Stutterings, Mutterings, and Peanut-Butterings

Jeff Gilbert: Marine of the Year

2005-11-19T17:51:00.000-06:00

Congrats to Jeff, who won the Marine of the Year award at this year's Marine Ball. The knife Jeff is so drunkenly and safely holding in his mouth was part of his prize. Good idea, U.S. military--give drunk people knives. Oh, and the party favors were flasks. No, I'm not kidding.

I'm proud of you, Jeff. I am not proud of how you got drunk right afterward and tried to push me down on the dance floor while singing Kanye West's "Golddigger," but hey, at least you had a good time, whether you remember it or not. But I AM proud of the award; you earned it with your hard-working, patriotic, elderly self.

For those of you who are concerned that I could have had a better time at the Marine Ball, well ... yeah, I could have, but I did have fun in the hours before Jeff fell off his already-precarious perch on the ledge of sanity and started pouring drinks over his head. And anyway, he's promised me a make-up date, so he wins my forgiveness.

Plus, he's promised to be better next time. He can change, people. HE CAN CHANGE. He didn't mean it. He's a good guy deep down. I could leave anytime. Honest. If I wanted to I totally would. You just don't see the good side of him. YOU JUST DON'T SEE. He ... he secretly treats me like a queen. Just not, you know ... in public.

(Click on the photo to browse through other pictures in the set. For best results, click on the first one in the set and view in order, with captions. If you don't like browsing Flickr from within my site, just right-click the photo and open the link in a new window.)

It's baaaaaack.

2005-08-15T23:18:00.000-05:00

No, I'm not blogging again. But I wanted to call your attention to the fact that the journal archives are once again available.

I removed them months ago because I was applying for a job. I was worried that a potential employer would Google me and discover that I had once written several paragraphs about how Jesus would play SSX Tricky on the Playstation. I also called my husband my b--tch and shared my plan to force him to wear a pink apron.

You can see how this would be detrimental to my chances of a job interview. (Unless the job interviewer was totally unspeakably awesome, just like me. Then I would be in like Flynn.)

Anyway, the good news is that I am now happily self-employed, and I never even meet my clients. So let the JOURNAL ARCHIVE PARTY BEGIN.

Enjoy. If you have never read it before, I suggest you start at the beginning, or you will have no idea what's going on.

Oh, and if you're wondering ... we're doing great. :)

Thank you and goodnight

2005-04-24T17:03:00.000-05:00

The last album is up. You can access it here or on the photos page.

That's it, then. I wish you all the best, and feel free to write me at jenniherself@DELETEyahoo.com (remove DELETE). Enjoy the last album, and keep in touch.

Well, I think that answers THAT

2005-04-16T09:14:00.000-05:00

The big question when Jeff came home (OK, there were lots of big questions, but this was the big question for me) was whether I would continue to blog -- not about deployment, or anything related to deployment, but on more ordinary subjects, akin to many of the other blogs out there.

Well, if I had any doubts about having enough time every week to update, every one of them has been proven right at this point. I CANNOT UPDATE. I know a lot of you have really enjoyed this site, which is awesome. I like that you like me. I want to keep you happy. I want your approval and adoration. It's fun to have fans. It's fun to stare at oneself in the mirror, clutching printouts of my traffic reports, murmuring "I am a god, I am a god."

Not that I ever did that.

Some of you are OK with my site abandonment. Others ... well, apparently you REALLY, REALLY loved reading what I had to say. Loved it with the intensity of a thousand suns. I don't want to alarm you, but those others are out there right now with a little voodoo doll of me (complete with a lock of my hair -- hey, where did you get that?), saying chants and putting the little voodoo doll's hands on a little miniature keyboard.

But I have to get real here and admit that I am not the blogger you've been dreaming of. Believe me, I'm as shocked as you are. I read a lot of blogs, and the thought in the back of my silly little head was "I could do that. That doesn't look hard." Well, it IS hard, at least for me. Some bloggers post almost every day, forcing me to conclude that they are in fact genetically mutated superheroes. Posting EVERY day? I don't even have time to brush my teeth EVERY day!

Okay, that was a joke. Maybe.

Anyway, I have a new respect for all those bloggers out there who have kept plugging away for years on end. As for me, it turns out that I only want to talk to all of you when I was struggling through something. I wanted to get away from how my life felt for a half-hour or so and have a conversation with all of you instead. Now that my life is something I actually want to be living, being in it feels wonderful, and I don't want to leave it.

Not only have I not posted anything decent in weeks, I also can't get the last album up. The Last Album is a giant weight on my soul that wakes me up at night. And it's not even that good. The album will go up, and you'll say, "OK, we waited for THIS?!?!" The pictures of Jeff's homecoming total about six pictures altogether, and most of them appear to have been taken by a drunk person. Those were actually taken by my mother, and she wasn't drunk (that I KNOW of), but she was struggling to deal with a massive roiling crowd that made photography pretty difficult.

Anyway, I know you're wondering how Jeff and I are doing. I'll say it simply: We're doing well. I feel lucky, he feels lucky, each doesn't think they deserve the other, and that's the way it should be. I can't promise we'll be able to maintain that lovely balance, but I'm going to enjoy it while I have it.

Not that it's perfect. A few weeks ago, I made a few lists to properly express the situation. I will leave you with those, for now, and I will make another post when I can -- no promises. And I will put that last stupid album up when I can, and that IS a promise, albeit one I may not fulfill until I am sixty years old.

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LIST 1: THINGS JEFF DOES NOW THAT ARE REALLY, REALLY ANNOYING
1. Subtly imply that I need permission to go anywhere. I don't need your permission, chump! I'm the sheriff! Do you hear me? The sheriff!
2. Get mad at me for leaving wet towels and dirty clothing and messy dishes everywhere. What can I say? It's a genetic disorder. You think this is bad? You should have seen the place when you weren't here! Besides, I picked up everything for like eight months, and I thought we were supposed to be switching off or something. Sure, that was a mistake, but quite frankly it's too late now, so SUCK IT UP! Literally. With the Dustbuster. NOW.
3. Talk to me while I am communing with the Internet in a special blogreading mind-meld. All circuits are busy. Try back later. I'll talk to you then. If you're lucky.
4. Whine about how Iraq was so hard. What did you think it would be, a trip to the circus? IT'S A FRIGGING DESERT. I'm pretty sure I knew deserts sucked by the time I was like, four years old, so I'm not sure what took YOU so long. Iraq is dusty? Roasting in summer? Freezing in winter? Full of crappy buildings and primitive structures? My, how surprising! And by "how surprising" I mean "how surprising for nobody but YOU, idiot."
5. Act as if I should let you watch what YOU want to watch on TV just because you haven't gotten to watch TV in a long time. Whose fault is that? See #4 in this list and be quiet.

LIST 2: THINGS JEFF DOES THAT ARE UNBELIEVABLY AWESOME
1. Make me breakfast all the time. Good stuff, too -- french toast (excuse me, FREEDOM toast! Thanks, Congress! Your tax dollars hard at work, ladies and gentlemen!), pancakes, waffles, whatever I want.
2. Secretly reorganize and rethrow my father's entire 50th birthday party last weekend, just because I lost my pictures of his FIRST party (which happened over a month ago) and cried about it. Um, thanks. That really wasn't necessary, but it was terribly romantic. I was actually sort of mean to Jeff about it in a push-you-down-on-the-playground sort of way, because if I wasn't gruff about it, I was going to cry again, into the french toast that Jeff just made me. So instead of crying and hugging him and telling him that it's one of the most amazingly unnecessary nice things anyone has ever done for me, I just shoved him really hard into the gravel pit next to the jungle gym, then pointed and laughed. Figuratively speaking, I mean. Thank you, everyone who helped with that -- it was amazing.
3. When I'm sitting in the tub as it fills up, staring into space and wishing passionately that I were dead (I do this every morning -- this is how much I hate mornings), dart into the bathroom to set a warm mug of cocoa you made for me on the edge of the tub, and then go away again so I can hate my life in peace without your chipper ass getting on my nerves. Then go back to bed, because you actually only got up to MAKE me the cocoa. Yeah, I guess you're all right. For a man, I mean.
4. Forgive me a million times a day for a certain genetic disorder (see List 1, #2). Not that I REALLY need forgiveness, though. Because it's genetic.
5. Believe me when I say that I want to join a gym again, and yes, this time I'll go every day, I really will, I promise. Your ability to have faith in me no matter how many times I've failed in the past is really one of your more beautiful qualities. On one hand, odds are I'm TOTALLY not going to go the gym, but on the other hand, the day you stop believing in me will be the day I stop believing in myself.

LIST 3: THINGS I SHOULD START DOING NOW
1. Um, go to the gym. HAHA!
2. Stop blogging about my life and start living it again, like I used to. Believe it or not, it's WORK to remember how to step away from the computer and actually live life. Now that Jeff is back, there's not time for family, friends, Jeff, AND blogging. Something's gotta go, and it ain't gonna be time with my little nephew, I can tell you that.
3. Finish that friggin' book I've been working on for five years. It's an awesome book. Not that anyone will ever read it, because I'm such a procrastinator that I don't plan on finishing it until like six days before I die. Which will be a problem, seeing as six days is not enough time to get a book approved by a publisher, especially when one is in ill health and planning to die in about six days.
4. Lie in the dark with Jeff discussing everything we plan to do in the next five/ten/twenty/fifty years. It is and always has been our favorite pastime. Most of it isn't going to happen, but that's not really the point -- it's the dreaming part we love. We've had some major planning sessions already, but I want to shut this computer off and pay even more attention to us -- where we want to go, and what we want to do, and how we're going to do it together.
5. Study Kabbalah.*

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*Dude, I'm totally kidding. Not that I have anything against Kabbalah, but if one more celebrity tries to sound smart by talking about Kabbalah like they're the only one who has ever heard of it, I really will have to go on some sort of Hollywood killing spree.

Bear with me

2005-03-30T18:26:00.000-06:00

I'm working on the last album. It ain't easy taking pictures of a black room.

HEY ADEKOYA

2005-03-21T21:03:00.000-06:00

ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?!?!?!

Exit interview

2005-03-19T14:01:00.000-06:00

I interviewed Jeff awhile back as part of a project that was SUPPOSED to be everyone's Christmas present (ummm, yeah right, THAT was a little ambitious of me). I still want to do the project, but who knows how long it will take.*

So while Jeff's answers will still be included in that project, I wanted to share some of them here as well. After all, the goal of this site has always been to make the military experience more accessible to those who are unfamiliar. As you will see below, some of Jeff's answers were interesting (and sometimes amusing, like when I asked him how deployment changed him, and he rambled about his nasty feet). Jeff's fondness for profanity comes shining through as well, but hey, if I was too hard on Jeff for that, I would be a pretty big hypocrite.

Anyway, here goes:

How would you describe a deployment for an individual?
One word: Uncomfortable. Mind you, I realize that we are not nearly as uncomfortable as previous military servicemen and women of the past, because they had a lot less in Vietnam or in WWI or WWII. It was colder, they had less technology. They didn't get to make phone calls, they didn't get to use the Internet. But all in all, the thing that makes it uncomfortable is that you're used to a certain level of lifestyle. You're used to decent food, warm showers, etc. A lot of that stuff is removed. You're cold, you're tired, you work a lot, you don't get to communicate as frequently as you used to, that's what makes you uncomfortable. I'm sure back in the Revolutionary War, you were cold anyway, whether you were deployed or fighting or not. So in some ways it's more uncomfortable now than it was then, because there's a bigger lifestyle change. I'm not saying we have it tougher than Vietnam. We certainly have it easier than previous people did. We have more amenities. But we're uncomfortable, and we've still got it better than anyone ever had. I think today's people are softer than people in the past. People in the past had harder lives.

What has been your favorite thing about deployment?
It ain't here yet. When I get my (butt) home will be my favorite thing about deployment. But so far, my favorite thing here is just the fact that I know for myself that I go to help somebody in a different country -- and hopefully help my country be a safer place. A sense of a fulfillment of a duty, of self-satisfaction. But by far, my most favorite thing will be getting my red-white-and-blue (butt) back home. Also, I am proud of what my wife has done. She's done just as much as I have. She's had to take care of things on the homefront. In my eyes, she's served her country too. And I'm proud that we have done that. There should be a Spouse of Veterans Day. All those people have a hard job at home, really. It's as hard as we have. Bear all that crap and stick with you, that's hard.

How would you describe Iraq to someone who has never been there?
Is s--thole one word or two?

But like anything, if you look around hard enough, there's something good. But (I) ain't found it yet. We are hopefully helping people make things better for themselves. But for me, it's pretty much a s--thole.

What are some bad days you can think of during the deployment?
... Freezing my (butt) off. If anybody knows me, they know I hate being cold. People say, "Oh, thirty degrees, that's not that cold." Sure it isn't, WHEN YOU'RE INSIDE. We're in open air. We're cold. We're freezing. Being wet and cold ... it's not comfortable.

What are some good days you can think of during the deployment?
Getting to do some cool stuff. Those pictures of the EOD missions, those were good days. Taking weapons off the street that won't hurt anybody anymore. Those were good days. That made the whole deployment for me. Getting attached to recon. Yeah, I'm not recon, but it feels like you're recon when you're patrolling with them. I've gotten to see urban warfare, I've gotten to see patrolling in the country, I've gotten to see bombs getting dropped on buildings three blocks away from me ... Making new friends. You get really close with the guys in your platoon and squad, some of them. These are the kind of guys you'll see twenty years from now and be able to laugh about freezing your (butt) off in the back of a truck. You can only talk about it with people who have done it. If they haven't done it, they can't really understand. It's like a love/hate relationship. A lot of it's pretty cool. You hate it, but then you get done and you think, "Wow, that was pretty cool. I'm glad I did that."

Thanksgiving was really cool. It certainly wasn't nearly as good as being home, but we had a great meal. But you ARE family. You work with these people every day. They may get on your nerves just like a brother or sister, and you're annoyed with them, but somebody hits your brother or sister, and you will f--k them up.

Another great day was the Marine Corps birthday. You aren't allowed booze over here, but they gave everybody two beers and a shot of rum. And that's great. It made us feel good.

What are your goals when you come home?
Get my flying job back, and start flying again. Make my house comfortable, make it like how we want it, so we can enjoy that. Enjoy the next two years with just me and the family, mainly me and my wife getting to enjoy some time together before we have kids.

The main thing is (having) a couple of kids and trying to raise them right. That's going to take a lot of work, and a lot of years, and it's really the last goal I have in my life.

What are some things you miss about being home? Certain foods or places? People? (Hint hint, you miss your wife.)
That's right. I miss my wife. I miss my wife more than anything by far. Just lying around with my wife. She makes me comfortable. Like I said, war is uncomfortable. And my wife makes me comfortable.

As far as food goes, just about every goddam kind of normal food that you get to eat and don't think twice about -- nice pizza, good Italian food, Chinese, whatever. We get fed good here. I can't really (complain) about food too much. I miss certain places at home. But we eat good here. Thank you, U.S. taxpayers!

In the field, (the food is) not as good, it's quite different, but it's gotta be a lot better than it used to be.

What is the most afraid you have been so far?
The most afraid by far was the second or third day in Fallujah, when a mortar went off right by our tent. It was loud as (hell), we were all asleep. You could hear the incoming noise and detonation. It was close. I don't know how close, but it was close. I rolled out of the top rack right on top of Bitner, who had rolled out of his rack to get low. For a few minutes, it was like, "Wow, that's f--king scary."

But ... TV desensitizes people. I've had bullets whiz past my position, cause you can hear them. In video games, bullets whiz past you, and that's how it sounds. You're just used to it. It doesn't really bother me now. But the mortar was the first realization of "Holy f--k. I could get f--king killed over here." Obviously, I knew that before. Nobody that I know has been blown up. If somebody got blown up next to me or shot in the head, I would probably feel different. But as of right now, when bullets whiz by, it's just like, "Eh, it's a good thing these guys can't shoot very good."

And their mortars are of inferior quality. They should probably try to get them exchanged or refunded, because they got ripped off.

What would you tell someone thinking of going into the military?
Think (really) long and hard about that. I wouldn't NOT recommend it to somebody, but I would want to make sure they got ALL the information, from ALL angles, of what they're gonna be doing. I don't want them going in with a blind eye, or just on what the recruiter says.

It's a noble thing. I think damn near everyone should serve in some capacity. It doesn't have to be a combatant role, but you should contribute to national defense in some way. YOUR nation's defense. Not in every other country, in everyone else's business. In today's society, and how we're operating, you might really want to think about that decision. We're operating as "we can do whatever we ant, whenever we want." It's something you want to do when you're 18, and something you definitely should do before you're married. Do it while you're free enough to do it. It will broaden your mind.

How has the deployment changed you?
My feet stink like nothing else. They're nasty. They better get (better), or ... I don't know. My feet are beat up. My feet didn't used to be the crusty. They (really) STINK.

How has deployment changed your marriage, both now and in the future?
Well, now it's changed because I don't see my wife ever, and haven't seen her but about 30 days in the last fourteen months, so that kind of sucks. But for me, and for her too I hope, it's made us appreciate each other a lot. It's made us realize, hey, you don't need that big house, that fancy car. If you can afford them, great, but if you're just comfortable -- here we are, back to comfortable again -- if you're with somebody, and you're comfortable, be happy with that. Because it can be uncomfortable.

Fortunately for us, I think we get along well and we're comfortable with a little bit. And good for us. In the future, I don't know. If I get deployed again in the future, that's probably not going to help. But all that will do is push back having kids. So it (angers) the older ladies who want us to have kids so they can have babies around. They'll have to wait a little longer in that case!

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*I'm trying to free up more time for myself. Baby steps. Baby steps.

Jeff is wheezing and possibly dying ...

2005-03-13T21:50:00.000-06:00

... which is great! Because a wheezing man is an incapacitated man, which means he can't bother me with his needs of "conversation" and "quality time." He's too busy listening to himself breathe through his (rapidly closing) windpipe. Thank God!

You see, Jeff is sort of allergic to the dog. When he returned from boot camp, the dog made him sick, but he promptly readjusted. This time, his reaction is much worse. Who knew a miniature schnauzer could be fatal? Jeff fell asleep at 8:00 in hopes of speeding along the dying process. Now he's locked himself in the bathroom, where he is undoubtedly sprawled out on the floor and turning blue.

And that means we can chill! In itemized list form!

1. Me no talky good.
I am a huge disappointment to everyone around me. Everyone was excited for me to return to work after several days off with Jeff. They wanted to hear all about the joy of seeing Jeff again, of throwing my arms around him and finally getting a real hug from my real, alive husband. They wanted to hear how we reconnected, what it was like to share our stories over dinner and coffee and late-night snacks, what it was like to know that our ordeal was finally over. Why, it's Jennifer! Forever articulate Jennifer! She can make sense out of this emotional chaos, boil it down for us and tell us in two paragraphs how great a military homecoming really is!

Well, it hasn't quite worked out that way. As evidence I submit this sample conversation:

Co-worker: So, I bet you're really happy Jeff is back!
Me: Huh huh, yeah.
Co-worker: Is he just thrilled to be home?
Me: Yeah.
Co-worker: So what was the first thing he said to you when he got off the plane?
Me: Yup!
Co-worker: But that doesn't even make sense.
Me: Okay!
Co-worker: Um, are you all right?
Me: Harggggh, urm. Hargggh!

Don't ask me what's going on there. I'm really, really happy Jeff is home, and it's amazing how comfortable we are together (we attribute this to hours upon hours spent on the phone). I'm not sure what to attribute my conversational deficiency to. Maybe I feel less need to express myself to my co-workers -- those poor people have had to hear detail upon detail of my personal life, seeing as I had no one else to tell. Maybe it's just too much pressure after all this buildup. Maybe I am afraid I won't do my excitement justice if I try to explain it.

Whatever the reason, I think I've been so underenthusiastic and unwilling to speak that my entire company is now convinced that Jeff and I are miserably disappointed with one another. I'm not sure what to do about this, but I suppose it doesn't matter, because I was just hired on at another company and will be leaving soon anyway. Still, it's disturbing to think that everyone around me is convinced of my unhappiness when the exact opposite is true.

2. Get over it, people.
Some people are apparently still stuck in junior high, but this really isn't new to me. I actually discovered this when we got married and had to suffer through the inappropriate jokes of the bank teller who cashed our wedding checks. How was the weather on your honeymoon, not that you guys even cared about the weather, har har har!

Seriously, what is that about? It's like people think they've got my number or something, because THEY KNOW WHAT I'VE BEEN UP TO, SMIRK SMIRK. It's sort of amusing the way people seem to consider themselves detectives for figuring this sort of thing out, but it very quickly ceases to be amusing when every time I yawn, someone has to giggle and elbow me and talk about how I'm probably yawning because, YOU KNOW, WINK WINK, I probably haven't been getting much sleep, WINK WINK.

Those of you who have made a joke or two don't have any reason to feel bad (but if I roll my eyes at you in an annoyed fashion, do try to remember that two jokes from each person I know equals out to about four billion jokes, give or take a couple hundred). But some of you ... some of you are just creepy. You are all fantastically witty and keenly observant, but can we just stop now? Please? Or I may have to watch for when you grab your purse off your desk on your way out the door at five o'clock and shout after you, "HEY, have fun at home, like with your husband, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!" Two can play at this game.

3. Jeff's basement surprise.
So what did I do in the basement? What did I spend every last little dime of Jeff's money on?

When Jeff ripped off the wrapping paper over the doorway to the basement, he found his very own home theater room, complete with a 93-inch front-projection TV (with unbelievably awesome surround sound, of course), black walls, dark gray carpet, black couches (double recliners and fold-down snack tray included), and plenty of swanky accessories, including a bar with a neon 747 airplane hung over it. (There will be photos in the homecoming album, when I get to it. I'm not sure how many decent pictures I'll have, because it's not exactly easy to photograph a black room.)

Jeff was completely stunned. He's been sad for months after I told him we weren't getting a big screen TV (it's a long story, but basically I let him believe it was too late to get a big screen because I had already gotten a big expensive entertainment center for our 32-inch TV, which was a total lie), and I think he had finally just accepted the fact that he wasn't going to have a big TV in the basement. When you're expecting a 32-inch TV, I suppose a 93-inch TV is a bit of a shock. He just kept saying, "Oh my God, oh my God ..."

The look on his face made everything worth it, and made me very glad I managed to keep the project a secret. The look on his face also proved to me that I know what's best for my own house. I'm so glad I didn't listen to everyone when they said, "You're painting the basement walls BLACK? That's going to be so depressing!" or "Don't you think Jeff will be mad when he realizes you spent all of his deployment money on a huge TV?"

Well, the black paint didn't turn out to be depressing, it turned out to look TOTALLY FRICKIN' AWESOME, just like I knew it would. And Jeff wasn't mad about the TV. (Not that I ever expected him to be.) No, Jeff wasn't mad. I think when he saw the huge TV, double recliners, and wireless Playstation controllers, his first thought wasn't "I'm really mad," it was "Dude, I have the BEST. WIFE. EVER." Don't you people know men at all?

Needless to say, we've been spending a lot of time in that room. In a little pilot pun, Jeff has nicknamed it the Black Box, which is really very appropriate, since that room sucks light away from the world. In fact, I think the entire universe got a little dimmer once we were finished rolling on three coats of black black black paint, installing charcoal carpet and ordering all-black furniture. Now I really am making the Black Box sound depressing, but it's not. It's just dark, and cozy, and video game-ilicious.

Contrary to popular belief, EVERYONE should wall over their basement windows and then paint the entire thing black. Nothing helps you disconnect from the world like a total lack of visual stimulation; it's like a sensory deprivation chamber, except it has video games. Other than the seven-foot-wide movie screen, of course, but immersion in that one source of light is the entire point of the decor.

OK, let me just stop bragging on myself and my unbeatable coolness and just say that the project went very well indeed, and I will try to get you pictures if at all possible.

4. Yawn.
OK, I know I should be using Jeff's impending suffocation as the glorious opportunity it is, but I do need to get some sleep. So I must bid you all goodbye ... until the next time Jeff is having a near-death experience in the bathroom. Maybe if I put a fistful of the dog's hair under Jeff's pillow, I may even get enough time to put up a photo album. Ooh, hey, I might be onto something there ...

This is ridiculous

2005-03-10T07:45:00.000-06:00

OK, seriously people. You need to come up with a plan to distract Jeff for long enough to allow me to update this blog. Right now I'm typing frantically when I should be getting ready for work just so I can say HELLO. This man, he's so ... here. All the time. And he's like "Let's watch TV! Let's go for a walk!" while all of you cry yourselves to sleep at night, wondering what you ever did to deserve my blog silence. IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT.

I'd like to tell you how excited Jeff is to be home, how much he's enjoying himself, and how happy we are to be together, but you're just going to have to make up the story yourself. Pick your favorite girl movie and just sort of mentally paste my and Jeff's faces on the screen and pretend that's what's happening. OK? And hopefully Jeff will get bored with me soon and wander away to go do guy things. And then I'll be able to do MY things, which would involve quite a few blog updates and many catch-up e-mails to long-suffering e-mail friends.

Let me foolishly say that I didn't expect all of this to be so time-consuming.

Occupy yourselves a little longer

2005-03-07T14:35:00.000-06:00

"Oh, you're back! No, wait, I'm back. Somebody's back!"
-Jeff Gilbert

Actually, nobody's back, at least not on this blog. But if you need something to do while you're waiting, go check out the photos from Jeff's Qatar trip.

He's here

2005-03-04T23:26:00.000-06:00

Jeff is almost home!

2005-03-02T21:01:00.000-06:00

"The Marines will be flying into Peoria Airport on a charter flight from California. They are scheduled to arrive Friday afternoon at 2:10 PM (14:10). Byerly Aviation will allow the use of their airplane hanger for the families to gather.

The Marines will be dismissed from the airport to their families. The Marines will be on liberty until Wednesday morning at 0800, where they will be finishing demobilization processing during the week.

Since we are the guests of Byerly Aviation we will not be able to put up any signs or decorations in their hanger. Due to FAA regulations families will not be allowed on the tarmac and will be expected to stay in the hanger until their Marine comes to them after the formation. If there is still room in the hanger the Marines will be in formation inside, if the families have taken up all the space the Marines will be in formation just outside the hanger doors where they will be visible to everyone."

I am not in any way exaggerating when I say I hope all of you come. And by all of you, I mean anyone who has felt attached to Jeff, identified with Jeff, or would just like to see a happy event. You are all welcome to be there. Know that you won't get to see him for long before I snatch him away and hide him from all of you, but if a half-hour with Jeff seems worth it to you, well, just take a day off, catch a flight, whatever you need to do ... and I'll see you there. And so will Jeff.

The Unveiling

2005-03-01T20:13:00.000-06:00

I just realized the title of this post may be sort of misleading, because I'm not revealing a homecoming date or anything like that. If it helps, we think it will probably be Friday. OK, now on to what I was really going to talk about.

Jeff has spent a godawful amount of money on the house during the deployment. The problem is, he has no idea what he spent it on. That was all decided by yours truly. Jeff just got to blindly hand all of his money over and watch me suck it dry. I'm sure that was fun for him, but admittedly I may have enjoyed it more.

I would tell you what I did, but it's all still a surprise. A surprise I am very nearly climbing out of my skin over. I do not keep secrets very well, so when I try to keep ten different secrets at once, FOR MONTHS AT A TIME, well, it's only natural that my ears have been bleeding, but only a little, and mostly at night. (Emergency room doctors have assured me that it's really nothing to be alarmed about. They did a brain scan and cheerfully told me I "don't have much in there worth being concerned over," whatever that means.)

I know I'll be terribly nervous when Jeff sees everything for the first time, but I'm sure this will be overwhelmed by my second tendency to be terribly childlike, where I yank him around the house by the hand pointing and screeching "LOOOOOOK! LOOOOOOOOK!" and weeping with relief that I managed to keep a lid on it all. Come to think of it, that might kind of creep him out.

Anyway, as we breathlessly wait these last few days, I thought it would cheer you up to know that I won't completely abandon you when Jeff gets home. I'll have to log on to brag on my big projects a little, THEN completely abandon you. Just count yourself lucky that I'm so full of myself and my own accomplishments. I know I do every day.

Speaking of abandonment, what about this site? What's going to happen when Jeff gets home? A few of you have asked me whether I'm going to keep it going. The short answer is: No. The slightly longer answer is: No, I'm really boring. Honest. When I'm not wandering around looking homeless or sobbing over unopened buckets, I'm a simple person with a simple life. Since I don't plan to be doing either of those things when Jeff returns, I feel the site will have reached its natural conclusion.

Besides, I've found that blogs have a timeless quality that empowers people you met two months ago to be angry at you for something you said six months ago. This backward timeline is no good for me, because I'm already really good at accidentally offending people in the HERE AND NOW. Retroactive offending is not something someone like me can afford. Why, just yesterday I accidentally pushed a grandmother down the stairs, made an unintentionally racist remark in an elevator, and stepped on a baby. It was a cute baby, too.*

But in case I forget to say it when I'm really busy "reconnecting" (insert obnoxious French laugh here, you hopeless perverts) with Jeff, I want to thank everyone for their support. Most of you didn't get thank-you notes.** A lot of you, to my eternal burning shame, did not even get Christmas presents. You all watched me stumble through my life and accepted me as human, rather than stupid. (At least I think you did.) Some of you even like me better now that you know I can't open a bucket, which is a little weird of you (hello inferiority complex!), but hey, we're all a little weird. Except for me. Of course.

OK, that sounded kind of goodbye-ish, but everyone just calm down, because there are a few more entries to be had. AND a whole other photo album. Maybe even with captions, although I'm starting to suspect that if I wait until I have time to write captions, you'll never get to see Jeff's sweet drunk little face in Qatar.

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*AND their only child, which didn't help matters.
**I still haven't even cashed some of the checks. They're sitting in a little pile right by the door. A little pile of guilt. A little pile of HEY JENNI, YOU'RE INCOMPETENT. Your check is important to me. With current backlogs, your estimated cash-checking time is three (3) months. Thank you for your patience.

Jeff is in California!

2005-02-27T22:00:00.000-06:00

I really need to design one of those treasure-map-looking graphics with the red dotted line traveling across it so you can track Jeff's movement.

So yeah, California. I may be repeating myself, but just to make sure everyone is informed: Jeff landing in California means that he should be home in a week or two. I probably won't know the actual date until three or four days before. As soon as I know, you will all know.

Jeff is in Maine!

2005-02-27T13:43:00.000-06:00

This is part of a new "Jeff is!" series of entries, where I note Jeff's location in the title line, complete with exclamation point. Today's entry, if you haven't already cleverly deduced it, is to tell you that Jeff is in Maine.

