight in 2 months!”

By “a few pounds” he actually meant about 20- just to get healthy, and 2 months seemed far too long.  I was certain a stint on the South Beach Diet or by eating only fruit grown on a mountain in the Himalayas, I would drop 20 pounds in no time.

I was mistaken.  Instead of the turtle’s path with weight loss, I tried the hare’s, and yo-yoed down 5 and up 10.  But I tried.  At least I told myself that I tried, and that warranted an order of deep-fried mozzarella sticks slathered in ranch to compensate my suffering.

It was around this time that I met my husband, Cameron.  After a few weeks of dating he invited me on a trip with his friends to Vegas.  Here I am on that trip, testing the tensile strength of my bikini poolside:

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I knew I felt fat and that I’d never been this big before.  In college I wore a size 6, now I was testing the boundaries of a size 12.  Transitioning from an active college lifestyle to sitting at a desk all day was not kind to my thighs (or stomach, or arms, or general health).  None of my work clothes fit me and I resorted to spandex-waist concoctions that vaguely resembled maternity couture.  I told myself I’d do something different, but promising to start a diet the next day invariably led to eating excessively in the present.

Not long after the trip to Vegas Cameron needed to prep for his Navy Physical Readiness Test (PRT).  He was a little overweight and needed to speed up his run time.  He started going to the gym.  Physical changes were apparent in short order.  I felt self-conscious and kept making comments about how skinny he was getting, and how I was vaguely trying to lose weight too (I wasn’t).

Cameron picked up on my insecurities, and decided to put my mind at ease. He sat me down one night.

“You know,” he began, “I’m a man.”  This was a fact that I was generally aware of already.

“I produce more testosterone, and it’s going to be easier for me to lose weight than for you.  I just don’t want you to feel bad if I lose weight faster than you do.  I like your body the way it is now anyway.”

I flipped a switch.  I knew he meant well, but I was enraged.  Now, instead of weight loss just being something that I knew I should do, it was something that I was determined to do.  I’m a very competitive person, and this comment made me want to be the biggest loser so I could rub it in Cameron’s testosterone-infused face.

That week I joined Weight Watchers Online.  I set up the app on my phone and subscribed to support groups.  I also joined the r/loseit community on Reddit and found additional support there. At work I began drinking at least a gallon of water a day so that I would have an excuse to climb a flight of stairs every hour or so to use the nice bathroom.  I took up running.  When I started, I couldn’t run for more than a few minutes.  It took time, but eventually I started to love it.

Slowly, at about 2 pounds a week to be precise, I started shedding weight.  Had I just started when my doctor asked me to I’d have lost most of the pounds before I even met Cameron.  But I wasn’t ready then, and I have to say that I’m glad we did it together.  Cam and I both lost weight together.  Admittedly, I lost more- but who’s counting? (I am.)  We started making healthy changes to our lifestyles together, and that was what made it work.  I’m also glad to know that Cameron loved me as much when I was bigger as he loves me now.  If I’d met him, or anyone, after losing weight I might not trust that they would still find me attractive if I went back to my old ways.  Cameron’s unending support and love gives me the strength to keep it up.

Here I am poolside last summer, after losing 40+ pounds:

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Check out that flat tummy.

Since I started getting healthy I’ve run 8 half marathons and 2 full.  Cameron was a major part of my training, and we’ll run my third marathon together in April.  A few years ago I couldn’t imagine running a mile.

I still struggle.  Today I’m 8 pounds heavier than I prefer, and I’m trying to work it off.  It’s not the end of the world, and I’m still perfectly healthy, but I worry about the slippery slope of weight gain and I never want to be the old me again.  So I keep running, drinking lots of water, and tracking calories or points depending on my mood.

It’s weird to move to a new place and meet people who never knew big me.  There’s an assumption that I’ve always been thin, and will always be thin.  How should I convey who I used to be?  Shoving my camera with a fat pic in someone’s face sounds awkward.  I’ve done that more times than I can count, but it is a bit strange.

