Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Don't Go There
I don't like going in his drawers. Like many married couples, my husband and I don't share bathroom drawers or sinks or sides of the closet for that matter. I prefer my clothes be separated by color on the hangers and he . . . well he's a man. 'Nough said. Still, as I opened his bathroom drawer tonight, it made me a little sad. The scent hit me right in the pit of my stomach, making me even forget why I opened that drawer to begin with. His non-boat toiletries are in there. You know- the ones that really smell like him and not amine; it's the scent that no one in the whole world can replicate. It's the last thing I would smell each night and the first each (non-duty) morning. ( I know, I know- try not to puke- try to hang in there with my sappiness).
The last time we were apart for 6 months was when we geo- batched for the 2nd round of sub school. Then, I had my own house and he had his. There were visual reminders of him covering my home, but because he hadn't ever lived there, his scent was nowhere to be found. This time it's different. It made me think about our senses and how keen they are. I had steeled myself against hearing our songs, seeing our special photos and was prepared to lose his gentle touch. But to have his smell leap out of that drawer tonight was something I wasn't ready for. That smell is responsible for the most sentimental post I have ever written and I will probably open that drawer each night until his scent is no longer there.
But like all things in life- you have a choice as to what you make of your experiences. My glass is more than half full. Yes, I miss him. . . already. And yes, the day his socks reappear on the bathroom floor will be a good one. But for now, I like to stop and think of how Blessed we are that this is just a deployment and not an eternity. I will be back in his arms soon and I know that is not the case for many who are writing their own blogs tonight.
So- no pity parties in my bathroom. I will pray for all those women who can only open their husband's drawers and remember; and I will be thankful we were given the opportunity to serve.
The last time we were apart for 6 months was when we geo- batched for the 2nd round of sub school. Then, I had my own house and he had his. There were visual reminders of him covering my home, but because he hadn't ever lived there, his scent was nowhere to be found. This time it's different. It made me think about our senses and how keen they are. I had steeled myself against hearing our songs, seeing our special photos and was prepared to lose his gentle touch. But to have his smell leap out of that drawer tonight was something I wasn't ready for. That smell is responsible for the most sentimental post I have ever written and I will probably open that drawer each night until his scent is no longer there.
But like all things in life- you have a choice as to what you make of your experiences. My glass is more than half full. Yes, I miss him. . . already. And yes, the day his socks reappear on the bathroom floor will be a good one. But for now, I like to stop and think of how Blessed we are that this is just a deployment and not an eternity. I will be back in his arms soon and I know that is not the case for many who are writing their own blogs tonight.
So- no pity parties in my bathroom. I will pray for all those women who can only open their husband's drawers and remember; and I will be thankful we were given the opportunity to serve.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Living in Paradise is like Having a Baby
Living in Paradise is like Having a Baby. . .
It's such a pain in the butt to make a new life here, that you immediately block out the pain of it. . . until you have to do stuff all over again!
I realize that things (what I mean is Bureaucratic Red Tape) vary from state to state. Of course the more populated a place, the slower the cogs seem to turn. . . unless of course you are at a small base in GA (I can say that- I'm from the South :)) Anyway- I was just reminded of all of this as I helped a new wife on our boat get situated in Paradise- that land of slow moving Palm fronds and even slower Red tape! Example;
The Car situation. You pull your car off the truck, thankful that it made it across the Pacific without taking a dip. The POV place seems well run, even fast by most standards and you think things are going well. That is of course until you try to register it. That my friends- takes an act of Congress! It seems easy enough at first glance but that is before they tell you it is a 3 step process that does not lend itself to 88 degree Pacific sun and a screaming kid.
First, you must have a Safety Inspection to register your car. Of course this involves finding a station, having it done and then getting the sticker. . . or not. You get a piece of paper that says that you have had the inspection done (assuming that your car passes). Then you must trot yourself down to a DMV to get registered. (Mind you, if you are an out of state resident (with Hawaii tags), this requires a form from your command- at least that saves you money!) When you get your fabulous piece of paper, you get to go BACK to the Safety Inspection people and then they place the thing on your car. OK- so if you are in small town America great. On an island with a whole lot too many people driving around- it's a day project.
Oh- and for all the women who drive cars that their hubbys have modified. . . well oh my STARS! You (because no doubt your hubby is way to busy to leave the boat) get to drive down town into some of the not so nice parts, looking for a small 1ft x 1 ft sign that reads RECON. You won't see the sign- it's way too small. But if you see what appears to be an accident scene under the H1 Freeway Overpass- TURN IN- that's the place. There they will measure you cars lift- or lack there of, inspect it's rims and tires all along ignoring the most important mods- like the fact that your Hubby removed the vehicles computer and had it reprogrammed to make it much faster. But you know- rim height is much more important than the capability to drive at the speed of light right. . .
Alas- I've been in paradise a year- but as you can tell, I'm still a bit spun up from all of that trauma. However- just as I have forgotten the pain of pushing out a 10 lb 1 oz baby boy, this pain fades too. . . until I have to repeat the process!
It's such a pain in the butt to make a new life here, that you immediately block out the pain of it. . . until you have to do stuff all over again!
I realize that things (what I mean is Bureaucratic Red Tape) vary from state to state. Of course the more populated a place, the slower the cogs seem to turn. . . unless of course you are at a small base in GA (I can say that- I'm from the South :)) Anyway- I was just reminded of all of this as I helped a new wife on our boat get situated in Paradise- that land of slow moving Palm fronds and even slower Red tape! Example;
The Car situation. You pull your car off the truck, thankful that it made it across the Pacific without taking a dip. The POV place seems well run, even fast by most standards and you think things are going well. That is of course until you try to register it. That my friends- takes an act of Congress! It seems easy enough at first glance but that is before they tell you it is a 3 step process that does not lend itself to 88 degree Pacific sun and a screaming kid.
First, you must have a Safety Inspection to register your car. Of course this involves finding a station, having it done and then getting the sticker. . . or not. You get a piece of paper that says that you have had the inspection done (assuming that your car passes). Then you must trot yourself down to a DMV to get registered. (Mind you, if you are an out of state resident (with Hawaii tags), this requires a form from your command- at least that saves you money!) When you get your fabulous piece of paper, you get to go BACK to the Safety Inspection people and then they place the thing on your car. OK- so if you are in small town America great. On an island with a whole lot too many people driving around- it's a day project.
Oh- and for all the women who drive cars that their hubbys have modified. . . well oh my STARS! You (because no doubt your hubby is way to busy to leave the boat) get to drive down town into some of the not so nice parts, looking for a small 1ft x 1 ft sign that reads RECON. You won't see the sign- it's way too small. But if you see what appears to be an accident scene under the H1 Freeway Overpass- TURN IN- that's the place. There they will measure you cars lift- or lack there of, inspect it's rims and tires all along ignoring the most important mods- like the fact that your Hubby removed the vehicles computer and had it reprogrammed to make it much faster. But you know- rim height is much more important than the capability to drive at the speed of light right. . .
Alas- I've been in paradise a year- but as you can tell, I'm still a bit spun up from all of that trauma. However- just as I have forgotten the pain of pushing out a 10 lb 1 oz baby boy, this pain fades too. . . until I have to repeat the process!
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