I was mad that I didn't actually get to talk to him. I slept with my phone in the bed so I could answer it if he called, but then left it there, where it was so muffled that I didn't hear it in the rest of the house. So that plan turned out to not work so well, but the important thing is I TRIED. He left a message at about 1 p.m. today telling me he would be leaving for California in a few hours, so I expect him to be there by tonight.

As you might imagine, it's weird to get news that Jeff and I are sharing the same continent again. I still picture him in some nondescript desert somewhere. This is going to take some getting used to.

I told Jeff the other day that I am in my lame duck period, just like in the presidency of the United States. Just like Clinton, I am granting pardons all over the place in my last few days in office. And by "granting pardons" I mean "buying everything I ever wanted that I know Jeff won't want me to buy when he gets here." This includes a few video games, a few last big dinners, a cheap painting or two, and a ridiculous little table with an equally ridiculous price tag. But by God we NEEDED that ridiculous little table. And Jeff can't complain, because I bought him all sorts of ridiculous things that are just waiting for him to come see them, and besides he's lucky to have me, and besides it's just a little table, so why is everyone getting so ANGRY?

OK, so I'm negotiating some dirty deals. I'm not proud of it. But I didn't expect to be so concerned to feel my authority, my POWER, just slipping away. Jeff is coming back? That's great! But wait ... does this mean he gets to keep the money that he makes? Because seriously, that's not fair.

Jeff is in Kuwait!

2005-02-25T21:48:00.000-06:00

... and will probably be in California within 48 hours.

You might think I'm jumping up and down and freaking out, but honestly my system is sort of worn down emotionally after months of constructing elaborate coping mechanisms, and I just feel quietly happy. Simply happy. I didn't get a rush of adrenaline when Jeff told me he had arrived, I didn't scream and start hugging total strangers, I just thought, "Oh. Well. Good."

And truthfully I still don't believe it. Intellectually I understand that Jeff will be here soon, but emotionally everything feels almost the same (the difference being I feel much less worried about Jeff's safety now). I imagine it's like when you're expecting a baby or some other similar life event -- you understand that it's going to happen, you may even know the exact DATE it's going to happen, but you also understand that there's simply no way to emotionally prepare for what you're about to enjoy/endure. And no, I did not pick the baby metaphor for any particular reason, MOTHER.

That's all I'm going to say for now, but updates will be quite frequent from here on out. Yes, this is my third post of the day, but I would like to note that I am still technically not a psychopath because two of them were late-night entries last night.

I'm off now to clean the house. I'm having college friends over that I have not seen in quite some time. Considering the recent developments in the deployment scene, my friends can look forward to a very squirrelly me. My friend Eva said, "That's OK -- I like you when you're extra squirrelly!" Lucky for her, because I have a feeling that by tomorrow the news may actually have sunk in. Go go gadget squirrelly!

More good news to come ...

If you're new to the blogosphere, this post still might not make sense

2005-02-25T00:31:00.000-06:00

Dooce.com is a at once a cautionary tale of the downfalls of blogging and an amazing example of the power of web publishing. Heather, the woman behind Dooce (and also often referred to as "Dooce"), is adored to the point of psychosis by many, many fans. (If you visit Dooce.com, be forewarned of the profanity. I love Dooce's profanity, but you may not. Oh, and she makes fun of Mormons. And talks about poop.) I read Dooce almost every day.

Dooce's fans are ... interesting. I don't mean to make fun of them (OK, I do, but not too much) because I truly count myself among them. I love Dooce, and would like to marry her, except I'm straight and already married, and she's already married, and quite frankly the situation just gets more complicated from there, besides the fact that we've never met and she may or may not be too tall for me, judging from the pictures.

Anyway. Dooce's fans.

A few of them get a little out of control, especially when Dooce is insulted in any way. Feeling unimportant and invisible? If you want to experiment with getting noticed, just say something vaguely critical in her comments section and watch 500 people tear you to shreds within nine or ten minutes. Her most ardent followers are loyal to a fault, and even Dooce occasionally steps in and is like, "Um, hey guys, I know you love me and everything, but CALM DOWN." Dooce's last Photo of the Day had so many comments coming in so fast that Heather finally had to apologetically shut them down.

In a separate but somewhat related event, Finslippy, aka Alice, recently addressed the phenomenon of the rampant "my life is worse than your life" competitions among bloggers and commenters. She wrote it funnier than I ever could, so visit her site and read the post (2/20/05) if you like.

Coincidentally, a "my life is worse than your life" argument also occurred on Dooce recently, so naturally all of Dooce's bazillion fans came out of the woodwork on Finslippy to say, "Hey! That happened recently on Dooce!" They all commented on Finslippy, arguing back and forth as to whether Dooce should have said this, done that, blah blah blah. Everyone got all excited, then they got angry, then they started arguing just like they all do on Dooce. At which point Finslippy herself told everyone to knock it off, because "1) because Heather's had enough bashing, and 2) because Jesus not everything is about Heather."

At which point I felt compelled to leave the following comment.

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"Alice, I was with you until you said everything isn't about Heather. Are you trying to say that changing my legal name to "Dooce, Too!" and frequently shouting "OF FRANCE!!!!!" at pedestrians is overkill? That leaving 57 comments under each photo, every single day, weaving an intricate and virtually incomprehensible tangle of inside jokes along the way, smacks of some unhealthy obsession -- one that, I DARESAY, requires a restraining order?

I'm disappointed to hear that a certain unreasonable Utah judge isn't the only one with this perspective.

You are listed as "Heather 4" in my bookmarks, right below "Heather 2" (Google) and "Heather 3" (Amazon). If you insist on maintaining this "it's not all about Heather" farce in any way, you may well plummet to Heather 8. OR EVEN HEATHER 9.

Heather 1: Call me."
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Poking fun at some of the more obsessive Dooce fans, of course. A dangerous pastime, as hardcore Dooce fans have been known to wrap your feet in concrete and toss you in the river for so much as quietly murmuring "Maybe Dooce.com isn't actually the second coming of Jesus." Go ahead, lock yourself in your closet and whisper it to yourself as quietly as you can, and you'll have an angry hatchet-carrying mob forming in your front yard within fifteen minutes. Not that they'll stay in the yard for long. Oh no. They know how to find you. Their ears are instinctively drawn to the sound of your terrified, pounding heart.

My comment generated a huge spike in traffic, with a lot of help from Sam's kind referral in Dooce's comments section (thanks man!). The posts below about people wanting me dead were just an expression of the dark shadow of fear I now live under, having vaguely insulted the doocelings. NOBODY INSULTS THE DOOCELINGS. And nobody insults Dooce. Unless that person wants to die, like, really soon.

Not that I would ever insult Dooce. If you forced me to choose between saying something bad about Dooce, who happens to be my personal hero, and throwing rocks at puppies, I would try to make an informed decision. Are they sharp rocks?

Anyway, that's what happened -- I felt the need to make a welcoming entry for anyone visiting from Finslippy, which is why I had an entry that made no sense to the rest of you. Some of you only read this blog, and you may be surprised at the complexity of the relationships occurring in the blogopshere. Trust me, it's a jungle out there. If you're looking to get your feet wet in the blog world, Dooce is certainly the ultimate place to start. After all, her recent photo of herself snowboarding generated over 1000 comments about everything from childbirth to the existence of God. I believe nipples were discussed as well, and not even in relation to childbirth. I'm not joking. Go see for yourself.

Well, that's that, then. We now return to your regularly scheduled programming: All Jeff, All The Time!

Come on, come on, come on

2005-02-25T00:07:00.000-06:00

I heard from Jeff tonight, and he said with any luck I won't hear from him until Monday.

When he is in the States.

Things could happen. The plane could be delayed or otherwise in use. There could be equipment problems, organizational problems, administrative problems. God forbid, there could be some huge event over there that keeps him in Iraq.

But none of that will happen. You will all be reassured to know that nothing bad will happen, because I am now officially controlling the universe with the sheer white-hot FORCE OF MY WILL.

I'll keep you posted. While you're waiting, consider these home improvement tips that I got from a "friend":

That tingly feeling in your back isn't a feel-good vibe from your home improvement endeavors. It's permanent spinal cord damage from carrying a bucket that weighs half as much as you do. Cheer up -- if you can't stand up, no one will make you paint the ceiling. By my rough calculations that are based on no logical fact whatsoever, I'm pretty sure that having to paint the ceiling is at least a thousand times worse than being paralyzed. Then again I did almost fail high-school algebra.

Speaking of math, if you suck at it, you might want to do a "budget" rather than casually adding up the entire cost of a months-long project IN YOUR HEAD. Your head is stupid, yet somehow conniving. Your head is not to be trusted. Your head CAN, however, pick out really awesome overpriced furniture. So here's to that. I guess.

If you are a danger to your klutzy self on a regular basis, you are by extension a danger to your house. Congratulations on successfully avoiding toxic substances that could eat the skin off your body -- but next time you may want to keep them off the hardwood floor as well.

When one is texturing a surface, it is best to keep one's big pointy elbow OUT of the finished texture. Or so I've heard. You will know when your pointy elbow has breached the surface, because you will a) feel a really cold substance on your skin and b) hear the squish of your elbow smooshing into the texture. Do not do this. It's ... counterproductive.

HOLY CRAP

2005-02-24T13:56:00.000-06:00

I found it interesting that I got TWO comments from people I don't know on the last entry. This blog is read regularly by friends and family (it is popular with Jeff's relatives for obvious reasons), but a surfer visit is rare.

So I did something I don't do very often: I logged on and checked my traffic. Then I choked violently on my own saliva. It was really attractive. Me choking, I mean. Not the saliva itself.

Um, welcome, all of you. I'm getting this weird Pay-It-Forward feeling where I just pulled back the curtain to see a million people standing in my yard holding candles. Yes, this is exactly like Pay It Forward. Except my son didn't die, I'm not an alcoholic, and some of the candle-holders in this scenario probably want me dead.

I will explain soon. Why did this have to happen when I'm so busy?

Jeff's new e-mail address

2005-02-23T23:43:00.000-06:00

When I get a chance, I will update the contents page, but I wanted to note that Jeff's new e-mail address is office_at_fl350@DELETEyahoo.com. (Remove the word "delete".) I know what you're thinking: "I never thought Jeff could make his e-mail address more complicated than it already was!" Well, he did. Note the "L" that resembes a "1" in many fonts. Yeah, good luck with that.

EDITED TO ADD: He already changed his mind. Nevermind. Stick with the old address. I knew this would happen.

In other news, I had a great time with Jeff on the phone today, taunting him that I was secretly fat now that he hasn't been around to see me. (I referred to my hands as "twin hams" but then I started laughing too hard to finish.) We're getting a lot of phone time as he waits to ship out of Iraq. And no, that still hasn't happened yet, and no, this entry isn't going to continue from here, because I am still panicking about ALL THE CRAP I HAVE TO DO.

An inside entry my usual readers will not even begin to understand

2005-02-22T23:35:00.000-06:00

First of all, I'm so sorry I called myself "Dooce, Too!". I felt it necessary for full comic effect, but it hurt me all the same, because it's sacrilege and I do not deserve to type such words.

Second of all, I was sarcastic about the goings-on at Dooce, but the truth is I long to become one of the most popular Dooce commenters of all time, eventually worming my way into a best-friends scenario with Dooce (kicking that Beth to the curb where she belongs). Sadly, I make fun of the commenters because I lack the confidence and courage to join them.

The truth is I secretly hope Dooce will visit this site and leave a comment on it (GASP GASP GASP), which I will then print out and frame and put under my pillow.* And then one thing would lead to another and before you knew it Dooce would invite me over for dinner.

Please, please, if there's any caring left in this cold hard world, let me be the next Tracie Masek. WHAT DOES TRACIE MASEK HAVE THAT I DON'T HAVE?

What I'm really trying to say is: Hey, guys, I was just joking.

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*I will make copies, of course, for the safety deposit box. I'm no fool.

Still waiting

2005-02-21T00:26:00.000-06:00

Jeff hasn't gotten a flight date out of Iraq yet, but we're hoping maybe Thursday night. The rumors are ever-changing, and in my opinion, it ain't over until I see him with my own eyes.

So yeah, no real news on that front.

Otherwise, I have some things to tell you, but they'll have to wait, because I'm working like a fiend every night to finish all of my home improvement projects before he gets here. Believe me, that now-famous bucket was just the beginning.

Jeff is all smug because he THINKS he's figured out that the buckets I keep referring to are 5-gallon containers of sheetrock mud. Well maybe they are and maybe they aren't ... but even if he's right, he still has NO CLUE what I'm up to. Do you, Jeff?

With any luck, only two more weeks and he gets to find out.

Oh. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

2005-02-18T10:09:00.000-06:00

The bucket is open. Can't we just leave it at that?

No? Fine.

It went exactly as I expected: My dad opened the bucket WITH HIS BARE HANDS. He showed me that it's not how much force you use, but where you put your hands. This turns an unbudge-able lid into a MAGIC OPENING LID! I should have been embarrassed but I didn't even care, because the stupid bucket is open.

He then showed me how to close it by putting a little "ooomph" behind your hands when you shove down on the lid. Um, yeah. My "ooomph" is climbing entirely on top of the bucket and bouncing and cursing until I hear the lid click into place.

Sorry, Jeff, but I've decided I want more ooomph for bucket-closing purposes. My 7,000-calorie-a-day diet starts NOW.

I get the feeling that my home decorating hobby will go the way of my cooking hobby: It's fun, but injures me so constantly that I quit. Now instead of cutting my fingers when I cut carrots, I'm stepping on nails and cutting myself on trowels. In an incident I admit was amusing, I moved a board with nails in it against the wall SPECIFICALLY so I wouldn't hurt myself on it. It then fell from against the wall and stabbed me in the calf as I walked away.

Do you see how hopeless it is? Can anyone think of a hobby involving only pillows?

Okay then.

2005-02-17T23:05:00.000-06:00

11:05 p.m.

Bucket: 1, Me: 0.

The bucket is now sitting unopened and abandoned in the dark. It is the bucket of Satan. I don't want to touch it, I don't want to see it. I want nothing to do with it ever again. At least not until tomorrow morning, after my dad pries the lid off.

I'm not sure "demoralizing" even begins to cover it.

I cannot believe this

2005-02-17T22:30:00.000-06:00

This is possibly the saddest thing that's ever happened to me. Now, don't get confused. It's not the worst thing, no. Not the scariest thing. Not the most expensive thing. THE SADDEST THING.

I am getting my ass kicked by a STUPID BUCKET.

I have begged. I have pleaded. I have screamed. I have not cried, but give me ten more minutes of this torture and I'd bet money against my ability to hold back frustrated tears.

I cannot pry the lid off a 5-gallon bucket.

Yes, I get how it's supposed to work. But I can't pry. I suck at prying. The more I pry, the more the bucket looks as if a rat is trying to chew it open. But, ha! We know a rat is not trying to chew it open, because EVEN A RAT WOULD BE DONE BY NOW.

I understand that this is funny, at least for someone else. I understand that this will be funny just as soon as this goddamn bucket is open. But I assure you it is not at all funny now. But feel free to laugh. If you think it's nice to laugh at someone who wants to knock themselves unconscious.

No, it is not funny now. It is INFURIATING now. I am INFURIATED. I want to die with the fury. I cannot believe I dragged a 61-pound bucket from the store, into the car, into the house just to have it sit there all night, as useful to me as it was in the car. Or even in the store, before I wasted money on it.

I. Just. Cannot. Believe. It.

When I say "infuriated," I mean you can actually feel the rage baking off of my skin. I can feel time passing, the night getting shorter, as I lose minute after minute of work time because I CANNOT OPEN A BUCKET.

I went to college, for god's sake. Why didn't anyone there teach me how to do this? Didn't they think I would need to know? I learned how to identify rose quartz in college. Which do you think is more necessary in life, opening a bucket or identifying rose quartz? Yeah, that's what I thought. I GRADUATED COLLEGE AND I AM A JOKE OF A HUMAN BEING.

I keep standing here wondering how it is really possible that all that stands between me and everything I planned to do tonight is a round piece of plastic that I cannot for the life of me remove.

See, wasn't that eloquent? I am such a great writer. TOO BAD WRITING DOESN'T OPEN BUCKETS.

I will not call my father. I will not call my father. I will not call my father.

I am trying to prepare myself for the moment he shows up tomorrow and opens the bucket in thirty seconds, and how I will feel so annoyed at the sight of this that I will want to bite through my own fingers. My own weak, useless, pry-retarded fingers.

Then, in order to cheer myself up, I get to start painting. Why do I get the feeling that won't do the trick?

home improvement tips

2005-02-16T22:32:00.000-06:00

It's a bad idea to lean against a wall that you just painted moments before. This is because there's paint on it.

Studies show that no one paints ceilings because a white ceiling creates a certain ambiance ... OK, who are we kidding? No one paints ceilings because painting ceilings TOTALLY SUCKS. Hello gravity!

Plastic dropcloth over carpet: Good. Plastic dropcloth over plastic dropcloth: the slickest surface in existence, engineered solely for breaking your stupid neck.

It's Valentine's Day and I GOT SOME!

2005-02-14T21:31:00.000-06:00

Chocolate, that is.

Here's a big shout-out to my mother-in-law, who left me fifty pounds of sugar in a red bag on my doorstep. I'm sorry I didn't call to say thanks, but it's late and I just got home. Plus my mouth is full of chocolate. Krackel bars! Krackel bars! I also got enough Twizzlers to feed an entire third-world country for a year.

Does YOUR mother-in-law leave you candy on your doorstep? This is something you need to ask yourself. Perhaps you married the wrong person's kid, did you ever think of that?

This was a good ending to a day that felt nice for no real reason. You would expect me to be depressed on such a romantic holiday, but I really wasn't: Jeff has started turning his gear in, which means we're getting there. We're really getting there. Combine that with the fact that I got to hear my nephew tell Jeff "Happy Vawentine's Day" on the phone (CUTEST. THING. EVER.) and I'm feeling cheerful. Jeff promised to play horsey with Kyle as soon as he got home, and Kyle lit up like a Christmas tree. (Jeff had consulted with me on how to win Kyle's heart, and I assured him that "horsey" was the way to go.)

I think Jeff's offer of horsey officially broke the ice, because before that Kyle looked a little freaked out. He's never spoken to Jeff before, and when I told Kyle that Jeff was on the phone, he stopped dead and gave me this look like "You can't be SERIOUS. I'm only two and even I can tell you've been making this guy up. What's next, a boyfriend in Canada?" I get the feeling Jeff has a lot of rounds of make-up horsey ahead of him.

I'm glad I had a good day, because I sort of hit military-wife morale rock-bottom this weekend. I got a call from the cable company threatening to shut off my service. Shut it off? Why would you shut it off? I didn't pay the bill? Oh. Well, that's strange, because there's no cable bill here in my "unpaid" pile. In fact, every bill in the "unpaid" pile is new -- they just came a day or two ago. I must have lost it, I guess. How odd. Ah, well, what do I owe you?

The new anal me was determined to find that bill. I needed to know what happened. I needed to know the truth.

I found the bill all right. In a neat stack. WITH ALL THE OTHER BILLS FROM LAST MONTH. On top of the refrigerator. Where I set them TEMPORARILY to clean the kitchen table. Except I forgot the temporary part and just left them there.

That's right. I didn't pay a single bill last month.

Tentatively, I opened the new bills sitting in the unpaid pile. The power bill? Doubled this month. The phone bill? Doubled this month. The water bill? A stern notice written entirely in red.

You're asking yourself, how does someone just not pay an entire round of bills without noticing? Well, in my case, easily. There's an unpaid pile, and if there are bills in it, I pay them, and if there aren't, I don't, because apparently I already did, even though I don't remember it, but then again I don't remember much of anything, and if they aren't in the unpaid pile, then they must be paid, right? And time is a blur and one month is just like another and I was too busy daydreaming and playing video games to notice how oddly wealthy we've been lately. But there's nothing in the unpaid pile. The unpaid pile is all I know. If the unpaid pile is empty, then ... everything must be okay! The bills must be paid!

OR THEY'RE COLLECTING DUST ON TOP OF THE REFRIGERATOR, YOU EFFING IDIOT.

I let the horror of my stupidity sink all the way in, then I indulged in a few small silly-girl tears. I cried because Jeff has to live out his life married to a half-wit, and that's sad. I cried because I do not like to fail, even though everyone fails and quite frankly with my personality I should be used to it by now. I cried because being stupid is so much harder than being smart. I cried because I'm getting tired of everything, and I love to feel sorry for myself when I'm tired of everything.

Then I got ahold of myself. I decided I would repay my debt of stupidity to the world by being constructive all day long. I cleaned the house. I even bought a new mop. I mopped the entire house, and that cheered me up immensely. Failures don't mop, I told myself. How can you be a failure when you are so enthusiastically mopping?

Military wives, take heart: If you feel you're the only one who feels defective and useless upon occasion, you are wrong. We're all just trying to get by, and we're doing a damn fine job if I do say so myself. So what if the cable is shut off when he gets back? So what if you got evicted? So what if you're missing a puppy or come up one kid short? Your best is all you can do, although in retrospect one of those harness-leash things may have been the way to go. (For the kid, I mean. Well, the dog too, I guess.) The important thing is that you tried. As the saying goes, "To err is human. To forgive is what your husband BETTER DO if he knows what's good for him."

Now that the bills are in the mail and the crisis is over, I feel histronic and ridiculous for reacting the way I did. It's safe to say there will be no tears for a while. At least until I find out I have to get a root canal from eating 86 Krackel bars in one sitting.

IT WAS WORTH IT.

The sappy Valentine's Day Post

2005-02-13T23:11:00.000-06:00

Very occasionally, I write a touching, romantic post. Every time I do, I get reports of people crying in their cubicles and running home to hug their families, and I doubt this post will be any different. Consider yourself warned. Some of you may be uncomfortable facing this level of geniune emotion from me, the blogging clown. (Not be confused with a trampy bread clown.) The rest of you cannot WAIT to get your grubby little hands on this post. Lucky for you it's already Valentine's Day in Iraq. Grubby grabbers, this one's for you.

OK, here we go!

I don't know how to explain Jeff to you. I've tried, but there's so much to him. He's a complex individual. I love that. (Except when I hate it - ha ha! Okay, really though.) He's a hick, he's intelligent. He's polite, he has a temper. He's hilarious and witty, but suffers from hamster-thought syndrome. I'm never bored with him. In fact, I'm usually just trying to keep up with the breakneck pace at which he lives his life. He keeps me thinking, keeps me challenged, and isn't afraid to knock me down a peg or two when I need it.

Yes, he's a complex individual. But his biggest trait -- the thing that bound me irresistibly to him even when I thought he was completely wrong for me (and, incidentally, when the rest of him was being a total jerk) -- is his simple heart.

Jeff has the heart of a little kid. He has carried the same heart with him his entire life, and although he's been through as much as anyone, somehow that heart stayed pure. It's unpolluted by regret, distrust, or fear. It's unhardened by hate, anger, or pain. His heart is full of all of the love his body can hold. He is unthinking in his caring, uncalculating in his affection. He just gives it, because his heart must give it, because that is all his heart knows how to do.

I so admire that heart. Standing next to him makes my ordinary heart feel petty, complicated, selfish. How many times did I choose convenience over caring? How many times did I let him give without returning? Why was I so afraid I would give too much of myself and run out?

I remember how good it felt the first time I threw logic out the window just to be with him. He called me when it was already dark and told me he missed me, and I stood there three hours away, looking out the window at the streetlights and listening to his voice. Then I hung up the phone, climbed in my car, and drove three hours to St. Louis just so I could fall asleep with him. I started to let go of the idea that love was a game, something I always had to benefit from, something I had to manipulate and win.

I had to learn what Jeff's simple heart already knew.

It's difficult for me to process how many hours he's spent on airplanes just trying to get home to me. So many times he's waited in airports and charmed his way onto airplanes just to bridge that gap so we could have a day together. So many mornings he's rolled out of bed at 4 a.m. to catch a flight because he just wasn't ready to leave me the night before. So many times loving me has made him weary, but he never stops.

He doesn't remember the hundreds of times he has reached out in his sleep to touch my shoulder in the middle of the night -- if it's bare, he'll pull the covers back up over me and tuck them under my chin. He doesn't count how many times he's held the door open, carried my suitcase, paid my bill, cooked my meal, or cleaned up my mess. There's never been a tab to pay or a score to settle, and my God, that feels so good. It feels so good to be loved by that heart.

I know not everyone sees what I see. And I'm glad. If they watched him pull over just so he could buy a group of kids ice cream, or knew that he looked up the number in Iraq and called my mother in the hospital before I had even spoken to her, or realized one of the things that excites him about coming home is just being able to make me breakfast again, or heard about how he arranged to have a gift delivered to me every single week he was away in boot camp (writing out all of the little notes that came with them in advance, of course!), I might have some competition.

Jeff, thank you for choosing me over and over again, and letting me see that beautiful heart. There are so many hearts on Valentine's Day, but I know I'll never find other one like yours.

A note from Jeff: Freedom can be a gamble

2005-02-12T22:43:00.000-06:00

Jeff says:

"My horse came in!!!!!!

And by my horse I mean Cpl. Bitner. As you all know, I like to place a wager now and then, and my latest bet was for who would shoot better on the pistol range. Of course I was not going to bet on my blind a$$, but Cpl. Landgrebe was talking a little trash, so I said that I would put my money on Cpl. Bitner that he would shoot better than Cpl. Landgrebe.

Now the course is scored at a max of 400 points, and Cpl. Landgrebe wanted to bet 50 cents on each point between the two scores, but I wanted to be a little more conservative so we only bet 25 cents a point. On the first practice day both shot 15 out of 40 in the black bullseye, so it looked like it might be close in the showdown the next day.

Well when it came time to shoot for money, my horse was the victor by 108 points, 366 points to 258 points. That put 27 bucks in my pocket, and of course I gave a
little to my horse, you know, so he could buy himself some oats or whatever it is horses like.

On a side note I shot a score of 314 which is a sharpshooter, so I was pretty happy with that.

Things are winding down for us over here, and that is good. I can't wait to come home and see everyone, especially Jenni, so the two of us can just hang out and be together.

Well, that is it for now, so I'll write again soon.

Jeff"

No news is good news

2005-02-10T21:27:00.000-06:00

I've been talking to Jeff pretty frequently lately. I have to hand it to him -- he gets out of bed early almost every day so he can talk to me when A, I'm awake, and B, the phones aren't too busy. I told him tonight how much I appreciate that, how hard he works to keep our connection going and how hard he works to make sure I am involved his life, even in this limited capacity. I think his efforts will make all the difference when it comes to the Big Adjustment Phase.

Anyway, Jeff's frequent contact has been especially advantageous lately, because I get little updates on the homecoming. Not that Jeff really knows anything, but I love hearing over and over again that it's still on, it's still happening, and nothing has changed. I have a great deal of paranoia about everything getting canceled, Jeff's deployment getting extended, etc. People tell me I'm being silly. Well, hey, it isn't your heart that's going smashed into a million pieces, so you can just keep calling me silly and I'll just keep being absurdly paranoid, okay? Hey Jeff, you're still coming home soon, right? Any bad news? How bout now? How bout now? Nothing? Awesome! OK, how bout now? Has everything fallen apart yet? Should I just prepare for the worst? I'll just save you a spot right next to me in the nursing home and HOPEFULLY YOU'LL BE HOME NOT LONG AFTER I MOVE IN.

Jeff doesn't have a flight date yet (most likely he will get a flight window spanning several days), but it's coming. It's hard to believe he may be leaving Iraq in a few weeks. Jeff and I have both been anxious and tense lately, something that's probably going to worsen in the coming weeks. We spend half our time sniping at each other and the other half talking about how we want to be together more than anything. And if that last sentence wasn't the best summary of relationships ever, I don't know what is. (Watch out, Shakespeare. I am capturing the human condition RIGHT HERE IN THIS POST. In one little sentence! It took you a whole bunch of plays! Plays that no one really understands anyway! I don't know why I'm trash-talking to a dead guy in this post, but it's fun! And has exclamation points! Lots of them!!!!!)

So I guess that means we're leaving Super Duper Romance World and returning to Earth. I'm okay with that, because Super Duper Romance is kind of tiring after a while. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and fonder, and fonder, until the heart is like, "Hey, can I get a break here? FOR GOD'S SAKE I'M FOND ENOUGH ALREADY." The heart wants some action. The heart wants to call Jeff an idiot and step on his foot really hard, just for a little change of pace.

That's right, I'm telling you just a few days before Valentine's Day that my heart wants to step on my husband. Ask your therapist what that means and get back to me.

Ow. Ha. Ow.

2005-02-09T01:39:00.000-06:00

I've been grinding my teeth in my sleep with a disturbing frequency. As far as I know, I have never done this before. At least, I've never woken to the unpleasant sound of grinding enamel until very recently. It is one of the worst sounds in the world to wake up to. When you hear the sound of your teeth SQUEAKING against one another with terrible force, and that sound is coming from YOUR OWN HEAD, and oh yeah, you can also FEEL IT IN YOUR TEETH, you just want to die. That sound is so wrong. No one should ever grind their teeth, asleep or awake, for any reason.

What to do? I could wear a mouthguard, I guess, but that sounds uncomfortable to sleep in. The good news is, I already have a custom-fitted plastic protective shell that fits over my teeth. The bad news is, it's my retainer.

So at 24 years old, it was time to get reacquainted with my retainer.

It's lucky I was so vain for so long. It's lucky I entertained an obsession with my appearance that lasted well into my college years, long after everyone else had completely given up on retainers. Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to fit my old retainer onto my teeth at all. Yes, your teeth do move. For those of you who decided that your retainer wasn't really doing anything important, well, your teeth are going to be a little crooked in twenty years. Sorry.

I will have a spectacular headache in the morning, I'm sure, but at the moment, at least I am wearing the blasted retainer. My teeth are wanting to burst out of it, I can tell, and I will undoubtedly have dreams that involve my teeth cracking and falling out,* but the point is, there will be no squeaky enamel grinding sound tomorrow morning. Believe me, it's worth it.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that grinding my teeth in my sleep is a symptom of deployment stress -- the grinding accompanies nightmares involving Jeff's homecoming going wrong, getting delayed, etc. So file this concept under "Weird Deployment Moments You Never Expected": Standing in front of the bathroom mirror jamming an old piece of plastic onto your teeth as your eyes water from the pain. Hey, is that your heartbeat you're feeling in your teeth? Cool!

