Making it to first base

On our trip South we decided to stop at my little brother's.  He's in flight school and stationed at a base on the way.  My grandparents had loaned us a GPS since the fiasco of a trip my brother had when he first headed to the base.  Apparently cell reception is a wee bit spotty in the Deep South and his iPhone lost Google Map capabilities.  It only added a couple hours to his trip, but wandering around in the backwoods of the Deep South can be a bit more intimidating than wandering around in the backwoods of the South.  My cousin, Lily, and I were not interested in random encounters with shotgun-toting, moonshine-chugging, gator-wrestling gentlemen so we were using the GPS.

Even with the GPS, we were a little leery of the surroundings.  The base was a ways out - far enough out that we were pretty sure that a serial killer had hacked into our system and was luring us to our premature death.

We evaded capture by our imaginary serial killer, made it to base, and pulled into the Korean Baptist Church outside the gates.

There are three things you need to make it onto a military base: identification, registration, and proof of current insurance. Normally I would have all three.  This time we had two of the three.  I had apparently tucked the registration somewhere in our file cabinet.  Which was safely in our packing truck.  Waiting for us at our new house.  Five hours away.

After he flat out denied us access to the base, the nice guard told us we could park our car in the guard lot overnight and ride in with my sister-in-law.  Our little car was packed with everything that was too important or too breakable to go in the moving truck so I was a little leery about leaving it out of eyesight. I thought I should double check the safety of our shoes and KitchenAid being left unsupervised.

"Mr. Guard, sir, will our car be safe here?  No one is going to steal our plants, are they?"

He peered at us over the beam of his flashlight.

"No ma'am.  We have Berettas.  Guns tend to deter thieves."

Free at last

Most of my loyal (and disloyal but still interested) readers know that I have had a long standing disagreement with a branch of the U.S. military. They thought I looked nice in camouflage and combat boots. I thought I was more of a stiletto and wrap dress kind of girl. I like to wear my hair down and curly. They liked my hair tidy and tucked up in a bun. The list continues.

Monday at 3 p.m. central standard time we had a mutual break-up. It was a little more mutual on my part than theirs, but most break-ups are. We are headed down separate roads ne'er to cross paths again if fate is done messing with me. No more combat boots. No more spit polish (though to be honest, there wasn't much of that to begin with. The secret to shiny boots is regular shoe polish, a cigarette lighter, and a buffing cloth. Spit not required, thank God.) No more camo unless it's ironic or Halloween.

It was such a cordial breakup they're even giving me an honorable discharge as a parting gift. Isn't that thoughtful?