A repairman came today. He asked me if my husband was military. I said yes. He said he could tell from the bumper stickers on the truck. I said we both had been military. He told us thanks for serving, that it was good that was “something some folks do.” I told him he was welcome, but I’d like to see the military better used and treated and that my sons served, too; one still active and one sent home busted up and medical’ d out. He asked what happened and I said his knees were shot to hell, and he would have many surgeries to stay walking on them.

Then he waggled an eyebrow at me with this “Now, Missy, don’t get uppity womanish on me.” expression and said “Well, it coulda been worse.”

Yeaaaah, right. I certainly ‘got’ it. My son could be dead like over 5000 other mothers have had to face; does this imbecilic ever-civilian-who-never-served think I don’t know that? And does he realize that his comment implies that I should just be grateful my son came home alive? That I should sort of shut up and be happy with that? That anything less than death as a “wrong” doesn’t merit me bitching about how the military is used?

I feel like being very much the hermit right now. Otherwise, the next knee-jerk stupid commentary on MY life and family might get some idiot knocked dead on his ass.  It is comments like this that make me wish for a universal service requirement at times: then NOBODY could feel so safely isolated from the risks endured by military families as to make such dumb-ass statements.  Meanwhile, him and all his sort can KISS my ass!