----
*Just like the chef in The Little Mermaid, at the end when he gets hit in the face with that big beam. Do you remember that scene? For years, I've had nightmares that my teeth crumble and fall out of my mouth, just like the poor chef's teeth. The poor chef just wanted to do his job, and that stupid crab, apparently resenting the chef's excellent work ethic and taking it all WAY TOO PERSONALLY, knocked the chef's teeth out, causing me irrevocable psychological trauma. Why am I a dental basketcase, you ask? One word: Disney.

Let's all get in the time machine

2005-02-07T20:12:00.000-06:00

OK, so awhile ago Jeff wrote a site update (or, as he would call it, a "sight update"), and I forgot to ever put it on the site. Then I remembered, but I was too tired to put it on. I was too tired to do anything. I'm still too tired to do anything. Don't ask me what my deal is, but I'm barely keeping my eyes open lately. If you can't tell from this site, I'm usually fairly energetic, at least mentally. Now I'm the one with the hamster-brain, the one who keeps trying to write posts and failing miserably, the one who can barely think of a coherent thing to say.

I also yawn about 5,384 times a day and fall asleep within thirty seconds of inactivity. The other day my dad was coming to take me out to eat. He lives minutes away. I put my shoes on and sat by the door to wait for him. By the time he knocked a whole three minutes later, I had already fallen asleep with my head in my hand and was dreaming about golf. I don't EVER play golf, much less dream about it, so this is proof that not only am I getting sleepy and boring, my DREAMS are getting sleepy and boring.

So we went out to dinner, where I proved to be a thrilling dining companion as I silently sat there, baggy-eyed and yawning into my food. Seriously, it's ridiculous. At first I just thought I had a lot on my mind, but now there's only one explanation: I am slowly dying from some deadly strain of mono.

But mono isn't deadly, you're thinking. Yeah. Well. That's exactly what they WANT you to think.

Anyway, I'm dead tired (again), so I'm going to let Jeff talk now. Pretend it's a week from the end of January, okay? Okay, here we go.

Jeff says:

"I finally got to shoot something!!!!!!!

OK, so it was just some targets painted onto some plywood, but I got to shoot them with the M2 .50 Cal. heavy machine gun. For thsoe of you out there who don't care about destruction, this would not excite you, but like most boys I thought this was really cool.

A few of us were chosen to go to the machine gun range, so we could take a class on and then fire the M2. It was some good training, and it was nice to actually fire this weapon. However this training would have been more useful had it occurred much earlier in the deployment, not at the end of it, especially after we were already involved in the battle for Fallujah. Oh well, I guess the training is good to have anytime.

We shot from the mounts on the seven-ton trucks to simulate operations during a convoy. We painted up some plywood with pictures of cars with people in them. (Editor's note: I love how Jeff says he "painted up" something. WHAT A HICK.) We were practicing escalation of force. What that means is, you first give the vehicle a warning signal, such as a flare. If the vehicle continues toward you, then it goes: Shoot in front of the vehicle, shoot the tires, then the engine block, then the passenger, then the driver.

If the picture I sent is attached, you can see that when I sprayed the vehicle, I shot in front of it, the tire, engine block, passenger, and the driver. However, I'm not exactly sure they were in that order.

Well, we are winding down over here, and everyone is ready to come home. We are all getting sick of each other. We even want a break from our best friends. Hopefully once the elections are over, we will get packed up and come home to see all our families and friends.

I'm fairly confident that I can speak for everyone here in saying we can't wait for this to be over. With it being so close to being over now, most of us worry about getting injured, because we are so close to going home. This being said, we are all being extra careful so that doesn't happen.

Well, that's about it for now. It looks like I will be able to watch the AFC and NFC championships this weekend, so I'm looking forward to that. GO STEELERS!

Talk to you all later,
Jeff

P.S. Just to be consistent, that 50 cal is BAD A$$."

It should be noted that Jeff spelled "shoot" with one O the entire time. The idea of adoption just looks better and better. After I saw that Jeff typed "careful" as "cafe full," I called Russia immediately.

"How far in advance should I book a flight?" I asked anxiously. "Is there a waiting list for children? No? Well, in that case, is there a waiting list for children THAT CAN SPELL?"

That man makes me laugh

2005-02-04T23:03:00.000-06:00

This entry contains a REAL SWEAR WORD, unlike the more acceptable Bible-variety swear words like hell or damn. I just thought you should know. (But since it's a post about my phone conversation with Jeff, the fact that it only contains one little swear word is a testament to how hard I try to keep it clean around here.)

I just had an amusing conversation with Jeff. He was telling me all about his "demobilization class," which we keep referring to as the "How to Not Beat Your Wife Class." I asked him what he learned, and he said that we were supposed to discuss our expectations for Jeff's homecoming to see if we expected the same things.

Jeff dropped some real quotable gems during this conversation, including "I expect you to look nice when I arrive, but you know, you don't have to dress like a hooker or anything."

Then he had the nerve to tell me quite sternly, "It's not funny!" when I told him that my fitness plan involved drawing a chalk outline, lying down inside the outline, never to cross its bounds with my limbs again, and have Jeff feed me chocolates. Of course it's not funny, Jeff. No one is laughing at my Chalk 'N' Chocolate fitness plan. Because the Chalk 'N' Chocolate fitness plan is OH SO REAL. And convenient, because when you eventually die, the chalk outline is already there.

While on the subject of fitness, I apologized sadly to Jeff for lying back in the day, back when we were dating, when I said I liked to exercise. It turns out I totally do NOT like to exercise, although I did believe myself at the time. What I really like is Jeff, an affection that inspired me to say (and believe!) stupid things like, "I like to exercise."

"I'm sorry I lied to you," I said mournfully. "I didn't mean to do that."

Jeff paused, and said, "That's OK."

I sighed and said, "You were supposed to say, 'You didn't REALLY lie.'"

Another pause.

"You didn't-"

"Waaaaay too late on that one, dude."

During the discussion of our expectations, I explained to Jeff that I expected TOTAL OBEDIENCE from him, and that he was my bitch, and that I had already bought him a pink frilly apron to wear when we were out in public. He said rather nervously that he did not LIKE that word, that b-word, and I cut him off and asked why I bothered waiting for him if this was the thanks I get.

Reflecting on a deployment that is nearly over, Jeff also noted that it did not look like he would get to kill anyone during his stay in Iraq. Noting his obvious disappointment, I wondered aloud why in the world he would WANT to kill anyone.

He gave me this intriguing answer: "Well, killing someone ... it's a life experience." I would like to put that on the record right now as possibly the least logical thing Jeff has ever said. Death ... it's a life experience.

Jeff then exclaimed, "But they're BAD guys! They keep shooting at me!"

"Eh," I said dismissively, "Someone's probably just making them do it. I'm sure they're just grunts, like you."

And that is how I tried to get Jeff to feel sorry for the poor working stiffs who have to just sit there and shoot at him all day long.

After that, the conversation started to get kind of weird.

Top Ten Countdown

2005-02-03T22:36:00.000-06:00

I was rereading the last post (I do this often, because it helps me remember who I'm supposed to be and what it is I like to talk about), and I noticed my comment about how Jeff was too skinny last time he came home. And he was. In fact, my first words to him, the first loving words that fell on his longing ears were, "You're SKINNY!"

Thinking back, that was sort of lame of me. So this time, I'm going to do it right. I'll have my first words all planned out, and we can have our little Hallmark moment right there in each other's arms.

So here it is, Jennifer's Top Ten Welcome-Home Greetings. In my daydreams, I like to imagine me whispering these words just inches from his ear as he pulls me close in a romantic embrace and holds me tight ...

10. What's that smell? Oh, it's you.

9. Rocko says hi.

8. *Cough* Breathmint?

7. Careful, you'll squish the baby.

6. I remembered you taller.

5. I'm hugging for two now!

4. Don't worry, it's not contagious. At least that's what he said.

3. Remember, with today's technology, photographs don't prove anything.

2. No one told me I was supposed to be feeding the dog.

1. I have a funny eviction story for you as soon as we get in the car.

Worrying is ... fun?

2005-02-01T19:06:00.000-06:00

Jeff called today and said he got news that he would be in California by the end of February. This puts him home in mid-March. It's not final, it's not guaranteed, of course of course of course, but you know what I'M GOING TO GET EXCITED ANYWAY. If Bette Midler were here, she could start singing about how it's the heart afraid of breaking that never learns to dance, as we see a cinematic montage of me, the emotionally frozen military wife, slowly thawing, beginning to care (music swells) and ... BEGINNING TO LOVE AGAIN, AGAINST ALL ODDS.

What do you mean, why would Bette Midler be here in the first place? Why WOULDN'T Bette Midler be here? Apparently you never heard of thinking outside the box.

Okay, so this homecoming thing. Looks like it might actually happen at some point. Now that the day is sliding into sharper focus, of course now we see the bad parts. It's kind of like when you're planning your wedding. From far away, you look great in your dress and the party is hoppin' and everyone is happy. Once you get closer to the day, you see that cover-up didn't quite take care of the huge zit on your chin, the flower girl keeps flashing everyone on her way down the aisle, and your mother ... well, let's not even get started on your mother. If she harps one more time about how you really didn't earn that white dress, you have my permission to beat her with the sharp end of your bouquet. Thank God rose stems are cut at an angle.

Anyway.

The first of "The Ten Commandments of Deployed Marines"* in the handbook is this: "Thou shalt expect your homecoming to be stressful."

Well, I hope it's not that bad. The worst part is that I know I will be nervous. In the last day or two I will be positively HUMMING with nerves, and my guess is I can forget about sleeping well. When I originally told Jeff I would be nervous, he thought that was a strange thing to say. He asked, "Why would you be nervous?" and I gave the very articulate and eloquent answer, "How can you NOT be nervous?" and we left it at that. Now, Jeff is beginning to share in my nerves. By the time the day arrives, I'm sure we will just stagger nervously past one another in jerky, adrenaline-fueled movements**, unable to see one another in our wild, eyeball-rolling search for our *gulp* LIFELONG MATE.

I AM very nervous about seeing Jeff again, but admit that I do not know why. There's no big reason. There are just a million little things: I want to make sure I do a good job, look my best, and be everything that Jeff wants, everything he's been looking forward to all this time. Maybe that sounds crazy (if Jeff is smart, he will say that I am ALREADY everything that he wants, isn't that right, bucko?), but it's true -- I worry about being attractive enough, saying the right things, everything you might worry about on a first date, except I happen to be MARRIED to this first date. I am nervous that I will look at him and I won't be able to remember exactly who he is, and who we are to each other. I had that worry last time he came home (from months of training), and it was the dumbest worry I ever wasted my time on, because the second I saw him I was like, "oh, it's you," and we just walked to the car and drove home like always.*** Then we ate pizza. Everything was exactly the same, except he was skinnier, a situation we soon cured with more pizza. Marriage is about teamwork, folks. Teamwork ... and cheese cooked onto a doughy crust.

So yeah, the worrying is probably a waste of time. Before you become convinced that I am an anxiety-ridden nutcase, I will note that the excitement nearly eclipses the nervousness. For every minute I spend agonizing over whether I chose the right outfit, I spend ten thinking of how great it's going to be when I get the news that he'll be home in just a few days. Then I spend twenty thinking about when he actually GETS HERE. In Illinois. To see ME!

And everyone else, of course. Cough.

Anyway, the point I spent forever getting to is: There are worries. I am worried about sharing chores again and about keeping the friends I've made. Jeff is worried about being too short with me, unused to living with someone he has to treat nicely. (He is also undoubtedly worried about when the CORPSE FEET WILL STRIKE.) We're both worried about what it will be like to manage our money together, our time together. We're both worried about just BEING together, about abandoning some of the hard-won individuality we've both embraced during this separation.

And, of course, the neighbors are worried they will have no source of entertainment once the cursing homeless woman who lives next door stops taking out the trash.

Wow. I never thought it would feel so great to worry.

------
*Some of the other commandments are funnier. My favorite? "Thou shalt not treat your wife like a one-night stand." And I thought it was so odd, after Jeff got back from training last time, and started sneaking out in the middle of the night, and not calling me the next morning. Apparently it's quite common.
**Think of the zombies from 28 Days Later. Yeah, like that. But in love.
***With any luck, it will be just like our wedding day, when I worried obsessively for hours on end, only to finally see him standing there in his tux and think, "Oh, okay, it's just a wedding, then" and then I felt cool as a cucumber. A cucumber on muscle relaxants. A cucumber on muscle relaxants that has just smoked a joint. (Look, I've never even smoked a joint, so wipe that smirk off your face. The CUCUMBER is the one smoking the joint in this metaphor. I do not see why this is so hard to understand.) Ask my friends: I looked like I might fall asleep in my wedding dress on my way down the aisle. So if, on the our next big day, I start to run toward Jeff with my arms outstretched and then, once halfway there, fall down snoring, you'll know exactly what happened.

Jeffalie Frankenstein Gilman

2005-01-30T11:10:00.000-06:00

I can't believe none of you wanted to guess the identity of the mystery person. This site has had a thousand hits since then and NO ONE BUT MY OWN HUSBAND WANTED TO GUESS THE IDENTITY OF THE MYSTERY PERSON. You people must be great at parties. Well, actually, some of you are just shy and e-mailed me instead. Anyway, the mystery person is (drum roll please): Jeffalie Frankenstein Gilman, the future love child of Jeff and Natalie Portman. I thought it was obvious.

OK, so it wasn't obvious, and I don't blame any of you for not guessing. I originally Photoshopped a love child of Jeff and Natalie Portman thinking it would be like, dude, SOOO FUNNY, this ugly monster person we could all laugh at, as somewhere in New York, Natalie Portman was shaken with a bone-deep gratitude that she did not have children with Jeff.

But as I Photoshopped, I was amazed to see that Jeff and Natalie Portman's kid was actually kind of hot. I mean, not as hot as Natalie Portman, because even the real Natalie Portman is probably not as hot as Natalie Portman, but STILL. And she looked so real that it started creeping me out. I mean, look at her. It's like she isn't at all aware that she doesn't exist.

So it ended up not being funny at all. But it WAS funny when Jeff guessed it was me, because seriously, I do not resemble Jeff OR Natalie Portman. But Jeff wasn't the only person to guess that those were my eyes. This is interesting, because they are in fact JEFF'S eyes. What are you all trying to tell me? You could have just gotten me tweezers for Christmas or something. There's no reason to be cruel about it.

If you're curious, the breakdown is this: Natalie Portman's hair, neck, face shape, mouth; Jeff's eyes and nose. I did give Jeffalie a little nostril-tuck, because I figured any child of Natalie Portman's has a right to a little plastic surgery.

More than one person has taken note of the sharp line on the left side of Jeffalie's forehead as a giveaway that the photo has been manipulated, but I swear, that part is original Natalie. Apparently Natalie was born with a Photoshopped head, because I didn't touch the hairline. Had I worked on the forehead, I would never do such sloppy work. I'm a PROFESSIONAL.

Speaking of poor audience participation, my Yahoo Group for C Company Marines is failing miserably. Ah well. I tried. People really just don't want to talk. I spend a lot of time trying to imagine being so self-conscious that I am physically unable to type words into a little white box on a Web site, but I think it's painfully obvious here that I am not that person. I do understand, though, and for those of you silent souls who are packed into this site like sardines, I bear you no ill will. Sardines really don't make much noise in real life either, so I guess it was to be expected.

The good news is, a NEW passworded site is going up for C Company, one that is NOT open to the public, just to families, one that is once again NOT secret but NOT NOT secret.

The bad news is, APPARENTLY THESE PEOPLE NEVER LEARN.

Enjoy the silence

2005-01-27T22:43:00.000-06:00

I'm busy, I'm tired, and for once I have nothing to say. But everything's fine. I'm going to go crawl into bed, pull the covers up to my chin, and zonk out. As soon as I catch my breath, you'll be the first to know.

Thank God I'm young enough to start over

2005-01-25T22:15:00.000-06:00

I am half-kidding in this post. The half of me that's kidding, of course, is the same half that somehow manages to still love Jeff ... in other words, the half of me who needs extensive therapy. OK! Here we go.

RING RING RING.

Jeff: "Hey, it's me. How was your day?"

Jenni: "BAD."

Jeff: "Oh, what's wrong?"

Jenni: "I'm working on (a project), and nothing is going right, and it's all a mess, and it's due TOMORROW."

Jeff: (silence)

Jenni: "What?"

Jeff: "Nothing."

Jenni: "WHAT?"

Jeff: "It's just that ... well, this always happens to you."

(unspoken suggestion hangs between them that this is in fact Jenni's fault for not starting sooner)

Jenni: "If you say I should have started sooner, I'M LEAVING YOU."

Jeff: (mumbly nonsense)

Jenni: "You know why I didn't start sooner? You know why? I'll give you the short version. BECAUSE I AM VERY, VERY BUSY, THAT'S WHY."*

Jeff: "You might as well just say ... 'Well, BECAUSE!'"

Jenni: (shocked silence as it sinks in that her husband is using THE SITE SHE BUILT FOR HIM against her in an argument)

Jeff: (scared silence of a man who totally just signed his own death warrant)

Jenni: (consumed with a hot blazing fury unmatched even in the deepest depths of hell)

Jeff: "So ... do I need to come pick up my stuff, or will you just leave it out on the lawn for me?"

You would think we both just laughed after that, but we didn't, because after that is when he told me he gave away our dishwasher. Not that I really care about the dishwasher, per se, because we never use it, but it's OUR dishwasher, and DUDE, DON'T GIVE AWAY OUR APPLIANCES WHEN YOU DO NOT EVEN LIVE HERE. And no fair arguing that I gave away the chairs and the desk, because the chairs and the desk didn't leave a GIANT HOLE under the counter.**

I can give stuff away. The person who actually resides in the house gets to give stuff away. The person voluntarily living in the middle of nowhere, thousands of miles from the house, should just be glad I haven't changed the locks yet, ESPECIALLY AFTER THE FOLLOWING CONVERSATION:

Jenni: "So what, exactly, are we going to put in the giant hole under the counter?"

Jeff: "Well ... another dishwasher. Or ... a minifridge. Or ... a Keggerator!"

Jenni: (too busy signing divorce papers to chat)

Jeff: (in perhaps the only flash of intelligence he has shown thus far) "Or ... yeah, another dishwasher."***

I just realized that not only is Jeff coming back, he's also going to be as UNBELIEVABLY, BREATHTAKINGLY annoying as the Jeff who left.

So who knows a good lawyer? Anybody?***

------
*OK, so I really should have started sooner. But seriously, Jeff is supposed to love me. He made promises and signed papers to that effect, and he's done way more stupid things than I have, and I'm still nice to HIM. Well, except now, but he deserves it.

**The recipient of the dishwasher need not be afraid. I'm sure you're very deserving of a dishwasher. The question here is whether Jeff is very deserving of ME. As you can see, that's a different issue entirely. Enjoy your new dishwasher! It just may not be the one from our kitchen.

***A new dishwasher better fill that giant hole in 24 hours. Oh, and a black dishwasher with brown countertops? Ew. I think SOMEBODY just bought HIMself some new countertops! Cha-CHING! I'll take the red-flecked black granite from Granite Transformations, available for the bargain price of ME NOT LEAVING YOU.

Pop quiz

2005-01-22T13:58:00.000-06:00

Who is this?

(Guesses will be updated)

First guess, by Jeff: Natalie Portman.
Wrong.

Second guess, by Jeff: Me.
Um, no. Jeff, you are clearly desperate, so please stop guessing, because if I laugh this hard again I'm going to rupture my spleen.

Anonymous guessed: A composite of me and Jeff
No ... but you're getting closer.

Today's sickly sweet daydream sponsored by Deployment Inc.

2005-01-21T23:45:00.000-06:00

OK, seriously, people, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

Apparently I'm in love. Whatever. I don't see how this happened. I got married, which was supposed to cure the problem, but it's not working. Ever since I found out we're all getting together to make welcome banners soon (I would tell you more, but I can't. Why, you ask? Well, BECAUSE!),* that's somehow been my cue to completely freak out and launch these insane fantasies. I know they're "fantasies," because in real life, neither of us know how to salsa dance, we can't afford a villa, and I don't even OWN a pair of rhinestone sandals.

The sickness is so deep that I find myself staring straight forward with a weird smile on my face as I watch movies containing even the briefest bit of romantic content. I watch Zach Braff and Natalie Portman make out over and over on the Garden State DVD. (Most excellent movie, if you haven't seen it.) They're dripping wet and kissing in the rain, which reminds me of Jeff, except I'm not sure why, because for one thing, we've never done that and probably never will, and for another thing, Jeff looks NOTHING like Natalie Portman.

My point is, everything reminds me of Jeff. Got a flat tire? Jeff changed a flat tire once. Going to dinner at a restaurant? Jeff and I used to go to restaurants ALL THE TIME. Traveling to Nepal to study to become a monk? Well ... Jeff and I have never done that, but Jeff and I have each said the word "Nepal" at least once in our lives, I'm sure, and Jeff likes to travel, so going to Nepal would be totally cool, as long as there was making out in the rain involved somewhere. So, enough about your mission trip to Nepal, and speaking of Jeff ... wait, where are you going?

What is all of this about? It's like someone flipped a switch and I remembered that Jeff exists. No, I mean REALLY REMEMBERED, the weird little things that I had completely forgotten about, like the way I like to suddenly smush my cold feet onto his body and make him scream like a girl. (The warm crease right behind the knee is a great place to shove your frozen toes in the dead of winter. There's a nerve there or something, because your victim won't even try to fight back. They'll just start clawing helplessly at the air in desperation. But don't do that to me, or I will be really, really mad. I never said I played fair.)

I know why all of this information was stored neatly away until I needed it again. Any former psych major could tell you that it's a defense mechanism, a means of self-preservation. OK, great. But it's all coming back too soon. We have at least six weeks to go, so right now, the information is useless, even detrimental, to my mental health. Jeff's not here yet. My corpse feet have no one to attack. Lie still, corpse feet! The time is not yet upon you!

Anyway, that's what I'm dealing with at the moment. I can't talk to you all anymore, because this weekend is a WORK WEEKEND. Or so I keep saying, as I stuff sandwiches into my mouth and read blogs. I keep trying to invoke the work weekend -- go go gadget work weekend! -- by sternly telling myself in no uncertain terms that this is indeed a WORK WEEKEND. But the problem with sternly telling myself anything is that I have veto power. If I could just make myself LISTEN to me, I would be a millionaire novelist by now.

But I haven't played video games yet today. That's something. No video games on a Saturday by 12:47 p.m.? It's a sign that there is hope for a work weekend. A tiny twinkling light of hope that I will cling to, even as I dance around the living room to Vanessa Carlton's Harmonium and eat cheesy popcorn. The work weekend could still happen. Shut up, yes it could!

------
*I'm trying to strike a balance between helpfully linking old entries and driving you CRAZY with all the links that just send you to places you've already been. How about this: When links appear in text without any reference to the link, it's an entry link. When links appear and are referenced, like "click here to see a picture," that's a REAL link with something interesting. This doesn't apply to old posts, of course, but it will be helpful from now on, yes?

Life is always eventful, when you're me

2005-01-19T20:25:00.000-06:00

True to my prediction, when I woke up yesterday I was SO TOTALLY OVER the whole guilt thing. I knew this would happen. This is one advantage of habitually feeling completely lost when you wake up. I don't have time for guilt when I wake up. I don't have time for minor details -- minor details like ALL OF YESTERDAY.

You know how sometimes, when you've had a lot to drink, you wake up in a mysterious room across town, wearing half a clown suit and holding a loaf of bread in one hand and a shoe in the other? And lying wayyy too close to you is a guy who is not your boyfriend or your husband, a guy you have in fact never seen before, a guy named Rocko, a guy who is gazing lovingly at you, at least with the eye that doesn't have a leather patch on it ... or maybe he's not looking at you, but your new forearm tattoo that says, not coincidentally, "Rocko"? There are tattoos, there are Polaroids, there is plenty of evidence, including horrified witness accounts from your traumatized friends. Everyone remembers but YOU, which is why you can't help but feel like you just popped in here, like you suddenly just took over someone else's part, like on the soap operas. (I can hear the softspoken narrator: "The part of Hungover Trampy Bread Clown will now be played by Jennifer Gilbert.")

Well, my mornings are kind of like that, without hangover or the clown suit or the Polaroids. And there has never been a Rocko ... THAT YOU KNOW OF.

Unfortunately, there are similarities. Upon opening my eyes, my thought process goes something like this:

"You are in bed. It appears to be your bed, which is good. It is morning. Morning on Earth. You live on Earth. You are a woman who lives on Earth. It's time to wake up, because you are a woman who lives on Earth with a job. You're supposed to show up there today. Wait! No! Come back! I didn't mean right this minute. You can't wear your Mickey Mouse pajamas. There's a dress code. You have a boss and stuff. Plus you need shoes, because it's cold outside. And by 'outside' I mean Illinois. That's the state you live in. In America."

It goes on like this. The bad news is, I'm senile. The good news is, HEY! No guilt! When you're senile, sleeping is like free amnesia therapy.

Jeff and I talked for almost two hours yesterday, which was great. We talked so long that we got bored with each other and got off the phone, which is a relationship luxury we seldom have. Oh, to be totally bored with one another! Delightful unamusement! Heavenly restlessness! I get jealous just thinking of all you lucky married souls who are sick to death of one another. I do wish you would stop going on about how the spark in your marriage has died, how you don't even feel connected anymore, how you've heard every lame story of theirs a hundred times. Didn't anyone ever tell you that bragging is rude? Enough already.

Hanging up the phone VOLUNTARILY felt so weird that it's pretty obvious we're going to have a huge adjustment when he gets back. Well, obviously we're going to have a huge adjustment, because in Jeff's absence I have become a hermit lunatic.*

At least Jeff's training is going very well. Observe the following conversation:

Jen: "Man, I don't have any groceries."
Jeff: (terrified silence as it dawns on him that he is entering a deadly marital trap)
Jen: (casually, innocently) "Maybe I should ... go to the grocery store."
Jeff: "No ... no. You shouldn't! You should ... order a pizza. From Papa John's. With pineapples!"**

Well done, Jeff. Well done. Keep those excellent suggestions coming, and the new sheriff may just give you a key to the city.

------
*I can stand stock-still in the kitchen, head cocked, for twenty minutes in a fugue state, pushing the buttons on the microwave and listening for the beeps that accompany the button-pushing. Because the volume on the microwave is turned all the way down, but I still hear the beeps, only now they're super-super-quiet. So quiet, in fact, that I can't decide if the microwave is beeping really low, or my brain is ADDING the beep, because it's used to hearing the beep, so maybe I'm just hearing a mental echo of the old louder beep. So I just keep pushing, and listening, and no matter how many times I do it, I can't tell whether the really quiet, almost-not-there beep is coming from my EARS or my MIND. You may ask, "But why do you care whether the microwave is really beeping? What difference does it even make?" One may as well ask, "Why are you a hermit lunatic?" Same question. Stop wasting my time. We could talk like this all day, but I would prefer that you do something USEFUL, like developing an affordable, extremely sensitive recording device, so I can play back the kitchen tape and figure out whether the damn microwave is beeping. Hurry up, so I can move on to staring at the bedroom wall and trying to decide whether the very faint spot on the wall is a stain or a shadow from the ceiling fan. Yeah. "Eccentric" doesn't really cover it at this point.
**That was some good pizza, too.

Photo album

2005-01-18T22:09:00.000-06:00

Someone left a comment and said they couldn't find the new pictures. They didn't sign the comment, so I can't help them personally -- who are you, Someone? -- but the pictures are on the photos page, and it's the first album on the list (I add them newest on top). If you're having trouble because you're just accessing the blog directly in its own location rather than through Jeff's site, you need to go to www.jenniferlandgilbert.com/jeff and then click "photos" in the side menu.

If you're still having trouble, you can click HERE to access the album directly. Hope this helps. Enjoy the photos!

Would you like a little guilt with your lonely?

2005-01-17T22:56:00.000-06:00

One of the biggest deployment downers EVER is the guilt. You probably don't associate guilt with deployment. You're not sitting around right now saying, "I feel sorry for military wives whose husbands are deployed. I mean, could you imagine? It must be awful, living like that. Living ... WITH THE GUILT." Yeah, that pretty much never occurred to you, which is why I'm telling you about it now.

I felt bored and like I deserved a treat, so I wandered downstairs (yes, Jeff, the TV has been moved downstairs, but you've figured that out) to play SSX Tricky, a snowboarding game (and one of the greatest games to ever come into existence on this planet). Contrary to what's jokingly implied in this journal, I rarely allow myself video games during the week, but I was in the mood to indulge. Truthfully it was either that or the dishes, and you know how I feel about dishes. So I played. And I had a great time.

I wandered upstairs pleased and relaxed, having ROCKED THE SLOPES. I scored over 700,000 in the Tokyo Megaplex -- 744,000, to be exact, so HEY BREE, EAT YOUR HEART OUT. I don't mean to brag, but I am possibly the best Tricky player ever born on this earth. Wait, I DO mean to brag: I am the best Tricky player ever born on this Earth, sent directly from Heaven to play Tricky with divine finesse befitting that of an angel, divine finesse unparalled by anyone or anything that ever existed, except maybe for Jesus, had Jesus been in the habit of playing Tricky.

And Jesus doesn't even count, because who wants to play video games against a guy who can WORK MIRACLES?*

Where was I even going with this? Oh, right. The guilt.

After my high score, I still had a gloating grin on my face when I noticed I had forgotten the cell phone upstairs. Yeah. I had missed 5 calls. Guess who.

My balloon of happiness instantly deflated, and I was left with only a crushing feeling of guilt. I hate it when this happens; I hate it when something that pleased me and cheered me up suddenly feels like a crime, and any fun I got out of it is completely negated by the irritation and frustration brought on by having missed a relatively rare chance to talk to the guy I'm in love with. More than a few times, I've tried to shake myself out of a funk with video games or get-togethers, only to see the light on my phone blinking and feel even worse than I did to start with.

This guilt is so unfair. It's not something I should feel just because I wanted to play video games in my own house for an hour or two. All the same, the guilt is there and impossible to get rid of. It's a great Catch-22: Because you're alone, you need to find ways to entertain yourself, but far too often, those ways backfire into upset because while entertaining yourself with friends or in front of the TV, the odds are good you won't hear the phone ringing. And the cycle begins anew.

Anyway, right now it feels like the biggest deal in the world, even though I know I'll wake up tomorrow and be completely over it, which is what always happens. I have a chronically pleasant disposition, which is unfortunate when one's goal is to drape oneself dramatically over the furniture in a dim house, clad in yards of black satin, staring bleakly out through the rainy windowpanes with dark-circled eyes and trembling lips, bemoaning the torture -- O wretched loving heart! -- that is deployment. That would be much more interesting for all of us than what I'm really going to do tomorrow, which is wake up, roll out of bed, and go to work, having completely forgotten how rotten I feel at this very moment.