Back in California everyone knew the old me.  My friends and family watched as I made changes to my lifestyle and lost weight over several months, and have maintained it for over a year.  Now I move around and it’s hard to convey why I chose a salad at lunch instead of a burger.  I’m skinny, I can afford the fat- right?

Nope.  Even training for a marathon I watch what I eat.  There is no going off the diet and back to the old ways, because really, I didn’t go on a diet.  I fundamentally changed the way that I eat and how I view food.  I learned to eat fruit instead of cheese-its and to get salad on the side instead of fries.  Sure, I’ll indulge with an ice cream sundae when the mood strikes, but I only do that occasionally.

It’s interesting how much something seemingly benign has had such an impact on my life.  All I wanted was to look and feel better, while also crushing Cameron’s weight loss numbers.  (I did.) In the process I transformed into a different me who can do more than I ever thought possible.


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In defense of the F-bomb

Warning:  Colorful language ahead

I love to swear.  Something about the sounds and meanings of certain words resonate so deeply with me I’m just giddy.  I love the taboo. I love the language.  In fact, I love all language.  I’ve found that to love the English language is to embrace all of its facets.  There is no such thing as a “bad” word, just words with meanings and sounds that not everyone likes. 

Fuck.  Ass. Shit. Balls. Bitch.

Why do these letter combinations incite such discomfort?  I was told at a young age that words can never hurt me, yet some of these words cause hurt feelings. 

Let’s look at how we garner meaning from mere syllables strung together.  Generally, word definitions are separated into two categories:  denotation and connotation.  Denotation is the literal definition.  The denotation of “ass” is a donkey.  The denotation of “bitch” is a female dog. 

Connotation is the feeling or idea that a word invokes that is secondary or additional to the literal definition.  The connotation for “ass” might be a jerk.  “Bitch” usually connotes an unpleasant or mean woman. 

A blend of denotation and connotation makes up the meaning of a word.  Sometimes obscenities provide the perfect blend for a given situation.  During a terrible bout of a tummy bug, I might shit my brains out.  While my brain has literally always seemed to remain intact, this turn of phrase seems the most accurate and appropriate.  Simply “pooping” or even “having diarrhea” just doesn’t describe the extreme havoc that exists in my digestive tract or the utter destruction of the toilet bowl.  In this case, using a profanity evokes the exact intended meaning while potentially adding a hint of levity. 

The idea that profanities might be just right is not new or constrained to pulp writers.  Many of the great names in literature have used profanities either to drive home a point, or for simple humor. Voltaire’s work Candide includes a love-interest named Cunégonde. You may recognize the prefix “cun” from the word “cunnilingus,” or to add a blessed bit of additional vulgarity, the word “cunt.”  Many scholars actually believe Voltaire intended this heroine’s name to be a recognized pun referring specifically to that area of her anatomy in an obscene manner. Yet the name Voltaire usually elicits ideas of grand writing of old- not a guy who liked to make crude vagina jokes. 

Likewise, Shakespeare isn’t just discussing abilities and determinations when speaking of his “will” in Sonnet 135.  If so, he likely wouldn’t have referred to “sweet will making.”  In fact, he was using the base form of the word, meaning instead dick, or in some cases general sexuality.  This, after all, comes from the man who literally coined the phrase: “making the beast with two backs,” (Othello, Act I, Scene I).  In modern times, we may see this as a nice euphemism that precludes the necessity for more unsavory speech.  But we must place this in the context of an early 17th century audience who would have thought it bawdy as fuck. 

In some instances, swearing is just better.  How can one adequately portray certain facets of cultural vernaculars without including profanity?  John Steinbeck is widely regarded as one of the greats in 20th century American literature.  He also taught me the phrase “son of a bitch.”  His works have been controversial, but he widely succeeded in his goal of depicting 1930’s Californian migrant workers.  Glossing over “bad” words would have been anachronistic and an injustice to the characters. 

Speaking of great American authors, Mark Twain had many ideas regarding cussing.  He once said: “under certain circumstances, profanity provides a release denied even in prayer.”  There is a satisfaction in uttering a word that means precisely what you want it to mean, while also being slightly uncomfortable in its taboo. 

