Plucky Letters to US soldiers in Iraq

April 24, 2003

Dear Rob,

Ann, who works at school with me, is a baby boomer. She’s always getting herself involved in these manic projects, such as a church mission trip to supposedly help needy people in New York this summer. (They are there for four days, and it’s really just a fun way to show well-off Methodist kids what it means to be poor. But, whatever.) Anyway, now she is thinking of joining a team of women to build a house for Habitat for Humanity. The whole thing is sort of a cockamamie ploy to get this house built entirely by women for publicity. You know, sort of a “Wow, look what we girlie-girls can do!” exploitation piece.

You have to think about this for a moment to get the full gist of how stupid it is.
Imagine driving by a day care center and seeing a giant sign out front that said:

THE CHILDREN WITHIN ARE CARED FOR ENTIRELY BY MEN

Would that impress you, or would you maybe wonder if the job might better be done by the other gender? In any case, it’s just one more small way that women continue to allow themselves to be twisted into competition with men, rather than living in concert with men. It bothers me for that reason alone.
What is so wrong with the sexes being complimentary, rather than everybody wanting to be “as good as” men? I really don’t see what is so much better about men anyway. Seems to me this sort of competitiveness just messes up the natural order of things.

THE NATURAL ORDER OF THINGS:
1) Smart person(woman) says “Gee, I sure would like a new house.”
2) Stupid person(man) busts ass to build new house for smart person.
3) Smart person takes complete control of new house.
4) Stupid person pays for everything.

That is, in my mind, the natural order of things, and I for one do not need any feminists running around screwing it up for the rest of us.

Besides, what is the point of building “habitats” for the homeless nincompoops of the world, anyway? If they wanted to live in homes, they never would have run away to become bums in the first place. And if they are mentally ill, what is the point of giving them a house? They can’t even take care of themselves; how in the world can they be expected to mow the lawn?

Maybe a better idea would be to put all the homeless people of a given city into a big zoo. They could be allowed to wander about in a safe, clean ghetto of sorts, with well-constructed park benches and regularly sanitized gutters. Keepers would be hired to attend to their bodily needs on a daily basis. Each inmate would receive medical care and a clean layer of mis-matched clothing every few days. Park visitors would pay an entry fee to cover all costs. Visitors would be allowed to purchase small bottles of Thunderbird to hand out to the inmates at feeding time. Children could experience the thrill of doling out small change in a safe, friendly environment.

I'll give Jimmy Carter a call and talk it over. Maybe Ann and I could get well-paying jobs in the zoo cafeteria.

Much Love,
--Mom

Tuesday, December 9, 2003


Dear Army Guys,

MERRY CHRISTMAS!! I am guessing you all celebrate Christmas, but maybe not, so…

HAPPY CHANUKAH!! JOYOUS KWANZA!! SUPER RAMADON!!
PEACEFUL MITHRA!! FABULOUS ATHEISM!!!
I am an equal-opportunity well-wisher. Enjoy your choice of our many fine holiday options.


I must confess that there is a possibility your gifts will be late. I know, I know, I should be more organized and prepared. I should have got it done last week. Nonetheless, I do have everything all boxed up and ready to go. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of visiting our local Post Office at 4:30 PM today. There were quite a few people in there at 4:30 PM today. I mean A LOT.

It was a horde, actually, and I found myself having one of my Wal-Mart reactions. I waited in line for awhile, but the mere presence of so many Post Office visitors got on my nerves. They were all doing this sort of “In-Line-At-The-Post Office-Shuffle,” which made my teeth clench. I was thinking decidedly non-holiday thoughts, and there was a strong possibility I might accost someone, so I had to leave. Also, I did not have the customs forms filled out ahead of time, which made me feel ill-prepared and rather naked. I don’t like filling out the customs forms while in line. I much prefer having it all done and ready to go so that I can concentrate on not yelling obscenities at my fellow Post Office dwellers. Nobody, including postal workers, needs their holiday season ruined by me screaming, “MOVE IT, ASSHOLE, WE DON’T HAVE ALL YEAR!!”

After all, many of the Post Office customers had small (poorly-behaved) children in tow. It’s a family-friendly federal installation, and I did not want to take the chance of introducing improper “sentence enhancers” into the growing vocabularies of innocent, though wildly misbehaving, toddlers. That job can best be done by their obviously incompetent parents.

I will be back at the Post Office tomorrow afternoon, early. There is much less chance of an agoraphobic meltdown if I do my posting prior to the late afternoon rush. And I managed to grab a stack of customs forms today before my cowardly departure, so I was able to fill them out in the privacy of my own home. If your gifts arrive after December 25, just pretend they are New Years presents and get on with your lives.


