I took the NY State Police Exam this morning. I arrived early enough to sit in on a Q&A session with a seasoned Trooper. And like every other Trooper I've met to date, he loves his job and doesn't mind telling you about it.
"I know you, by the way," he stated, looking at me. He didn't look familiar, and I haven't been pulled over in years. Then I figured they probably look up our driver's licenses, registrations, etc., and he likely remembered me from the license photo because I was, after all, the ONLY woman in the crowd taking the test.
I finished the test in half the time limit--it was nothing like the FBI Exam, which is astonishingly math-heavy and time-constrained. As I was leaving, the same Trooper took a thumbprint, had me sign some stuff, and said, "I know where it is I thought I knew you from. Trinity, from The Matrix."
I'm sure I looked confused. "Oh, okay," I laughed it off. I figure it must be the haircut--mine is pretty similar to hers, but mine's red. I look nothing like that actress--I wish I did, believe me, but I most assuredly do not.
When my hair was long and straight, I was sometimes told by cashiers and the occasional waitress that I looked like Julianne Moore, and I got Fergie a time or two...no, I really don't look like either of them, either. Funny how your hair can remind people of others. I also get a great deal of, "You remind me so much of (insert some random name here, a cousin, sister, whatever)." Everyone knows someone who looks just like me, or talks like me, or something. And it's always total strangers.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Do Not Drive or Operate Heavy Machinery
Sidebar--evidently Al Qaeda has developed the ultimate WMD: a weather-controlling device. How many Category 5 storms can we line up in a row to destroy the entire coastal South?!? Now for the story:
I returned from Pilates, settled in to watch CSI, and ordered Chinese. I had a new Ambien prescription, having been hit with the same insomnia I've battled for years and years. I figured, by the time the food gets here and I eat, this'll kick in and I can go straight to bed. So I popped the tiny little pill.
It wasn't ten minutes later that my eyes crossed and I had that same feeling you have when you try to keep up tequila shots with your 230-pound linebacker buddy. Suddenly, you look around and think, holy crap, that was one too many. The Chinese hadn't arrived and there were dirty dishes in the sink. The cats hadn't been fed. I hadn't washed my face and still wore dirty gym clothes. And as I struggled to stand and focus on the floor to walk, I tried wildly to remember where I'd put the cash for the Chinese.
It felt like a dream, where you know you have to get someplace or face dire circumstances, you can see your objective, but it's like swimming through honey. I slammed into the wall on my drunken way up the stairs. Felt my way along the wall to my Army uniform, where I'd left my cash (maybe), and once I had the money in my hand, stared at it for an eternity, struggling to recall why I needed it, how much I needed, and when. The knock on the door sounded like the Four Horses of the Apocalypse and time stopped as I inched down the stairs, in full view of the driver. I vaguely remember a shadowy figure standing outside in a baseball cap.
I don't even remember how much I gave him. I don't know how much was in my pocket but I think the tip was obscene. I'm sure he sniffed the air for the smell of the crackpipe I'd surely just set in the ashtray, then probably joked with his buddies about that really stoned lady who gave him twenty bucks. Dude, she could barely stand up!!
I had the presence of mind to set the bag of food on top of a tall speaker, unsteadily shut and locked the door, and crawled back up the stairs. The nausea hit me and I bent over the toilet, puked a bunch of watery bile since I hadn't eaten, and pinballed down the hall to my bedroom.
I awoke at 5 am sprawled face-down on top of the bed, still fully dressed in the dirty gym clothes, with all the lights and the TV on. The cat that sniffed the top of my head distinctly smelled of steamed pork dumplings.
I stood in the den and laughed myself breathless. Sure enough, they'd pounced from the windowsill to the speaker, and the Chinese food was spread out all over the den floor. They were kind enough to keep it on the hardwood, no damage to furniture or pretty rugs. These cats evidently don't care for rice, that was pawed through and played with, but not eaten. I couldn't have eaten it anyway, having sat out all night. And I had not, after all, fed them.
Ambien, I now understand, mixes with nothing. How anyone could even attempt to drive or operate heavy machinery inverse to the stern warning on the bottle, I cannot begin to imagine.