As well as I handle myself usually, I want to use this entry to note something that should be obvious but maybe isn't: I accept the responsibilities associated with the choices we've made, but I have moments where it feels like I absolutely cannot wait one more minute for all of this to be over. And this is one of them.

You should know that Jeff never gets angry or makes me feel bad; I'm the one who sits here picturing him standing in line to talk on the phone, then dialing my number over and over just to hear my voicemail pick up. I do this to myself.

It could be worse, I guess, although for this situation to be worse, I'd have to suck at Tricky. So I guess we can all breathe a sigh of relief, because, well, THAT WILL SIMPLY NEVER HAPPEN. So I guess there's no need for the black-satin-wearing and rainy-windowpane-staring, especially since that's what Bree is already doing now that I broke 700,000 in the Megaplex. Hot-cha!

------
*You just know He would be in the last lap with like 150,000 points to go, and just sort of mutter something under his breath and suddenly there would be huge ramps and 5X snowflakes everywhere. Or maybe you've never really given a lot of thought to how Jesus would play SSX Tricky. Nobody? Fine, then.

Deepest sympathies

2005-01-16T23:08:00.000-06:00

I was sorry to hear that Curby's (Michelle's guy, pictured in the latest photo album) grandmother passed away. He isn't allowed home for the funeral. This is something many deployed troops fear, and in this case even sadder because of how close he was to her. Deployments are tough enough without bad news like this from home. We're thinking of you, Curby.

There's always reason to celebrate

2005-01-16T01:56:00.000-06:00

And today, it's because I made it through an ENTIRE GALLON OF MILK. An entire gallon!

I'm not going to sit here and tell you it was easy. No. There were endless Carnation instant breakfasts at 7:45 a.m., grasped in one hand while I frantically rubbed moisturizer on my face with the other, stumbling as I tried to cram my feet into my shoes and kick the electric blanket off at the same time. There were mashed potatoes, oceans of them. There were mugs of cream of mushroom soup. I used milk every chance I got. I washed the dishes in milk. I bathed the dog in milk. I threw milk balloons at neighborhood children. They cried, so then I gave them glasses of milk as presents to cheer them up.

And here I am now, telling you that there is an empty container on the kitchen counter. I am an inspiration to military wives everywhere. And they all said I wouldn't ever amount to anything.

They were all absolutely right, but that doesn't change the fact that there is an empty plastic jug sitting next to the sink. I also did not look homeless when I took out the trash this week. It's the little things in life, really.

Before I make you too proud, I should tell you that the other night I decided it was time for bed and started taking off my clothes so I could put on my pajamas. Then I realized I had already done this about a half-hour earlier, and the "clothes" I was now removing WERE my pajamas. They have institutions for people like me.

But anyway.

I talked to Jeff today, and he sounded all stuffy-nosed and exhausted. I felt sorry for him until I found out he was tired because he stayed up all night to watch a football game. It's cool that he is back in a place where he can watch a football game. Al Asad is definitely kinder to him than Fallujah.

He sounded cranky, and when I asked why explained that he was just ready to come home. The hard part about receiving exciting news about coming home is that it builds a lot of excitement and restlessness, and I've heard from other wives and girlfriends that their guys are having the same struggle. If I'm feeling excited and restless, I can only imagine how Jeff feels. He's been away from everything he knows and loves since July.

Hang in there, Jeff. With a little luck, you'll be in the States soon.

And WITHOUT a little luck ... well, it's hard to think about. All of those stories of deployments getting extended for months, and the troops finding out about the extensions mere hours before they were to get on a plane to come home ... well, all of those stories are starting to horrify me, just like tragic stories about children become so much scarier to think about once you've had children of your own. I don't know how wives and husbands and girlfriends and boyfriends can stand to hear that their loved ones' homecoming has been put off for months more. I hope I don't have to find out. But I treat that idea the way I treat the idea of a potential second deployment: you deal with it because there's really no other choice, is there?

It's risky, but I'm going to allow myself a little excitement. Not a lot, just a little. Every time I tell someone that Jeff might be home soon, I regret it as soon as it comes out of my mouth, because every time I get this superstitious sense of doom, like I just jinxed it. And I don't want to live that way. It's good to be a little emotionally cautious, but come on, sometimes it's just time to get a little excited, even if there's potential for disappointment.

But I'm not freaking out or anything. I'm not, like, planning out every moment of our first night, our first day, our first week, our first month together. I don't put on my Welcome Home Outfit and run around in it excitedly, pretending it's time to wear it for real. And contrary to any rumors you may have heard, I most certainly DO NOT spend hours wandering around the house, trying to see all of my remodeling efforts with fresh eyes, imagining what it will all look like to Jeff when he comes home. That would just be unhealthy.

COUGH.

Hrm. I must be catching Jeff's cold.

New photo album added

2005-01-14T01:45:00.000-06:00

I finally got around to adding new pictures. I didn't procrastinate much: before adding the album, I merely watched a movie, rearranged the living room furniture (it looks much better, though), ate a box of chocolates (well, the half of it that was left, minus one really gross coconut one), called everyone I know, and read all of the blogs on my favorites list. Then I did the actual album, which only took about 45 minutes. I am a master of efficiency! Or at least I would be if there were a medication for chronic procrastination.

HahaHAHAHAHA ...

2005-01-13T23:02:00.000-06:00

... HAHAHAhahaaaahaaahaha ...

... HAHAHAHAhahahahahaHAHAHAha ...

... haaaahahahahaaha ...

... hahahaaaahahahaHAHAHAAAH ...

... HAHAHAhahahAHAHAHAHAHAH ...

... HAHAAAHAAHAAAAHAAHahahaha.

Ahem. Okay.

Jeff, listen, we need to have a little talk.

I got your package today. Thank you for the pearls; I've never owned any, and they're beautiful. Thank you for the blanket; you were right about how warm and heavy it is. Thank you for the silver chain; it's so pretty and delicate.

And let me say that you are my best friend, and I adore you. I think you are the most precious thing on this earth. I'm delighted that you're so sweet that you spend all of your money on me while on R&R and don't even think to buy a present for yourself. You are the most generous cheapskate I've ever met, and I thoroughly enjoy being the kryptonite to your frugality, the loophole in your budgeting policies. It makes me feel cared for, and it's flattering that you want me to have everything, even if it means there's nothing left for you to have but me.

Now, about the pink pants.

I'm not saying I couldn't wear them. I could. They fit. Like a glove. Like a lumpy glove. Like a lumpy, see-through, skintight, pink, terrifying glove, stuffed to its pink, spandex brim with dimply, fleshy cellulite.

Had you gone halfway around the globe with the sole purpose of seeking the world's least flattering pants, we could officially declare the deployment a success and you could come home, like, RIGHT NOW. Well, not RIGHT NOW as in right this minute, because I might still be wearing the pink pants, in which case you would take one look at me and permanently damage your sex drive.

It's not that they aren't cute pants. It's just that they're made of a thin, silky material. A very unforgiving material. A material that renders whatever lies beneath it in stunningly ... accurate ... detail. So PLIABLE, this fabric! So moldable! So true-to-life!

I do thank you, because I got a good laugh out of wearing the pants. And when I say "got a good laugh," I mean the sort of laughing where something is really, really funny, yet at the same time you want to die, because dead people can't see, and it's worth it to die if it means you never have to lay eyes on your own pink spandexed butt again.

If you think you can stomach it, I have included a picture here.

In a related topic, I also bought my "welcome home Jeff" outfit today. I'm quite glad, because I'm pretty sure the pink pants would have torn a hole in my soul if I hadn't already looked so good that day. You know how bad I looked in the pink pants? You know how BULGY and DISEASED I looked in the pink pants? Well, take that times one hundred, and ...

... that's how HOT I look in my "welcome home Jeff" outfit. The world's leading linguists took one look at me and are now frantically working to come up with a new word for HOT as we speak, because folks, the word HOT, even when you put it in ALL CAPITALS as I insist on repeatedly doing, just ain't cuttin it. Seriously. I would totally want to make out with me if I were someone other than me. I tried kissing my own arm but that just left a weird mark.

Seriously, I'm a fox. Who knew white trash could look this good? SHA-ZAM!

This introduces me to a key truth in life: If you're willing to spend an ungodly amount of money, you too can be a important genius supermodel GODDESS. Let's not talk about price. It's so tasteless to talk about price. Plus Jeff would probably have a heart attack. He loves me and everything, but what man could understand that sometimes it's necessary to pay over $100 just for one HALF of a two-piece ...

OOPS! Excuse me. How crude of me to discuss finances. Let's talk about something else. If you can even hear me over Jeff's sobbing.

Talk about self-esteem extremes. Today I got to be bulgy, pink, and diseased. Right after I got to be HOT, HOT, and -- oh, yeah -- HOT. So how did I turn out in the end? Well, I guess technically I ended up being just average. Figures. Thanks, Jeff.

If you made it this far (and in that case, God bless you for weathering the storm of my pink cellulite descriptions AND my sudden attack of excessive vanity), you get to hear very good news: It's really sounding like Jeff will make it home before the end of March. I don't want to get anyone's hopes up, because we just don't know yet (and we won't, until it's all over), but it sounds like he'll be in California possibly by the end of February. THE END OF FEBRUARY!

I've got work to do. I just realized today how much. There are parties to plan and basements to finish. And pink pants to ~~burn~~ put away for summer.

Pre-homecoming jitters

2005-01-11T19:42:00.000-06:00

I looked at the calendar today and it told me that today is the 11th of January. The 11th of January! When did this happen? Why wasn't I informed? You guys could have told me. If things go well (and let's hope they go well), Jeff will be heading out of Iraq soon. We're hoping he comes home in mid-March, which puts him home ONLY TWO MONTHS FROM NOW.

Two months. From now.

Up until now, I've been excited. Now, a cold splash of nerves has arrived to ruin the party. You see, it's been a long time since I lived with Jeff. It's been a long time since I lived with anyone. I think in my excitement I've been ignoring the negative side of his homecoming, suppressing memories that are now beginning to surface, because when I really think about it, I vaguely remember wanting to kill Jeff now and then.

Yes, the memories are becoming clearer. There was his little face, sitting on his little shoulders, just emitting nonstop noises and chirping incessantly at me while he pointed to the dryer sheet I left lying on the laundry room floor, until I wanted to wrap my hands around the little neck just below that little face and SQUEEZE, cutting off any possible circulation to the little face, until the little face turns purple and ceases all moving and talking. Just to make it be quiet, you see. All I ever wanted was for the little face to be quiet for a minute.

Deployment is hard for a lot of reasons, and one of those reasons is a lack of control. I cannot control the pace at which Jeff floods back into my life. It's all or nothing. One day, I'm sitting around listening to myself breathing, and the next day, Jeff is HERE, ALL THE TIME, 24 HOURS A DAY. I can't invite him over just for the weekend to help me slowly adjust. Because he has nowhere to go. As it turns out, he actually lives here, in my house. I guess that seems obvious, but it really isn't after months of throwing my keys on the end table, tossing my coat on the couch, and kicking off my shoes whenever and wherever the urge strikes me, which is usually right smack dab in the middle of the hallway; months of mashed potatoes and tv dinners; months of sleeping under ALL the covers, ALL the time, with BOTH pillows, thank you very much.

I really began to be afraid when Jeff and I had the following conversations yesterday.

I present Exhibit A:

Jen: "I don't have anything to wear tomorrow."
Jeff: "Well, do a load of laundry."

I present Exhibit B:

Jen: "Damn! I forgot to move the car into the garage, and there's supposed to be ice accumulation tonight."
Jeff: "Well, why don't you just put the car in the garage now?"

Have you ever met someone so impossible in your entire life? We can't have this, Jeff. Maybe, once upon a time, doing loads of laundry and moving cars around willy-nilly was just part of the routine. But there's a new sheriff in town. A sheriff that likes to complain about everything without receiving weird "advice" like "do a load of laundry." A sheriff that likes to hog the bathroom. A sheriff that leaves wet towels on the floor and LIKES IT THAT WAY.

A sheriff that is, right now, eating an entire vat of garlic and cheddar mashed potatoes for dinner. In the only clean dish that's left in the whole house. With the only clean spoon that's left in the whole house.

Well, it was almost clean. And they were my germs anyway.

Here is how the conversations should have gone:

Jen: "I don't have anything to wear tomorrow."
Jeff: "Man, that sucks. Hey! I know! Why don't you eat a pound and a half of cheese, then wander mindlessly around the house dragging your fingers lightly over the plaster for about a half-hour, then play 86 consecutive rounds of Pong on the Playstation, or as many rounds as it takes to stay up two hours past bedtime? I bet that will help."

Jen: "Damn! I forgot to move the car into the garage, and there's supposed to be ice accumulation tonight."
Jeff: "Geez, what's a girl to do? Oh, here's an idea: Close your eyes really hard and try to control the weather with the sheer force of your will. Pretend you are a sorcerer who can control weather with her mind until you become satisifed that this is in fact the case. As a backup measure, promise yourself you'll just get up early to scrape the ice off. Then go eat Cool Whip directly from the container with your finger, flip through the channels on the TV without really watching anything, then surf the Internet until two hours past bedtime. That will totally work!"

I hope it's clear that my way makes much more sense. This is MY house. There is no OUR way. It is MY way. My way is THE way. Got it, laundry boy?

Speaking of laundry, I have nothing to wear tomorrow. Sounds like it's another night of Pong on the Playstation for me, but what can you do?

A note from Jeff: Last day of R&R

2005-01-09T23:35:00.000-06:00

Jeff says:

"Well, vacation is over, but it did not end without some excitement. Our trip back began at 4 a.m. with a bus ride to the air base. If you thought the airlines were annoying for making you show up 1.5 to 2 hours ahead of your flight, try flying the military. We arrived at the airbase around five and were not leaving until a little after ten.

But just like the airlines, sometimes you don't exactly get to where you were going on the first try. We flew all the way back to Al Asad, and the weather was too bad to land, so we turned around and flew all the way back to Qatar. This did not bother me too much, because I like flying, but the other passengers were not too thrilled.

On our way back, I managed to get myself into the cockpit, and I got to ride up there for awhile. That was the best part of my trip.

Well, we ended up just sitting on the ground for a couple of hours, and then got on another flight, and it was uneventful."

That's it, then. Goodbye R&R. I've talked to Jeff a lot this weekend (and waved hello to him on the Web cam), and I think it's safe to say he's ready to come home. It sounds like a lot of the Company C guys are starting to get worn out on Iraq. For many of them, this is their second deployment in this conflict.

Just a little longer, Jeff ... you can make it. Soon enough it'll be like the old days, with you reminding me I left the milk out on the counter, again, and I forgot to get the mail, again, and you wishing desperately that you were back in Iraq, again!

I think I saw a snow shovel once, somewhere

2005-01-08T13:06:00.000-06:00

I walked outside today to get something from the garage. (No, I did not look homeless, but thanks for asking.) I was standing there muttering to myself, halfway to kicking the frozen garage door loose, when I realized I was standing on a plowed driveway. My plowed driveway.

Which I did not plow. (If you didn't understand where I was going with this.)

Hey, thanks, dude! That's so awesome. I've never met you, but I owe you big. Let me know if you ever need a favor. Mind you, there are very few favors you would actually need that I am able to provide, because I can't even pick up a 20-lb dog without nearly straining my frail toothpick arms. So for your convenience, I have made a list:

1. Web site design/upkeep/intense journaling on your day-to-day activities, complete with embarrassing pictures and amusing captions
2. Bone marrow -- I probably have great bone marrow

Huh. So. That's it, then. Call me if you need either Web site design or bone marrow. Or both. I mean, I'm not trying to make this an either/or situation. I could even design a site ABOUT bone marrow, if that's what you want. I'm very flexible.

Other than that ... thanks again, man. Keep on keepin' on.

Random deployment notes

2005-01-06T22:05:00.000-06:00

Quite a resemblance
My impression of a homeless person grows ever more ... well, impressive. Last night I remembered very late that I forgot to take out the trash (I wish I could tell you this was the first/second/third/fourth/fifth time, but honestly the ~~tragic character flaw~~ problem extends much, much deeper than that) so I threw on Jeff's now-famous tattered-stuffing coat. Over my fleece robe, which hangs down well below the frayed hem of Jeff's coat. And the navy blue robe, adorned with many large snowflakes, was worn in a flattering combination with my bright green pajama pants. That have bright orange tigers all over them. I finished the ensemble with my black Doc Martens. No socks. Socks are too much work just for taking out the trash.

I no longer even wonder what the neighbors must think as they watch me curse my way through the snow with the trash bins, the edges of my robe flapping out from under my oversized frayed coat, bare ankles peeking out from over the tops of my Doc Martens and under the hem of my lime green pajama pants. I KNOW what they think. They think, "This is so confusing. How can she be homeless, yet still live in the house next door? Are homeless people getting houses now?"

OK, I'm sorry to pick on homeless people. To be honest, I'm just picking on them because they're easy targets, seeing as they probably won't read this and be offended. I can't imagine a lot of homeless people have the Internet. Then again, maybe they do. After all, I'M A HOMELESS PERSON, and I have a whole SITE on the Internet.

This site could very possibly just be an elaborate cry for help
Apparently, I have the mental illness that occasionally accompanies the homeless lifestyle. Look at this site. It just keeps getting weirder and weirder. Maybe you think I'm planning this, but I'm not. I'm as surprised as you are that I just invented a species of rats that evolve from the pond scum of undone dishes. Where do I get this crap?

My overimagination has always been kind of an issue, but it really seems to be hitting breakneck pace now that I don't have Jeff to distract me from my own complex and irrational thoughts. I left the garage door half-open yesterday so it wouldn't freeze to the ground and trap my car inside. Later, when I went to get the mail, I turned around to glance at the garage, and the door was mysteriously shut. I tried to come up with an explanation. There were three I could think of:

1. The garage door fell shut by itself. (Sane, rational people STOP at this one. Pick this one! Pick this one! Don't read on! Save yourselves!)
2. Members of the church I live next to felt sorry for their mentally ill homeless neighbor and shut the door for me.
3. Earlier, I remote-started my car in preparation to leave, then did not go anywhere after all. When I remote-start it, it runs for twenty minutes and shuts off. I became convinced that a suicidal person, upon walking by (during a winter storm, because apparently in my universe suicidal people love walking around when everything is covered in ice and the wind is blowing sleet into their faces), noticed a running car in my garage and thought, "Hey! Free suicide!" and walked into the garage, shut the door all the way (to prevent fumes from escaping, naturally), and climbed into the car, happy to have found such a grand opportunity (one that they of course would accept as a sign that suicide was the right decision -- up until they saw my inviting carbon-monoxide-filled garage, they were on the fence about what to do). The poor, lonely person ... walking along, so misunderstood ... and then there's my beckoning garage, lit by the warm glow of the parking lights on my car. The parking lots on my RUNNING car. My running, poisonous car.

I was actually scared to look in the window of the garage, in case there was a body in there. Then I remembered that ANY explanation involving the phrase "Hey! Free suicide!" is probably impractical and a product of my own (increasingly bizarre) imagination.

I'm crazy. Help me.

If you were wondering how the story ended, it is explanation #1. The door became laden with ice and shut on its own. I feel sheepish.

Don't tell anyone I was checking my garage for a body, okay? Thanks.

Dads are awesome
I used to tell Jeff, every time my dad did something nice for me in Jeff's absence, "I guess we owe my dad a steak dinner." Who am I kidding? After everything he's done for me (including the very recent Breaking Open of the Frozen Garage Door, which happened, um, just yesterday), we don't owe him a steak dinner. We now owe him a steak dinner ... served in his very own mansion. With a butler. And a pool. A NICE pool, not one of those little kidney-shaped pools, but like a real rich-persons's pool, with a fountain in the middle and everything.

Lucky for us, he's not big on debt-collecting. Also lucky for us, he seems to enjoy snowblowing, car mechanics, plumbing, and other exciting hobbies available to dads everywhere. Thanks, Dad. You're like the personal assistant I never had.

Well, I think you're all afraid enough of me for one day. Besides, it's time for me to go out clubbing, so I need to go get my tiger pajama pants and fleece snowflake robe out of the dryer before they wrinkle.

I'm almost done complaining

2005-01-06T18:57:00.000-06:00

In case any of you were wondering, I did get my answer back from Company C. They were nice about it, and I bear them no ill will for serving as representatives of a much larger (and very stubborn) mass of strict people.

The answer to my question of "Why are passwords necessary?"

Survey says: Well, BECAUSE!

The answer to my question of "Why could the use of the information on the site possibly be harmful to the troops in any way?"

Survey says: Well, BECAUSE!

My gosh, why didn't I think of that? I'm going to start using that for everything. Why don't I do the dishes, ever, even though I know I will soon prompt the growth of a new species of rodents evolved from dish-mold, rodents that live in the sink and will start to learn how to make tools and communicate in their own high, squeaky dish-rat language, as they sneak glances at me then pretend they are talking about the weather, RATHER THAN A DISH-RAT UPRISING AND SUBSEQUENT BLOODY COUP?

Well, BECAUSE!

It goes on like this. I won't bore you.

(I am updating this entry to note that the Marines did actually provide a better answer than "because," but the reasons were still clear as mud, at least to me. The explanations sort of went, "We don't want lots of people getting that information, because that would be ... bad. We password the site because ... it's a good idea." That sort of circular reasoning. I appreciate their willingness to help, and to offer an explanation. The very kind chaplain explained that sometimes the release of the wrong information can be hurtful to families -- an idea I absolutely agree with when it comes to Marines who have died or been injured, and the details of the injuries, especially when treated as gruesome gossip, could be disturbing and upsetting. But the chaplain didn't really have an example of how the information on the Company C site could be harmful in such a way. No one really had an example of how the information I shared, or the other information on the site, could be harmful if released to a broader public.)

I am deeply troubled by the (lack of) answers that I got. I am even more troubled by the fact that I am not the only person who was called and told not to list EVEN A LIST OF THE NAMES OF THE INJURED. Which is public information. Available to everyone. Via newspaper or other media sources. I am not going to remove the list of the injured. I find the suggestion that listing the injured is inappropriate or harmful to be preposterous.

I don't want to make things more difficult for Jeff, so I'm happy to abide by the rest of it: no using images from the Company C site, no quoting the site or using information from the site, etc. That's fine, and I don't have to understand that regulation to abide by it.

I was under the impression that Jeff was fighting for my freedom of speech so I could, uh, you know, USE IT. Turns out that freedom of speech is only for people who have NOT handed over a spouse to the military.

The good news is, this site is freedom in action, folks! Isn't it exciting? Sure, it's no Braveheart. There's no paint on my face and I don't get to wear a kilt. Well, I supposed I could wear a kilt, but it's winter in Illinois. NOT kilt-friendly weather. And I look pasty and malnourished in red plaid. If it weren't for that, though ... I would so be a kilted Mel Gibson in a self-directed movie, crusading for the rights of the little people against The Man.

Except for the part with the torture and the scary hook. We'll skip that. The movie will instead end with fabulous weather in December in Illinois ... and there will be pizza ... and sunshine ... and bagels with cream cheese ... and then Jeff will come home. In a kilt. So I can take pictures and laugh.

The End. Roll Credits.

TWO notes from Jeff: Gross foot stories from Qatar

2005-01-05T13:06:00.000-06:00

Jeff says:
"Well, let's see, what happened on Day 2? Yes, it was Ladies' Day for us. We went to the spa and got the works. That's right: A facial, massage, manicure, and pedicure. And of course I would not let Jenni down: I got some pictures.

We started off with a facial, and it is not for me. Putting cold creams on my face and then rubbing it with some sort of sandpaper -- just wasn't my cup of tea. I must say that as men, we should appreciate all the stupid stuff our women go through to make themselves beautiful for us, because some of it is painful and annoying.

Next was the best part: The massage. I could get used to getting these. In fact, I could see myself getting addicted to them, just like, say, a person gets addicted to crack. So hopefully, when I get home, Jenni and I will be able to take some massage lessons together and massage each other. (Editor's note: Mom, he's kidding. We don't do stuff like that. Ever.) It's good for the relationship and it is easier on the wallet, because you all know I'm a cheap(butt).

But anyway, at one point during the massage, as I was lying facedown on the table, I thought, "Is this lady standing on my back?" And sure enough, she had climbed onto the table and was walking on my back, but boy, did it sure feel good.

Then it was time for the pedicure and manicure, and I felt bad for the lady who was about to work on my feet, because over the course of the last year, I have put quite a few miles on them in boots, and they are a little rough. I told her that I bet she had seen some pretty nasty feet in her day, but she was a professional and said, "No, they are not bad." Yeah, just like a dentist doesn't see some jacked-up teeth.

Well, anyway, the manicure was no problem, although I don't see me getting one of those again, but the pedicure was pure torture. You see, I have some sensitive and ticklish feet, and I think I about drove this lady crazy, because I kept fidgeting around as she was sanding the calluses off my feet. She sure did take off a lot of skin, but now my feet are nice and smooth. But that will probably come back to bite me in the (butt), because when I get back to Iraq, I'm going to be back walking in those boots without the benefit of my calluses. So I guess I'll just get some blisters and start the process over again.

All in all, it was a good time for $48. I believe that in the States, to get all that would cost significantly more.

Then to continue on with our easy day, we went to the pool and swam around a little bit, and then sat in the Jacuzzi, and that was quite relaxing.

Next we went to chow at the chow hall, because it is free and they have good ice cream there. My total ice cream intake for this day was 1 Twix ice cream bar, 1 coconut ice cream bar, 1 scoop butter pecan, 1 scoop chocolate vanilla and caramel, 1 scoop peanut butter and chocolate, and 1 scoop cookie dough. I didn't want to eat too much, because I am watching what I eat.

Then I went back and took my second long hot shower for the day, followed by a short nap and then another long hot shower. I love a hot shower.

The last event for the night was, we went to a little club on base and a had a few drinks, and that was also a good time.

Well, we have one more full day tomorrow, and I plan on sitting in the sun, eating ice cream, and taking a few showers.

Talk to you later,
Jeff"

I told Jeff I was getting jealous of his masseuse. I'm not kidding, either -- I am ALMOST the most jealous person in the world. The official title of most jealous person in the world actually goes to Jeff. This is one of the many reasons we belong together.*

Jeff offered, "Well, she was ugly, if that makes you feel any better." What a prince.**

As you may have noticed, the profanity has been removed. I'm trying to play nice. Yeah, I know I just took a big stand for free speech in my previous post, but if you haven't noticed, I'm a girl, and I can change my mind anytime I want. POW! Girl power.

I move on to Jeff's second update, which was shorter and therefore undeserving of its own blog entry:

"Well, for my last day in Qatar, I was just lazy and enjoyed a nap, three showers, and two movies. I also found time to play a little Playstation, and eat some ice cream.

I also did stay up all night the night before, talking to my family and using the Internet. The reason I stayed up all night was so I could go to breakfast chow, which someone said was really good. But the only way I was going to be up between 6:30 and 8:30 was to stay up, so I did, and it was not worth it. Sleep is better. The only good thing was that I got to talk to my family for a while, so I guess it was worth it.

Well, back to the real world.
-Jeff"

If you consider Jeff's description of his multiple showers to be weird, just imagine what he's NOT telling you. If he's enjoying the shower this much ... just how much is he enjoying those flushing toilets?

-------
*If you are a jealous person, dating a nonjealous person is highly annoying. Some girl can be giggling all over them and they're looking at you blankly like, "Why are you getting so angry? Why, it's nothing! She's like my sister!" And you're looking at them like "Except your sister never wanted to make out with you, the way THIS GIRL OBVIOUSLY DOES." Sometimes they're right, sometimes you're right, but it doesn't even matter, because their lack of jealousy is way more annoying than the giggly girl ever was.
**But yeah, it totally did make me feel better. How bout that, masseuse lady? You're ugly and Jeff doesn't even want you! I'm totally hot and Jeff wants me BAD! What do you think of THAT, Little Miss Walk-On-Jeff's-Back??

A note from Jeff: Shopping in Qatar

2005-01-03T21:59:00.000-06:00

Jeff says:

"Well, for my first real day of R&R, I got to go out into the city. We were escorted by Eric Hedberg. He is working for the U.S. government, and was nice enough to take us around.

We first went to the mall, and it was pretty cool. It was really big and stylish. It had a bowling alley, ice rink, and small waterpark in it. Of course, it also had a lot of stores and restaurants. My friends got some KFC while we were there, but I chose to get some local food, and it was pretty good. Eric recommended a dish that was a sampler of beef, chicken, and lamb, with flat bread and some vegetables.

We then drove down to the gold district and did a little shopping. That is where I got Jenni's silver necklace and pendant thing. I kind of figured since I didn't get her anything on Christmas, I better get something. Her pendant has her name on one side in English, and her name in Egyptian hieroglyphics on the other side, but for all I know the hieroglyphics could say "what a stupid American."

(Editor's note: I must reveal that in Jeff's original update, "the hieroglyphics could say 'what a stupid American'" actually said "the HEROICS could say 'what a stupid American.'" O, sweet irony, thou was not lost on me.)

Also, Eric decided to get his ear pierced while we were at this shop, so I took a picture so his wife could see him getting it done. He wasn't sure if she was going to give him an (butt)-chewing for getting it, but his dream is to get enough money to open a Harley shop, and you have to look the part or you won't get any street credit, so it was like a business investment.

Then we went walking around some other shops, and I saw these cute pink pants-like things, so I went in to take a look at them. They only had one pair, and those were on the mannequin outside, so the man working there had to take the pants off the mannequin. It was such a hassle. I thought, I don't know if these will fit, but I'm going to buy them anyway, because they are cute, and this guy just went through a lot of trouble to show them to me.

Next, we went to the area of town that sells pearls. We went into this shop, and the owner showed me some pearls. And I was studying them like I knew what the hell I was doing. Of course I don't know anything about pearls, but they looked nice, so I bought them.

In this store there was also some awesome artwork. This artist made these things that looked like paintings, but were really wood carvings out of pistachio wood, and they were cool. I have a picture of one of them, and if I would have had the money, I would have bought one, but they were a little pricey. Of course, they were worth the price, I just didn't want to spend that much right now. (I'm sure I'll pick one up the next time I'm in Qatar.) The artist said that some of these carvings take him up to nine months to make. They were really spectacular.

Next we went looking for a leather Harley Davidson coat for Eric, and we found it, but Eric is a big guy and they didn't have one in his size. So that sucked, but he might get one for his wife.

