Thanks, Dad

In recognition of Veteran's Day I would like to send oceans full of thanks to the men and women who have served their country with courage and dedication, and a huge hug to my dad who chose a WWII submarine as the ideal way to ride out the war; sometimes from the top of the water, often times from the bottom, and many times with the enemy raining terror down from above. I remember every day just how fortunate I am to be here. And to have you here with me. Thanks to God above and the USS Greenling for bringing you home safely. And many, many thanks to you.

The Army Wants You! (But They're Not Sure Why)

It never hurts to be open to job opportunities that have the potential to raise your monthly earnings enough to cover luxury items, like Girl Scout cookies. Or the rent.

Unless the job is with the Army.

Recently I ran across an advertisement for a civilian position at a local Army base. I tried to read the job description, but these guys did things with the alphabet that Sesame Street never dreamed of. It took a Navajo Code Talker just to understand the Job Title.

Fortunately, I’m multilingual. I’m fluent in Southern Baptist, High School Football, and, since Dad served on a submarine in WWII, I have a feel for Navy lingo (port is left, starboard is right, don’t let on that you don’t know which way is north, and NEVER call it a boat). None of this helped with Army dialect, but I took a chance and filled out the application anyway. From what I could tell, I was pretty sure I was flirting with a spy mission to Honduras.

I did okay until I got to the part about claiming Military Spouse Preference. While I appreciate the increase in benefits, I’m partial to the spouse I already have. If he would just kick his underwear directly into the laundry basket instead of straight up in the air like a lunar-bound space shuttle, I wouldn’t even consider a trade. And to be honest, I couldn’t upgrade my present spouse to military status. A milking stool has better knees than he does, and if a hawk had eyes like his, it would starve.

By the time my resume was submitted and approved, I felt like I had been granted Officer status and promoted to Director of Homeland Security. (I don’t know how you feel about the color coded crisis system they came up with, but I can never figure out if orange means to hide under the house or that there’s road construction on Pennsylvania Avenue. The first thing this Mom is going to do in the Official Security Office is install a Threat Level System based on emoticon stickers. If you get more than two Mr. Yuks in the same week, you’re on the no fly list.)

All the same, I let the opportunity go. I never did find out what the job was for. I know now why the army had to give up on that “Be All That You Can Be” slogan.

Nobody could figure out what the "Be" stood for.

Cherry Bombs and Sticky Buns

I’m not a nurse. I don’t play one on TV. I can’t even open a Bandaid without an instructional video. But it seems like I could manage to pop a package of pre-made dough without the household going to Code Blue and breaking out the sticky buns.

All I wanted to do was make cherry turnovers for breakfast. There are infants in undeveloped countries who can help their mothers peel the plantains for the appetizer, and I can’t manage to crack open a can of crescents and squirt the cherry plasma out of the bag without feeling like Marcus Welby, M.D.

I’m not a complete moron. Okay, I may have all the qualifications, but I should still be able to handle the point and shoot method when it comes to cherry filling.

“Here’s breakfast,” I said breathily, placing a tray carefully down on the table.

“What’s that?” Bill asked. His tact factor burned out the night I sprinkled meat tenderizer on the garlic bread instead of, well, garlic. Think salt with a side order of salt.

“They're pastries.” I put my hands on my hips and tilted my head to one side. They definitely looked better tilted.

“I’ll pass. I ate yesterday.”

“So you’re not hungry?”

“I’ll just have coffee. Why are they so. . .crispy?”

I looked at the triangular balls of dough. Burned triangular balls of dough oozing thick red mucus. “I’m having a little trouble with the new toaster oven.”

“Are you sure you changed the setting?”

“You can change the settings?”

“Uh huh. You might want to switch it from “Bloodbath” to “Bake.”

I checked the uncooperative appliance and groaned. “It’s on Broil. I guess they’re overexposed to the heat.”

“Put them out of their misery.”

"Martha Stewart would turn them into cunning appetizers."

"This is not a case for Martha Stewart. It's a job for Dr. Kevorkian."

"There's still hope. I haven't frosted them yet."

"They're bleeding to death."

“That’s cherry filling.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be on the inside?”

“I had a little trouble aiming.”

“If the Germans had your eye in WWII, they would have bombed Lexington instead of London.”

I smeared a concealing cover of icing on a turnover, took a big bite, and settled down beside him. “Well if they’d used cherry bombs like these, the war would have ended a lot sooner.”

Key Issue

This afternoon as I fished hysterically in my purse for my stupid car keys that were hiding from me on purpose, I had an idea.

For me, having an idea is a bit like giving birth to a ten pound porcupine. It’s a tedious process, fraught with peril, but quite sharp in the end. What I need is a Global Positioning System that can tell me where in my Super Organizer Bag to find my car keys.

That way I won’t be late for the school pick-up line while I thrash around unsuccessfully in my purse for twenty minutes sifting through stale M&M’s and used Kleenx before attempting to unlock my door with a Number Two pencil and a Twinkie wrapper.

The GPS KeyFinder is sure to be a moneymaker if properly engineered, using language that normal people who don’t factor pi for a hobby can understand. None of this “proceed north past the checkbook for 6 centimeters, turn east at the lipstick, circumnavigate the compact” sort of thing.

My basic concept of direction is this: North is up, South is down, East is left, and West is right. My WWII Navy Dad cringes whenever people ask me for directions. He says if I were in charge of Japanese navigations, Pearl Harbor would have remained untouched. But those elves at the North Pole would still be rebuilding reindeer pens.

I need basic directions. “Plunge hand into the middle compartment with the zipper that’s jammed with the soccer sock. Bypass the garage door opener and orange TicTac, turn left at the chewed cinnamon gum wrapped in foil, continue for the length of the nail file, then shake purse twice firmly. Keys are affixed to the melted Snickers bar by hardened caramel.

I’m not even going to charge the GPS people for this millionaire-making idea. A simple thank you and the knowledge that mommies everywhere will make it to school pick-up on time will be my reward. That and some pizza coupons. And a car with keyless entry.

Now, if I could only find my cell phone, I’d call and tell them. I know it’s here somewhere in my purse. . .