Hi, I’m Sandra, and you’re reading my blog.
Now that you’re sufficiently irritated with my half thoughts, here’s the deal (for those of you that don’t know): I’m a combat veteran, an army wife, a Mom, a friend, and an (gulp) alcoholic.
Should I be putting that out there? Probably not. Am I gonna? Yes.
Why, you ask? Well, because staying on the wagon is rough. The wagon wheel hits a tiny stress bump, (or a hard week, or a Saturday) and you just fall off the damned thing.
And you people? Yeah, you, reading this and thinking, why the hell would she air her dirty laundry in the blogosphere? You’re my seatbelts. Did you know that wagons have seatbelts? Well, they do now. So quit gasping, and let go of your crewneck sweater. Don’t judge me, or your khakis might wrinkle. We’re not khaki people here, anyway, really.
In that last post, I mentioned that I needed something to keep from going crazy. Before you get confused or concerned, let’s get a few things straight: I work. I have three wonderful children (although only one lives with me. The other two are stepchildren, but I love them like I popped all three of them out). I clean, I cook, I love TV, and I love reading. I have lots of things to keep me busy. I just occasionally have to look to find things to keep me sane. I don’t paint, I can’t draw, and scrapbooking is a bit too in-depth for me. I don’t make wreaths, I can’t hang with anything that involves the phrase “Mommy and Me,” and I’ve never learned to change the thread in a sewing machine. To recap: I’m not very good at hobbies, because those tend to take varying levels of dedication, and I’m pretty picky about what I dedicate myself to. I know that I’m flaky, and I feel really, really bad about that. But I can only admit having so many problems at a time, and I’ve already downloaded the Alcoholics Anonymous app.
Now that I’ve taken you through Vancouver to get to Birmingham, the point is: my family is about to take a huge journey. One that is both emotional and physical.
My green suited, gun toting husband is about to re-class (to a wicked cool job field) that will take him out of the area for a few months. Then we’re packing up the house (again) and moving to Colorado. A few short months later, he’s getting on a plane that isn’t going to Detroit.
And me? I’ll be at home. Writing about it.