Fear Not.

Pathological fears are best defined as those fears that fall out of the normal and ‘healthy’ realm of anxiety. Frankly, I never really understood how any anxiety could be defined as beneficial—but my army-appointed- shrink explained it this way to me, “Amy without healthy anxiety you would be even MORE prone to do stupid stuff… and I would be forced to start seeing you at least twice a week.” And let’s face it…. Only the REALLY crazy Army Wives are seen twice a week.

As far as I know, I only have two concernable pathological fears: heights and mice. Now, the fear of heights is a pretty common phobia, and one that tragically resulted when my parents placed me on a questionably-safe rollercoaster at a travelling carnival (OSHA who?). The rollercoaster broke down with me at the tippy top as my ‘concerned’ family looked on and giggled (definite proof that my parents loved my brother more). I was probably between the ages of 4-7, and I can remember having to hold the hand of a complete stranger as I climbed the rickety stairs/ladder contraption to safety. It shook and rattled in the wind, and scared the living daylights out of me. From that day on, I tend to struggle with all things elevated—airplanes, ladders, glass elevators --even piggy back rides on really tall people.

The second fear, rodents, I have absolutely no explanation for. Nothing traumatic happened to me during my childhood that rodent-scarred me for life—no foggy memories of cute fuzzy mice barring their fangs or leaping on to my face to eat me. In fact, I read Beatrix Potter, Ralph S. Mouse, and Stuart Little as young girl, and even had the typical rite-of-passage-gerbil (which I forgot to feed like every good American child and held a full blown military style funeral when it passed (it’s name was Sir Lancelot).) Even with this normal rodent-exposed upbringing…. I still (and for no reason, whatsoever) go into an absolute panic at the site of a mouse-- one that usually involves me climbing the curtains and fearing that I somehow contracted the bubonic plague just by looking into their little beady mouse eyes. (And yes, pink eyes freak me out the MOST!).

The only thing worse than catching a visual, is the thought of setting a trap. THAT really sets me into a tail spin, where I sweat, get nauseated, and in extreme situation (such as when a creepy attic is involved) break out into hives. Now, I know what you are thinking: What in the Sam-Hell does this have to do with being an Army Wife?? And the answer is simple: it is at those moments in life when you are at your absolute weakest—like when your husband has been on a business trip to the desert for the past 11 months and you discover that a demon mouse is living rent-free in the attic-- that life likes to throw the irrational-fear-monkey-wrench straight at your heart. My mama always said, “Amy, there are snakes in paradise just waiting for you to show fear.” And she is right. Deployments force us to reach out of our comfort zone, and tackle the projects that we would be more than willing to let our ‘other half’ tackle—but they can’t. They are 7000 miles away. And you are on your own. Heck, a deployment may cause only one person to be missing from your life, but it doesn’t stop the feeling that everyone in the world has suddenly left you.

Deployments—during time of demon mouse invasions or whatever your pathological fear entails-- leaves you with only one option. Rely on yourself, and tackle those horrors—whether mice, heights, or the anxiety ridden thoughts of ‘what if’ before they consume you. After all, you can’t be brave unless you are first afraid, and I have yet to find anything more frightening then the thought of having to do EVERYTHING in this life alone. And let’s be honest, sometimes the mere act of living takes more courage, strength, and will power than we ever believed we possessed.

So what am I doing tonight? The answer should be obvious: I am crawling up into the attic in my little J Crew dress, black heels, and one intimidating-bad-ass headlamp, and setting 500 snap traps ALL OVER my attic. I know that this will require a shot of vodka to complete, and I will probably have my best friend on hold (just so someone will be aware if don’t make it back… and will call the cops before I am carried off by starving coyotes). Yes, I have a mouse in my attic. Yes, I am totally freaking out by the thought of this. Yes, I am on my own to deal with this little blood-thirsty-beast. And yes, this biatch has messed with the wrong Army Wife. It’s time to pretend that I can handle ANYTHING on the homefront. And I can.
It’s time to kick some serious mouse ass. Hasta La Vista Baby.

The Eighteen Hour Vacation

Wouldn’t it be great if life stopped for a few minutes so that we could catch our breath? Every week I start out by saying, 'This week won’t be AS busy as last week'… and then I start working, realize the refrigerator is out of everything, someone sticks a lego up their nose, and the dog eats a sock. Vacations are great—they refuel us for a few days, remind us how the ‘other half’ live, and allow us the opportunity to nap in the middle of the afternoon. BUT they also cause us to gain 5lbs, fall way behind in work, and we end up with a laundry mountain that rivals Mt. Everest. The very first minute the airplane touches down, the stress starts creeping back, and by the time you drag your over-stuffed suitcase (full of exceedingly dirty laundry and damp bathing suits) to the car, your mind is already in overdrive about what NEEDS to get done.