Personally, I am sick and damned tired of Christmas. I wish I could spend all of my money and time on you guys this year. Christmas in my family has become somewhat like opening a catalog business. Everybody makes a list of EXACTLY what they want, and it is everybody else’s job to make damned sure they get it. Nobody says, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe I could use a new waffle iron or a pair of snow boots.” No, these people are incredibly specific. My dad even includes Xeroxed ad flyers and catalog 800 numbers!

In my family, you MUST buy whatever the person asks for, and there is no way around it. If you try to surprise the person with something you happen to think they will love, you are doomed. Even if they actually love the thing you give them, there will be a moment late on Christmas Night when somebody says, “Well, I got everything I wanted except that one item on page 44 of the Land’s End catalog that Suzanne was supposed to give me! Oh well, I guess I still have a birthday coming up, ha ha ha!”

There is one person on my gift list who does NOT participate in this demanding gift process, and that is my son, Dylan. He doesn’t want anything. Literally, you can ask him until you are blue in the face. You can show him catalogs, websites, and take him around to toy stores. His eyes will never light up with desire no matter how many trampolines and foosball tables he sees. You know why? Because he is the only truly satisfied person I have ever met in my life. He honestly believes he has everything he needs, and anything else he gets will be “fine.” I suspect there must be something wrong with him, but all the tests have come back negative.

My husband, Rudy, claims to not want anything. This is utter nonsense. When I suggested maybe we should get a large “family gift” rather than spend a bunch of money on stupid little things we would buy for ourselves anyway, he was out the door and in the nearest Best Buy looking at gigantic TV sets before I could finish the sentence. So I guess that means “we” are getting a gigantic “plasma” TV set for Christmas this year. Dylan and I could not be more thrilled, even though neither of us ever watches television in the family room. Dylan watches Cartoon Network in his room, and I just don’t watch much TV at all. I do like movies, though, so having a gigantic TV might enhance my Saturday night video experience to some extent. I’m a little iffy about the “plasma” thing, though.

Does that mean our TV set will be capable of giving transfusions if one or another of us springs a leak and starts to bleed to death all over the family room? What is this “plasma” business?? Do I have to yell, “Give me two units of plasma, stat!,” every time I tune in to watch Lifetime Television for Women??


I will be front & center at the Bloomington Post Office tomorrow afternoon, I PROMISE! I hope you took my advice and built yourselves a nice fake fireplace to create holiday cheer and a pleasant gathering place for your fellow soldiers.


The only lasting gift I can offer you this year is to tell you just how much I love you guys!!! Each and every day, you keep me & my family safe from harm, and that is the greatest gift a man can give. Each of you is the best of the best, and I will NEVER forget any of you!

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!


Much Love,

--An Army Mom

Here's a real oldie from Rob's training days at Ft. Sam Houston:

11/9/99

Dear Robby,

How’s the weather in San Antonio? It’s gorgeous here- 73 degrees today. Very unusual. How are the classes going? What are you learning?

Everyone here is just fine. Dylan can’t adjust to the change from daylight savings time to standard time. Every evening he asks what time it really is, and if it’s evening or night. When I pick him up at 6:00pm he says, “Why are you so late again!”
He just can’t comprehend that it’s the usual time.

Personally, I find the time change depressing. We went to Bergner’s last night at about 7pm and it seemed like going out at midnight.

You’ll be happy to know I finally bought some new clothes. It was no easy task, let me tell you! Ever tried to buy pants in Better Sportswear? HA! Those designers are a crafty, sneaky, low-down bamboozling bunch of smarmy liars.

They lie about the sizes. I bought two pairs of pants; supposedly size 6. Went home and put them on and they about fell off. I had to take them back and get size 4. Now, I’m no Fatty Farmer, but let’s get real. WHO THE HELL WEARS SIZE 4??? Calista Flockhart? Small children starving in Outer Mongolia? It’s a vast waistband conspiracy. A normal-sized woman buying clothing at JC Penney will be a size 8. In "Better Sportswear" the same woman is size 4. Nobody knows why this is true, but it is and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

What are your plans for Thanksgiving? Please write or call and let me know how you are and what you’re doing. Else I may be forced to exercise my parental whining rights and call Sgt. Saxton. You have one week from this warning to make contact or else.

Did you hear Decatur, IL is making national news this week? They expelled 7 losers from Eisenhower High for mob action and fighting at a football game. Now the Rev. Jesse Jackson is there, inciting people to riot. They’ve had to keep all three high schools closed the past two days. It’s been on Good Morning America,
The Today Show, CNN etc.

I think it’s hilarious. Jesse Jackson says it’s a crime to deprive these poor kids of an education. He forgets to mention that 3 of them have been in ninth grade since 1996, all of them have missed in excess of 20 days of school so far this year, and all of them are Gangster Disciples. The most comedic part of the whole story is that only one parent showed up at the school board hearing when these fubars were kicked out of school.
Now suddenly, when Jesse Jackson shows up to lead them to glory, these losers are “devoted, caring parents of troubled teens.” It’s getting pretty deep, Jesse, time to bring out the hip-waders.