This is where I saw the cool blanket with tigers on it. I wanted to get it since it was big and comfortable (they really make good blankets around these parts), but I ran out of the local currency. I figured the guy would just take good old-fashioned U.S. cash, but he wouldn't. That was the first time I have ever seen someone not take U.S. money. So I had to go to an ATM and withdraw some cash. I think it is amazing that halfway around the world, I can get money out of my bank with no problem.

That was about it for that day. I want to give a big thank-you to Eric for volunteering his time to take us out. Thanks Eric, we had a super time.

-Jeff"

I think Jeff may be a shopoholic. Just listen to his thin excuses for purchase, "the nice man went to so much trouble" and "well I never got Jenni a Christmas present ..." and "well, it was a really nice blanket" ... pitiful. Jeff the cheapskate has fallen off the wagon, and it won't be long now before he's shipping entire yachts from Qatar.

I'm beginning to regret allowing the use of the word (curseword for "butt," has since been removed) on this site, because now it seems like Jeff finds a way to use it at least once in every post. I think it might be the only bad word I've allowed (come on people, "hell" doesn't count anymore, we're not in the 1920s), except maybe in the quotes for the sake of accuracy. I sometimes regret my decision to allow the use of these words, but it's too late to go back now. Maybe you can make a game of it or something. Find the (insert curseword for "butt," has since been removed) in Jeff's posts! (Hint: It's not Jeff himself. OR IS IT?)

You should all know that I do think about things like this. I have these constant fears of my second-grade teacher or my ex-pastor or my grandmother (oh, I guess she's already here. Hi, Grandma!) reading these posts and thinking that I have turned into Internet trash. "She was such a sweet girl growing up ... and now it's H-E-double-hockey-sticks this and a-$-$ that! She's brought such shame to the family -- first marrying that -- that DRUNKEN INGRATE -- and now this!"

Forgive me, pastors and grandmas: The truth must be told. And the truth, apparently, is full of swear words. I know, I never realized it until now either.

Addendum

2005-01-02T19:48:00.000-06:00

My own personal contribution to Jeff's recounting of his R&R is this:

I greatly enjoyed speaking to Jeff on the phone today about his little vacation. He told me that one bad thing about R&R is that he's spending way too much money. I said, "What did you buy?" His answer: A pendant necklace for me, a pearl necklace for me ("real pearls -- from the ocean!"), a pair of pink pants (which are SO not going to fit, I'm guessing, but it's a sweet gesture), and a blanket for us.

I asked what he got for himself. "Oh, nothing," he said.

Well, why not? I asked.

"I didn't want to spend any money," he explained, as if I were some kind of idiot. For some reason, I found this strange logic very endearing. (The reason is probably that I got presents, which is always endearing.)

Anyway, Jeff is right. When one is venturing out into Qatar for the first time, it's best to stick to the bare essentials: pearl necklaces and pink pants.

A note from Jeff: "R&R, Day One"

2005-01-02T13:17:00.000-06:00

Day one was a travel day.

Jeff says:
"Well we got a ride down to Qatar on a C-130, and it was a lot of fun for me. After we got up to altitude I stood up and looked out the window the whole ride, until they told me I had to sit down. I sure to miss that view of watching the world go by.

I was surprised to see so much farmland in Iraq. You could see that they used a lot of canals to irrigate the fields.

We didn't do much the first night, because it was a little late by the time we got done checking in. However I did get to call Jenni and check in. And guess what? The phone cards that I have are actually worth what they say they are. For example, a 1200-minute card in Iraq really only lasts 60 minutes, but I used a 1200-minute card here that only had seven minutes left on it in Iraq, and it gave me 154 minutes here, cool huh.

We did go to the chow hall here for midnight chow, and it was pretty good. They don't just have ice cream, they have Baskin and Robbins ice cream -- awesome. The base has a few restaurants on it, like a Burger King, Chilis, Subway, and a 24-hr coffee shop. There are also two places you can drink alcohol on base, but there is only a 3-drink limit. Since we have not had alcohol in such a long time, I'm sure three drinks is enough.

So far the best part of my trip, besides the plane ride, has been the use of the bathroom. That's right, I said the bathroom, because not only do we have a hot shower with great water pressure, but you guessed it: A toilet that flushes. Freaking amazing.

That's it for day one.

Well, I will keep you all posted,
Jeff"

Illinois: Midwestern state ... or TROPICAL PARADISE?

2005-01-01T13:08:00.000-06:00

Oh, folks, you're in trouble. I'm in the mood to ramble. I feel quite sick from last night's festivities (not drinking, but overeating foods my stomach is not used to), so there's nothing for me to do but sit in my bathrobe and spew words all over the Internet. I can tell you're excited about it from the look on your face. Get ready. Hang on tight. It's time for the first journal entry of 2005.

First of all:

Best. December. EVER. Need I say more?

I really don't need to say more, but then again, I DO need to say more, because that's just my personality, so I will tell you:

It was beautiful, everyone was driving around all happy, there was sunshine, at every stop light I had to fight the urge to jump out of the car, and dance around wildly, and congratulate everyone on living in Illinois on this one day in December that was so fantastic, this one day that Illinois proved it was the little Midwestern state that COULD, this one day that we would all remember forever as the December Day from Heaven. There were no numb clunky fingers. There were no puffs of breath. There were no steel boogers.* There was just joy, and warmth, and short sleeves, and pure love, falling from the sky in the form of delicious Illinois sunshine. Thank you, Illinois. Thank you. The joy from yesterday remains with me still. So shall it remain with me always.

Second of all,
Jeff called me and the first words out of his mouth were, "So I'm a drunken ingrate, huh?"

See how a Web site can bolster a healthy marriage? If YOUR husband called and asked you if he was a drunken ingrate, you would have many more fun things to say to one another. Of course, I laughed and told him I was just joking.

Yes, the official explanation on this site of the Drunken Ingrate Accusation Scandal is that I was just joking, as I am known to do. Jeff was NOT a drunken ingrate. I did NOT fix him. In truth, no one has the ability to fix anyone else. In truth, Jeff really didn't drink that much, certainly not any more than your average college student. In truth, Jeff was a pretty normal guy who was finding career success before he even met me.

That's what I keep telling everyone. And they believe me. Thank God they never bothered to crack open their copy of the 1994 East Peoria High School Yearbook. Whatever you do, DO NOT CLICK ON THAT LINK. It's better you know and remember Jeff the way he is now -- the way I MADE HIM -- and let the past be the past.

Third of all,
I recently attended the Gilbert Family Game Night. I had a great time, and everyone else seemed to have fun too. We kept hoping Jeff would call, but he didn't. It turns out he couldn't call until the families of the injured Marines had been notified, so no information would be leaked.

So we didn't get to talk to him, but we did the next best thing, which was take a picture for him to see. So here it is, Jeff:

You can click here to see a bigger version.

Fourth of all,
Jeff has arrived at Qatar, his R&R destination. He told me excitedly that they have real toilets, real ones that FLUSH! And a Chili's! And a pool! And he got to ride on an airplane! He gets to spend four days there, and that's really great to hear. I really never thought I would be so excited that my husband gets to use a flushing toilet.

He told me that tomorrow he's going to the spa to get a massage, a manicure, a pedicure, and a facial. And he really wasn't kidding. I wanted to laugh, but he's geniunely excited about it after months without any kind of frivolity. As hard as I try, I just can't imagine manly-man Jeff in a face mask getting his nails done. I hope someone takes his picture.

Fifth of all,
I'm working on a new photo album, but it's slow going now that I've neglected it for a while. I'm hoping that if I tell you about it, it'll put a little pressure on me to finish it. Then again, I thought the same thing about Aunt Patsy's Tupperware, and nothing happened. So we'll see.
-------
*I tried to think of a more delicate way to say "steel boogers," but nothing came to mind. Sorry.

A note from Jeff: "Happy Holidays"

2004-12-30T22:24:00.000-06:00

Jeff says:

"Well, it is the 31st, and we are about to get to the new year. For those of you wondering how the holidays were over here, I'll tell you a little.

It really wasn't that bad, because we got some time off to recuperate, and I got to talk with a lot of my family, so that was nice. Also I received many cards from a lot of you, and I want to thank all of you who let me know you were thinking about all of the people over here.

We of course got a great meal on Christmas, with prime rib, turkey, ham, Cornish hens, and all the trimmings.

Another piece of good news is that our platoon moved back to Al Asad, so it is nice to be back to our home away from home. I was also given some good news today that I had been chosen to get some R&R, so I will be flying to a base in the country of Qatar for four days of rest. I am going with Adam Shertz, (I'm sorry I spelled his name wrong) and I'm sure we will have a good time. I will get some pictures to send back to you all.

Well, that is it for now. I know that was a pretty boring update, but that's how you all like it -- boring. Right?

Later Gators,
Jeff"

OK, he was joking about spelling Schertz wrong (although he really did spell it wrong just to complete the comic effect).

Jeff seemed pretty chipper today. He must be excited about his R&R. I can tell he's feeling chipper, because today I teased him about who would get all our new stuff in the divorce. I said, "(The renovations were) a gift from me to you, so unfortunately you would get to keep everything. That was poor planning on my part." He said, "Oh, I would just let you have it all." I said, "I wouldn't say that if I were you. You haven't seen any of it. You don't even know what it is." And Jeff replied casually, "Oh, I'll get it all back anyway when you have your accident."

Any day that Jeff can threaten my life after our hypothetical divorce is a good day.

-----
Drop a note to jenniherself@DELETEyahoo.com or j.h.gilbert@DELETEgmail.com (remove the DELETE in each case, it's to prevent spam) if you would like e-mail updates on plans for Jeff's homecoming.

And I shall call this post ... "Rhonda Massie"

2004-12-29T21:00:00.000-06:00

I have no big theme for this evening, just some notes:

Jeff's been moved
Jeff called last night to tell me that he had moved back to Al Asad. That's where he originally started out, if you remember. I view it as safer than Fallujah, but whether it is or isn't just depends on ... you guessed it ... the future. Which no one can control. So what can you do? It was six in the morning when he called, and he was about to go to bed. I said, "We can go to sleep at the same time!" and he laughed and said, "Yeah, for once." It's kind of pathetic when your idea of quality time is ... sleeping. In separate beds. Halfway around the world from one another. Yeah.

An unforgivable error
Would you believe that Bittner is actually ... BITNER? Bitner? What? One T? Are you serious? That is so embarrassing. I used to be an editor! Truthfully -- and I am not kidding -- I spelled it with two T's because Jeff only spells it with one. And Jeff cannot spell. He can't even guess properly. You could make millions in Vegas just by betting that he won't guess the correct spelling of a word when given two options. Bitner, I am sorry I misspelled your name about 67 times. It's Jeff's fault. HE SPELLED IT RIGHT. How was I supposed to deal with that?

Lint elves
I am depressed to note that when this site makes it onto Google, if it ever does, it will not be the sole match for the phrase "lint elves," as I had previously hoped. Would you believe that someone else on the Internet has mentioned lint elves? The Internet is truly a wonder.

Aunt Patsy's theory of psychology
After I posted about the Naysayers, Aunt Patsy theorized that I should not worry about Jeff being drunk and violent, because he was both of those when I met him.* My God -- she's right. You can always count on Patsy for a dose of perspective. I forgot all about how when I met him, he was a drunken ingrate, and I fixed him up into a decent human being, a man who could speak without slurring and kicking and punching. You hear that, Jeff? You were a drunken ingrate. Yes, you were. I fixed you once and I CAN FIX YOU AGAIN, and this time we will include instruction on deep-tissue massage and dessert-making.

Deployment: It's what's for dinner
I've given in and purchased approximately 65 TV dinners. Seriously, who was I kidding about that "maybe I'll grow up and cook for myself while Jeff is gone" thing? The mess, the dishes, the massive leftovers -- it is so not worth it. I've embraced the TV dinners. Look at it as a voluntary scientific experiment. My guess is, TV dinners contain trace amounts of weird chemicals only found in fake beef and frozen croutons. If I eat those chemicals every day, maybe I'll do something really interesting, like grow more teeth or develop a unibrow. Or just render myself infertile. Whatever. I'm eating the dinners and you can't stop me.

Alternate e-mail address
I just found out from RHONDA MASSIE that my yahoo account is on the fritz. She has been quite upset at me and my yahoo account. I use both of her names, RHONDA and MASSIE, because I am trying to embarrass her just for my own amusement. I threatened to put her picture on the Internet once, but that seems too mean, so you'll have to settle for this: RHONDA MASSIE. RHONDA MASSIE. Anyway, the alternate is j.h.gilbert@DELETEgmail.com. As always, get rid of the DELETE -- it's there to prevent spam. Wondering whether you've been counted in your request to join the secret society of Jeff stalkers? If I haven't answered your e-mail to me, I haven't gotten it, so there you go.

The secret society of Jeff stalkers
If you didn't read the post before this one, I'm collecting e-mail addresses for a month or two so I can send out mass e-mails about Jeff's homecoming plans. I'll include a tagline in my posts for a while, so when the "secret society" post drifts to the bottom of the heap, people will still realize the offer is open.

Rhonda Massie
Rhonda Massie. Rhooooonnnnnnda Massssssssssieeeeeeeeee. You should be flattered, RHONDA MASSIE. My other fans beg for this sort of publicity all the time. But you. I picked you, RHONDA MASSIE. Your name is starting to look weird, RHONDA MASSIE, because I have typed it eleven times now, RHONDA MASSIE. Ooh, that's twelve. Are you sorry for laughing at my poor headline skills yet, RHONDA MASSIE?

-----

*I am exaggerating Patsy's remarks for my own little manipulative wifely purposes. Please do not send Patsy hate mail. She didn't actually use the words "drunken ingrate." But she wanted to. YOU COULD TELL.

A secret society in the making

2004-12-27T19:40:00.000-06:00

OK, here's what I'm thinking: it's almost the New Year. After that it will be February, and after that it will be ... MARCH! The month during which Jeff may or may not come home. Even if it's April, well, hey, I guess I'll settle for an unmaimed, unkilled Jeff on my doorstep in April. Who am I to be picky? May, even! I'm feeling generous! As long as Jeff doesn't get extended for like nine more months, in which case I will be forced to scoop out my own eyeballs with a spoon out of sheer frustration!

I am not taking action in planning his homecoming festivities. I will not take action. It would be wrong, presumptuous, even JINXY, if you will, not that jinxy is a word, but you get what I'm saying. No jinx here. We're all just sitting here waiting calmly, not even thinking about the parade. Or the ice sculptures. Or the trained chimpanzees. We're thinking about taxes. And about ... bills. Practical smart things that do not involve any type of balloon launch or professional skywriters.

But just because I'm not PLANNING anything doesn't mean I can't THINK about PLANNING anything, right? It's fairly harmless. Let me rephrase: "It's fairly harmless, as long as you don't mind having all of your dreams dashed against the cold stony cliffs of reality, as you watch your dearest hopes shatter into tiny irretrievable pieces, washed away with the uncaring tide." See? No problem.

So here's how I'm going to think about planning something: I'm gathering e-mail addresses. If you would like to help with Jeff's homecoming, or just hear about my plans and other top-secret projects, send me an e-mail so I know your e-mail address. Then, in a month or two, when things start to develop, you'll be the first to know. And if you want to be involved in some way, that will be your opportunity -- even if you don't know Jeff or me very well. There's always something you can do, if that's what you're looking for. But giving me your e-mail address doesn't equate to volunteering. It just means you like to be informed, and if that's all you want, that's okay too, you parasite.

So yeah. E-mail me at jenniherself@DELETEyahoo.com. Take out "delete," of course. That's just there to prevent spam.

There may even be a secret handshake.

Now I must go resume thinking about not thinking about planning anything.

Clarifications and thanks

2004-12-25T23:15:00.000-06:00

Regarding the "Coming soon to a mailbox near you" post, a few people have expressed alarm that the Naysayers are a small gang of tightly knit social rebels that chase me through the streets and into my nightmares. That would be pretty sweet, if the Naysayers were a gang. They could wear matching pleather coats and comb their hair with one of those combs that looks like a switchblade. Regardless of your feelings on the Naysayers, you would have to have respect for pleather and switchcombs.

Cool as a Naysayer motorcycle gang might be, I assure you this is not the case. There are not two, or four, or seven. There are hundreds in my town alone, and probably millions nationwide. They aren't sending me mean e-mails or mean comments on the site; I doubt any of them even know this site exists. None of them know me very well. Most of them don't know Jeff very well either. They like to make awful assumptions about the future, about me, about him, and so on. But it's not like they're picking on me specifically. I'm sure in the last few minutes they've told a near-stranger that their headache is probably a brain tumor, or at least warned someone that their lawn mower/can opener/shoelace could kill them.

And no, the items in my list of things Naysayers have said to me are not exaggerated. I'm sorry to tell you that I've heard that Jeff and I will be strangers to one another about 5001 times, that Jeff will be violent about 649 times, and that Jeff will be a drunk about 134 times, give or take a few. My problem with this isn't that these statements are Really Not Very True. I don't have a crystal ball; the statements could be true. But that wouldn't change the fact that these statements are Really Not Very Helpful.

So relax, all of you who are worried you may have offended me in some way. I'm not all that sensitive. I'm also not an unforgiving person. I put my foot in my mouth ALL THE TIME. You cannot appreciate the truth of this statement unless you're friends with me, but honestly I speak almost as colorfully as I write, and this has often gotten me into trouble. For instance, I don't say, "It's cold out!" I say, "It's so cold out, I could FREEZE TO DEATH, even if I resorted to burning my own limbs for warmth!" And what usually happens is I happen to be in the same room with the only person in the universe who actually did burn their own limbs for warmth, when stranded in the snowy woods during a volunteer rescue mission went disastrously wrong. Usually they were trying to rescue a puppy or a baby, maybe both. And now I've just said something awful, which I slowly realize after they give me a withering look and wheel slowly away, toward their daily appointment as a volunteer in a soup kitchen. And everyone else in the room just stares at me with contemptuous hate in their eyes, because they can't believe I was just mean to the puppy-rescuing volunteer, who also just happens to be a recently widowed philanthropist or newly canonized saint.

I've even said something somewhat stupid in relation to the deployment. In the not-so-distant past, I said "(Jeff is) in danger, but statistically speaking, he's not all that likely to die or even have major injuries." Yeah. And then several people from his company were seriously injured. Smooth, Jenni, really smooth.

So if you have occasionally said something utterly stupid to me, like "Gee! I sure hope Jeff doesn't DIE! Because people do DIE over there, you know! All the time!" I'm sure I've just shrugged it off. My beef is with the people who seem to be out to scare me, or upset me, just for their own weird satisfaction. The rest of you are allowed to display a lack of social skills once in a while. I know I certainly do, upon occasion. Just try your best to be reasonably positive, that's all I'm asking. And take off that pleather coat. You look ridiculous.

OK, no more talking about Naysayers. I'm really trying not to double back too often on old items on the site, or I would never have time to shower or brush my teeth if I had to cover old material AND new material.

Did you notice that I also wrote a letter to the nice people? Didn't anyone see it? The letter? For nice people? It was there, I swear. Make sure to read about the nice people. The world is full of nice people. I know that. I AM NOT A SHREW, PEOPLE.

Also, a word of thanks to those who have written or commented or called. You're all lovely, especially Jeff's friends who consider any wife of Jeff's a friend of theirs too. (I AM the only wife of Jeff's ... right?) I'm still writing thank-you cards for my eighth-grade graduation in 1994, but as soon as I'm finished with those and have returned the Tupperware from my 14th birthday party, I promise I'll be getting back to you. My family and Jeff's family also worked hard to make sure I wasn't missing much these past few days. Except for, well, Jeff. And I don't mind missing him, for now, as long as he's safe and healthy.

Oh ... and Merry Christmas!

All my gifts in one basket ... one MISSING basket

2004-12-23T23:55:00.000-06:00

I don't have a single gift. For anyone.

This takes talent. You have to really TRY to make it this far into the holiday season and still not plan on having a single gift for anyone on Christmas Day. Even if you're as bad as I am about shopping during the holidays, you really just have to get lucky to manage to have not a SINGLE GIFT to place under any tree, anywhere, for anyone.

I don't suppose there's any chance I could blame the deployment? No? Oh, come on. How can I get presents when ... when my heart is so ... empty ... because Jeff is gone?

OK, so that wasn't really all that convincing of an argument.

The real truth is that there was a shipping problem. And there was a problem with Jeff's ability to contribute his part of the present on time. And there was a problem with Best Buy pretending to stock something they didn't. There were lots of problems, big ones and small ones, none of which I really felt like dealing with. Ever.

The shipping problem really is beyond my control, as was the problem with Jeff's participation (not his fault either, just the way it is). But I could have thought of something else to do for everyone, instead of just muttering to myself, "Huh, well," and scratching my head every time something went wrong.

But let this be a lesson to you: If you ever decide to get everyone the same thing, make sure your plan will actually work. Because if it doesn't, no one will get anything. And then you will have to hand out IOUs. For Christmas. Remember when I said I was "just kidding" about being trash? That was before I handed out IOUs for Christmas.

I take it back. I do have a present for my sister. It's all bought and wrapped and everything. Not that I bought it. My mother did. Not that I wrapped it. My mother did. And not that it's for Christmas. It's for her birthday. Which was December 2.*

You know what I would like for Christmas? A DECENT PERSONALITY. Make it happen, Santa!
-------

*This paragraph is in no way an exaggeration. In fact, it is so painfully accurate that I'm thinking about shutting down this entire site so I can go back into the Land of Denial. You know, where so many people hang out most of the time, because it's nice and pretty there, and there are no mirrors or psychiatric assessments or web journals to depress anyone. Can you think of any major flaws you have? Unforgivable, intolerable, UNBELIEVABLE flaws? No? I didn't think so. Send me directions to your house, will you? I need to figure out how to get back there.

It's not this, but it's not that, either. Or something.

2004-12-21T22:17:00.000-06:00

One of the most interesting parts of being the wife of a deployed person is maneuvering the very narrow pathway of truth that exists in deployment. I want to avoid panicking people with terror stories. I want to avoid fostering complacency in people who want to say "Oh, war is nothing like it was then. Deployment is a walk in the park!"

The truth lies somewhere in the middle, which, incidentally, is what the truth usually likes to do. Yes, Jeff has it easy in some ways. Yes, it's much easier for wives and families than it once was. But no, it is not a walk in the park. Sure, there are the luxurious beaches, the beautiful women, and the sumptuous feasts. But honestly, they only get to play golf about twice a week, and the lobster? Usually overcooked. Don't get me started on the accommodations -- hello, the Jacuzzi tubs are like, CHEAP marble. And the lavender soaps aren't shaped like ANYTHING.

During my hour-and-a-half phone marathon with Jeff the other day, he was shivering from cold. I told him, "Don't do this for me. We can just talk later." He started laughing, and said, "Where would I go? This is the warmest place around!" He has to sleep outdoors or in poorly heated places in 30-degree weather. He doesn't get to bathe or eat or sleep when he wants to. Forgive the overshare, but when he uses the bathroom ... well, he ain't in a bathroom. Not even close. Jeff now sees port-a-potties as luxurious, which just shows you how far he's really fallen. When a Motel 6 starts to seem like the penthouse at the Four Seasons, you're starting to understand real discomfort, and you're starting to understand that we have it a heck of a lot better than a great deal of the world. Sure, it sucks to do your business in anything manufactured by the Port-A-Potty Company ... until you remember that your next option down is manufactured by Cardboard Boxes, Inc.

Jeff is also in danger sometimes. Mortars explode near him, bullets whiz by him (he claims to be used to the sound they make, and thanks our video-game culture for that). Sometimes, he's questioning people who may be dangerous, in houses he's never been in. Can you imagine being in a house full of people that don't speak English and hate you for being there, people who could be armed and impulsive? (I do not blame them for this resentment, by the way. If troops came into your home against your wishes and questioned you about everything they were doing, you would deeply resent them, and that's just the way all of this works.)

OK, now you're all scared for him. But that's not the way to be, either. He's miserable, but not THAT miserable -- it could always, always, always be worse, and has been worse, throughout world history. He's in danger, but statistically speaking, he's not all that likely to die or even have major injuries. Although, if he is terribly injured, I promise to love him as much as I ever did.*

So how do I paint a real picture of deployment and what it means to the common person reading? How does anyone? I hope this site is helping. People are starting to talk or write to me about it. That's awesome, except soon I'll be so convinced of my own writing greatness that I'll insist on dining exclusively on caviar and wearing only clothing made of ... mink, I guess. Whatever important genius supermodels wear. Because obviously, that's what I am, an important genius supermodel.

Cough. Anyway.

I don't want your panic, or your pity, or your money. I just want you to know that he's sleeping in the cold sometimes. I want you to know that he's working hard, long days. I think that lately I've been unintentionally glossing over the extent of his hardships. I do this because I'm careful about scaring people, or invoking a level of worry that is unhealthy.** But making you think this is easy for him is an injustice I have committed at times, one that I am trying to correct now. This entry is an attempt to get back around to what Jeff and I originally said we would do on the site, which is just tell the truth.

Don't worry, after this I'll go back to being super-funny. It's not like I have a choice; being super-funny is just what happens to me. It's what happens to all important genius supermodels. It's in our blood, just like our toned thighs and razor-sharp intellect.

Anyway, if you want to do something to help Jeff, don't worry. Don't panic. Don't pity. I think it would please Jeff more than anything if, when you climb into bed tonight and your head hits the pillow, you take an extra second to be grateful for what you're enjoying. Like I said, I'm not trying to start a pity party, or make you feel guilty for anything. Jeff signed on -- we both did -- and this is just what happens. We knew that, and we accepted it, and this is no one's doing but our own.

But try as I might, I can't see the harm in encouraging people to take a look around and see the luxury they're in. I can't see the harm in asking myself to do that too. Appreciating what you have doesn't mean you're pitying Jeff or feeling guilty about what you have; perhaps it just means that Jeff's situation can offer you, and me, a fresh perspective on the life we enjoy every day.***

I knew it was time for me to take a look around at my own life of luxury when I used the words "electric blanket" absentmindedly to Jeff on the phone, and he groaned as if I had said something pornographic. It sounds like a redneck joke: When McDonald's is fine dining, when port-a-potties are luxurious, and electric blankets are sexy, THAT's when you know you're deployed!

-----
*Unless he's like, really ugly.
**OK, listen. The worrying is fine. It's unavoidable. But don't make yourself sick. You can't control anything. You can't change anything. This was true way before Jeff left for Iraq. It was true when he was barreling down the highway, when he was doing stunts on a snowboard, and when he was flying his jets. Do not worry more than you must, because either way, the outcome is the same. Excessive, superhuman worrying does not, unfortunately, grant you excessive, superhuman powers.
***Forgive me if this post takes itself way too seriously. I blame Brain. He's requested the dramatic, maudlin "Because of You" by Kelly Clarkson, on repeat, over and over again. It's sick, and we both know it, but tonight it's the only way he's able to think.

A note from Jeff: "Roosters, Donkeys, and Cows -- oh my!"

2004-12-19T14:56:00.000-06:00

Jeff says:
"Well, let's see what's new. We have had some missions into the city again, to build up some bases to be used by the Iraqi police and army. We usually use schools as the bases, so we are there for a couple of days putting up Hesco, wire, and bunkers, and you all know how much I like that kind of work.

There is a little bit of fun, because we stay at these schools and sleep in the classrooms. It is just nice to see a school that is all shot to hell. I know most of you know that I did not enjoy school.

My guess is that the kids are not going back to school for a while, which I know is a bad thing, because the longer you are away, the more likely you will not return.

One cool thing that happened one night on watch in the city: As I looked out over the city, a red moon was rising, and as it split a minaret (according to Webster: a tall slender tower of a mosque having one or more balconies from which the summons to prayer is cried by the muezzin," and I cannot believe Jeff spelled this right), for a brief moment there in the sky, it looked like a pair of red demon eyes.

It would have made (an awesome) picture, but of course I didn't have the camera ready, and in the low light it would have never been able to take the picture. The cool thing that occurred right before this event was a dog that made a noise like the zombies from 28 Days Later, so it was kind of different.

Then in a different incident on watch a few days later in a different part of the city, but -- yep, you guessed it -- it was a school. I was again on watch, this time I was mounted on a .50 caliber on the top of a seven-ton truck looking down a street. At one point I saw through my night vision goggles two faint lights approaching. The lights looked like those made by cigarettes, and since there were no friendly forces located to the west of our position, I could only assume it was non-friendlies.

So the sargeant of the guard happened to be in the back of the truck at the time, so I asked him to look down the street, and he saw the same thing. Those lights were about 200 to 150 meters away and moving toward us. The lights then disappeared, and the SOG went to wake up our relief, but told me to radio him if I saw the lights again and we would shoot an illumination flare into the sky to light up the street. A few minutes later I saw the lights again and requested the flare, but the SOG was out of position at the time doing his other duties, so no flare. By this time I was convinced that at any moment, I was going to open fire and blow the hell out of something.

Well, the SOG came back on the radio and told me that he would be in position in about two minutes, and if I saw the lights or movement again, he would be able to pop the flare. Well, I did not see anything more, and I missed the chance to unload and send a lot of .50 caliber ammo down the road. I know, boo hoo for me.

The next day we continued to fortify this position for the Iraqi police, and then we got word that our squad would be leaving to go out on a mission with Recon. They are special forces. That's right, Recon. Cool for Jeff.

Before we get to the Recon part, I want to mention that at the position of the .50 caliber incident, there was a little amusement park across the street with a Ferris wheel, a carousel, and some sort of spinning ride with a big green octopus in the center of it. Now the one thing I can't believe is that no one had blown the head off this thing. I mean, this whole part of town was destroyed, and no one took the initiative to blow the crap out of this thing. That is just laziness. In the future, you may get to see pictures of this octopus.

Now for the cool stuff: RECON!!!!!!!!!! We went out with them to help them look for IEDs (I believe this stands for improvised explosive devices, or something similar) and weapon caches. This was in the countryside, not in the city, so it was a bit different. First we arrived at this big house in a small town, and kicked the people out who lived there to go live with their neighbors. Of course the US government will compensate them with cash, but nevertheless they were not happy. Of course we took the best house in town.

Well, anyway, our small fire team went with one of Recon's teams on a patrol through the countryside. It was weird to be walking through people's fields and little farms with all the different animals around, and people looking at you like, "Who the hell are you?" It kind of reminded me of the Vietnam movies where you see Marines patrolling through rice paddies and villages, and the people just go about their business. It was weird.

Well, I must say that on this deployment, I have gotten to do a wide variety of tasks, and it has been very educational. But as I easily got tired of class in school, I am tired of my education in Iraq, and I am ready to come home to my hunny. So I figured out that if I sleep about an extra three hours a day, I end up sleeping about 24 more hours a week, and since we have about 12 weeks left, that means if I get all that sleep, it will be just like missing 12 days, or almost two weeks, of deployment. So I must work on that mission.