Happy news: I got the temporary job at Fort Huachuca, Arizona. So I'll miss the best of the beautiful upstate New York autumn, but I'll have five weeks of great experience as a contractor, and a fairly fat paycheck. My first reaction was to run out and buy the Nissan Altima I've been wanting, but I'll save that reward for when I get a permanent job.
I returned from Pilates, settled in to watch CSI, and ordered Chinese. I had a new Ambien prescription, having been hit with the same insomnia I've battled for years and years. I figured, by the time the food gets here and I eat, this'll kick in and I can go straight to bed. So I popped the tiny little pill.
It wasn't ten minutes later that my eyes crossed and I had that same feeling you have when you try to keep up tequila shots with your 230-pound linebacker buddy. Suddenly, you look around and think, holy crap, that was one too many. The Chinese hadn't arrived and there were dirty dishes in the sink. The cats hadn't been fed. I hadn't washed my face and still wore dirty gym clothes. And as I struggled to stand and focus on the floor to walk, I tried wildly to remember where I'd put the cash for the Chinese.
It felt like a dream, where you know you have to get someplace or face dire circumstances, you can see your objective, but it's like swimming through honey. I slammed into the wall on my drunken way up the stairs. Felt my way along the wall to my Army uniform, where I'd left my cash (maybe), and once I had the money in my hand, stared at it for an eternity, struggling to recall why I needed it, how much I needed, and when. The knock on the door sounded like the Four Horses of the Apocalypse and time stopped as I inched down the stairs, in full view of the driver. I vaguely remember a shadowy figure standing outside in a baseball cap.
I don't even remember how much I gave him. I don't know how much was in my pocket but I think the tip was obscene. I'm sure he sniffed the air for the smell of the crackpipe I'd surely just set in the ashtray, then probably joked with his buddies about that really stoned lady who gave him twenty bucks. Dude, she could barely stand up!!
I had the presence of mind to set the bag of food on top of a tall speaker, unsteadily shut and locked the door, and crawled back up the stairs. The nausea hit me and I bent over the toilet, puked a bunch of watery bile since I hadn't eaten, and pinballed down the hall to my bedroom.
I awoke at 5 am sprawled face-down on top of the bed, still fully dressed in the dirty gym clothes, with all the lights and the TV on. The cat that sniffed the top of my head distinctly smelled of steamed pork dumplings.
I stood in the den and laughed myself breathless. Sure enough, they'd pounced from the windowsill to the speaker, and the Chinese food was spread out all over the den floor. They were kind enough to keep it on the hardwood, no damage to furniture or pretty rugs. These cats evidently don't care for rice, that was pawed through and played with, but not eaten. I couldn't have eaten it anyway, having sat out all night. And I had not, after all, fed them.
Ambien, I now understand, mixes with nothing. How anyone could even attempt to drive or operate heavy machinery inverse to the stern warning on the bottle, I cannot begin to imagine.
Happy news: I got the temporary job at Fort Huachuca, Arizona. So I'll miss the best of the beautiful upstate New York autumn, but I'll have five weeks of great experience as a contractor, and a fairly fat paycheck. My first reaction was to run out and buy the Nissan Altima I've been wanting, but I'll save that reward for when I get a permanent job.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
What the ?!?
From MayoClinic.com:
Chondromalacia patella--causes softening of the cartilage. This occurs when the water content of cartilage increases, a process associated with osteoarthritis. As a result, cartilage loses its shock-absorbing ability. Chondromalacia patella damages the cartilage behind the kneecap. The main symptom is pain in the front of the knee that worsens when walking uphill or climbing stairs.
Or running.
Bursitis--You have more than 150 bursae in your body. These small, fluid-filled sacs lubricate and cushion pressure points between your bones and the tendons and muscles near your joints. They help your joints move with ease. Bursitis occurs when one of the bursae becomes inflamed. When inflammation occurs, movement or pressure is painful.
Both hips and right knee.
And what's causing the right side of my body to go to hell? Hip pain and that bum knee? Scoliosis, for chrissake. My right leg is longer than my left, my right hip is higher, and it's been beating the shit out of my right side to run or wear a rucksack. The doctor told me that unless I want a hip and/or knee replacement, cease and desist with all running. What???
I walked right over and made an appointment with a podiatrist, to see about getting orthotics to correct the discrepancy. If that doesn't work, my running days are indeed over and done. I would rather find some other way to exercise than find myself unable to walk or climb stairs in ten years.