Hope all is well with you in the Lone Star State! We miss you! Write or call ASAP!

Much Love,

--Mom

Wednesday July 16, 2003



Dear Rob,


How I Am Spending My Summer Vacation
By Mom

My brother-in-law and I decided, since he is working nights and I am working not at all (outside the home for financial rewards, anyway) that we should support one another in our child care duties. So Dave signed us up for a Family Pass to the Normal Parks and Recreation “Aquatic Centers.” (they don’t call them “pools” anymore- which means they can charge more.) His end of the deal was to pay the $80. My end is to take the kids to the pool at least three days a week so he can lounge around the house watching soap operas or catching up on sleep. I’d like it to be known that I volunteered for this because I did not want my much loved niece and nephew getting yelled at all summer long by a tired, overworked dad.

Just getting the passes was a logistical nightmare. We had to pretend we are married, change my name to Karen R., change Dylan’s name to Dylan R., and somehow not let Katie blow our cover with her big mouth. Dave foolishly took Ted & Katie with him upon initial sign-up. Katie kept yelling “Dylan R.? What do you mean Dylan R.??” Dave had to make up a convoluted story about a second marriage, the kids aren’t used to the idea, blah blah blah. (I wish I had been there- it must have been a riot.)

We had to have photo pool (oops, I mean “Aquatic Center”) ID’s to get in everyday, so they went ahead and had theirs taken. Dave told the Aquatic Center employees that I (his wife) would be in with our older child the next day to get our photos taken. Katie yelled, “Aunt Madge isn’t here now- she’ll come tomorrow with my cousin, okay?!” surely causing the Aquatic Center employees to suspect we are an incestuous family of trailer park dwellers.

The next day I coached Katie to keep her mouth shut when Dylan and I had to get our photos done. She, true to her word, said nothing. However, I had not thought of a small, but crucial, detail. They asked my name- I said “Karen R.” They asked my address. I don’t happen to know the R. family address off the top of my head. I had to frantically search my mind just to come up with the right street. If I do say so myself, I handled it quite well. I blurted out something like “1343 XXX Lane.” The aquatic center employee looked at her computer screen and said, “Oh, then this is wrong! It says 1308 XXX. I better change it.” I said, “Oh, yeah, that’s right, ha ha, it’s 1308, we, um, just moved here, ha ha…” She said “Well, then maybe this is…I don’t know…it looks like you’ve had an account since 1997…” Oh, geez. I mumbled something about “…blended family…second marriage… it’s an adjustment!” She took my word for it, luckily, and Dylan and I got our disingenuous photos ID’s.

So now the kids spend many blissful hours of fun at the pool while I drip sweat all over many books, magazines and newspapers. I never get in the water. I am embarrassed to admit I have actually begun to care about the evenness of my tan, and I have begun to recognize my fellow pool-moms. (Many of whom should be arrested and brought up on charges of Indecent Fat and Pubic Hair Exposure. You would not BELIEVE how many 200 lb white women believe it is somehow fashionable to flop around in a skimpy two-piece bathing suit while sprouting illicit body hair.) I find that I am enjoying having a new purpose in life.

Taking The Kids To The Pool is my summer job now. I’m actually pretty good at it- I never yell at anybody, even when they lose their goggles or dump blue sunscreen lotion on my first edition autographed copy of Julie and Romeo. I am always on time, since I want to be first in line to get a good deck chair position. I dole out small amounts of cash for snacks, but I never let them over-indulge. I am very good at watching Katie jump off the diving board, which is really the most boring feature of my new job. (She takes forever, and keeps yelling, “Are you watching?!” until I wave, despite the 30 kids lined up behind her saying, “Just GO!”)

Dylan and Ted are fairly self-sufficient, and it is fun to watch Ted walk around the pool. He is always on tip-toe. I don’t think either of his heels has ever touched pavement. Dylan always tries to get away with running, and I have to yell, “DON’T RUN!” at him until a helpful lifeguard comes to my aid by scolding him officially. I then look reprovingly over the top of my sunglasses and pretend I’ve never seen this child before in my life; any child of mine is obviously somewhere else obeying all Aquatic Center rules to the letter. I do a sort of “tsk tsk tsk” head shake and go back to reading my book.

You really need to finish up over there and get home to do something about your God-daughter, Katherine Nicole. She is honestly the most self-centered person in the world. (and she’s very funny, too.)

Today, when we were leaving the pool, I commented that I really prefer Fairview to Anderson. (Anderson is the “new” Aquatic Center, which we tried out today for the first time.) My point was that Fairview offers more deck chairs, more deck space, and more available shade. Katie said, to my face,
“So-what about YOU?! You’re not part of it, you’re just in the BACKGROUND!”
(obviously meaning that the world is all a stage, she is the star, and I am just some low-rent extra the director of the movie of her life threw in for context.)

