I know. I was shocked and disappointed, too. I really thought this was my year, but Military Spouse magazine had other ideas. Yes, this is a real publication and no, I do not write for it… yet (CALL ME).

I’m sure this Lori character is nice and all, but I want my tiara! It’s my special day!!

So it may be a little premature, but I am officially starting my campaign to become the 2011 Military Spouse of the Year. It’s about time I got some recognition for all my dedication and hard work. I probably can’t nominate myself (it would not demonstrate my “servant’s heart”), so I look to you, my fine word jockey friends.

Help me put together the best darn one-sentence nomination those judges have ever seen and show them why I am “equal parts grit and grace.” Bonus points if you mention my tot-baking abilities or if you Photoshop me doing something wholesome. Triple bonus points if you actually have a photo of me doing something wholesome.

You may submit responses in the comments. My favorite gets a mention in my acceptance speech and a bottle of R&R whiskey.

Brian is approaching his fourth year in the Navy and the end of his second sea tour. This February, he will be moving to a shore duty assignment, a two-year gig that actually means what the name implies: he will have a job on shore, not attached to a ship, not deploying, not leaving several times a month to go underway. This means we will get to live together all of the time like normal adult married humans. This is good news.

Now we just have to figure out where we’re going to live.

Photo courtesy of stromo’s Flickr photostream

For the last year or two, we’ve been dreaming of the awesome choices we could have. Anything in Western Europe would be ideal since we are both itchin’ to live abroad again, and there are sometimes opportunities in Italy, France, Germany, Spain… it all depends on what’s available at the time. Hawaii is also amazing, and it would not be a punishment to stay here another two years. We’ve been eagerly waiting for Brian’s slate, the list of possible billets and their locations, for months now, and it finally arrived last week. And… it’s OK.

It’s a pretty sparse selection of places we are excited about. There are only two jobs in Hawaii, and it turns out the odds of getting a good international billet are much higher if you sign a piece of paper vowing to stay in for a ship’s department head tour after shore duty (which Brian is not prepared to do). We can still put a few of those options (in Italy, France, Chile and Germany! WANT.) down on our list of top 10 preferences, but who knows what our chances are.

There are still a few other domestic choices we would be fine with– San Diego, Monterey, Bremerton (near Seattle)– but it’s hard not to be a bit disappointed with the idea of returning to the West Coast when Italy and France have been sneaking into my dreams lately. I feel spoiled and guilty even being picky when we’ve been so lucky with our location so far, but Navy life has been a bumpy ride at times. The Navy could try to make it up to me by buying me some flowers, a nice bottle of cabernet and paying for me to live in Europe for two years. Is that really so much to ask?

I also feel a little insane because, throughout all of this, I get really sad when I think about leaving Hawaii. I’m happy here. I love our friends, I love our town, I love being able to swim in the ocean in the dead of winter. Two more years of this would be incredible. We could settle in more, and we wouldn’t have to start from scratch making new friends in a new place. But… if we had the chance, I couldn’t resist the temptation of moving to another country and potentially learning a new language. That clever north wind is always trying to lure me to the next adventure.

Ultimately, the final decision isn’t up to us anyway. We put in our preferences, roll the dice and see what the Navy decides to give us. It’s crazy to think that this list will determine the next two years of our lives, but maybe it’s a good thing we don’t have to make the tough decision ourselves. Our final list is due at the end of the month, and we should have our answer by the middle of July. Fingers crossed, let the billet roulette begin…

Here’s the full post…

For the last 15 years, I have kept a journal through my hardest and happiest times. The journals have looked different over the years, from crumpled spiral notebooks to sleek black sketchbooks, but they have always served the same purpose: to give me a safe place to vent, gloat, rage and muse about everything important phase of my life. My first journal helped me survive the dramatic ups and downs of middle school, and my latest has chronicled several cross-country moves and my first year of marriage.

I’ve often said my journal is my personal therapist, and I’m not exaggerating. During happy periods of my life, I check in occasionally, writing brief, scattered posts about trips I’ve taken or goals for the future. During challenging times, however, I write a lot and I write often. It is the only place I allow myself to be completely honest about how I’m feeling, and it is indispensable.

One example of these difficult periods is the year of 2005 to 2006. I graduated from college in New Orleans in May 2005, and everything was going perfectly. I was in a great relationship, I had a fantastic group of supportive friends and I had been accepted into a program teaching English in France for the upcoming school year. I was nervous about moving far away from my loved ones for so long, but I was excited for the new adventure.

