Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Twenty Three:

My husband is a contractor- Namely on helicopters. 

So I get a phone call today, and due to the grace of one of the branches of the military, the production line is through 2021. It was supposed to end here in the next two years or something with the Army helicopters they were doing.

"YAY! for job security.", she exclaims sarcastically, while she wishes she had something to mix with the vodka in the freezer.

Now, I do realize that in the current economic climate, I probably shouldn't be complaining that he's got a job for the next 10 years, unless he kills someone. Right? I know I've said that I imagined staying in Ohio... But being a military wife changed my fabric. It made me crave the nomadic life style we had. Now, shut up those of you who know that we never really left Clarksville, because when he left, I came and went as I pleased- Because up until he actually came home in September, I never really thought he was getting out. I thought he was going to be a lifer. I thought that we'd move every few years and I'd see a bit of the world. I thought he'd get out after his 20, at 39, and we'd then settle someplace that I may or may not hate and get G and L (Because that's all we had at the time), into college.

Instead, we settled someplace that I fucking hate. A place I don't understand. A place that, in all honesty, is to close to my parents. A place that my children are picking up a southern accent. A place that seems to have sucked me in and gives me such cabin fever every Spring and Fall that my skin feels like it is going to crawl off my body. A place that has such HUGE problems and absolute refuses to address them...

And the thought of spending the next 10 years of my life in this city makes me want to vomit.

Can/Should a city make you physically ill?

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