This 7 year old child has also informed me that I will not be attending her wedding, which she says will take place when she is 21 years old, because I will be surely be dead by then. (Actually, when I asked her if I would be invited to the fabled wedding, she said, “I don’t think so! You’ll be dead by then!”)

I asked her if she planned to attend my funeral. She wanted to know if there would be food. I said that yes, I plan to offer a buffet at my funeral. She then wanted to know if she would have to wear pantyhose. I pointed out that she would probably have to wear pantyhose for her wedding. She said she is going to pick out wedding shoes that “only would need socks, but not pantyhose.” She’s not committing on the funeral thing- she’ll have to think about it. It might depend on the weather.

Since she will be 21 in fourteen years, I guess that means she does not expect me to live past age 54. So my new goal in life is to live long enough to show up at Katie’s wedding and say, “Ha, you little brat! I told you I’d make it!” Then I plan to have a massive grabber of a heart attack at her reception just to cause trouble. I am sincerely hoping she will be an old maid and not get married until she is on the verge of menopause. I hope she has to wear support hose at her wedding to hold in her varicose veins.

Much Love,
--Mom

April 21, 2003

Dear Charlie & Buddies,

On Friday night another carpenter came over to look at our basement. This one's name is, get this, Hoagie. (don't ask me, I don't know his mother!) I was not allowed to participate this time. Rudy doesn't trust me to behave myself due to my overly-enthusiastic performance when Carpenter Josh was here. Tonight, I was confined to the bedroom.

I'm like the family dog, shut up in the bedroom when company comes over because I might do something embarrassing. Like maybe smell Hoagie's crotch or hump his leg in my "carpenter's best friend" routine.

Rudy said Hoagie was in a big hurry. Just took measurements, asked a few basic questions, and made a run for it. Rudy claims it was because he probably heard through the carpentry grapevine that I might be on the premises, threatening to bounce out and do a few "I LOVE TECHNOLOGY!" cartwheels.

That's utter poppycock. Even if Josh blabbed about me down at the union hall, that wouldn't be enough to scare a guy brave enough to introduce himself as "Hoagie." Not to mention that I outbid my own husband on the price of our new staircase! Any profit-minded carpenter would love to have me as a customer.

Anyway, I peeked at this Hoagie character from the bedroom window when he was leaving. He had on a leather coat with cowboy boots, and his mullet was combed to perfection.
(His hair is like a Mafia-owned contractors office:
all business out front- party in the back.)
I figure since it was a Friday night, Hoagie probably just had Budweiser & country music on his mind.

Much Love,

--An Army Mom

Easter Sunday, 2003


Dear Rob,

Hoppy Easter! (Hop hop hop!) Don’t forget, I am the Easter Bunny. You said so yourself. When you were about 5 years old some “big kid” in the neighborhood told you “The Easter Bunny is your MOM, stupid.” You found this to be a thrilling revelation. Your ran around telling all the other kids “My mom is the Easter Bunny, and she’s going to come to your house and bring you candy!”
It was pretty funny. I embellished it, of course. How could I resist? I told you that at one minute past midnight on Easter morning I would turn into a big Bunny and whisk around the world bringing candy and hiding eggs. You got a little worried and wanted to know how long I’d be gone. I told you I had magic Easter Bunny powers and I could do the whole job in “about one cartoon.” (That’s how you told time when you were little. By the length of cartoons. If I said something like “We have to leave in an hour,” you’d say “How many cartoons is that?”)
Very savvy.

You will (or, maybe will not) be gratified to learn that the fame which now surrounds your name within the extended branches of the clan has inspired the unfortunate loser B.R. to consider joining the military. It might be good for him, if he actually goes through with it. (I, personally, am doubtful that he will.)

I must say, I am very disappointed in that young man. When you two were kids I had high hopes for B; he always struck me as having an untapped intellect and ambition, despite the fact that his nose-pickings were cemented to the wall of your bedroom following his visits. Also, he had a dry and acute sense of humor, even as a 10 year old. Now, when I see him, which is not often, he strikes me as… lost.

But that’s depressing, and I don’t want to depress you. It’s Easter and new life is springing into the world, this is a time of renewal, “He Is Risen” and all that crap.

I've decided to not go to church on holidays. Seems to me the place is overrun on holidays with people who only go to church on holidays, and they just clog up the parking lot. I’m going to do the opposite: I will go to church on unpopular days, like in the middle of summer when nobody but the die-hards show up, but I will avoid it on holidays. Far be it from me to take up a parking space that could go to someone who only wants to use it twice a year!

Much love,
--Mom