Those crazy Loyola kids

On August 29, two weeks before I was supposed to fly from New Orleans to Paris, Hurricane Katrina hit and everything changed. All of a sudden, instead of attending farewell parties, I was scrambling to evacuate the city with my passport, camera and a couple days’ worth of clothes. A few weeks later, my friends were scattered across the US and I was alone in a foreign country to cope with the sadness, anger and guilt I felt as one of the lucky survivors of the storm. I was terribly lonely and homesick, but for the first time ever, I knew it wasn’t possible to go home.

Istres, France

I started writing in my journal every day as a necessary form of therapy. Each night, I scrawled page after page, trying to identify and sift through all of my conflicting emotions. I desperately missed my boyfriend, my friends and my city, and I was clumsily trying to move past the culture shock and make a home for myself in a new place. It felt incredibly cathartic to tell my journal everything I couldn’t even tell my closest friends. It was the perfect confidante; I could let it all out without fear of being judged for appearing weak or ungrateful or self-indulgent.

Just another day of sheep running through the village

My posts ranged from the frustrated…

I just really miss my people and I feel so isolated without a phone or Internet. During the good moments, I think, “I can do this. My French will eventually catch up to my brain. I’ll be glad I stuck with this.” During the bad moments, I think, “Why am I here? I’m bored, I’m lonely, I’m far from everyone I love and I sound like an idiot when I speak French.”

… to the downright hysterical…

I hate France. I hate Istres. I don’t know why I’m here. I just want to go home. I’ve been sobbing uncontrollably all day and I can’t stop. I just want a freaking phone—is that so much to ask? I hate France Telecom with every fiber in my body. They screwed up and now it will be almost three weeks before I get a phone installed. Kill me. I’m in small town hell, and I hate everything French.

I shed a lot of tears over that journal for the first few months, but I also started using it to record my small victories. I wrote about the wonderful new friends I was making, the successful lessons I taught my students, the colorful French slang I was learning and the amazing food I was discovering. I now had stories to tell about my six-year-old students delightedly learning the words and motions to “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” and the day I spent harvesting olives and eating a two-hour mid-day feast at a local farm.

Gerald and Carmen

I pasted train ticket stubs and postcards and photos in the pages and started keeping lists of new words and phrases I wanted to remember (favorites that are appropriate to repeat are “C’est marrant!” – “How funny!” – and “Pas de soucis” – “No worries”). I even began writing half of my posts in French, which became easier and easier as the weeks progressed. Very gradually, my enthusiastic entries began to outnumber the tearful ones, and I was surprised to find that I was actually happy.

Hannah and me

Even though it was a difficult year for me, I look back on that journal fondly. It was a good friend to me when I needed one the most, and it helped me turn a painful time into a character-building experience. This is an excerpt from my final journal entry before I came back home:

In the end, I can honestly say that I don’t regret this experience. At times, it was almost unbearable because I was so frustrated or isolated or sad. But it’s all part of living abroad, and I’m proud of what I’ve done. There are people and things I will miss, but I am ready and happy to go home. Et voila, it’s the end of this adventure—till the next!

Writing this post really struck a chord with me because I see a lot of parallels with my life at the moment. I was living far from both of my homes (the Bay Area and New Orleans) and navigating all the heartache and craziness that go along with a long-distance relationship. Now Brian is deployed again, and as always, I’m surprised by how hard even three months apart can be.

My situation right now is much easier than in France because I have already established a strong network of friends in Hawaii, and I’m able to keep busy with work and fun activities. Also, I can usually understand the local language without a dictionary. But there are still rough patches, and writing this post reminded me how important my journal is during those times. Blogging and Facebook and Twitter have tried to replace my journal recently, but though those are all great tools for expression, they don’t serve the same purpose at all. They’re public ways of communicating my thoughts, and my journal is the raw, uncensored, as-crazy-as-I-wanna-be medium for working through my issues.

Lately, I’ve been avoiding my journal because I simply don’t feel like dealing with the thoughts and emotions it forces me to face. It’s a whole lot easier to zone out to my DVR queue than write honestly about how I feel, but I miss journaling. And I know it will help. I’m going to start writing in my journal at least once a week again, even if it’s just a few lines at a time.

What about you? Do you keep a journal? Why?

I have only three rules for these quasi-reso-whatevers:

1. They must be fun.
2. They must be flexible.
3. They must not inspire guilt.

That is all. In other words, I will only aim for goals that make me happy, I will change my fickle mind any time I like and I will not starve myself to lose 30 pounds by bikini season (HA, it’s always bikini season here so that’s just silly).

Resolution #1: Get Scuba Certified

I’ve talked about this one for a long time, and I’m both exhilarated and apprehensive about the idea of exploring the depths of the big bad ocean.

Pros: seeing incredible marine life, reefs and even shipwrecks. Cons: The movie “Open Water.” Since I refused to see “Open Water” under any circumstances, the pros win.

