Finally...FIGMO!

For those of you unfamiliar with military jargon I'll say "FIGMO" means "Forget it, got my orders!" However for those of you who have been around a team of salty crew dogs, you'll know there's an expletive in that acronym somewhere. Anyways, salty crew dogs aside, after thirteen months of training, sacrificing, whining and moaning I have graduated from Combat Systems Officer school and become a professional military aviator. I earned the shiny silver wings on the left of the board in the picture. I could not have done it without the the undying support of my wife, Kate who endured countless hours of me griping about my workload, kept me fed, and also from becoming the smelly kid at school. Thank you so much Kate!


We've been so busy these past couple of days as I prepare to go to survival school for twenty one days, straighten out a mortgage, and deal with our accident that often I don't think it will all come together. Then from out of the blue, like something floating down from the heavens, comes a gift from the personnel office, permission to leave Randolph AFB. That's right, orders. If you don't know what I mean, they're just a peice of paper saying that I am in fact leaving my current base and proceeding to the next. However, for someone in a flying training program they're like parole papers for a hardened criminal. If you can't tell, I'm ready to get the hell out of Texas. It's hot here.