I'm the Mayor

I am the mayor of Crazy Town.

The husband is coming home at some point in the very near to kinda near-ish range.

Coincidentally, I've become a whole bag of nut job.

I think every military spouse goes through a lot of emotional hoops when the deployed spouse returns: the nervousness about hair, skin, nails, weight, how we'll act with one another, if he'll still be attracted to me, blah blah blah. I don't know about anyone else, but I also have a thing about wanting to have a "nest" set and ready to go for him when he arrives home. I don't know if it's a woman thing or what, but I have this drive from somewhere deep down (my ovaries?) that just makes it imperative that there is some kind of home in which I can care for my little family.

Issue: I will be heading out to Oklahoma in a week and there's a possibility that the apartment may not be secured before I can get there in person. I really need to decorate the hell out of something and if I don't buy curtains soon I'm worried about what I'll do. Options played out in my mind so far: a) tattoo b) Avril Lavigne-esque eye makeup for my everyday look, or c) causing a traffic accident. (Welcome to Crazy Town! As Mayor, I'm proud to welcome you to our rapidly expanding little city!)

I'm also leaving my job and once you've put in your two weeks, you really drag your feet, ya know? I mean, I will absolutely miss my kids and co-workers but I've already started to check out. I'm worried about finding a job back in Oklahoma because last I heard, there was a major hiring freeze. Not. Awesome.

On the  plus side, my brother is coming home from training tomorrow and so I'll get to see him for a week before I head out. He's going to be deploying a little later this year so it's possible this is the last time I see him before he heads out.

There are a million other things going on right now (when it rains, it pours!) and I know it's affecting J and I. We have been fighting a lot lately. Some of it is legit stuff. Some of it is just plain freaking out stress, which I didn't totally get until this afternoon. J and I got into a massive argument. In a fight, I never say anything that I don't mean- instead, I tend to get very aggressive and pretty violent in conversations with other people. Anyway, the point being that I never said anything that wasn't true, I just don't think everything needed to be said right now, right before he comes home, and especially as dramatic as it was. Yes, my feelings were/are real, but I absolutely took the freight train to Crazy Town.

Right after we hung up, I watched the last episode of Scrubs, cried hysterically, and then began YouTubing to find a song I would play at my baby's wake, if I ever had a  baby and they died in infancy.

I should probably not be allowed out in public for the next couple of days. I've decided to self-medicate what I've diagnosed as situational depression with Disney movies and flavored schnapps. Probably some ice cream.

Yeah, definitely ice cream.

Certifiable.

I am addicted to certifications.

Seriously, I love them. This is a little bit ridiculous, but I just think it's fun to have a little certificate that says, "Hey, guys, guys- I've got this."

High school is really when I think my passion began; grades just weren't enough, and I had to have my fix. Really, a report card is just a gateway drug. I decided, you know what? I am gonna take a bartending class that maybe I could use once I'm in college. I signed up (frickin' $300) and attended the course, which taught me pretty much nothing and the instructor put on "Cocktails" starring Tom Cruise. Yes, it was that useless.

But you know what? At the end, I got a certificate from Harvard (the class took place on their campus, if you can believe it) claiming that I am a certified "Master of Mixology". HA!

And so the love affair began. Did I ever use that certificate? No, I never tended bar (well, I've gotten behind the bar and made drinks before getting kicked out of several establishments, but that's neither here nor there.) I do, however, have it framed and have decided that one day, when I have a pretentious study, it will be in the most eye-catching and distracting place I can find.

It will have to compete with some of my other ones. For example, I could marry you. Or baptise you. Or whatever you're into, religiously. Because (drum roll please) I am a mother f*cking minister. Bwa haha hah hahaha ha. Oh Lord, seriously people. Seriously.

My latest one that I am totally pumped about? AACCA Safety Certified as of 20 minutes ago!

AACCA= American Association of Cheerleading Coaches and Administrators

I was captain in high school and loved the athletics of it as much as I hated the drama and, frankly, my co-captain. Point being, when I worked at the school in Oklahoma last year, they were PSYCHED that I had any experience so that, when I filled in for the coach/English teacher, I could actually coach without killing somebody. I'm hoping this certification will help me on the 'ol resume.

If not, I'll toss around my ministry one.

(And if that doesn't work: who wants drinks?)

Bugs are Effing Disgusting and I Hate Them.

I just woke myself up out of a semi-conscious sleep. You know that nightmare where there are thousands of bugs crawling all over you? Yeah, it was that one.

EXCEPT I'M AWAKE.

Ok, I am not particularly outdoorsy. I'm outdoorsy in that way where you hop in your car, grab a cup of French Vanilla-flavored something, and go to a designated beautiful nature area and wander around with my little camera and (most likely) my little dog.

I do not like actual real nature. In fact, I have been known to use the word hate when dealing with either one of two things: chickens or bugs. Chickens are the devil's work. I have had some traumatic episodes with chickens.

Bugs terrify me.

They're gross and sneaky as hell. At least with a chicken there's a pretty big likelihood that I will know when a chicken is on me and have an opportunity to battle it off. With bugs, they're little ninjas and I never even know when I've been attacked.

And this is why I'm freaking out and, instead of sleeping so I can be a functioning human being for work tomorrow, I'm deliriously awake because it has been discovered that my little, lovable, fur baby has FLEAS.

I did not know anything about fleas prior to this little pup. My husband had to talk me off the ledge and let me know that I'm not about to become infested (though they CAN jump onto me-I'm gagging) but make sure to give him several baths, flea medicine, etc. etc.

What did this translate into? The dog has been given a military buzz cut and I have nightmares that fleas are jumping all over me and living in my eyebrows or something.

Eww, ew, ew, yick, so gross.