Well, I'll write again when I can. I hope you all have a happy holiday season and a safe and happy New Year.

-Jeff
P.S. To all those who are on Jenni's good list, thank you for your support. For all you Naysayers out there, you better hope you're wrong about me coming home violent. Because if you are right, and I AM violent, now that I've been with Recon I know a few tricks, and I'll find you and (mess) you up for giving my hunny a hard time."

OK, Jeff didn't really say "mess." After all, "mess" does not rhyme with "duck." The profanity level on this site is higher than I'd like it to be, but I think that lends it a certain honesty. There's no need to get downright VULGAR, however.

And yes, Jeff can spell "honey." As I have mentioned before, he subscribes to the Pooh spelling.

1:29:43

2004-12-16T23:35:00.000-06:00

1:29:43!!

That's what my cell phone said after I just hung up with Jeff. That is a marathon, my friends. That is probably the longest we've talked since I saw him in person. He made me laugh uncontrollably with his stories, some of which I will share soon. For now -- SLEEP.

Coming soon to a mailbox near you

2004-12-16T20:33:00.000-06:00

Dear Naysayers,

It's about time we had a little talk.

I have ignored you, and will continue to ignore you. I was tempted to not even write this letter, because I know that you are seeking a reaction from me, and I do not want to do anything to give you satisfaction.

But I must ask: What is it that makes you act the way you do? When I say, "I can't wait until Jeff gets home," you must say, "I bet he'll be all different and you will be like strangers." When I say, "I haven't heard from Jeff in a while. I hope he's okay," you feel compelled to say, "I read the other day that more troops are dying now than ever."

In the past few months, I have had the following scenarios suggested to me (and no, I am not in any way exaggerating these -- people actually said these things to me, I am sorry to say):

-Jeff will come home a drunk, ready to party and be with the boys.
-Jeff will come home a smoker, unable to fight the peer pressure in the military.
-Jeff will come home abusive, driven to violence by what he's seen and experienced.
-Jeff will hate my newfound independence.
-Jeff will hate me because the military has taught him to hate women.
-Jeff will be angry at me for the decisions I've made in running this household.
-Jeff will resent my new friends and resent the social person I've become.

I say with no humor whatsoever that you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Some of you don't know any better, and this I forgive easily. But many of you are downright rude. And the worst of you are cruel.

Is it that you enjoy drama, any drama? It seems to me, time and time again, that my positive attitude annoys you. You want tears, you want suffering, you want sobbing on Thanksgiving and bitter feelings of abandonment on Christmas. You incorrectly think that my positive attitude means that I am not afraid. So you push me, because you want me to be afraid, because you yourself are small and afraid of everything. When I say something cheerful, you feel it is your job to remind me that Jeff could die, Jeff could come home different, we could get divorced and the happy ending I'm waiting for may never come.

You know who you are. You are the ones who tell pregnant women terrible horror stories of episiotomies and birth defects. You are the ones who remind husbands that their wives could be cheating on them at this very moment. You are unhappy and you want everyone else to join you in your unhappy little world.

You do not upset me because I believe you. I do not believe you and never have for a second. You upset me because you show me what nastiness people are capable of. You upset me because you are intent on making my life harder when I am going through a difficult time, and the idea that you are enjoying this makes my stomach churn. It upsets me that you affect me at all.

You upset me because you are what is wrong. You talk about how the military is full of 18-year-old idiots who weren't good enough to get any other job, and how sad that is. Then you turn around and say Jeff is stupid for joining, because he's too smart and too old for the military, and besides, he already has a good job. How, exactly, do you expect the quality of our military to rise if you aren't planning to do anything about it? How do you expect the quality to rise when you belittle good people who joined? No one expects you to join, but you might at least respect Jeff's decision to do so. Perhaps you are uncomfortable watching someone make such a sacrifice.

You add stress to Jeff's already stressful life, because I can't help but tell him about you, because I tell him everything. For the record, he is furious at you for treating me this way, and I am furious at you for adding stress to his life when he already has to deal with so much.

Here's the truth. The truth is, Jeff is my best friend. The truth is, it would take a lot more than a little year in the desert to make us strangers. The truth is, when he comes back we will be as great as we were before, if not even better. The truth is, you don't know us at all, and you are profoundly, unbelievably foolish for assuming that you do.

The truth is, you are just plain wrong.

But I thank you anyway, because I have been you. I have been guilty of it without meaning to. The urge to warn people about what could go wrong in their lives is a strong one, part of the human instinct. I do not believe I have ever been so astonishingly rude as to suggest that someone's husband will come home from the military a drunken wife-abuser, but all the same, I have certainly committed the naysaying offense in smaller ways.

I will be better from now on. Maybe you should too.

Sincerely,
Jennifer Gilbert
P.S. The ignoring recommences ... NOW.

Dear Wonderfuls,

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

In the past few months, you have given phone cards, you have sent your well-wishes, and you have helped in any way you can. You have stayed positive, you have said what I needed to hear, and you are always willing to give a hug or encouraging word.

You have forgiven me graciously for not calling you back, not sending thank-you cards on time, and not returning your Tupperware. You have been patient when I can't remember where my keys are, where my car is, where my house is.

You have loved Jeff right along with me, even though some of you don't know him that well. You have waited with me when he didn't call, and you have celebrated with me when he finally did. You have praised me for my independence, and shared my excitement in my surprises for Jeff. When I needed to blow off steam about the Naysayers, you were there to listen. You have helped me dream about the day he comes back, helped me plan the festivities with enthusiasm and energy.

When I say, "I can't wait until Jeff gets home," you say, "Me neither. It's going to be such a wonderful day." When I say, "I haven't heard from Jeff in a while. I hope he's okay," you say, "I do, too. He's just so busy but I'm sure he'll call soon."

You are the reason this has been so easy. Your phone calls and e-mails tell me that I am never really alone. You make Jeff feel better about my safety and my happiness. You help him rest easier, because he worries about me just as much as I worry about him. You help him stay focused on the task at hand, because he knows I am okay with you there. You have never made me feel guilty for having fun, or for being myself.

Most important, you restored my faith in people. You showed me that people can be good, and kind, and selfless. For all of this I thank you. I am humbled by your support and patience as I fumble my way through the world of sparkplugs and lawnmowers.

I feel that the day Jeff comes home will not be my day, or his day, but our day. Your day. Thank you for sharing this experience with me and allowing yourself to really care, even if that means being sad once in a while. Thank you for not being afraid to feel, and be geniune, and be loving.

Thank you.

Sincerely,
Jennifer Gilbert
P.S. You ROCK.

Uncle Jeff, the Eccentric Recluse

2004-12-15T22:43:00.000-06:00

My nephew Kyle is awesome. He's smart, he's funny, and he's already cooler than me. (I knew it didn't take much to be cooler than me, but come on. He's only two. He still poops in his pants.) He has the world all figured out, there's food and there's blankie and Mommy and Daddy, and his grandparents, and Jenni, and the dogs, and that's pretty much all that matters to him. Actually, I think he's onto something.

He is also a genius. He asked my sister where rain came from the other day, and he's only TWO. And he's beautiful. I hate to disappoint you in regards to your own children and relatives, but he's actually the cutest kid ever. I am an aunt. Do not argue with me. I would put his picture on here to prove it, except then I would have to listen to everyone about whether he was going to get kidnapped by all the Internet psychos out there. And then he really WOULD get kidnapped, because that's just my luck, and even though it would be a total coincidence, I would be paralyzed with guilt. So you'll just have to take my word for it.

I can't imagine what Kyle thinks of Jeff. We tell him about Jeff all the time, and he can recognize him in pictures, although he surely can't remember ever seeing Jeff in person. When we point to Jeff's picture and say, "Who is that?" he says, "Jeff!" so enthusiastically that we are all tremendously pleased. Kyle looks tremendously pleased too, because he got the answer, and the answer is "Jeff," but aside from that he has absolutely no idea what everyone is talking about and is it time for cookies?

Jeff sent Kyle a video message that I could play on my camera (if you remember, we have two of the same camera so we can mail cards back and forth), so I played that message for Kyle today. Kyle was riveted, probably because he had no idea that this Jeff person could TALK, much less move around and make facial expressions. He watched it once, and said, "Again." He watched it again. Then he said, "Turn it off," and wandered away. Jeff shouldn't be offended at this treatment. Kyle wanders away from EVERYTHING, because, you know, he's two.

Anyway, later I told Kyle, "Aunt Jenni is going to take some pictures!" and picked up the camera and pressed the shutter. Kyle asked, "Taking pictures of Jeff?"

So now apparently Kyle thinks we take pictures of Jeff, who is invisible except when he lives inside the camera or in a picture frame. Doesn't every kid have an invisible photogenic uncle who sends them video messages from an imaginary desert? Doesn't every kid have an aunt who claims to be married to this mysterious man who only appears on video and never in person?

I can only imagine the damage we're doing here. When Jeff shows up for real, Kyle is going to be stunned. Jeff has obtained celebrity status in Kyle's mind. It will be like seeing the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. You mean, there REALLY IS an Uncle Jeff? And there really has been, ALL THIS TIME? Huh. Okay. Let's go play firetrucks.

OK, now I'm really over it

2004-12-13T19:33:00.000-06:00

I spoke to Jeff today, and I'm not going to get to talk to him for about a week. He said that he's very, very busy, and that things seem kind of chaotic and disorganized. He said they were supposed to get time off, but only had a half day and then all of a sudden had to kick it into high gear again.

Anyway, Jeff and I are working together on the gifts. And since he will suddenly not be available for a week ... well, you can guess what that means. FORGET THE GIFTS, people. This Christmas will be about family! About love! About togetherness! About forgiveness when there are no gifts! About exclamation points used to express excitement and to distract everyone from the lack of gifts! What are gifts are you even talking abou-- oh hey look over there it's a reindeer!

OK, I really need to stop talking about this, because no one cares but me, and I have my loyal readership to think about. So I'll move on to tell you about how excited I'm getting about Jeff coming home.

It's been a forbidden thought process for me, something I try not to think about, because then I get all excited, and that's bad, because who knows when Jeff will be home. The idea is he's supposed to be home in March, but anything could happen. Several troops have had their stays extended, and Jeff could always end up being one of them. Getting excited about March in December is probably a bad idea. Scratch that -- I KNOW it's a bad idea. You're asking to be disappointed if you count on anything in the military. The best thing is to resolutely say "I'll believe it when I see it" and march away to go do practical, smart things, things that do not involve a daydreaming habit so grandiose it should be considered criminal.

But the thing is, it could happen in March. And time is going soooo fast -- November flickered by like nothing, and December is doing the same. January and February -- are you kidding me? They practically don't exist. March is, like, TOMORROW. March is here. March has pretty much already happened.

Remember the Holodeck in Star Trek, that fantasy level of the Enterprise where the computer generated holograms of daydreams and wishes? Remember how that one time one of the Star Trek people became addicted to and obsessed with the Holodeck? (Which raises an interesting question of WHY WEREN'T MORE PEOPLE OBSESSED WITH THE HOLODECK? Come on, you wouldn't be able to get me out of that thing.) Well, that's me. I'm on the Holodeck. I don't know when this started but I have a feeling it's going to just keep happening.

Someone says, "Hey, did you get that list off the printer?" and I think, "Yeah, I could totally rent a limo, how fun would that be to pick Jeff up in a limo?"

Someone says, "Where should we go for lunch?" and I think, "How expensive could it REALLY be to rent out an entire amusement park?"

Someone says, "Geez, it's cold out," and I think, "But the key really will be figuring out HOW to welcome Jeff with both a parade AND a flock of doves imported from Rome, without overshadowing the ice sculptures and undermining the string quartet's performance."

This is not good, people. Jeff needs to come home in March, because for one thing I would be unbelievably disappointed, and for another thing my deposit on the imported Roman doves is nonrefundable. But the daydreaming binge has gone out of control, and I don't think there's much possibility of reining it in again.

So here's what we're going to call the daydreaming: "being positive." When you ask me a question and I'm not listening to you, in fact I am staring at the wall with a little smile tucked into one cheek, we're going to call that "being positive." When I say something foolish like "three months from now Jeff will be home and everything will be perfect and nothing will ever be wrong again, ever ever," well, you guessed it, that's called "being positive." You see how healthy it sounds when you put it that way? No?

I am in so much trouble.

Merry Christmas, kill me now

2004-12-10T01:01:00.000-06:00

Last night I wrote the following post:

"To everyone (and I do mean EVERYONE) who expected a Christmas present from me:

I was making them. They were beautiful.

And now I have to start over.

I keep telling myself that in a few weeks this will seem funny.

Right now it does not.

It probably won't on Christmas, either, since no one will have any presents.

Expect your present in February.

Next year you're all getting fruitcake."

Then I saved it as a draft rather than posting it, because that's what I do when my mood is extraordinarily foul. Sometimes I delete the post later; sometimes I revise it. This time I'm leaving it alone, but with an update to say that I feel better now and am determined to carry on with the gift-making. The setback really was terrible, but it'll be fine. If everyone gets their present in February, it'll be fine. It's not important.

I struggle with a lot of things related to holiday deployment. I struggle with getting gifts for people that I only know in a very basic way. I struggle with the fact that I'm really not all that interested in the holidays. I don't mean that in a sad way, because I'm not really sad ... but the holidays just really aren't happening for me this year. I'm sure you're thinking "how depressing!" but there's no reason to feel that way -- it feels very natural to me to make the holidays low key.

But even though I'm not putting up a big tree or clicking champagne glasses with Jeff on New Year's Eve, I still wanted to do something special to mark the year. Something special like MAKING MY OWN GIFTS. Something special that would explode into disaster and make me want to gouge myself in the eyeballs, if only to bring about the sweet release from the terrible gift-making process that death will bring. That sort of special. So I'm going to do it, and if it's late, it's late. My best is really all I can do.

So let's think positive, shall we? I've felt sorry for myself for a good twelve hours, so now it's time to get over it. In the spirit of that, I offer you a cheerful list of some of the talents I have developed over the course of the deployment.

Jennifer's New Deployment Talents

1. Selective Breathing. The ability to stop breathing without even thinking about it. Like, say, when pouring sour milk down the drain or opening the garbage bins for the first time in three weeks.

2. The Ten-Minute Dustbuster Dance. Make the house appear clean and tidy when people call with only ten minutes' notice and say that they are coming over. They have no idea of the monstrosities they are going to witness if they see the bathroom before the Ten-Minute Dustbuster Dance. I shed hair like ... like ... I don't know, a wildebeest. I don't have any idea if wildebeests shed, but I like to say "wildebeest," because the first e actually makes a sound. And that's fun. OK, moving on.

3. The Garage Clairvoyance. I now know exactly when the car is all the way in the garage. It's uncanny how I can just tell. Or maybe it's sort of obvious, because my rule of thumb is that I know I'm in the garage when I hear the back bumper hit the wheelbarrow. Some people hang a rubber ball and wait for it to tap their back window, but I find it's easier just to listen for the sound of the wheelbarrow being tipped slightly onto its side. Oh, geez, don't get all excited, it's not like the car is new or anything. (I remember telling Jeff that the greatest moment in my life was when I realized I didn't have to worry about parking the car into things, because I owned the car and I could scuff it if I wanted to. Jeff looked at me in horror and said "THAT was the greatest moment in your life??" and so I was so embarrassed that I retracted the statement, but just between you and me and the Internet, IT REALLY WAS THE GREATEST MOMENT OF MY LIFE.)

4. The Giving Up Game. I can't do everything. If I didn't know that before, I definitely realize that now. If I have to eat fast food once in a while or pay somebody way too much money to do stupid things like put air in my tires and ... I don't know, polish the windshield wipers or something, that's just the way it is. I have heard over and over again advice from well-meaning people on how I can save money by doing things myself. Their advice, though much appreciated, is irrelevant, because I think they forget that I do need about five or six hours of sleep a night and I have to fit that in sometime.

5. The Remote Start Stretch. No husband to scrape off your windshield? NO PROBLEM. With a little practice, you can figure out how to successfully point the remote starter at the car from the crevice between the nightstand and the dresser. Just push the button and listen for the rumble. OK, now sit around and chuckle at your ingenuity for ten minutes. OK, you may go outside now. That car is warm and ready for action!

Ah, see, I feel better. Just look how much I've grown as a person. Look how this deployment has helped me discover my true self, blah blah blah, Oprah blah blah blah Dr. Phil. Oh well, maybe not, but it's gotten my mind off the Christmas-present debacle ...

A note from Jeff: "Having a Blast"

2004-12-08T21:07:00.000-06:00

Jeff says:
"OK, the last update was awhile ago, but as Jenni has said in the journal, I have been quite busy. So we pretty much left off after the initial assault on Fallujah, and now it is time for the cleanup and fortification of key points in the city.

Our squad was lucky enough to be picked for the first rotation of EOD (explosive ordinance disposal) duty. What that means is that we go out into the city with EOD specialists to find and remove weapons caches and weapons left on the street. We are basically just used as their working party; for safety reasons, they always check the items before we are allowed to touch them. What we do is help provide security and also help load and remove the ordinance.

This was a very rewarding job, because we were taking and destroying these weapons, and they would never again be used to hurt anyone.

There will be some pictures of the EOD work coming in a few weeks. Some of the things we found were suicide vests, IEDs, a whole lot of mortars of different sizes, rockets, AK rounds, and other weapons. And to comment on the statement that Jenni made about mortars, they do usually blow up, but these bad guys need to check their return policy with whoever they bought this stuff from, because we also had a rocket land in our work site on camp Fallujah that did not detonate. If I were the insurgents, I would want my money back.

After we load up the trucks with the weapons, we take them out of the city and blow them up. We made some pretty big booms. There is one video I sent back, and if Jenni can put it on the site, I'm sure she will. (Note from Jenni: I'm not sure if I can on a blog like this. But I am the adventurous sort when it comes to technical puzzles.)

After we were done working with EOD, we started doing our usual engineer work again, and that sucks, but hey what are you going to do. But about this time it was Thanksgiving, and they had one hell of a spread at the chow hall. Turkey with all the trimmings, steak, ham, egg nog, cake, ice cream, and of course pumpkin pie. It was damn good, and I'm sure it cost a pretty penny, so thanks to all the taxpayers out there.

So for the last week or so we have just been fortifying different places in the city. It is important work, but for the most part it lacks the excitement, and I know you all want me to be bored, because that means I'm safe. So I guess bring on the boredom, but just so you know there is a little excitement out there every once in a while, so yeah for me.

Another event that took place pre-Thanksgiving was a powerlifting competition on the base, and a friend of mine wanted to enter. He needed a few partners so we could compete as a team. He asked me if I would do it, and I said sure, even though I haven't had time to work out lately. I thought it might get me out of having to work for part of the day, so what the hell. So me, Paul Adekoya, and Michael Wagner all entered this thing.

We were each in a different weight class, but were on at the same time. The way it worked was you get three attempts at bench press and three at dead lift, and they add together your heaviest lift of each for a total. But there are three judges, and each lift must be of good form and such. Once you try a weight you cannot go down in weight if you failed to lift it. Anyway, to make a long story a little shorter, I got third in my weight class, Paul got second, and Michael got third. The team got third. I had lifts of 215 for bench, which put me in last place after the bench, and then 420 for dead lift for a total of 635 for the two lifts, which gave me third place.

Now I must rest my arm because I think I hurt it patting myself on the back.

I must give a special thanks to my sponsor, Clint Gilbert of Smoothie King, for donating some protein. Boy doesn't a smoothie sound good? Or since it is cold, possibly a heater? Or maybe you just need some vitamins or other supplements. What I'm trying to say is go to Smoothie King now, and buy a whole lot of stuff, you know they do sell gift certificates and they make great stocking stuffers.

Well, that gets us pretty much up to date. Thank you for all your support, and I'll write again soon.

Happy Holidays to all."

An unfortunate eventuality

2004-12-08T20:15:00.000-06:00

Oh, dear. It's finally happened. The thing I feared most, the thing I saw in my nightmares, the thing I told myself couldn't ever happen:

Someone took me seriously.

A new reader, Wes, who I can tell you is one of the nicest guys I have ever known, a genuine good person, and deserving of much better friends than Jeff (just kidding dear), left the following comment on the bottom of my last post:

"Jennifer - This is some excellent piece of writing. Don't read too much into car trouble and everyday life. You're current situation seems to be making you very sensitive to things that many, many people are going through. Have you looked around in traffic lately? Or at the oil spots in the parking lot?

Sure you may be suffering from Deployed Husband Syndrome, but don't you think you might be wearing Jeff's old coat that isn't so flattering because you miss him? A superficial look would not understand that. No one can understand what you are going through, let alone read into all this in the time of a 15 minute oil change.

It sounds like you might be focusing on wrong things. Dress the way that makes you feel good: pretty, excited about the day, full of self esteem, and confident. Even guys need to dress this way, but women definitely need to express themselves in a way that makes them feel good. Find a way that focuses your efforts positively like learning more about cars or lawnmowers. Maybe do something fun that you have never been able to do. Don't let negative emotions fester into self-pity. Everything will be fine!

By the way, this is a fantastic website. Thanks for all your efforts! - Wes"

First of all, Wes, thank you for being kind enough to comment (as I cast a glare at all of my silent readers -- I know you're out there, I CAN HEAR YOU BREATHING) and I geniunely appreciate your concern.

But let me explain an important aspect of my writing style: when something really minor happens, I exaggerate it. Not just a little. A lot. WHILE TYPING IN CAPITAL LETTERS, LIKE THIS. When something really huge happens, I minimize it. I say one thing about it and move on, if I mention it at all.

I realize this is paradoxical, but there's not much I can do about it. It seems to be the way I am built. Let me give you some examples:

A huge airplane crashes directly into Jenni's house, obliterating it along with every keepsake and piece of electronic equipment that she ever loved.
Jenni: "Hrm. Something bad happened to the house. I don't like that."

A piece of small, barely noticeable fuzz appears on the sleeve of Jenni's otherwise clean sweater. She picks it off.
Jenni: "OH MY GOD! I am so sick of lint! Does anyone know where lint comes from? Seriously, what is it even made of? Is there some sort of giant lint machine hidden somewhere in my house, hand-powered by evil lint elves who chuckle madly as they spray all of my sweaters with TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE LINT??? AGGGGGGH! How do we kill the lint elves? WHY WON'T THE LINT ELVES JUST LEAVE ME AND MY POOR INNOCENT SWEATERS ALONE?? Go pick on someone your own size, lint elves!"

You see the difference? I'm hoping it's clearer now. It really is not my intention to alarm anyone. I want to share. I want to entertain. I like to pick out small details of life (like car mechanics staring at my gross coat) and amuse myself (and hopefully, you) with them. I want to let you know what's going on in my life and in Jeff's life (although in a very indirect and wandering way that also mentions butter-churning and lint elves). But I'm not trying to alarm anyone. Really. I'm happy. And things are good. I miss Jeff, but everything is okay, I swear. Rest assured that I feel very lucky that Jeff and I are both happy and healthy, and I am aware that many people have it so much worse, without families to count on or a person to love.

(And if you're wondering, like Wes, about my motivation for wearing Jeff's coat, it's actually quite a bit less romantic: I accidentally dumped water all over my nice fur-lined suede jacket and ruined it. Incidentally, this is how I ruined the suede jacket before that one. Which is why I have temporarily given up on nice jackets altogether, at least until I can quit dumping water on things.)

If you ever had any doubt about my dramatic ways, feel free to review the Why I Will Never Be A Feminist entry, which asserts that I will never make it without Jeff because I can't kill a spider. In this entry, I said, "I have the sense that I'm going to lose this war ... Without Jeff here to fight on the homefront, I don't have a chance."

I was talking about a spider. On the porch. Just a little porch-spider.

I hope you can see now why it's a bad idea to take me seriously. I apologize for the confusion. I would offer to change, but I enjoy being myself too much to change now. I mean, come on, I AM HILARIOUS, if you haven't noticed. All I can say is, try to take my entries with a grain of salt, and realize that most of the time I am giggling feverishly to myself as I type.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have some lint elves to kill.

The Sparkplug Saga, continued

2004-12-07T14:02:00.000-06:00

If anyone was curious, yes, my car is running much better today. It has yet to do the Bad Idle, where it shudders and makes a WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP! sound, kind of like our old washing machine, except as we know, cars are different than washing machines, and by "different" I mean WAY MORE EXPENSIVE. So it's kind of cute when the old washing machine does the Bad Idle, but it is most definitely not cute when the car does it an hour from home.

I'm not convinced. I still keep waiting for the Bad Idle to come. I prepare for it before sliding the car into reverse by making my Bad Idle Preparation Pose, which mostly involves making squinty eyes and hunching my shoulders up. It's a very basic easy-to-assume pose. Children can even do it without instruction, if you threaten them properly.

I suffered more car trauma today when taking it for an oil change. I couldn't pop the hood for some reason, then forgot to shut the engine off. Do not ask me why; I have taken the car to get its oil changed many times. I can't blame Deployed Husband Syndrome this time. Then I get out of the car, and they're sort of looking at me, and I realize I have on Jeff's huge ill-fitting coat, the one with stuffing sticking out of the sleeve, and my car is a total disaster, complete with Pop-Tart wrappers. Right after these realizations comes the realization that I AM TRASH. I used to say "Oh, gosh, I must look like trash to them!" but all innocence has been washed away and now I understand that if you look like trash for six months in a row, it's time to drop the pretense that you are actually someone else. If there's stuffing sticking out of your coat EVERY DAY, no one is REALLY getting the wrong impression of you, now are they?

So then I was waiting while the oil was changed, and the nice man came and showed me my yucky air filter and asked if I would like it changed. After the sparkplug debacle, I was feeling quite humble and said "yes, thank you" very meekly, thinking, HOW ARE WE EVER GOING TO HAVE A BABY! When it's a car, a nice man comes and explains what must be done. When it's a baby, you're just supposed to figure it out, and how am I supposed to remember when the baby needs a vaccination or a burping or a sparkplug or air filter? Who is going to change the baby's serpentine belt and HOW MUCH DOES THAT COST?

When you really, really think about it, it's depressing and impossible how much knowledge a single person must have to make it in this world. If you marry the right person, you can cut that knowledge in half because the other person has it covered. Eventually the world is going to get so complicated that polygamy will surely be encouraged just so everyone can get by. The personal ads will read:

"Friendly couple seeks additional spouse. Proficiency in cooking, tax law, and lawn mower maintenance required. Parenting skills a big plus! Love of video games not necessary -- in fact annoyingly redundant."

If you think I'm exaggerating how hard life is getting, just compare it to life a long time ago. You only had to know how to throw a rock at an edible-looking animal, and then how to eat said animal. That was it. Then fire came along and you had to know how to start a fire, and the tasks just got harder and people had to churn butter. When we started churning butter ... well, it was downhill from there, and now you have to know how to take out a mortgage.

Jeff, come home to your trashy wife. That there car needs some goshdurn oil and the stuffins is a-comin outta my coat. Why, the horseless buggy sounds just like the warshin machine!

Oh, THOSE sparkplugs

2004-12-06T21:38:00.000-06:00

I've been having a lot of trouble with my car lately. This is the unknown deployment territory, the epic relationship between Woman and Car that mostly consists of me petting the dashboard and pleading, "Come on, baby, one more day, just one more day for Mama." Except one more day becomes two weeks which becomes two months and my car is not the least bit amused.

Finally, the car died in a hotel parking lot after the company Christmas brunch. It sputtered to life again, but when you have a 45-minute commute to work, this is still plenty of motivation to get the car fixed. I consulted my dad, who said, "Well, check your manual and see when the sparkplugs need to be replaced."

So I checked. It says, "Sparkplugs: 30,000 miles."

Then I looked at my odometer. It said, "104,600 miles, you freaking idiot."

HahahahhahahahhhhahahhhahahahahaHAHA! Oops.

Let's see, I forgot to change the sparkplugs ... then I forgot again! And then I forgot YET ANOTHER TIME! And now my car is very, very angry and it wants sparkplugs, like, right now.

So my dad put them in. Three cheers for dads who know how to do things! Lots of things! All for the bargain price of one sandwich from Jimmy John's. I laughed in his face afterward and told him what a total sucker he was. Does he have any idea what the other mechanics are making?

I have felt full of misfortune lately, but it's hard to feel that fate is picking on me when I neglected to change the sparkplugs three times in a row. I mean, seriously, you have no right to feel the universe is against you if you won't even read the manual in the glovebox.

Speaking of cars, if you'll excuse me, I must go pay the car insurance bill. I'm going to pay it on time and everything; I'm just that good.

The entry that almost didn't happen ...

2004-12-02T13:50:00.000-06:00

... because I sat down in front of the computer and then completely forgot what I was doing. I'm used to this, so I just played it cool and changed course "Oh, right, e-mail! I was totally going to check my e-mail!" This strategy usually eventually yields a memory of what I was planning to do in the first place. Then I just seamlessly switch back to my original task and no one is the wiser.

In this case, it took longer than usual, and I only remembered I was going to do an entry after I had read all my favorite blogs and checked my e-mail and then sat staring for a good five minutes. So all I have time for is this:

I talked to Jeff, and he's fine. He's been really busy -- I guess there's a lot of work to be done where he is right now, so they keep him hopping. If you don't hear from him, at least you know he's OK. He said he might not call me for a week or so, and I shouldn't worry.

Some interesting things have happened to him, and I'm hoping he'll get to tell you about them himself, for the most part. In one case, though, four people in Jeff's group (not Jeff though) were standing in a circle and a mortar round landed right in the middle of all of them ... then failed to blow up. Had it blown up, all four of them would have died or been very gravely injured. And mortars usually blow up. So my advice to you is, find out what religion those four people are, and CONVERT IMMEDIATELY.

Jeff also says that he misses everyone, and there's so much he plans to appreciate when he gets home. He told me, "Make sure you're comfortable. Turn the heat up, eat what you want ... because when I'm cold, I think, 'Jenni better be comfortable, because if she isn't, there's just no reason for that!'" I cheerfully assured him that I'm jacking the thermostat up and eating like a pig. You know, just to please HIM.

It was great to talk to him for almost an hour. It sounds funny to say that, seeing as we're married and all, but I haven't talked to him for an hour in months. There's a lot like that in our relationship, a situation we're hoping to remedy soon. Jeff said, "Do you realize I've never even been in our house in November? December?" And he's right. Last year at Christmas I said, "Oh well, next year." This year I'm going to say the same thing. And next year if Jeff is not home I AM CHANGING THE LOCKS AND FINDING A NEW HUSBAND.* Hey, everyone has their limits.

*Kidding, ish. In an "I mean it!!!" kind of way.