I have long been privy to the release provided by profanity.  You can imagine my elation marrying a sailor.  I was literally marrying into the profession synonymous with cursing.  You don’t curse like a teacher, or a doctor, or fireman.  You curse like a sailor, and I embraced it whole-heartedly. 

Only, I discovered that sailors can swear to their heart’s content, but officer’s wives are expected to be a bit more proper.  There’s an assumption of Peggy Sue virtues in some more formal settings that I’ve come across.  This is less true at informal gatherings, but more than once I’ve heard “pardon my French” after swearing or alluding to swearing in official forums.  As someone with a long career in combining swear words to be as colorful as possible (“ass-genie” is a personal favorite) I find it sometimes difficult to mind my tongue.

I’ve come across many people, both in and out of the military community, who seem legitimately offended by swearing.  I almost never want to outright offend anyone, but I also don’t like to actively censor myself.  It feels disingenuous to who I am, as though I’m attempting to present a sanitized version of myself.  I’m all for putting my best foot forward, but I know my runner’s foot is covered in blisters and occasionally lacks toenails.  There’s a delicate balance between trying not to set others against you while staying true to yourself. 

For now it seems that I’ll have to restrict my love of profanities at- least in public forums.  Once I become comfortable with a new person I can feel out his or her tolerance for the F-bomb and until then, perhaps only actually swear in French.  Merde.


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Your tongue is not toilet paper- and other conversations with my dog

This is Gus:

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When I first met Gus I thought he was the most obnoxious beast I’d ever had the misfortune of encountering.  My husband got Gus as a puppy several years prior to our meeting and hadn’t had the heart to discipline him much.  When Cameron first brought Gus home he let the puppy sleep in bed with him curled up on his chest until one night Cameron awoke to Gus happily taking a dump there.

After that Gus was crate trained, but that was pretty much the extent of his training.  By the time I was in the picture Gus was sleeping in the bed again, although he had thankfully learned to poop elsewhere.  I actually had to fight Gus for space on the bed at first.

My general dislike for the mongrel wasn’t changing towards admiration.  Especially since he tended to try to dart out the front door and run away as often as possible, causing me or my husband to chase after him.  He was still intact then and constantly on the prowl for bitches.  Trying to corral his energy to walks proved disastrous.  Gus nearly pulled me down the street.  He also constantly jumped up on me and peed with reckless disregard for furniture and feet alike.  I assumed that Gus was just something I would have to deal with because my husband (then boyfriend) loved him.

Then one day I got a frantic call from Cameron at work.  We were just dating, but I had already moved in.  He was out of town on a training mission.  Our roommate had taken Gus for a walk that morning.  Gus had broken free of his collar and ran straight into the path of a minivan.

Cameron was gone, and I had to do something.  I was 25 and broke, but I didn’t hesitate to put down a $500 deposit so that the vet could get to work. It was tense waiting to hear if he would be alright.

He almost lost a leg.  It still bears the scars and he limps in the cold.  Thankfully, the rest of him was undamaged, and today only the scars give proof that he was ever injured.

Before I took him home that day I bought him a new dog bed and special treats.  It cost me another $100, but I wanted him to be comfortable.  I couldn’t let him up on the people bed where he usually slept, because if he tried to jump down he’d hurt himself even worse.  I got the largest, plushest bed I could find and set it up in the bedroom.

Lying in his new dog bed on the floor next to me, he kept crying in pain, even though I’d given him all of the pain medicine I could.  I got down next to him with a pillow and the comforter and cooed at him while gently stroking his fur to try to calm him down.  It was the hardest night of my life.

That night Gus became my dog too.  He went from an unimaginable annoyance to my baby. There are more pictures of him on my phone now than anything else.  I have many conversations with him, although his English skills are lacking.  It’s ok though; I’ve become a master of interpretation.  A whimper after I’ve stopped scratching his back might translate to: “why did you stop petting me?  Don’t you love me so much that you want to be petting me and playing with me ALL THE TIME?”  And I do love him.  I love this dog so much that I’ll pick up his poop with a plastic bag and let him lick my face even though I know he also loves to lick his butthole.

