In the Marine Corps cycle of life, every November means dusting off the dress uniform, (making sure it still fits!) and finding a gown that hasn’t been worn at the current duty station in anticipation of the Marine Corps ball.
For some, retiring means not having to go to a ball ever again (and no longer having to fit into a uniform), but for us this year was a marker of how far we’ve come. Last year at this time we had no idea where we’d be in November 2018 — if Josh would have a job or what country we’d be living in. We knew change was coming, but not what form it would take. We were hoping to be employed and living in Abu Dhabi and told each other that if we were still here we’d come back to the ball and celebrate being retirees. 
Of course it’s the only photo we took all night — a quick snap for Camille on our way out of the hotel room.
We had a very fun night with longtime Marine friends who live in Dubai. 
But the drain of the past 6 months was evident as we did not have a triumphant return to the dance floor, but more of a collapsing over the finish line of a race. We made it. We enjoyed it. We sat and chatted and went home before 11. #retireefun
I couldn’t have been more thankful that we traded the ^^ IKEA option, for this: 
Including the chair, we spent less on this than we would have if we had jumped ahead and purchased what we “needed” when we first moved in. God provides even better than we could have asked for. Not only is it beautiful, but it has drawers, cupboards and a built in light.
The page, delivering the lines for a “Hamlet-off.” 
Carter was the director of music (the songsmith) with a drinking problem.
Caleb had only one line, but provided comic relief through his non-verbal expression. (Playing a single note on the triangle at just the right moment).
Carter spent the entire show stumbling, fumbling, and staggering for his footing while trying to sneak in some Adele and other modern music in spite of the director’s insistence for “Gilbert and Sullivan only!”
Dog peanut butter (so he takes his medicine) and some trail mix. Living large.
Some squash and sweet potatoes for lunch perhaps? Now a normal person would probably go to the grocery store, but I really hate food shopping here. I have to make too many uneducated decisions, like are these eggs actually from chickens that get to run free outside or am I getting scammed by those farms that have overcrowded houses with one tiny door that the chickens can never find? (By the way, I researched and learned that Irish organic eggs are legit free range and that makes paying $7 for 10 eggs a little less painful.)
And by tonight I’ll have a fridge full of veg, fruit and meat for less than it would cost at the grocery store, but the cupboards will still be pretty bare. I guess that’s the secret — no trips to the store means no junk food (or enjoyable food) purchases and then I really do only eat when I’m hungry. Because no one is getting out of bed at 10 pm to snack on cauliflower rice.
Here the kids can come down in the morning, actually hungry for breakfast because they aren’t rushing to catch the bus at 7. They eat, argue over whose turn it is to walk the dog and whose turn it is to walk Camille to school, and leave around 7:30. I can even make them go back upstairs to pick wet towels up off the floor — running late now just means they’ll be late, not that they’ll miss the bus. Freedom.