Motivation Imagination Station

2004-11-30T19:46:00.000-06:00

Several people recently have expressed wonder at the sheer size of this site. Many of them are unfamiliar with blogs, which are online journals that often have hundreds upon hundreds of entries dating back for years. When you work with a blog system, like this site does, it's easy to accumulate a lot of entries without bothering with any HTML or CSS. (If you do not know what HTML and CSS are, then hey! you of all people definitely understand why not having to use them for these entries is great!) Combine this with lightning-fast typing skills and in a few months' time, you practically have a Jeffcyclopedia of fun.

But the rest of the site -- that's a different story.

Have you noticed the lack of updated information in other areas of the site? Have you noticed that in some places this web site still thinks it's like, August? Yeah. That's because actual coding is kind of a pain in the butt, plus I'm really lazy. It's a struggle to get the photo albums up in any kind of timely fashion, because OH MY GOD, THE THUMBNAILS ALONE SUCK SO MUCH INTELLECTUAL ENERGY. Well, okay, they aren't that hard, but compared to blogging, they're hard. Kind of like how "walking" is really, really hard when compared to "lying down and not moving." You see now?

But tonight, I promised myself I would put up a new album. Even a little one. Anything to get things back going again. It was time for action, so I timidly approached my Brain for a little motivational speech. Except Brain was not listening. It's hard telling what Brain does all day, really. My guess is he's still calculating the best way to defeat the latest level in Prince of Persia on the Playstation. I never know what he's working on, usually seems to be nothing, until he shakes me awake at 3 a.m. and screams, "It's the lever! The one by the door on the left! You missed the lever that will pull the gate that will allow the princess back out into the courtyard!"

"He??" you say?

What, it's weird that my brain is a guy?

Anyway.

I appealed to Conscience -- "Your public needs you! They love Jeff! How dare you not share the pictures with them! They never get to talk to him and YOU get to talk to him all the time!" but apparently no one is home, judging from the "return to sender" stamps. I think someone new may have moved in, because I called once and they muttered something about "not owing anyone anything, have a right to my own life" before they hung up on me.

Well then.

I was running out of time by 7 p.m., so I skipped everyone else and went straight to Stomach. She drives a hard bargain, but she's powerful in certain circles. VERY powerful.

"It might take some convincing," Stomach said breathily.
"What kind of convincing? What do you want?"
She barely missed a beat.
"Cheddar mashed potatoes," she said, her ravenous lips curling into a dreamy smile. "BACON cheddar mashed potatoes."
She knew she had me over a barrel, the wench.
"All right," I said wearily. "How much?"
She leaned in to whisper something, and my eyes widened.
"But that's enough to feed an entire family! That's like 3000 calor-"
"I'm not asking you," she said edgily, digging her red nails into my arm.
"Ah," I said, backing away a bit. "Of course."
"With butter," she hissed.
"Naturally."
"And egg nog!"
"Mashed potatoes and EGG NOG for dinner? That's disgus-"
"Right then," she said cheerfully, her fangs peeking out briefly when she smiled. I noticed that the smile did not go all the way to her eyes. Her HUNGRY eyes. "I'll go have a little chat with the others."

I thought that was the end of it, until the phone rang and I heard her low, sultry voice on the other end: "I just remembered, make sure you pick up some Cinnamon Brown Sugar Pop Tarts. You know ... for AFTER. Oh, and Brain has requested Hilary Duff music to work by."
"What??? You've gone too far! How about a little Damien Rice? Or -- I know -- Coldplay?"
(Seriously, what kind of guy likes Hilary Duff? My brain may be a guy, but he also wears silver pants and waxes his chest, IF YOU GET WHAT I'M TRYING TO TELL YOU.)
"Hilary Duff," she said firmly. Then: "Make sure the Pop Tarts are frosted," she added, and laughed a throaty laugh. The laugh of evil. Then she hung up.

And that was that.

So here I am, eating a gigantic bowl of mashed potatoes, with egg nog, listening to Hilary Duff, and coding a new photo album. Do you see the things I do for you? No one can say I haven't made sacrifices for this site.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go toast some Pop Tarts. Something tells me Stomach will be back. And God help me if I'm not ready. GOD HELP US ALL.

... and please take care of Jeffy

2004-11-26T22:23:00.000-06:00

Warning: This is going to be the longest post ever. I am telling you right now that this will be like the Woodstock of journal posts, the one where it goes on and on and everyone's rockin and there's all this love and unity and then some people are stoned or even naked.

Wait, that's not right. I didn't mean that. No one is naked. Or at least, no one was naked when I was with them. I suppose they could be now. Lots of people you know could be right now! Think about it.

(See how I skirted the issue of everyone being stoned? What a Thanksgiving it was! Kidding. Although I suppose if you're going to have the munchies, you couldn't pick a better day of the year.)

You should know that I just went to hit "save" and almost accidentally hit "publish." This entry would have consisted of the title "... and please take care of Jeffy" and the first two paragraphs, which solely discussed Woodstock and naked people. (I hadn't added the part about being stoned on Thanksgiving, although it would have been a nice touch.) It really would have been the weirdest entry in history. Heck, it may still be, since I'm just getting going.

Let me tell you what I really want to tell you, before you get bored and stop reading, or run out of time on your lunch hour, or you have to leave for wherever it is you're going.

I had part of my Thanksgiving with Jeff's family, some of them anyway. I went to his Aunt Patsy's (hi Aunt Patsy! Look, you're famous on the Internet!) and Uncle Jim's for a very good and very fattening dinner. And I was fine, I really was, it was sad that Jeff wasn't there, but I was okay. Until the prayer before dinner.

The prayer was the traditional stuff (most of which, not being Catholic, I didn't even know), but as we all had our heads bowed, Uncle Jim said something to the effect of, "and please take care of Jeffy." JEFFY!!! Oh my God. That is the sweetest thing that has ever happened, ever, in the world, to anyone. I'm sure they're all very used to this sort of thing and no one really thought much of it, but I don't really pray much (OK, I don't pray at all, let's not gild the lily) but there was something moving about his voice just quietly asking for Jeff to be okay and come back to us. It really just struck me for some reason -- my God, that's all that matters, isn't it? Jeff being okay and coming back. That's really all that matters.

It was the only moment that I really felt stunned by the fact that Jeff was gone, he wasn't there to be with these people who love him more than anything. They've loved him since he was born, and I've only loved him for the last five years. (OK, like the last four years, but he was difficult for a while there and you wouldn't do any better, I assure you.) They've loved him since he was ... Jeffy. And to them, he'll always be their Jeffy. Uncle Jim, if you are reading this, you are the sweetest man alive. Except you almost made me cry, you heartless man. Aside from that whole heartless tearjerking thing, though ... sweetest man alive.

Well, except for Jeff. I have to say that Jeff is the sweetest, because if I don't he'll give me this look like "you have betrayed me, my love," like he does when I say "oh, she's really nice," and he says helpfully, "I'M really nice," and I look at him like "okay, nutcase," because, as we all know (well, most of us know), the world is a big big place where two (maybe even three or four!) nice people can safely coexist in harmony. Jeff often seems concerned that nice people -- or people who can cook as well as he can, or people who work as hard as he does -- may be stealing his thunder. I would be annoyed with this insecurity, but it's really cute when he does it, because he sounds so anxious, as if I have discovered this OTHER nice person and will now stop being his friend. It's cute that he's worried about being my friend, since we are not in grade school and are actually now married and everything. Jeff, I will always pick you first in kickball.

Speaking of Jeff, he did so well on Thanksgiving. He had a big fancy dinner, I hear, and I'm glad about that, but I'm happiest that he got to call around to every house where anyone he knew might be gathered. I'm not sure he realizes how happy people were to hear from him, but everyone just lit up when the phone rang. I forget that some people are forced to wait for him to come back before getting to hear him or see him, and I forget how many people haven't been in touch with him for months. I'm lucky to talk to him as much as I do, and I don't think I've really appreciated how much easier the sound of his voice has made it for me to get through all of this.

Anyway, I knew this would be a long explanation of a very simple story. But I had a great time with everyone. We told stories, we ate good food, and I was having such a great time that I didn't really notice I drank FOUR COKES, which is like shooting heroin for a normal person. I got home and was still caffeinated to the gills -- my lips were trembling, I am not kidding you. I also went downstairs and then forgot why three times in a row before I remembered that I was supposed to be doing laundry. This is what happens when you party hard with Aunt Patsy and Uncle Jim.

They really, really need to stop giving me leftovers in Tupperware, though. I lack the ability to return it. They should realize this about me, but they keep sending me home with containers anyway. The last time they did this, the Tupperware they gave me got so old that I threw it out and bought them new Tupperware, which I promptly lost. I apologize of all of this, I really do. The family Tupperware-returner is on an extended vacation in Iraq. I would tell you to just send me a bill for the Tupperware, but, you guessed it, the bill-payer of the family is temporarily away from his post. Oh well, I'll just send you a thank-you card for the Tupperware. Wait, no I won't! Hey Jeff, when you get back, don't forget to send them a thank-you card for the Tupperware.

I also got to see my family, and they got to all shout hello to Jeff (I have a big family on my mother's side, so there wasn't time for him to talk to all of them). I wasn't there for that part, but I hear he was pretty tickled at that. That was fun too, and I wished Thanksgiving were longer so I could manage my time a little better. The truth is, my priority was being around people who have known Jeff forever, because it made me feel a little closer to him.

I've been pretty chipper on the phone with Jeff, since I had such fun. I think sometimes my fun is a little hard on Jeff, because ... well, I shouldn't have to explain this, because I just told you he gets anxious when I say someone's nice. I can imagine his anxiety, then, when I say "We had Thanksgiving without you ... and I had such a great time, oh my gosh it was awesome!" It's hard for him being away for the holidays, and I think sometimes me sounding happy is not what he wants. Well, of course he wants me to be happy, but it's like him telling me he enjoys Iraq and me getting anxious about that. When you're enduring a separation like this, you always want to hear that life just isn't right without you.

So I'll set the record straight: Jeff, life just isn't right without you. I had a great time on Thanksgiving, but I'll have a better time any plain old day of the week with you, because that's just the way it is with kickball partners. But the best thing of all is, I don't have to choose. Next year, we'll all do it together.

Next year, we may even return the Tupperware.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2004-11-25T11:11:00.000-06:00

I'm thankful to be married to my best friend.

I'm thankful that we are both alive and well.

I'm thankful that this deployment is half over.

I'm thankful for everything I've learned in the last few months.

I'm thankful that all the naysayers about marriage were wrong, wrong, wrong.

I'm thankful for my family and everything they've done for me.

I'm thankful to be welcome at so many tables this Thanksgiving.

I'm thankful I don't feel like I need to be anyone different than who I am.

I'm thankful Jeff doesn't feel like I need to be anyone different than who I am.

I'm just thankful.

H to the A to the L to the F

2004-11-22T13:27:00.000-06:00

Jeff mentioned to me on the phone yesterday that it was the halfway point to the deployment. As you may have noticed, Jeff is so far Not Dead. Lovely! We are accomplishing every last goal so far!

He mentioned, though, that he's getting some new wrinkles, working so hard and being uncomfortable a lot of the time. I hadn't bargained for this. I mean, I knew I didn't want him dead. Now I'm rethinking it and I'm not sure I want a mummy either. He's going to get off the plane looking like Mick Jagger, and I'll suddenly remember I have somewhere else to be. Hopefully his eyes will also have gone bad with old age so he won't see the pale skinny girl in fancy clothing and high heels galloping awkwardly away to hide in the shrubbery.

Oh, come on, it's funny.

The wrinkle-inducing work Jeff is doing involves removing explosives from buildings in Fallujah. The bad news is, he now looks exactly like Mick Jagger. The good news is, he feels that this is more what he wanted to do over there, and he feels like he's really contributing to something important. Yay for important Jeff! I'm glad he's enjoying himself. Well, sort of. I said I was glad and then accused him bitterly of loving Iraq more than me. It was all friendly banter, though, except for the part where I sobbed brokenheartedly and asked him what Iraq had that I didn't have. Does Iraq cook him dinner? Does Iraq clean his floors? He pointed out that I don't do any of those things either. Then I threw a shoe at him and said I wanted a divorce.

OK, I don't know where I'm going with this. Except: HALFWAY! HALFWAY! HALFWAY!

A thought on Jeff's last note ...

2004-11-20T13:16:00.000-06:00

Wow, looks like Jeff is finally seeing a little action. I don't mean to belittle the battalion commander, because it sounds like he was just doing his job and pumping people up, but I must be the voice of reason in this case: Can anyone think of very many ways that bombing a city is even remotely like football? For your convenience, I made a list:

1. There are uniforms.

But I like you, battalion commander. There's no beef with you. So please don't get angry and send one of your "quarterbacks" to my "stadium" to "tackle" me so they can "kill me with their rifles," okay? Wait, I dropped the football analogy. Excuse me, I meant "kill me with their rifles in the end zone." Yessss.

If you think I'm kidding about this whole scary bad analogy thing, Google "war in Iraq is like" (or "gay marriage is like," "social security is like," etc) in quotes and see what you find. I found one writer who feels that the war in Iraq is like an unwanted pregnancy, and by not getting worldwide approval, the U.S. "skipped the marriage" and had an illegitimate child that they must now carry to term. He said, "We have a responsibility. We're not going to marry the mother, but we damn well better make sure that the baby is well cared for." OK, I don't even like the war in Iraq, but ... WHAT?? Obviously, both sides of any issue are guilty of this ridiculous level of illogic.

I also found the statement by the Catholic Church that gay marriage is like a virus. Gay marriage could be proven to be wrong, and Catholicism could be proven to be the truest and best religion out there, but none of this would change the fact that gay marriage really just does not resemble a virus in any way. Sorry, Catholic Church. I'm not trying to say that your beliefs suck. I'm trying to say your analogy sucks, because wow, does it ever.

I guess I'm so disturbed by the bad analogy plague because I can just imagine everyone nodding their heads and saying "Yes, that makes perfect sense!" Many unfortunate events in history can be blamed on bad analogies and the blank-eyed nodding of lots and lots of people, so please, try to think for yourself a little. Okay? Now get out there and TOSS THAT PIGSKIN! Break!

A note from Jeff, #8 -- second one in a row!

2004-11-20T10:55:00.000-06:00

Jeff says:

"Before our detachment left Al Asad for Fallujah, the battalion commander gave all of us going a pep talk. He said that becoming a Marine was like getting into the NFL, and coming to Iraq was like making the playoffs. Then he said that the operation that was going to take place in Fallujah was like the Super Bowl.

Well, at the time of the "kickoff" on the night of Nov. 8, our squad found ourselves out about two miles away from downtown on the other side of a highway that goes around the city. We were there to set up two checkpoints. We worked in the dark as the assault started.

There was small arms fire, bombs, cannons, and artillery going off for most of the night. It was raining a little, and it was cold. We ended up sleeping out there that night, and it was the most miserable night I have ever had as far as comfort goes.

Which is funny, because exactly two years before that was the night before my wedding. On that night, people might have thought I would be nervous and have trouble sleeping, but that was not the case. I stayed at my cousin Bret's place, and the sheets he had were so comfortable, and knowing I was going to marry the best girl in the world the next day gave me one of the best nights' sleep I have ever had. So it was nice to have experienced the two extremes.

As for the light show that the U.S. military can put on, it is amazing. The sights and sounds are an experience. Especially when anti-aircraft rounds are shot basically right over you, and they explode only a couple of hundred meters away from you. There was also small arms fire taken close to our position.

Needless to say, it was an experience I was glad I got to be a part of, but I certainly don't want to make it a habit.

Well that's all for now, I'll have another update soon. Thanks for tuning in. Until next time, goodnight."

A note from Jeff #7, and a few thoughts

2004-11-16T22:14:00.000-06:00

Jeff says: (on 11-5-04)
"Well, sorry it's been so long between updates, but since I can't say what I'm doing or where I'm at right now, updating is kind of hard. Although CNN seems to know what we are doing -- funny, isn't it?

Jenni told me to write about how hard it is to not be able to talk about what I'm doing. Believe me, it is nothing that exciting. But it sucks not being able to talk about it because Jenni and I don't keep secrets from each other (if she does from me, she's keeping it a secret!) but I can tell you I still get ice cream, but I don't get hot showers. But which one is more important? Ice cream, of course!

The holidays are coming up, and that seems to slow time down for me, and that is not what I'm looking for. This will be two years in a row I have missed all the major fall and winter holidays, so that sucks. But guess who signed the contract? This guy, so it is my own fault. So don't cry for me, Argentina.

The weather here is starting to cool off, and it rains every now and then, so yay for the mosquitos. That is sarcasm, since you can't hear the tone of my voice.

Not much else to report right now, except everyone is fine. Please thank my lovely wife for being able to read my writing and fix my spelling so you all can enjoy this update.

I want to give a special shout-out to Pete and Jill Murry for the postcard from Florida. I need your address so I can send you a postcard from beautiful Iraq.

Talk to you all soon. And remember, we tried peace, now let's give violence a chance."

OK, I think he might have been kidding about giving violence a chance. I think. You really never know with Jeff. I Googled "give violence a chance" to see if he picked that up from a movie or something, and all I got were psychotic hardcore Christian sites and offensive KKK sites. So you have those two groups ... and now this journal. Great!

To update you further, since this letter was sent a long time ago, Jeff's living conditions are improved now. He also has access to a Web cam, which is so fun, I can't even tell you. It's great to talk to him on the phone, but it's even better to type something funny and watch him crack up on the other end. Jeff will "kiss" me by pursing his lips at the camera and pretending to kiss it, and when you think about what that must look like to anyone sitting in the computer area, you just have to laugh. It's also very cute to watch his brow furrow in concentration while he reads. Jeff read words. Jeff type letters. Jeff smart man!

If you think I'm exaggerating, wait until I figure out how to do a screen capture. Then you can see Jeff peering at the screen looking for all the world like a tan little caveman.

Jeff requested that I also get a Web cam. So I did, but I'm not too thrilled at this. When he mentioned I should get one, my hair was wrapped in a towel and I had moisturizer all over my face. A double-edged sword, those Web cams. I'm sure in Jeff's imagination I look great, so do we really have to dispel the illusion? Of course, Jeff always looks great, one of the many examples of how life is bitterly unfair.

The downside of our online conversations are that I leave my computer volume up really high now, so I can hear him "knock." Yahoo messenger also lets me know when I have a new e-mail, which SCARES THE EVERLOVING BEJESUS out of me when I'm sitting right in front of the screen and a noise comes blaring out of the speakers loud enough to blow my hair back. I think I've had a heart attack and two strokes just today. The things we do for love.

As for the "secrets" Jeff mentioned, I do have a few, but they're all surprises for when Jeff gets home. Well, that, and I used to be a man.

I heard from Jeff!

2004-11-14T10:49:00.000-06:00

Yaaaaay! Jeff called me at 6 this morning. He's doing fine, and thinks that he'll be able to call much more often now.

I asked him if he knew the C Company Marine member who died, and he said, "No, and from now on I'm going to make sure I stay the hell away from water." (There have been four American drownings in Iraq since this whole thing started. Three of them were Company C.)

Anyway, there's not much new to share, at least nothing my tired brain can think of ...

Uh ... what?

2004-11-11T12:01:00.000-06:00

If you have wondered how much of the real me comes through on this site, I can answer you: "very little." My sense of humor is present and accounted for, of course, but my daily activities are not chronicled here, nor are many of my funny non-Jeff and non-deployment stories. This site is for him, and as often as I may seem to be rambling on about my life, I do try to stick to relevant material.

The contrast between the Internet-me and the real-me came into dazzling focus at work yesterday. Here, I can't stop talking about Jeff; at work, I'm guessing half of the people there have no idea I'm even married. Jeff was gone when I started there.

(I do have a picture of us on my desk. I am not a terrible wife. But then again, people are not terribly observant.)

But just recently, my in-the-know supervisor decided to collect money for a care package for Jeff, which is a very nice thing to do. It had the added consequence, however, of informing everyone about the circumstances of my marriage. (This can be bad, because then they come around me with a big dose of Pity Face and I get annoyed with them for interrupting the denial of reality that is my work day. But it can be good, because I get away with things. It all balances out.)

Anyway, a man walked up to me today at work and said very seriously, "I just wanted to tell you that you need to keep a stiff upper lip, but we're all here for you to lean on."

I said, "Uh ... okay."

I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. I couldn't come up with a single thing.

I thought it might be some sort of corporate "there's no I in Team" pump-up speech (we were standing right by the copier, which seems like an appropriate place for that), so I raised my fist in the air and sort of pumped it at him, like "Go team, I'm all for the team!" You may think it weird that I made such a gesture when I really had no idea what we were talking about, but if you're me, you're used to walking around in a world that you don't really understand. I'm proud to say that I've muddled through many a corporate conversation, then looked back on it and realized that I was dangling on the edge of a black abyss, and I could have been in major trouble had I said the wrong thing. When in doubt, shut up and make positive confirmational gesture.

Anyway, it was about three hours later when I said "Oh! Right!" out loud to no one in particular.

Sorry, nice man at the office. I didn't mean to look at you as if you had grown two heads. I forgot that you knew. I guess I'm going to have to get used to this.

Anyway, it just seemed funny to me: people who read this site know me as "that girl who is obsessed with her husband and never stops thinking about him." But the strangers at the office know me as "that girl who never seems to date, which is weird because she's so smart and funny!" Well, OK, maybe that's not exactly what they say, but I think you get the idea.

Happy Anniversary

2004-11-09T20:21:00.000-06:00

Those of you who are super-sleuths may have guessed that this is a picture of me and Jeff on our wedding day. As you can see, Jeff is not wearing pants. I find this entirely appropriate.

That was a great day, and I still don't think we're over it, two years later. Anytime anyone refers to us as "the Gilberts," Jeff still elbows me and gives me this goofy smile. We get all excited about our Gilbert address labels, because we are big married dorks. It's fun to have him as my family.

Of course there have been hard times. I won't lie to you: Marriage is HARD. I think that's evidenced by this picture of us, taken a mere TWO WEEKS after the wedding:

I'm kidding, of course. Marriage isn't hard. What's hard about it? It's great! Jeff makes me breakfast, and does the dishes, and takes out the trash, and ... well, now that I think about it, marriage is probably hard for HIM.

Jeff's the hard worker, the budgeter, the neat freak. He keeps this marriage working, and is always the one who holds us together, even if he doesn't think so. The only real fight we ever had in our marriage, he was the one who burst in the next day with flowers and said, "I'm so sorry. I never want to do that again." (I was the one strategically sulking and not speaking to him, because obviously that's just SO constructive in a relationship.) If he weren't as organized (read: psychotically anal) as he is, we would probably BOTH be blissfully playing video games while the bank foreclosed on our house. Not that we would have a house. I never would have survived all that paperwork without him. I would have glanced through it, muttered something about needing to use the restroom, forgot halfway down the hall where I was going, and simply wandered out of the bank.

Despite my rampant incompetence, he trusts me completely, and doesn't even do the typical man thing of complaining about his wife when she's not around. I know this because people are always taking me aside and telling on him, telling me in astonishment that he was saying nice things about me when I WASN'T EVEN THERE. Gasp! Once we were staying near a casino for a friend's wedding, and Jeff went downstairs in the hotel by himself to fetch me breakfast (see? marriage is so easy) and while he was filling the tray, another couple asked him, "Have you had any luck gambling this weekend?" He cheerfully told them, "Oh, I already won the lottery when I married my wife."

See??? You all totally want to marry him now, don't you?

Lucky for me, I already did.

Happy anniversary, Jeff. Here's to us. May our future be full of laughter, love, and optional pants.

"Have you heard from him?"

2004-11-07T14:03:00.000-06:00

The answer to this question is no. I don't like saying that, though, because I get the sense that it scares people unnecessarily. It's true that Jeff usually calls me every few days, but let's remember that he's in the middle of the desert in a country that just declared a state of emergency. He's probably just busy.

I will update here when I hear from him so everyone knows that he's OK. I'm going to start doing that, I think -- if he calls, I'll leave a short note here, so everyone is updated. This wasn't necessary before, but things seem to just be going beserk over there, at least according to CNN, so it might help everyone sleep better if they know Jeff is still calling, e-mailing, etc.

He hasn't gotten a chance to check his e-mail in quite a while, I know that. So if you've written him, just hang tight and he'll get back to you. There is usually an Internet time limit that makes it difficult for him to write lengthy e-mails in response. But he's grateful for all the notes and always tells me he enjoys hearing from people.

Anyway, sit tight and I'll get back to you ...

Deployment, the No. 1 mouse-killer

2004-11-03T19:52:00.000-06:00

Deployment is clearly hazardous to mice. First, there was the unfortunate mouse-bombing at Fort McCoy in Wisconsin (this is documented, I believe, in "A Mission At Fort McCoy" in the photos. I would link to it, but I am lazy as hell and don't feel like looking it up).

Then, there was the unfortunate incident involving a mouse getting caught in the blower motor of my car. Let's just say the blower stopped working right, and then the car started to smell, and then my dad pulled a dead mouse out of the blower unit, stumbling back in surprise and ramming my car door into the side of HIS car in the process.

Deployment is dangerous for mice. If you have a mouse problem, deploy a loved one immediately, and terrible freak accidents will begin to take the lives of the innocent mice all around you.

OTHER DEPLOYMENT POINTS:

- You can, in fact, eat breakfast in the bathtub.

- You know that little button inside the waistband of pants? There's a little button and a little metal clasp. Well, it turns out you don't even NEED that little button. Just get rid of it and your pants will be ten times easier to don and remove. You too can be an efficiency master! And I get ten English points for saying "don" instead of "put on."

- I will tell the truth and admit I slipped very deeply into a funk the last few weeks. The whole married-to-a-deployed-person situation felt like a boulder that I was carrying, and I just wanted to put ... that rock ... down. More specifically, I wanted to roll that rock merrily down a mountainous hill and watch it tear through the pretty landscaping as I laughed and cheered. Oh, calm down, it was just a feeling. I can't say it's a worse feeling than the ordinary non-deployment equivalent, which is when Jeff irritates me until I want to crush his windpipe to prevent air from reaching any part of his annoying body.* And in that case, I want to murder him, when in this other case I just wanted to abandon him. When you put it like that, it's not so bad.

- At Kroger you can get five TV dinners for five dollars. FIVE DINNERS! For FIVE DOLLARS! The right amount of calories, the right amount of food, and enough sodium to kill a small pony. What else could you possibly ask for for $1? I particularly recommend the Mexican dishes by Banquet. Do not -- I repeat, do not -- eat the meatloaf.

- I always thought that milk "going bad" was an exaggeration of sorts, and that people refer to accidentally drinking "sour milk" with overdramatized disgust. It turns out that I have just been lucky. Until now.

- I take this moment to give props to Sandi Hessedence for leaving a comment about politics on this journal. Rock on, Sandi Hessedence! Oh, and by the way, when I said all that crap about voting how you feel, did you not realize I meant VOTE FOR KERRY? Did you not realize, people? OHIO, WEREN'T YOU LISTENING?

*Jeff is fantastic 99 percent of the time. But that one percent. Oh, that one percent.

The knock on the door

2004-10-30T13:41:00.000-05:00

Eight Marines died in Iraq today. My sister called to tell me this, and we both made statements that were these kind of "well, what are the odds it would be Jeff ..." type of thoughts. Then I said, "But the fact that it's unlikely probably doesn't cheer you up when it happens to you. Like, 'Oh, yeah, he's dead, but cheer up, because it totally wasn't that likely.'" And she said, "Yeah. There are still eight widows out there somewhere today." Or girlfriends, or boyfriends, or parents.

There are many more than that who will grieve the loss of their loved ones. Mothers, fathers, siblings, friends, coworkers.

I'd like to ask you to take a minute today to think about this whole situation in Iraq. Should we be over there? Why are we there? What do we hope to accomplish? It's not my intent to ask leading questions -- you can draw your own conclusions. But think about it. Make your decision. And be active politically in the upcoming election and any other election. Politics do affect you and the people you love, so please vote. I'm not saying "vote because of Iraq." I'm saying "don't think for a second that the issues don't matter to you, because they do, even if you don't realize it." I'm telling you that someone you have enjoyed reading about on this site could have died today. So pick your issue or issues -- health care, welfare, whatever -- and make a decision.

If you believe that we should be doing what we're doing in Iraq, then that's fine -- war is never pretty, and Marines and soldiers did, after all, sign on for this. If they must give their lives for what is right, then so be it. But if you do not believe that we should be there at all, then in your view people (not just Americans, either) are dying senselessly, and in my opinion you are doing a terrible thing if you do nothing to express your view at the polls.

If you have opinions on these issues and you do not vote ... well, please never tell me that. You are at the helm of this country, along with millions of others. The decision to keep the military in any country is as much your decision as anyone else's. Please bear that responsibility by voting, one way or the other.

Now we come to my political opinions. You may skip them, if you like -- I feel tiresome giving my political opinion when so many people are already giving it, but eight Marines are dead today and I feel it is my job to speak out. Besides, what kind of chicken would I be to talk about how important political opinions are without giving my own?

My opinion is that we should not be over there. That is, of course, unless Jeff happens to find those weapons of mass destruction while he's there. Striking "pre-emptively" is no better than just plain striking. If someone struck us "pre-emptively" because of OUR huge stockpile of weapons of mass destruction, we would freak the hell out. And strike back. If we weren't already pre-emptively striking them at the time, of course. If you're concerned about the war on terrorism, it would serve you well to remember that, as our friend Chomsky has noted, the United States is the only official terrorist country reprimanded by the World Court twenty years ago for international terrorism in Nicaragua during the Reagan Administration. We are the only country in history with that distinction.

I am not for one moment defending the actions of terrorists. Nor I am failing to "support the troops," a ridiculous accusation that often is thrown out there when someone fails to support the war on terrorism. (Can someone please explain to me how NOT wanting the troops to DIE is a failure to "support the troops"? I would love to hear your logical argument.) I am referring to their deaths as "senseless" with "senseless" being another word for "totally preventable," not "senseless" as in "unimportant" or "trivial." I support the troops. You have a right to suggest otherwise. But I will think you are stupid, seeing as I spend a lot of time maintaining a site devoted to a Marine. So don't do it.

No, I am trying to express to you that terrorism is just a concept, just like evil, or drug use. How do you fight a war against a concept? It is as impossible and grandiose to me as a War Against Greed or a War Against Murder. Great idea, but pretty difficult to execute, and often causing more problems than were there before. A War Against Humanity is probably historically well justified at this point, but awkward to carry out, considering.