Gus became even more important to me when we did our first PCS to New England as a family.  I went from working full-time to unemployed.  I volunteered and started hobbies, but found that Gus was my constant companion.  Cameron had to leave for various trips, including an 8-week stint in VA while I mostly stayed in the North East.  Gus made me feel safe, even though he is afraid of almost everything including rain, stairs, small dogs, kitchen gadgets, vacuum cleaners, the ukulele and baths.  His presence was enough to make me feel less lonesome during days at home or when my husband had to leave for extended periods.

Now I know that when Cameron goes on deployment, Gus will be there to dutifully notify me with a howl whenever a leaf passes before a streetlamp at 3 in the morning.  He’s done it before, and while a bit startling, it’s also a comfort I never knew I’d need.  If I lived near family or had a husband whose job didn’t require him to leave for months at a time, it might be different.  But as it stands this goofy pup is the glue that keeps it all working, and I love him for it.


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OMG Dramz!

Recently a post came across my facebook newsfeed from a spouse whose post had been DELETED (gasp!) from the officer spouse page.  The nerve.  Apparently she had raised a question regarding military healthcare that was somewhat lacking in tact.  This was seen as an affront to the medical corps and taken down. 

What’s funny to me is that I’ve had countless conversations with spouses and active duty members regarding healthcare, and many are dubious of the quality of care provided at military facilities.  I myself have had scheduling issues, impersonal doctors, and at least one corpsman who seemed to be checking out more than my pulse.  It’s not a novel issue but instead something I’ve heard dozens of times.  That is why the option exists for family members to choose providers off base and accept a copay.

The problem with this post seems to be twofold. It lacked tact, and it was in a public forum.  It’s kind of like how it’s ok for you to make fun of your own little brother in private, but as soon as someone else does it in public, then Heavens to Betsy they had better say their prayers. 

And thus a melodrama unfolded in the 40+ comments made. 

Honestly, I couldn’t care less about the military healthcare debate.  Deciding on a provider is a personal choice and to each their own.  What I find fascinating is the intense drama that frequently arises on spouse pages. 

It’s such a problem that one local page eloquently states at the header: “This is a place to meet new ppl and make new friends. So mind your manners, keep your drama on your own page and remember the golden rule! were all adults here so lets keep it positive and hopefully have some fun!”

You heard it ppl.  Keep your drama on your own page. 

This header aside, I’ve seen more catfights break out between spouses on facebook than I can count.  It seems nearly impossible to make a post that says more than “hello” without hurting someone’s feelings.  But why?

My husband tells me that when he first joined the military he felt an immense sense of belonging.  He was part of something.  With that feeling of belonging he felt acceptance.  The military indeed strives to foster a sense of belonging that I think extends to military families.  What my husband didn’t initially realize was this sense of acceptance didn’t necessarily extend to his personal beliefs and views on decorum.  It is indeed one military, but its members come from different backgrounds with varying political, religious and cultural views. 

We have to remember that while military members and their spouses all identify in the same general group, we’re culturally diverse.  There is no singular correct form of address or even tact, and it’s easy to get hurt feelings.  I am from California.  Much to my mother’s Southern chagrin, I am not overly ladylike.  I burp uncontrollably and have a colorful vocabulary.  While I in no way find this behavior offensive, I can understand that others might.  This is one small example and countless more exist.  Likewise one spouse might think it totally acceptable to outright dis military healthcare, while another might see it as an affront. 

My prescription for this malady of misunderstanding is this: take a chill pill.  Seriously, relax.  Usually people aren’t actively trying to be terrible, and if by some chance they are, it’s no use arguing with them. 

The amount of drama on facebook can honestly be really off-putting.  Especially as a relatively new spouse, I was actually a little afraid of other spouses when I joined my first spouse related facebook group.  The in fighting is unnecessary and unwarranted.  So let’s all try the benefit of the doubt going forward.

