Base housing… With every PCS move, we have struggled with the decision: should we live ON base or live OFF base.

I’ve been around this community long enough to have a laundry list of reasons to avoid base housing like it is the swine-flu-mad-cow-epidemic of the century.

To be fair, I have made a pretty good case for why base housing is just the best thing since the invention of dry shampoo (what, is that only me?) – “4 Reasons You SHOULD Live on Base.”

But let’s just take a moment to dive into the reasons you probably should steer clear of housing at your next military installation:

1) You don’t want everyone all up in your business, now do you? The military life can be an annoying boat ride through a Disneyland adventure called “It’s a Small World,” that’s for sure. (Oh, why yes… you are welcome for putting that song in your head for the rest of the day!)

When you live on base, and your spouse works on base, and you buy your groceries on base, and your children go to school on base… well, you see a lot of the same people.

Over and over and over again.

And sometimes that means that everyone knows WAY too much information about each other.

If this guy in your spouse’s shop gets in trouble over the weekend and gets arrested and the cops come to his house and CPS has to haul the kids away in the middle of the night, and you just happen to have first-hand knowledge of this because you heard the sirens NEXT DOOR and witnessed the cuffing of SGT Schmuckatellie from your front lawn at 3 a.m. … well, that all might be a little too close for comfort.

Likewise, if you are having one of those days… you know, the “please, oh please, let no one with a smartphone see me right now” days?

Your husband is deployed, both children have the flu and the clinic on base has no appointments for the next three years. The dog got out of the fence (because that neighbor kid was messing with the gate again) while you were on the phone begging a grumpy nurse for an Urgent Care referral and because there was just a notice in your mailbox from housing last week warning about possible rabid raccoons in the area, you rush right out of the house in your bathrobe (which may or may not be closed all of the way) wearing one flip flop, screaming “Sarge, Sarge come back here, boy!” like a crazy loon.

You finally get the dog and are dragging him by the collar back to the house and get to your driveway, safe and sound. That’s when Sarge spots what you can only imagine is a rabid raccoon (you don’t have your glasses on and are not really even sure you have your own dog at this point), and starts barking and pulling wildly, knocking you into the recycling can that is still on the curb because you brought it out on the wrong day.

You and the bin both topple over and now you, your bathrobe (which is most certainly not closed at this point) are a lovely pile of destruction at the end of your driveway. It is at that exact same moment that the spouse of your husband’s superior officer decides to drive by on the way home and slow down to say “hi.”

That is CERTAINLY too close for comfort, folks.

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