My stuff is being delivered tomorrow.
I've been in San Diego for 3 fucking weeks.
I haven't slept on my own bed since May 24th.
The moving contractors weren't listening to me, because I didn't take his last name, and in militaryland, that's considered bad because the DoD doesn't know their asses from their elbows. I'm gonna change it, eventually, I just didn't want to deal with it during school since I had a hard enough time during my undergrad changing it back from my first marriage. This is an archaic system, but not one I can fight with the feminisms and the social justices and whatever the kids are calling it these days. I have to just deal. Paperwork? Nah, don't show us your ID, your not his wife because you don't have his last name.
So, my husband, the chief petty officer with the fucking patience of a saint, is sick of his wife sleeping on the floor because the air mattress is doing rotten things to her back. And, without too much of a fight, they "magically" found our stuff, which was already in San Diego, and now it's getting delivered on a day they normally don't deliver.
He wasn't there when they came to pack us. Or loaded the truck. I drove across the country with a friend instead of him.
And now, I get to prep the house without him, and hope that the boat lets him off of duty tomorrow at an early time so my stomach won't fucking implode again. I discovered the true meaning of pain and suffering when my GI tract revolted on me during my thesis writing, and started manufacturing excess acid. Acid burns holes. I have a tiny ulcer in my stomach that can reduce me to cold sweats and dry heaves if I'm not medicated on a strong proton pump inhibitor, or as I've come to call them, my proton torpedoes.
Apparently, stress can fucking rip you apart. Who knew?
But seriously though, do not get an ulcer. DO NOT. I thought that something ruptured, and couldn't even drink water.
At least I get my couch tomorrow.