 


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Winter

After Zeus overthrew his Titan father, Cronos, he decided to be a good guy and share ruling the world with his two bros, Poseidon and Hades.  Zeus got the sky, Poseidon got the sea and Hades got the shaft, being forced to rule over dead people in the underworld.

Unfortunately being the lord of the dead wasn’t doing much to get Hades laid.  He needed a bride, but couldn’t convince any of those hot Olympian goddesses to get down (way down) with him.  So he decided to kidnap and rape his niece, Persephone, and make her his child bride, because both incest and child rape were totally cool as long as you were a god.

Persephone’s mom, Demeter, was heartbroken.  She didn’t want her flower-child daughter to live below ground with her creepy brother.  So Demeter did the only logical thing, and exercised her power over the harvest to keep crops from growing.  At first this wasn’t so bad for the other gods, but eventually people on earth started dying and then they couldn’t offer up sacrifices.  Now that was too far.  Zeus begged Demeter to turn on the harvest, but she refused unless she got her daughter back.  Very Sally Field of her.  Zeus went down below and forced Hades to give Persephone back.

It should have ended right there.  Unfortunately, Persephone got hungry while she was held captive.  She ate three whole pomegranate seeds to satiate her.  What a glutton.  Eating the food of the dead meant that she would always be forced to return to Hades for three months out of each year, one month per seed.  And each year when Persephone leaves her mother mourns her, and the crops fail and the world gets stuck in winter.

So that was the start of winter: pedophilia and pomegranates.

Growing up primarily in Northern California, the concept of winter seemed about as real as the story above.  Winter meant more rain, greener grass and temperatures in the mid 60’s.  It was the wet season, but never much worse than that.  “Winter” never really set in as something to be reckoned with.

Then I married a military man and moved to New England at the end of one November.  I had no idea that almost everything can freeze before then.  Nor did I actually know that winds really can (and will) chill you to the bone.  I had always used the Twain witticism that the coldest winter he’d ever spent was a summer in San Francisco to show my prowess in colder climates.  I tell you, sir, I’ve spent many summer days in San Francisco, and a winter in New England is vastly worse.

Winter is tough.  I’d always seen snow filled vistas and thought they looked idyllic.  As a small child I spent a few winters in Michigan, but only ever remembered outdoor ice-skating and snowmen.  The cold temperatures never registered in my memory.  All I retained were the fun bits.  Maybe the less fun bits would have stuck if I’d needed to perform winter chores like shoveling the driveway, but that’s not usually the type of thing required of a 6-year-old.

I muddled through my adult life generally believing that winter was some kind of magic for those who actually got snow.  It just meant sledding, skating and snowmen.  Living in the North East has taught me different.  As an adult, winter sucks.  It means layering up and doing chores.  If I never shovel another driveway of snow I may be able to die happy. Most of the time the snow isn’t even good for snowmen and little kids usually hog all of the good sledding hills, depriving me of all the fun stuff I thought might temper the gloom.

Due to some cosmic (or detailing) injustice, my husband and I were sentenced to not one, but two whole winters before our next PCS.  By mid-February both winters I thought that Hell (or Hades) really had frozen over, and taken root in the ice and snow covered oblivion we lived in.

To be fair, I learned a lot too.  My first February a storm took out the power for 30 hours and we didn’t have heat.  It got down to 40 degrees in the house.  I actually brought in my spin bike to do a few minutes on it every half hour to stay warm.  I also lacked almost any foods that could be made outside of a microwave and felt I might starve.  After that I learned preparedness.  I learned to start keeping non-perishable foods and water bottles in the house.  I also kept my next post race “blanket” that is designed to keep heat in after my next race.  I realized that even though other territories are generally warmer, it’s usually good to keep survival items on hand.  An earthquake could have hit me in CA and I would have been screwed.  Now I’m optimistically cautious: I hope for the best, but prepare for the worst in any new environment.  I still despise the snow and cold weather.  That will likely never change, but at least the lesson it taught me was a good one.