Here I must quote Noam Chomsky:
"The last time that the national territory of the United States was under attack, or for that matter, even threatened was when the British burned down Washington in 1814. There have been many...it was common to bring up Pearl Harbor but that's not a good analogy. The Japanese, what ever you think about it, the Japanese bombed military bases in 2 US colonies not the national territory; colonies which had been taken from their inhabitants in not a very pretty way. This is the national territory that's been attacked on a large scale, you can find a few fringe examples but this is unique. During these close to 200 years, we, the United States expelled or mostly exterminated the indigenous population, that's many millions of people, conquered half of Mexico, carried out depredations all over the region, Caribbean and Central America, sometimes beyond, conquered Hawaii and the Philippines, killing several 100,000 Filipinos in the process. Since the Second World War, it has extended its reach around the world in ways I don't have to describe. But it was always killing someone else, the fighting was somewhere else, it was others who were getting slaughtered. ... (And as for Europe) during this whole bloody murderous period, it was Europeans slaughtering each other, and Europeans slaughtering people elsewhere. The Congo didn't attack Belgium, India didn't attack England, Algeria didn't attack France. It's uniform. There are again small exceptions, but pretty small in scale, certainly invisible in the scale of what Europe and us were doing to the rest of the world. This is the first change. The first time that the guns have been pointed the other way. The world looks very different depending on whether you are holding the lash or whether you are being whipped by it for hundreds of years, very different. ... Most of the rest of the world looks at (September 11, etc) quite differently. Not lacking sympathy for the victims of the atrocity or being horrified by them, that's almost uniform, but viewing it from a different perspective. Something we might want to understand."

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go wait to hear from Jeff to know that he's safe, for now. I'm guessing he is, because no one has informed me otherwise. But until he comes home, I will always be waiting for the knock on the door. I do think that waiting would be made a little easier if I could accept that Jeff's death was necessary for the sake of our country.

But I love him, and I support him, and I'm glad that he is having an experience that is teaching him so much. It has taught us a lot about what we mean to one another, and about what's important in life (hint: it's not a big house or a nice car, people!). Now I just hope we get the chance to continue our relationship with that new perspective, and move forward from this. Eight Marines lost that chance today. No matter what your decision at the polls is, and even if you don't know a single person in the military, please do not forget about them.

At laaaaaast, the photos have come along ....

2004-10-24T21:20:00.000-05:00

Finally, a new album of photos appears on the photos page. What took so long, you ask? Well, first of all, it didn't FEEL like it had been well over a month since I posted the last ones. This is good news, because it means that time is going quickly for me. Right now, that's all I can ask for. If the rest of the deployment passes this fast, I will consider myself unbelievably lucky, because it really does seem like Jeff just left last week, not three months ago.

I do fear that time is slowing down. This weekend I forgot to overschedule myself, and the boredom set in. Suddenly unbusy, I got a glimpse of how pathetic my life actually is with Jeff gone, and I was so desperately bored that I was THIS CLOSE to chewing on my own arm just to entertain myself. Hey, this approach seems to work for the dog. (Unfortunately, insurance doesn't cover boredom-induced injuries. Yet one more way The Man is trying to keep me down.)

Then I remembered that I had lots to do, including a long-awaited album for the photos page. So I got to work, and it went great, until I mismatched the captions so they were all one photo off. Instead of cheerfully fixing them, I chose to get IRRATIONALLY, FURIOUSLY MAD and stalk away from the computer. This felt good, except lucky for you, I got bored again today and was forced into a truce with the evil machine.

In deployment news (but isn't it all deployment news?), Jeff and I aren't in contact. I hope to hear from him soon. We had it so good there for a while, talking on the phone every night and sending e-mails. But he is away from his base camp right now, and probably will be for the next few months. I don't know how his phone and e-mail access are going to be, so we may be reduced to letters. Waiting in the silence for him to resurface is unpleasant, to say the least. If you haven't heard from him, don't take it personally, because no one has heard from him.

And if you DO hear from him, well ... TELL HIM TO CALL HIS WIFE! :)

I know, I know, and I'm sorry

2004-10-19T22:26:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I promised more pictures, and where are they? Sitting in a folder on my desktop. I will get to them ... any ... time ... now. I've been working really hard on the house. We have some deadlines to meet, because THIS has to come before THAT but THAT has to come now because otherwise the chance to get THAT will be missed forever, and anyway it's just as well because if we don't get THAT done soon we won't have time to get THE OTHER THING done by April. So hurry up and do THIS and THAT, preferably at the same time so we can make room for IT and THEM.

It's all a huge pain. Not that I do much of the work, mind you. I have helper elves (OK, it's my dad) so I do very little manual labor. But the THINKING. My God, the THINKING! It's a lot of thinking, and shopping, and measuring, and calculating, and talking on the phone. And deciding. So much deciding. If I have to pick one more paint color I may just have to gouge myself in the eyes. Then I would never see paint again. That alone makes the gouging a worthwhile endeavor.

So, I'm sorry. I have started building the album. It's going to happen. (Maybe even this YEAR.) Other things will happen too. Whatever I've promised you will happen. Thank-you notes will happen. Honest!

A note from Jeff, #6

2004-10-15T21:47:00.000-05:00

Sorry updates have been a bit slow. I've been feeling kind of headachey and generally incapable of daily life -- I think the change in seasons does something weird to me. Anyway, here is Jeff's note, and I'll try not to be so slow next time!

Jeff says:

"War may be hell, but it also stinks.

This last week we traveled up to Camp Wolf for six days to build an Iraqi national guard training center on an Iraqi ammo supply point. The plan was to build ten floors for tents, put up the tents, build a berm, clean up the area and build some Hesco Barriers.

Of course it started with a delayed start to the convoy, and then we had to stop because one of the trucks broke down for a while. So that turned a one hour and ten minute convoy into a three-hour ride -- fun, fun, fun.

We thought that we would be sleeping out under the stars, but instead we were put up in a run-down small building with 30 marines in a room about 12 feet by 25 feet. Lucky for us, we got some cots to sleep on, because the floor was dusty as hell. They say this is a very sandy place, this desert, but they are wrong. This is a very dusty place, what they say is thin loose sand is really just dust that is about the consistency of powdered sugar or hot cocoa mix. It sucks.

The first day of work, our leaders decided to play the game of "work with your blouse on." We usually just work in our green T-shirts, which is a lot cooler and more comfortable, but they decided it was safer to wear the blouse, because it is cami and we would be harder to spot by snipers. Yeah, whatever, by the end of the day we were working in T-shirts. I think the leaders were getting too hot.

Anyway, on the second day we got one tent put up, but that night we had one hell of a dust storm, and it blew the tent down (see the pictures when they are up). So the next day we had to clean up the mess, but we decided that we were not going to put up the tents. Of course that decision changed about three times over the next few days, and in the end we did not put up the tents.

The flies around this place were pretty bad and that was kind of annoying, but at least the food there was OK.

Oh, one funny thing was at night, the cots we slept on were kind of creaky, so when someone would make a lot of noise for some reason, you would hear all the sleeping marines adjusting themselves, so you would hear about 25 cots making noise. I guess you had to be there.

The one thing that we did build that was a side project (because our convoy to pick us up came two days late) was build a little simulation building for the grunts to practice clearing buildings, so I felt that was actually something we have done to help out.

Finally our convoy came to get us six days after we left, and the ride home was uneventful. The one thing I can say after this trip was I'm glad I'm based out of Al Asad airbase because of all the conveniences we have. The grunts that are based at Wolf have no phones, no computers, and no PX, so it pretty much sucks there. So be happy with what you have -- it could always be worse.

Talk to you all again soon,
Jeff"

Deployment notes

2004-10-07T13:55:00.000-05:00

Nothing that substantial has happened lately. I know, I know, I've gotten you used to hearing about all of these dramatic events. (The epic spider battle! The touching teamwork of friends and family!) A few little things have happened here and there that I've forgotten to mention, so I will relate those in an attempt to keep you entertained.

Bert the Cactus
When my mother cleaned at my house awhile back, she stole my cactus. I was a negligent mother, admittedly, but even the DCFS gives you a hearing or something, right? Not my mother. Dry and forlorn, Bert the Cactus (who was Jeff's responsibility, it's not my fault Jeff left) was whisked away into foster care. Are you going to judge me harshly if I say I didn't even notice right away? OK, I didn't even notice until she said something about it. Let's hope I show a little more interest in my kids. How often do you have to water those?

Anyway, here was the conversation:
Mom: "Did you notice that your cactus was gone?"
Me: "Oh. Oh, right. Yeah. I noticed that ... you know, I noticed that something was different." (Waves of guilt crash over me as I realize I have not exactly been the best cactus caretaker.)
Mom: "Yeah, I took him to live with me."
Me: "It's probably for the best. I guess I wasn't really taking too good of care of Bert."
Awkward pause.
Mom: "Well ... actually we call him Mr. Pickles."
WHAT??
She renamed the cactus?? MY cactus?? Why didn't she just call it "Baby Richard?" This cactus is going to need therapy. Mom, promise me that when you show up at my house and my children are running around soiled and naked and covered in bedsores, and you're forced to take them home with you, you will have the decency to call them by their given names, Helga and Sven.

Sven, incidentally, was one of Jeff's suggested names for our future son. He also suggested Perseus and Jesus. I WILL BE NAMING THE CHILDREN.

The Roof Fund
Everyone who has donated for our new roof: You are lovely people. Waaaay too nice, but I forgive you for that one small character flaw.

The situation does make me feel that I should highlight something here: We aren't poor. That is not to say we do not enjoy gifts, and it is not to say that your gifts are any way insulting or degrading, because believe me (beleeeeeeeve me) they aren't at all. Your gifts are nice. We like you. If I can get my act together, you might even get a Christmas card. That's how much I like you.

But I worry about people getting the wrong impression about us. Jeff likes to act poor. If the cost of toilet paper went up five cents I'm sure he would tiredly put his hand to his head and sigh, like "How can we get ahead in a world like this one?" But this is not because we are poor. It is because Jeff is a tightwad. I love you, Jeff, but stop looking at me like that and just admit that you are a TOTAL TIGHTWAD.

But it's great that Jeff is a tightwad. It contributes to that whole yin and yang thing we've got going, and I love him for it. It helps us have nice things rather than spend our money on little stupid things we don't need. (Like, you know, toilet paper.) An unfortunate side effect is that people assume we're poor just because Jeff is eating green beans out of a can for lunch. Lest you think I am joking, he really does do that. I was horrified to discover that this was Jeff's regular lunch habit at work. Then again, if I pointed to something really expensive and useless, and stuck my bottom lip out a little, he would totally cave and get it for me because he is the most generous tightwad on the planet. Hence my lack of complaint -- I get the best of both worlds.

Anyway, it's a touchy topic. If I overemphasize our lack of poorness, I might seem offended that people want to give, as if it's injured my pride. It hasn't. My pride is unharmable. If you told me you would pay me five dollars to dance around like a marionette, I would totally do it, even if I had a mansion and a limo, because, hey man, five dollars!

So thanks.

The Comments section
No one is using the comments section. This is not to say that no one is commenting, because they are. They e-mail Jeff, they e-mail me, they contact Jeff's mother. There are lots of people viewing this site, which is great. And it's awesome to hear from all you guys. If you don't want to comment on this site, you don't have to, but I wanted to make you aware that the option exists. It's a fun feature, should you choose to use it. I'm going to place a comment on this post so people know how it works. A lot of people reading this blog don't even know what a "blog" is, much less how it works. I think most people in my generation get it, but I know for a fact that many visitors here have never left a comment in their lives.

Again, I'm not fishing for comments ... but if you know Jeff, this is your site as much as it is mine, and I want to make sure everyone is aware of their participation options here. See that little comments link at the bottom of this post? Should you feel the urge to speak! speak! speak your mind! To everyone on the Internet! Well, that's what it's there for. If you change your mind, you can delete the comment, and it will leave a little "This comment has been deleted ..." message where the comment once was. I'll leave an example of that too.

Pictures
I know, I know, I haven't posted Jeff's pictures yet. That's because they haven't gotten here yet. He e-mailed me a few and mailed the rest, and they're lost out there somewhere. He sends me a media card. If I were the military, I would look on that media card to make sure Jeff is not a spy. My guess is they really do that, which is why it takes so much longer than a letter.

That's all. I hope everyone is having a lovely weekend ...

Pictures coming soon

2004-10-04T20:38:00.000-05:00

Jeff sent me a set of pictures, and I don't have time to make an album from them right this minute, but one of them was really cool, so I thought I'd post it real quick before I got back to all the millions of things I have to do today:

Cool huh?

A note from Jeff, #5

2004-10-03T22:50:00.000-05:00

Before I begin this note from Jeff, I will post this picture:

It's our new roof! It's lovely. And by lovely I mean you don't notice it or think it looks crappy. Now no one pays any attention to our roof, and that's exactly how it should be.

As for those who contributed to the roof, you are freaking me out with your generosity. Thanks so, so much.

Anyway, here's Jeff's note.

Jeff says:

"Hello again,
Well, it is now October and in just a few short months you won't have this web site to look forward to, because I'll be home.

Let's see, in the last week we went on a daylong road trip to a place that was about 45 miles away. It was only about ten of us that went, to lay out corners of some tent floors that we will have to build for an Iraqi National Guard training camp. There should be some pictures of this place. Let me just say it is a real s--thole. It looks like a town might look after the Apocalypse, but I'm sure we will clean it up.

We have also started building another sea hut, so you know, hammer hammer hammer. We have a new company policy that we will get up at 4:30 a.m. so we can get to work earlier and be out of the heat. We are also supposed to end the work day earlier, but that is not always the case. We have to get so far in our current project to be able to quit for the day. We get up too early to be able to go to the chow hall for breakfast, but they got us some muffins and cereal to eat in the morning.

Our current flag football season came to an end with a loss in the first round of the playoffs. We got our (butts) handed to us, it kind of sucked.

I was adopted by some nice people out of Georgia who sent me a letter and a package. That was nice of them. They were both prior military, so they know what it is like to be away.

Well, that is about it for now. Another update to come in about a week. Talk at you later.

Jeff"

Bittner's got my back

2004-09-30T22:52:00.000-05:00

Before I relate this story to you, I present this diagram:

As you can see, it is helpfully labeled. Jeff would be the one under the word "idiot." I am sad to say this is not a coincidence.

But who is this other fellow? Who is the one helpfully labeled "hero"? Why, that's Bittner. He is mature and smart and nice. I like Bittner. See how close the two are sitting? (If that's not enough evidence, there are some scandalous snuggling pictures in the photo albums.) One would hope Bittner's traits would cross over onto Jeff through some sort of magical military osmosis. Alas, this is not the case.

Recently (and this was actually last week, before I even posted Jeff's birthday post, before you go thinking I'm really all that mad about this), Jeff did something he is not supposed to do. He volunteered for a convoy. Jeff is not supposed to do this because the two of us have, as a couple, decided to focus on the following priorities for Jeff during this deployment:

1. Don't die.
2. Seriously, dude, don't die, okay?
3. Try not to lose a limb. At least not any of the important ones.

Notice the overall emphasis on not dying. Not dying is really key. I can't stress that enough.

Anyway, volunteering for dangerous things when one could be sitting around bored constitutes a breach of the agreement, because being bored never killed anyone, at least not directly. Convoys have definitely killed people. Convoys are actually sort of known for that. So volunteering for dangerous things, in addition to the many dangerous things that are ALREADY MANDATORY in deployment, is a bad thing.

And before anyone suggests that I'm wrong for holding him back, those of you addressing this situation with a "in for a penny, in for a pound" mentality: You may have missed the part where I already agreed to live without my spouse for a year, giving up time from my marriage so my husband can serve, carrying out the various tasks he is actually ordered to do. That is enough. Even if it isn't enough by some standards, it's all I'm willing to give.

But anyway. I interrupted my own story. Where was I? Oh yes, Jeff volunteered for a convoy.

This is where Bittner comes in: when Jeff volunteered, Bittner, who is one rank above Jeff, pulled rank and wouldn't let him go. Bittner said something to the effect of, "I couldn't come back and face Jenni if I let you go and you got killed."

Bittner, you are my hero. You are a good friend to Jeff, and I respect you and the work that you do, much as I respect psychotherapists and police negotiators. It cannot be easy dealing with Jeff's various neurological disorders. Jeff was once again thinking with the logic of a drunken hamster, and you recognized that.

So Bittner is fantastic. Thank you, Bittner.

Oh, but as grateful as I was to Bittner, I had not forgotten about Jeff. Did you think I had? No, no, no. When Jeff fessed up on the phone to his rampant deadly volunteerism, we reviewed our priorities. First, we reviewed HIS priorities (Don't die, don't die, keep your limbs, yadda yadda) and then we reviewed MY priorities in the deployment, which are as follows:

1. Don't cheat.
2. Seriously, dude, cheating is so not cool and Jeff will never trust you again.
3. Besides, your conscience would eat you alive. Wouldn't it? WOULDN'T IT???

I explained to him quite reasonably that, in the future, if it is considered okay for him to abandon his priorities, then it is only fair that I am also allowed to abandon mine.

That seemed to do the trick.

~jenni

P.S. Not that I would have enjoyed cheating on Jeff. I would be sleeping with Ryan Phillippe for the sake of fairness and in the name of justice. It would be all part of my efforts to keep Jeff alive, you see. A selfless act, really.
P.P.S. Besides, I don't care what the box office says, Ryan Phillippe is totally hot.
P.P.P.S. I sort of hope that Jeff volunteers for a convoy twice, because ever since I saw Garden State, I wouldn't mind spending some time with Zach Braff. Only if I had to in order to keep Jeff alive, though. Naturally.
P.P.P.P.S. Geez, am I rambling? I am, aren't I. Whoo! Time to give it up and go to bed. To dream of Jude Law.

Lucky

2004-09-26T02:03:00.000-05:00

I'm feeling lucky.

I didn't expect this web site to be as positive as it has been. I ASSURE YOU that I didn't say, "Hey! I know what I can do! I'll make a site that shows the world how fantastic deployment is!"

That was not the case. No.

But I do think this journal proves that when you really look at your life with the purpose of explaining it to a group of readers, you gain a clarity that you may not have experienced if you weren't writing a web journal. If I were just bumbling about murmuring to myself, some of this stuff simply would not have occurred to me. Deployment is not great. Deployment is bad. We all know this. But it's the finer points of the situation, the weird little good things, that catch me unawares.

This week, almost everyone I know has helped me in some way. They have given their time, or their funds, or their attention. I have had several near-disasters this week, and I was bailed out by all of these people, who know I'm an idiot sometimes and like me anyway.

Jeff's mother is giving us a very kind gift.

Likewise with his father and stepmother.

My father has hammered and sawed and done all sorts of handyman-type things that leave me amazed and wondering what the hell my generation is going to do when it's our turn to build stuff. (Turns out mastering dozens of video games does not in any way contribute to one's ability to use a saw. Huh.)

My mother cleaned for me (she WANTED to, people, and it still shames me to admit that she did) and everything is so weirdly clean that the house feels like my own little piece of perfection right now. I had no idea my kitchen floor was not made of crumbs. So smooth. So silky! So silent and non-crunchy!

And my friend Sam ... well, I can't talk about it too much because Jeff doesn't know what we're doing in the basement, but there's a reason I've started to refer to her as the Mother Teresa of Home Decorating. Her patience with my inability to wield a drill is nothing short of saintly. She does all the work while I babble to her and dance around happily pointing at whatever good things she's doing. We call this "helping." It's not. She would probably finish faster if I weren't there, but then she would miss out on the babbling and the dancing, which for some mysterious reason she actually SEEMS TO ENJOY. Like I said, Mother Teresa.

If I've forgotten anyone, I didn't mean to. It's just that so many people are nice to me. I know, I know, it's a problem everyone wishes they had.

And that's the thing. Not everyone has this problem. There are people out there who struggle through life alone, and I am telling you right now that I am not strong enough. I cannot operate a drill. I need drill-operating friends. I need friends of all kinds. And as it turns out, I have a lot of them. So many of them that I shipped off my FAVORITE one to the desert and I still have enough to spare to assemble furniture AND clean my toilet. Unbelievable.

So yeah. I'm lucky.

In other words, it's like ... you have storm clouds ... but there's good in them ... almost like ... each cloud ... has a silver lining. Ooh, that's good. "Every cloud has a silver lining." Somebody write that one down!

You have missed 3 calls

2004-09-24T21:28:00.000-05:00

Here is a new picture for someone who might be missing his wife tonight. Jeff, sorry I missed your calls. I'm sending you telepathic messages to call me back, but in case you don't get to talk to me today, this picture might tide you over. :)

The rest of the note from Jeff (#4)

2004-09-22T22:53:00.000-05:00

This is the continuation of Jeff's note #4. In other news, Jeff called me today and told me he got a "pink belly" for his birthday, a Marine tradition.

Not that military behavior is ever homoerotic. Because it so totally isn't.

Totally. Isn't.

Anyway, I just wanted to relate the pink belly story, because I was amused with Jeff's description: "It took six of them to hold me down. I was feisty!" I laughed, because it was cute, and then I laughed some more, because describing Jeff as "feisty" is seriously the understatement of the century.

But anyway, here is his note.

Jeff says:

"I think I left off at the end of the convoy some parts to that story -- the (broken) backhoe was NOT a Cat product.

Well, when the mechanics finally showed up, they decided they would try to fix the backhoe instead of just loading it on a trailer and fixing it back within the safety of the base, which I could understand if the backhoe were still needed for the job. But we were finished with the work, so after four hours of messing around with it, they decided to -- guess what? -- LOAD IT ON A TRAILER AND FIX IT AT THE BASE. No (poop), huh.

Then after that long day, the drivers decide it's best to make a forty-minute ride last an hour and a half by driving slower than molasses. But not all is bad. We did get the next two days off, in which I won an eight-player Texas Hold 'Em tournament, which took seven hours to play. I won $160, of which $140 was profit since it was a $20 buy-in.

That was pretty much it for last week. Oh yeah, our poker tournament was put on pause for about 30 minutes because some (buttholes) shot a rocket at our base. What a bunch of (jerks), ruining my R&R. Where were those guys while I was out on security for that convoy?

Well, I'll update again in about a week.

Sleep well, America. Your Marines are guarding your oil.

Jeff"

Happy Birthday to the only other one in the world

2004-09-22T01:30:00.000-05:00

I didn't send Jeff a birthday card. I bought him one, and then I couldn't find it, and then the card just seemed stupid anyway, and more days went by and some other stuff happened and then more days went by. This is not a new scenario in my life, this whole "days going by, stuff happening" scenario. But I can't seem to get a handle on it.

So if sending a Hallmark card shows that you care enough to send the very best, I apparently don't care at all. Then again, I spent an hour trying to make the menu of Jeff's new site work, so maybe Hallmark just doesn't know what the hell they're talking about. OR MAYBE THEY'RE JUST TRYING TO SELL CARDS. I can't be the first person to have thought of this. Can I?

See how I translated my pathetic lack of card-sending into a comment on how love shouldn't be commercialized? Yeah, I'm shifty. Jennifer Gilbert is all about positive spin, my friends.

To make up for what a bad wife I've been, here is Jeff's birthday card. Only it isn't a card, it's an online journal entry, because I am just so darn hip and modern.

So many people think Jeff is a crazy hick with a loud mouth and a nasty temper. I would say that this is unfair, but the glaring fact remains that Jeff is, in fact, a crazy hick with a loud mouth and a nasty temper. So I don't have much of a case there. The mistake they actually make is assuming that's all there is to Jeff.

So here it is: all the things I notice every day that I forget to thank him for. (That's right: for Jeff's birthday, I am ACTUALLY GOING TO BE NICE TO HIM. Don't get too used to it.)

He takes such good care of me. I never can remember to check the mail. (See the beginning of this entry for an explanation of why. Something about time passing and stuff happening.) I spent days out of every month racked with guilt over the poor mailperson, who kept running out of room for our mail. (I felt terrible, but that's not the same thing as remembering, which I still didn't. Ever. The terrible feeling just continued.) One day Jeff said he had a surprise for me. I went outside, and attached to our mailbox post was THE BIGGEST MAILBOX EVER. Instead of getting mad at me or demanding to know why I am too stupid to remember the mail, Jeff went out and found me a mailbox big enough to fit the dog in. We have not run out of room for the mail since, and I think of him every time I swing open the giganto mailbox door and put our itty bitty, microscopic, Alice-in-Wonderland-style letters inside. I also think of him every time I take out the trash, set the microwave clock, clean the car, or cook myself a meal, because he does all that and more.

He'll make a great dad. Jeff is astoundingly patient with kids and loves to teach them things. At family holidays, he always seems to end up the center of the group. At Thanksgiving the year before last, he ended up having his own little football camp with all of my cousins. I was so impressed with how sweet he was to the kids, how he always encouraged them and made them feel good about themselves whether they were good at football or not. He cheered for them tirelessly, and helped them make a play over and over again. I watched him and wondered how I would ever be as good of a parent as he is going to be.

He is the funniest guy ever. Jeff will do absolutely anything to get a laugh out of me. He has no shame. He will put objects on his head. He will impersonate any and all ethnicities and sexual orientations. He will stick an entire bagel to the side of his face and ask me if he has anything in his teeth. He will allow me to photograph him in a tiara. He will tell salespeople outrageous lies to see if I can keep a straight face. (My personal favorite being when he told the jewelry salesman that my engagement ring was a present for his bedridden mother.) He has a collection of classic jokes, which include bumping into people in camouflage and saying "Oh, I didn't see you there," (he has probably grown tired of this one, seeing as he is in the military) and walking into Things Remembered in the mall and saying, "Oh, YEAH!" as if he just remembered something. He will dance, even in public, a dance that has, in the past, involved spanking his own butt to the music. It is so sexy. His willingness to make me laugh, I mean. Not the dance. The dance is NOT sexy. Although it's not so bad when he does the Stayin' Alive with a bottle of detergent to the disco music in the grocery store.

He has such a big heart. Jeff can't stand to see anyone upset. At Christmas, one cousin, Madison, got three presents and the other one, Conor, got two. Conor was too little to understand that his presents were more expensive, and actually cost the same as Madison's three. Conor didn't throw a fit, but his feelings were clearly hurt and he looked like he wanted to cry. Jeff, seeing Conor's crushed expression, swiftly took action and grabbed a little gift box that one of my presents had been in. He pulled money from his wallet and set it in the box, dropped the lid on top, and proceeded to "find it" under the tree. Conor's face lit up that he hadn't been forgotten after all, and it was so clear that Jeff had saved the day.

He's a romantic. Leading up to our wedding, we had been through so much with Jeff getting laid off from his flying job. There were so many dreams he had of flying the big planes like the 747, dreams he felt he couldn't live his life without. He had to face a lot of realities about those dreams, and it was hard for both of us when Jeff had to work at Wal-Mart and was so unhappy with his job. Before the ceremony, we kept each other's wedding ring inscriptions a secret; he didn't know what his ring said, and I didn't know what my ring said. Once the engravings were done, we each got to open our ring boxes. My inscription to him said "Best friends - before, after, always." His inscription to me was better than anything I could have expected. It said, simply, "You are my 747." I was stunned speechless at the enormity of that message and what it meant. It was and still is the best thing anyone has ever said to me.

Happy Birthday, Jeff. I miss you. We all do. After this entry, it shouldn't be hard for anyone to understand why. As you would say, I love you like in the movies.

love,
jenni (the only other one in the world)

Redesign

2004-09-19T01:26:00.000-05:00

There was a little head-clutching and muttering. Occasionally there was shrieking. But all in all, this is the most painless redesign I have ever experienced. It's all thanks to CSS. Thanks, CSS!

You may experience some weirdness. Little peanuts may show up where there should be cool superhero-style glowy text. This means your browser is clinging to old files that no longer belong there. Hit reload. Refreshing the page should flush out the weirdness, even if it takes a few reloads to get it all to work.

An unfortunate problem with Mozilla Firefox and some other browsers: You must reload each page (photos, journal, etc) by right-clicking on the page, going to This Frame ... and choosing reload in that menu. Otherwise, old files and old designs will pop up again and again. Tiresome, I know, and the first real flaw I've seen in Firefox. Once you reload each frame once, it's all good.

Anyway, I hope you like it!

A note from Jeff, #4

2004-09-18T21:01:00.000-05:00

Jeff says:

"Well, well, another week in the books. That makes four down and about 24 more to go. Let's review what happened this week. As a platoon we built a seahut that was 24 feet by 98 feet and that was quite a project. We have three squads in our platoon with about 13 Marines per squad. Each squad had a certain part of the project to do. Our squad had to do the pre-fabrication of the walls, floor, and trusses. The other squads did transportation and construction.

This project took about four days to complete, so I got to do some hammering and a little bit of work with a chop saw. The Marines will let me use power tools, unlike my uncle Don, who just uses me to move things and hold things, because I usually ruin more material and slow the building process down more than help.

But me being the luckiest Marine alive (not because of the duties I get assigned but because I'm married to the best wife alive) I only had to work on that project for one day because one of the days I got to guard some Iraqi civilian contractors that were hooking up heating and cooling units at our barracks.

That must have been a pain in their (butts). It's one thing to have a boss looking over your shoulder while you work, but to have a couple of Marines with loaded rifles watching you really puts a damper on those 15-minute smoke breaks, or any other ways you're trying to screw around on the job.

Then one of the work days, I got assigned to the camp clean-up party. Why? Because my squad leader said I had already done it and knew all about it. Gee, it's a good thing I don't know about cleaning out the port-a-potties, or I'd probably get stuck with that.

Oh well, that working party was pretty easy, so I guess I got lucky with that. The other work day our squad went on a short convoy out to do some work on a culvert about 5 miles away from the city of Al Hit. Some of the squad did the work, and some provided security. I was providing security, which is good for me, because I really don't like to work that much.

However, it did suck lying in the same spot for about six hours watching the open desert for (insurgents), needless to say I didn't see any. On this day my iPod came in really handy. Even though the battery was not fully charged, it did last most of the day. It did kind of suck lying there for so long just slowly cooling myself in the hot sun.

The job was only supposed to take four hours max, but that was not the case. It took five hours to complete, and then we had to wait for a group of mechanics to come to fix a backhoe that had broken, and that took another four hours or so.

Well, I have to go, so I'll send the rest later.

Love,
Jeff"

The best wife alive? What a suck-up. I mean, it's true, but seriously, what a suck-up. Heh heh.

My friend Tim didn't realize Jeff was actually writing these -- he thought I was just paraphrasing Jeff's comments into a journal entry. To clear up any confusion, Jeff does actually write these. He e-mails them to me, and I copy and paste them in here. And yes, I do edit them for spelling (bad) and punctuation (nearly nonexistent), but I don't change the words without putting in parentheses to show that it has been edited. Hope that clears things up.