So holy crap, if I get into the FBI or State Police, I'm going to just have to grit my teeth and get through the Academy, then stay in shape in the elliptical machine and bike, and take the PT test twice a year. It can be done.
But they'd make me get out of the Army. The disability will be the same whether I leave voluntarily or by medical board. No running, no ruck marching, no walking more than a couple of miles at a time? As an Army officer? Can't be done. I can get by as a cop or Federal Agent, they don't exercise together for an hour every morning...as long as I can pass the tests, I can hang.
But Jesus, never run recreationally again?? It's been a huge part of my life for more than ten years, that's like telling me I'm allergic to taking showers or sugar or reading.
*Sigh* I guess I'll download volumes of recorded books for my iPod and get to the gym each day. I'll miss being outside--a bike would be a good investment, but the season's almost over for that. They're probably on sale...
Chondromalacia patella--causes softening of the cartilage. This occurs when the water content of cartilage increases, a process associated with osteoarthritis. As a result, cartilage loses its shock-absorbing ability. Chondromalacia patella damages the cartilage behind the kneecap. The main symptom is pain in the front of the knee that worsens when walking uphill or climbing stairs.
Or running.
Bursitis--You have more than 150 bursae in your body. These small, fluid-filled sacs lubricate and cushion pressure points between your bones and the tendons and muscles near your joints. They help your joints move with ease. Bursitis occurs when one of the bursae becomes inflamed. When inflammation occurs, movement or pressure is painful.
Both hips and right knee.
And what's causing the right side of my body to go to hell? Hip pain and that bum knee? Scoliosis, for chrissake. My right leg is longer than my left, my right hip is higher, and it's been beating the shit out of my right side to run or wear a rucksack. The doctor told me that unless I want a hip and/or knee replacement, cease and desist with all running. What???
I walked right over and made an appointment with a podiatrist, to see about getting orthotics to correct the discrepancy. If that doesn't work, my running days are indeed over and done. I would rather find some other way to exercise than find myself unable to walk or climb stairs in ten years.
So holy crap, if I get into the FBI or State Police, I'm going to just have to grit my teeth and get through the Academy, then stay in shape in the elliptical machine and bike, and take the PT test twice a year. It can be done.
But they'd make me get out of the Army. The disability will be the same whether I leave voluntarily or by medical board. No running, no ruck marching, no walking more than a couple of miles at a time? As an Army officer? Can't be done. I can get by as a cop or Federal Agent, they don't exercise together for an hour every morning...as long as I can pass the tests, I can hang.
But Jesus, never run recreationally again?? It's been a huge part of my life for more than ten years, that's like telling me I'm allergic to taking showers or sugar or reading.
*Sigh* I guess I'll download volumes of recorded books for my iPod and get to the gym each day. I'll miss being outside--a bike would be a good investment, but the season's almost over for that. They're probably on sale...
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Evangeline
The Crescent City is no stranger to disaster, and has responded exactly the same way since the 1710's, when the Ursuline Nuns wrote their own lyrics to popular French music of the day and created the first New Orleans-specific musical genre. You can sift through the history of New Orleans and draw a direct correlation between strife and musical prolification.
In 1721-22, the city was hit with three severe hurricanes, one after another, and suddenly opera companies emerged, competing fiercely, with membership drawing from rich, poor, black, white, Haitian/Creole, Latin, you name it. That is certainly not to say the city was a bastion of racial harmony then or now, but music has always been the neutral ground.
The city boomed after the Civil War, then the stock market crash of 1873 wrought economic disaster. The city came to understand in the years that followed that it was poor and backward, with races that interacted despite segregation. It began to define itself by culture, not wealth or property. When the going gets tough there, the tough get dancing. And so were born jazz and blues.
The early 19th century dealt the city plagues, race riots, economic ruin, and ultimately birthed the unique burial ritual so closely associated with the city. Brass bands populated the streets of cities and towns all over America, but New Orleans alone developed the second line tradition, and has also been unique in its proud maintenance of its rituals, the continued incorporation of heavy traditions in daily life. The dirge that accompanied the body to the cemetery paid respect to the dead. But once the dead made it into the ground, the second line follows...joyous, raucous, at least a dozen brass instruments and two drums (a snare and a bass, kept separate) followed by ghetto kids beating on pots and pans and stabbing open umbrellas into the air, celebrating life with all its imperfections. This is how New Orleans addresses life's central tragedy and all the lesser demons that run through it.