All reservations aside, there is absolutely no better time to take the plunge (tee hee). I live in Hawaii, which is surrounded by some of the most beautiful dive spots in the world, and the Marine Corps Base 15 minutes away is offering a winter special for $159 per person. It would be crazy not to do it. Brian and I paid our fees today, and we start classes Monday. You’re mine, ocean.

What are your fun goals for 2010? More of mine to come…

These are the basic rules to what can only be described as the greatest drinking game of all time. Now before you get all preachy on me about how drinking games are juvenile and contribute to unhealthy habits, hear me out. It’s called Dawson’s Drink, and it’s based around the best angsty teen television series EVER, “Dawson’s Creek.” (If you disagree with that last statement, we can clearly not continue our friendship. Move along now.) Yes, the dialogue is ridiculous, the clothes are atrocious (I was sooo much more stylish in 1997), the acting is shaky, and yet it creates the perfect storm of hilarity and drama and genuine entertainment. In other words, it is the ideal canvas on which to paint a masterpiece drinking game.

My brilliant friends and I came up with it one hot and humid night in New Orleans last year, and it has evolved beautifully as we add new players and progress through the series.

Don’t wait. Go play Dawson’s Drink right now.

The Number One Rule:

Every player must choose one of the four main characters (Dawson, Joey, Pacey and Jen)– it’s OK if more than one player is assigned to each character. Every time that character says something no teenager would ever say, drink. New players must be Dawson at least once during their first game. *As other pivotal characters are introduced to the cast (Andie, Jack, etc.), feel free to add them to the mix.

You must also drink when:

• Anyone wears mom jeans
• There is a Steven Spielberg reference
• There is an allusion to Dawson’s future career as a famous filmmaker
• Jen’s grandmother calls someone by their full Christian name (Jennifer, Josephine, etc.)
• Jen’s grandmother brings up God or Jesus
• There is a reference to Jen’s sordid past in New York
• Joey climbs in or out of Dawson’s bedroom window
• Dawson’s parents are getting it on
• Pacey awkwardly tries to hit on girls
• There is an episode clearly ripped off from a movie plot (for example: “The Breakfast Club” or “The Blair Witch Project” episodes)

Optional rules (warning: these happen really frequently). Drink when:

• Joey makes that terrible smirk/pout/grimace/constipation face
• Someone is in a boat
• Someone is gazing pensively out at the water

Bonus rules for the true Dawson’s aficionado (these are from Mr. Chuck Alexander, whose pop culture prowess is damn near unbeatable):

• There is a stipulation that a two-thirds majority can vote to make the Pacey Designate drink whenever he actually says something a teenager would say (a good time to put this rule into effect is mid-Season 1 post-Ms. Jacobs hookup, pre-Andy McPhee).
• For Season 2 (though only Season 2 as they manage to drop this aspect of his character after the evil English teacher makes him out himself to the whole school by reading his poem aloud), drink any time Jack does something clumsy or mentions how clumsy he is.
• Any episode featuring Cliff:  a mandatory group drink any time he does or says something creepy (this also applies later to Michael Pitt’s character Henry, who is so creepy that I genuinely believe he collects dead squirrels).

I hope this inspires you to bring the wonder of Dawson’s Drink to your next party. Enjoy, and feel free to add your own rules in the comments section below!

It’s bittersweet, finally arriving in our much-anticipated new home and then having to be separated again, but we’re making the most of the two weeks we have together. And by “making the most” of it, I mean, spending far too much money on closet organizers and home electronics and trying not to be crushed in our sleep by the walls of boxes surrounding us.

Terrifying, isn’t it?

It’s a little overwhelming to unpack and organize tons (literally; the moving guys told me our stuff weighed 4,600 lbs.) of clothes and papers and kitchen gadgets, but I can’t complain. We live in Hawaii. I don’t know if I get to complain ever again (who am I kidding? I totally will, but I’ll have a better view while I’m whining).

Yesterday when I got off work, we drank a beer, walked to Kailua Beach (15 minutes from our apartment), swam laps in 80-degree water and ate risotto at the Italian restaurant around the corner. Somehow, I think we’ll be able to deal with a little manual labor.

I’ll give a more extensive update later, but here are our first few days via my Twitter soundbites:

We made it to Hawaii! Slept like bebes on the couch cushions that make up our bed till our furniture arrives. Errands and painting today.

I have never been more excited to go hardware and houseware shopping. If we can find chalkboard paint today, I’ll be a happy girl.

We just bought basil, rosemary & tomato plants, green bean and chili pepper seeds & a compost bin. I am determined to grow a green thumb.

Mmm… in desperate need of beer and burgers. Goin’ over to meet some folks at Matt and Heather’s place.