And that’s how my week went. I successfully returned from an amazing vacation in Miami to a boat load of work, soccer camp, and refrigerator that was so empty that even the ketchup had gone MIA. I had twenty one messages blinking on the answering machine, my son had suddenly outgrown his soccer cleats, and my dog had developed a new obsession with door trim. Within 24 hours of being home, the vacation to Miami was a distant memory…. that is, except for the bills that were rolling in at an alarming and (exceedingly stressful rate).

The post-vacation-let-down is enough to cause a well-balanced female to consider lighting herself on fire and throwing herself from the upstairs window…. But to the geographical single Army-mom, it was enough to cause me to crawl under the covers, pull the blankets over my sunburned head, and respond to every question, “Right. I promise to get right to that. Check back with me in a week.” My to-do list had become so seriously ridiculous, that I found myself adding , “brush teeth” and “hit the snooze button” just so I could actually check something off. And let me tell you, there is nothing more rewarding then having a to-do list of 55 items when 44 of them are crossed off! So what if half of them were accomplished before I actually got out of bed.

So what can you do when life presents you with the post-vacation- meltdown?? The answer is unbelievably simple—grab some girlfriends and plan the EIGHTEEN hour vacation. I called my best friend—and partner in pretend-wedding-crime, Loren-- and we decided that a girls night to Austin was absolutely essential to our survival. Dinner, margaritas, and an excuse to buy a new pair of shoes was all that was needed to temporarily refuel our overworked and now financially-crippled souls. We made plans, called a couple of our other XX-chromosome counterparts, and headed to the city of Austin. Eighteen hours later, I was back to soccer-mom mentality, and home in my living room snuggling and pretending that I DIDN’T think the stars of Yo Gabba Gabba smoked crack.

That’s all it took: eighteen hours, five crazy girl friends, and the realization that a life without friends would be unimaginably tragic. Vacations are amazing—and let’s face it, we all fantasize about a stress-free week on the beach, shopping for new $300 heels, and sipping calorie free fruity cocktails(this is my damn fantasy, so let’s not point out the obvious discrepancies with this statement) by the waves. But reality likes to kick us in the face when we return. Thank God, I have friends to lean on. Thank God, I am not walking this journey alone. Let’s keep this blog real, a vacation is worth a thousand words. Five crazy girlfriends are worth infinitely more.

(The Eighteen Hour Girls)

Run to Remember

Two weeks ago, I was running thirteen beautiful miles through downtown Seattle. The scenery was breathtaking – nothing beats running amongst green grass AND water (my hometown is so dry and brown that it is actually toying with banning barbeques) and the temperature was the perfect mid-60s (San Antonio is arguably hotter than Hell). Both of these perfect conditions helped make the experience absolutely unforgettable, but it was one small mile amongst the thirteen that managed to captivate me, and ultimately propelled me to the finish line. Somewhere after mile five, right about the point where the voices in my head started shouting, “This is beyond stupid Amy. Why the hell are you running this far?” I happened to notice a poster of a soldier. He was young, handsome, and smiling… and it wasn’t until my eyes drifted towards the bottom of the poster that I noticed he was killed in action. Approximately 5 ft later, there was another poster-- another beautiful smile, another barely-old-enough-to-vote-soldier staring back at me, another man-child taken too soon. And another. And another. And another.

Every few steps I passed by another fallen soldier’s face, and I forced myself to whisper his name out loud. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to remember a single name by the time I reached the finish line, but I wanted to make sure that I paid respect to each and every hero as I quietly ran by. It would be a lie to say that I didn’t start crying. I did. Running through that mile was like looking through a hourglass to my very worst nightmare. These beautiful men were gone forever—in a blink of an eye – poof!—life was turned off. And as usual, my over-analyzing brain went into hyper drive, ( and no, my legs unfortunately stayed in neutral) as all the thoughts that I had banished for the past ten months ago came flooding back. What if I someday ran past a photo of MY husband? Would I be able to continue running? Would I be able to pass that poster and leave it behind me or would I pull a neurotic-questionably-sane Amy-move and rip it out of the ground to carry with me? Would I be alone? How would I ever carry on when I can barely survive the fear of losing him?

