Sorry, We Are Not Buying Another Condiment

Approximately one-third of military families move every year. Hundreds of thousands of households relocating, packing up their lives, starting over.

And we are one of them.

But I’m not here to talk about the emotional toll.

I’m here to talk about mustard.

I am two months out from our next PCS, and we have officially entered Phase One: Do Not Acquire Liquids.

This is not an official military term, but it should be. It should be embroidered on a pillow. It should be whispered to new military spouses like a warning.

Because open bottles don’t go with you.

Which means every grocery trip now feels like a high-stakes commitment ceremony.

“Do you, Stacey, take this bottle of ranch… knowing you will be responsible for finishing it within 58–62 days?”

I do not.

Recipe calls for Worcestershire sauce? Not anymore it doesn’t.

Out of ketchup? Sounds like a personal growth opportunity for everyone involved.

We are not introducing any new liquids into this home unless they can evaporate on their own out of respect for my mental health.

Dinner is about to become less “home-cooked meal” and more “pantry-based improv theater.”

Every night between now and June I will open the cabinets like I’m about to perform a magic trick.

Tonight’s ingredients:

• one can of something beige,

• a freezer item with ice crystals thick enough to sink the Titanic,

• and a spice mix I bought during the Obama administration.

Let’s see what happens.

My children will sit down like confused judges on Chopped.

“Mom, what is this?”
“It’s… deconstructed expectations.”

Because the goal is simple: this pantry needs to be empty by late June.

Yes, the movers will technically pack canned goods.

But I refuse to arrive in my new house, open a box labeled “Kitchen, etc,???” and find:

• one dented can of black olives,

• half a sleeve of crushed Oreos,

• my emotional regret.

I once had a neighbor who gave away everything in her pantry and cabinets before every move. Flour. Spices. Snacks. Plastic wrap. The kind of generosity that feels slightly aggressive.

At the time, I thought she had snapped.

Now I realize she had ascended. She was a visionary.

Because last month, my daughter found a can of cranberry sauce that has, according to it’s expiration date, seen as much of the world as I have.

That cranberry sauce has been through things.

It has memories.

And then there’s toiletries.

Specifically: my Costco-sized shampoo.

This is no longer hygiene. This is strategy.

I am now calculating shampoo usage like we’re managing wartime rations.

I am thinking about this more than I thought about my college major.

Too much left on pack-out day? Tragedy.

Too little? We descend into the travel-size graveyard under the sink, where hope goes to die.

Every shower is a moral decision.

One pump? Two pumps? Do I live boldly today, or do I think about June?

I am thinking about June constantly.

My last PCS, I finished a bottle of conditioner exactly two days before pack-out.

Perfect timing.

Flawless execution. 

I have never known peace like that.

I texted a friend who was also mid-PCS: “Brace yourself, I just used up my conditioner.”

She replied, “You suck.”

She was just jealous.

Meanwhile, the rest of the house is descending into its own special brand of chaos.

We are:

• lighting candles every night like we live in a Tudor monastery,

• rage-purging closets,

• questioning why we own formal china like we host state dinners,

• and having ongoing marital discussions about the emotional necessity of owning SO MANY black plastic Tuffbins.

There is also the annual identity spiral:

What if none of this *sweeping gesture at everything we own* is my aesthetic anymore?

What if I move to Colorado and become a different person entirely?

It could happen.

And yet—despite all the rules about what they won’t pack—

every military family has a story about what the movers did pack.

Things like:

• full trash cans,

• closets clearly labeled “DO NOT PACK,”

• or, in one unforgettable case, a pan of used motor oil that was carefully wrapped in paper and shipped across the country only to leak through multiple boxes like a slow-moving crime scene.

But sure. My half-used bottle of ketchup is the problem.

By late June, we will be surviving on dry cereal and vibes.

Our car will contain at least fourteen bags of donations we keep meaning to drop off.

Our hair will either look incredible or deeply suspicious—there is no middle ground.

And our mental state?

Unstable, but highly efficient.

So if you know a military family in the thick of PCS season, check on them.

Bring them a meal.

Offer to drop off those donation bags.

And if you truly love them—

do not, under any circumstances,

gift them a new condiment.