Music has always been the antidote to the perils of being a person living in New Orleans, the musician has always been the troubadour.
In the great flood of 1927, sharecroppers just outside the city left their homes with their Victrolas under one arm, their record collection under the other, and the shirts on their backs. They'd saved for months or even years for that Victrola, they weren't about to leave it behind. It was the family's prized possession.
Jelly Roll Morton discussed the Storyville murders in the music-soaked red-light district (now Bourbon Street) in his interviews for the Library of Congress in the early 1930's. But if you listen to what he wrote, it's all about joy. That's the dynamic of New Orleans; even the blues are celebratory. The abysmal social and economic conditions that shaped New Orleans rarely made it into the music, and that is still true even now. It is a special genre of music that has always been more interested in celebrating life than mourning loss.
I had a friend from college named Dave who visited me down there in 1997. I brought him to Esplanade Avenue, the graceful street that runs from Mid-City/City Park to the back of the French Quarter, to see the Treme' Brass Band. They were in their usual fine form, dressed in crisp tuxedos, the bandmaster clutching a fine, ivory-topped cane and wearing a top hat, solemnly stepping in time, slowly down Esplanade. Then someone toward the back blew a whistle, and they leaped into the second line, dancing wildly, that huge music swirling up the street. It sounds like nothing else on earth.
Dave was literally struck dumb. These same bands play in the clubs at night, that astonishing anomaly called sousafunk. Tuba instead of a bass, pure brass and percussion, a force upon the land. New Orleans distilled.
So what of post-Katrina New Orleans? The same as always--an outpouring of joy after the bodies make it into the ground. The Krewe of Orpheus is already planning their Lundi Gras parade. You watch. The already musically prolific city will explode with new recordings in the years to come. The streets of Evangeline will ring again by Mardi Gras in February 2006--still wounded, of course, but I predict this next Mardi Gras will go down in history as truly special. Everyone will be amazed to see two-story floats gliding down the street, as if this is the first time New Orleans has had to scrape up the pieces and make a po-boy.
It's just business as usual. Mardi Gras 2006 could be the biggest second line in history.
In 1721-22, the city was hit with three severe hurricanes, one after another, and suddenly opera companies emerged, competing fiercely, with membership drawing from rich, poor, black, white, Haitian/Creole, Latin, you name it. That is certainly not to say the city was a bastion of racial harmony then or now, but music has always been the neutral ground.
The city boomed after the Civil War, then the stock market crash of 1873 wrought economic disaster. The city came to understand in the years that followed that it was poor and backward, with races that interacted despite segregation. It began to define itself by culture, not wealth or property. When the going gets tough there, the tough get dancing. And so were born jazz and blues.
The early 19th century dealt the city plagues, race riots, economic ruin, and ultimately birthed the unique burial ritual so closely associated with the city. Brass bands populated the streets of cities and towns all over America, but New Orleans alone developed the second line tradition, and has also been unique in its proud maintenance of its rituals, the continued incorporation of heavy traditions in daily life. The dirge that accompanied the body to the cemetery paid respect to the dead. But once the dead made it into the ground, the second line follows...joyous, raucous, at least a dozen brass instruments and two drums (a snare and a bass, kept separate) followed by ghetto kids beating on pots and pans and stabbing open umbrellas into the air, celebrating life with all its imperfections. This is how New Orleans addresses life's central tragedy and all the lesser demons that run through it.
Music has always been the antidote to the perils of being a person living in New Orleans, the musician has always been the troubadour.
In the great flood of 1927, sharecroppers just outside the city left their homes with their Victrolas under one arm, their record collection under the other, and the shirts on their backs. They'd saved for months or even years for that Victrola, they weren't about to leave it behind. It was the family's prized possession.
Jelly Roll Morton discussed the Storyville murders in the music-soaked red-light district (now Bourbon Street) in his interviews for the Library of Congress in the early 1930's. But if you listen to what he wrote, it's all about joy. That's the dynamic of New Orleans; even the blues are celebratory. The abysmal social and economic conditions that shaped New Orleans rarely made it into the music, and that is still true even now. It is a special genre of music that has always been more interested in celebrating life than mourning loss.
