First Class Mistake

When last I left you, I was not going to be a sky pirate captain because my husband is a quitter—a died-in-the-wool giver-upper who never supports my dreams.

Angelina Jolie (Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow) in her black uniform and eyepatch, on the deck of her skyship, against a background of clouds and skyscrapers

I’d have had a better hat, though.

I am, as it happens, still not a sky pirate captain.
I am, however, a person who has literally paid for a hotel by the hour, (though I’m sure the good people at Ramada don’t advertise this service) upgraded herself out of the best flight ever, and—because I love you—snapped a photo of the most mockable woman in all of Georgia.
Here’s what happened:

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Snail Male

 

In case you’ve ever wondered what sort of head case I am: when planning for Offspring’s departure I realized we wouldn’t be able to speak on the phone often or at all so letters would be the thing—which has turned out to be true—but then I started overthinking it.  How does one address such a letter?  How often should I write?  What should I write about?

 

Now, I could have brought these questions and concerns to Husband or Offspring, but that would have exposed my inadequacies and, frankly, my level of crazy.  I’m only comfortable showing you my crazy. 

 

So I googled it.

exhausted man at cluttered desk; desk placard identifies him as Google (from "If Google was a guy" videos)

 

Extensively.

 

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Just Deserts

 

Offspring is officially an adult.  An adult who graduated a whole semester early and signed his soul away in service to our aging alcoholic uncle, Sam.

 

USA icon Uncle Sam holding a bottle of Wild Turkey

 

All of which has got us telling lots of military life stories around here.  I’m currently about 14% nervous that my mother-in-law found this blog and will tell my father about it, so we’re going to skip the time my mother told a 3-star General what she really thought about the Marine Corps—or the pair of idiotic MP’s who got chased out of our yard by what they later swore was a bear—and stick with what we’re good at here: Husband’s Army stories.

 

 

That’s right, it’s Story Time!

 

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Ich bin ein Berliner – A Greek Saga, Pt III (Story Time!)

 

And now for the thrilling conclusion of our Greek saga.  It is Wednesday, October 4, 1995. 

 

Husband, you will recall, is in Frankfurt, Germany (where he is not supposed to be) on his way back from Bangor, Maine, USA (where he was not supposed to be).  He is supposed to be getting his ass back to Skopje, Macedonia, but the borders have been closed until further notice.

 

map of Macedonia, pin in Skopje

 

He is, for those of you who cannot be arsed to read the previous two stories(1 & 2), utterly fucked.  And we haven’t even gotten to the part where he negotiates with shady characters, gets bartered away like a Rölexx watch, and bluffs his way past certain death under bright lights and the watchful eye of a half-dozen itchy trigger fingers.

 

I am so excited to see how this turns out!