Walking to Kailua Beach to test out the waters. Loving this weekend.

Screw the gym. I am going to swim in the ocean every day for as long as we live here. I’m not even fazed by the jellyfish sting on my arm.

Crashing after a long day of spending too much money and drinking too much wine.

Really, previous renter? Lime green contact paper? For shame.

Tired and content after a long day of unpacking and an incredible dinner at the Japanese place around the corner.

There is something seriously wrong when the Internet I’m stealing from my neighbors works and the one I’m paying for doesn’t.

So I guess Kailua is on a New Orleans schedule for afternoon rain every day at 3:00. No thunder so far, though.

Rocking out to some Amos Lee and getting super excited for the concert in Honolulu tomorrow! And drinking a lot of coffee.

The screaming baby upstairs is serving as extra birth control in case I needed it.

It’s only 10 a.m. and I already want a beer. It’s after noon almost everywhere else.

Pandora isn’t loading well today, so I’m streaming Bay Area radio. KFOG and Alice @ 97.3. Sounds like home.

Afternoon rain, I love you. Thank you for saving the lives of my plants. They really appreciate it.

Anyway, here are recent pictures of Kaila’s masterpiece (thanks for taking them, Kathleen!):

Action shot. Doesn’t it look like Kai is practicing how she’s going to booty dance with me at the reception? I am a LADY, Kaila!

Hey, eyes up here, everyone. Jeez. 

It’s getting pretty real. T- 11 days…

I’m not the crazy Bridezilla sobbing in the corner because she can’t get the caterers to fold the napkins into tiny origami swans. I’m the burnt-out girl who is tired of spreadsheets and has decided maybe she’s done enough planning. We will have a ceremony in a real church with a real priest, we have guaranteed there will be food, booze and music for the entire reception and we’re 98.5 percent sure all family members/wedding party attendants will show up clean, sober and on their best behavior. Everything else is just gravy.

Bri and I started a new spreadsheet in our Google doc of terror called “Current To-Do List,” which now houses all the random tasks we still need to handle. The most satisfying part of my day is using the strikethrough  to cross of completed items. Best. Thing. Ever.

I have learned some interesting tidbits while working through the to-do list:

• You know when the newly married couple jumps into a Rolls Royce or a horse and carriage (maybe more in New Orleans than in other places) and rides away from the church? That shit is expensive! I called Royal Carriages, what Google tells me is the only game in town, and the guy told me for 30 minutes it would be $325! Oh, but it includes a driver in a tux and a white carriage, so it’s cool. And it’s not even a horse pulling the carriage; it’s a mule. The classic car would be $485 for a two-hour minimum, so if we wanted to skip dinner and drive around town, it would be perfect.

• I can’t find anywhere in New Orleans that recycles wine bottles. The city has never been very green, but since the storm, it’s been really difficult to find recycling. The city doesn’t offer it yet, but Chuck and I have been using Phoenix Recycling at our place since I moved back. It’s been great, but recently it announced it can no longer accept glass because the Recycling Foundation of Baton Rouge can’t find markets for all the glass it takes in. I’ve been researching other recycling programs in NOLA but can’t find any that take green or brown glass (the Tulane glass studio will accept clear glass). I’m pretty sure we will be consuming a fair amount of wine at the reception, and I hate to throw bottles away. Does anyone know of an alternative option in the city?

• Good babysitters are hard to find when hardly any of your friends have children. We’ve sent out a few emails to the few friends who do have kids, asking for recommendations, but we haven’t had any luck so far. We need a couple of sitters who can handle 10+ chillen during the reception and help out with the nieces and nephews during the rehearsal dinner. If you know anyone who would be good,  I will buy you a bottle of wine or a jug of sangria, whichever you prefer.

• Enlisting help from family and friends is an awesome idea. Brian’s parents are organizing the rehearsal dinner at Mandina’s, my mom was a huge help in selecting the music and readings for the ceremony, my dad has been trying to dig us up a classic car through his automotive connections, Melia is pitching in on a bunch of mundane tasks I don’t feel like doing, Chuck is updating the RSVP list while I’m out of town (into categories of “people who love Gill” and “people who don’t love Gill”), Kaila is slaving away finishing my dress, the bridesmaids bought their bridesmaidy things months ago and are now focusing on keeping me relatively sane… And even more of our peeps will be bending over backwards to help us in the next few weeks. Much appreciated. Y’all are fabulous.

• Our pre-cana instructors are certifiable. Seriously. We’ve decided the lessons and their responses are less Catholic and more born-again Christian. Under no circumstances should any of you take pre-cana through Catholic Marriage Preparation, Inc. (and yes, that is the real name). Stay tuned for a post on our lessons covering contraception and why the Church trumps conscience and common sense.