And just like that, the answer danced in front of me. The key to surviving ANYTHING—loss, financial ruin, illness, or just plain facing down your worst fears—is simply to serve others. Help others, help yourself. The posters were placed in the ground—not by race officials—but rather by people who honest-to-goodness-cared. People who probably never even really digested the fact that 35,000 people would be running by, and would see those faces. They would feel the loss. They would connect with the pain. They would remember the fallen.

I knew instantly, this memorial had to be done again-- only this time in my hotter-than-Hell-barbeque-banning-hometown- of San Antonio. We would create a memorial and a running group, and we would honor as many brave Texans that we could afford during San Antonio’s Rock N Roll Marathon. We would carry on the memorial, and pay tribute to those—the soldier’s and their grieving families—who have paid the ultimate sacrifice. “We” – to include four amazing visionary souls—plan to make THIS memorial a reality. Monica, Amanda, Aaron, and Chaunte— four friends, some old, some new-- who are willing to work so that our Texans are NOT forgotten. A memorial-- so simple, yet so powerful-- it’s time for Texas to Run to Remember.

(Seattle's Run to Remember taken by Visionary-Amazing-Friend- Monica)

Miami or bust

We all work way to hard-- go to work, clean the house, cart the kids around to their 750 practices, hit the gym… and repeat. Life tends to run at a breakneck pace, and we are all left struggling to make it to the weekend. I’ll be honest, by Thursday I am so strung out that I find myself blindly nodding yes to everything. Heck, even my kids know to wait until post-Thursday -night-dinner to hit me up about future weekend plans. Don’t get me wrong, the Thursday night autopilot is an absolute normal result after performing the geographical-single-mom-jig all week—but sometimes it takes more than just a bubble bath to refuel your drained battery. Sometimes you need to grab the bull by the horns, call up your best friends, and plan a vacation to a tropical resort. You know-- the kind of place where people who drink Bloody Marys with breakfast are NOT considered alcoholics AND the sun NEVER hides behind a cloud. Of course, the planning of such a vacation is the easy part. Actually making the plan a reality…. Well now, that takes a little creativity.

And that’s exactly where this story begins. Last March, one of my besties, Loren, and I had this grandiose idea to go to Miami. We were both tired of life kicking us in the keester, and we figured that it was time to pack up our bags and go some place where sand, water, and margaritas were the norm. Miami seemed to fit the bill perfectly—except for one small detail, neither one of us could really afford to take time off from work. So, we did what every good Army Wife does when faced with a challenge… We researched, planned, connived… and we came up with the ultimate plan of deception known to mankind. A pretend wedding.

Yes, this is true, and we totally expect to have to answer to Jesus about THIS one. Loren told her boss that her ‘cousin’ Amy was getting married in Miami, and she couldn’t miss it (I was family, for Pete’s sake). I did the same. We felt only slightly guilty about our little white lies, and probably should have let the matter rest there—but as all women know, a wedding is a wedding (regardless if it is imaginary or not) and it seems to resonate with its own epic life force. We decided to milk this baby for EVERYTHING that it was worth, and celebrate like rockstar pretend brides. Yes, we registered at William Sonoma (Loren REALLY wanted a cappuccino maker). Yes, we had a pretend bachelorette party (and invited all of our mutual friends). Yes, we wore veils at the airport (just so everyone would know we were headed to a destination wedding and would hopefully buy us free drinks at the hotel bar). Was it wrong? Absolutely. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.

(Resting up before the big pretend moment... on the airport floor.)

For four days we sat on the beach, floated in the ocean, drank pina coladas served to us by hot Cuban waiters, and only changed out of our bathing suits to don cocktail dresses for girls night out. We made a dozen new friends from all over the world, hung out with Cuban cartel ring leaders (THAT story will have to involve its very own blog), and learned that vacation doesn’t really have anything to do with where you are going, but rather what you are escaping from. For four days, I refused to answer work emails, pretended that my husband was located safely at home and not in a war zone, and let my mother handle EVERYTHING with the kids. It was heaven.

In fact, my mother was the one who told me, “A vacation is what you take when you can no longer take what you've been taking.” And frankly, I have had enough with stress, war, and a work load that even a miracle-worker would struggle with. So here I sit—writing to you all-- sunburned, buried in paper work, in a house that looks like it barely survived a nuclear explosion—but smiling with a soul that is suddenly whole again. The fact that I am broke and a few damaged cells closer to skin cancer is irrelevant Vacation is all about finding what brings you joy…. And simply going there. And believe me… I plan to get pretend married at least once a year.

(The pretend brides)