Everytime I hear the word I cringe. It raises my blood pressure. My nerves are frayed and I break out in cold sweat.

It's PCS.

I know most of my fellow military spouses completely understand. My non-military friends are thinking "first, it's not a word. It's another one of those acronyms you throw out there and I have no idea what it means. Second, it's only three letters."

Trust me. It's a four letter word. Throw an "F" or a "D" in there anywhere if you need to. Goodness knows I do it often enough.

PCS stands for permanent change of station. Which, when you think about it is hilarious because nothing in the military is permanent.

It means complete strangers with varying degrees of personal hygeine and questionable background descend on your house. You happily greet them and stand back as they transform your home into a sea of cardboard boxes.

You spend a small fortune on food and drinks to keep them happy. Happy people are less likely to steal or break your shit.

Happy people are less likely to throw loose silverware into your non-stick pans to rattle around for 5,000 or so miles. Happy people are less likely to pack a full trashcan with your unmentionables.

Sometimes though, all the Big Macs and Cokes in the world are not enough to ensure all of your items make it to your next destination and in the condition you last saw them.

I have thirteen days until this adventure begins...