I had a friend from college named Dave who visited me down there in 1997. I brought him to Esplanade Avenue, the graceful street that runs from Mid-City/City Park to the back of the French Quarter, to see the Treme' Brass Band. They were in their usual fine form, dressed in crisp tuxedos, the bandmaster clutching a fine, ivory-topped cane and wearing a top hat, solemnly stepping in time, slowly down Esplanade. Then someone toward the back blew a whistle, and they leaped into the second line, dancing wildly, that huge music swirling up the street. It sounds like nothing else on earth.
Dave was literally struck dumb. These same bands play in the clubs at night, that astonishing anomaly called sousafunk. Tuba instead of a bass, pure brass and percussion, a force upon the land. New Orleans distilled.
So what of post-Katrina New Orleans? The same as always--an outpouring of joy after the bodies make it into the ground. The Krewe of Orpheus is already planning their Lundi Gras parade. You watch. The already musically prolific city will explode with new recordings in the years to come. The streets of Evangeline will ring again by Mardi Gras in February 2006--still wounded, of course, but I predict this next Mardi Gras will go down in history as truly special. Everyone will be amazed to see two-story floats gliding down the street, as if this is the first time New Orleans has had to scrape up the pieces and make a po-boy.
It's just business as usual. Mardi Gras 2006 could be the biggest second line in history.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Harley Helmets, A Sociological Photostudy
A fine upstate New York afternoon. The big September 11 pig roast at the local Harley dealership. That's my little bike out front, with a couple hundred of her sisters scattered about.Barbeque, a battle of the bands, and the big drawing for a Screamin' Eagle V-Rod Destroyer, which is a great big honkin' streetbike, and recently clocked a new world record in straight-distance acceleration. I bought six tickets last month at ten bucks each. I wanted that bike, even though it was orange with garish lightning/flame things all up the gas tank.
I wandered around and started taking pictures of the bikes, but then became much more interested in the helmets.
"I'm in GOOD Shapefor the Shape I'm In"
"I was born ugly
what's your excuse?"
In the absence of a bumper, the helmet becomes the forum for...um, expression.
These are all verbatim, by the way, I even kept the capitalizations and line integrity."YOU WERE GOOD
BUT YOUR MOTHER WAS BETTER"
"DIP ME IN HONEY
and throw me to the LESBIANS"
Did I mention that I don't quite fit in with this crowd?
"I AM BLIND
I READ HOOTERS BY BRAILLE
MAY I READ YOURS?"
Just after I took this picture, this old fat guy waddled up to the bike and shifted some shit around to prove it was his, grinning sideways at me all the while. I wear a double-A, I cannot imagine what he was thinking. He, like everyone else, assumed I was snapping shots of His. Awesome. Bike.
One for the ladies:
"MY NIPPLES GET HARDER
THAN MOST GUYS DICKS"
Girl power for the Harley crowd? I don't get it.
I actually like this one:
"LOUD PIPES SAVE LIVES. "
And he's got the hardware to back that up.
"TITS AND BRAINS'
I'm not entirely sure what this means...does it mean the rider likes tits and brains, or has tits and brains? The use of the word "tits" makes both possibilities somewhat unlikely.
My personal favorite:"DON'T ASK TO RIDE MY BIKE
AND I WON'T ASK TO RIDE YOUR BITCH"
"WARNING
INSTANT ASSHOLE, JUST ADD ALCOHOL"
The third sticker was some pearl of wisdom about the perfect woman being a nymphomaniac with a boat.
And finally, the Grand Poohbah of Helmets Protecting the Melon of a Shithead:"IF YOU'RE NOT INTO ORAL SEX
KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT"
"I WAS BORN WITH NOTHING
AND STILL HAVE PLENTY OF IT LEFT"
"FRIENDS COME AND GO
BUT ENEMIES ACCUMULATE"
Yes, I'm sure they do, many of them female.
And now for the finale, and I'll post it as large as I can so you can read for yourself:
Lady Luck, The Sequel
I'm being invited by three different Defense contractors to interview for part-time Intelligence instructor positions in southern Arizona. It would mean flying out there for a couple of weeks at a time, conducting training events and some classroom teaching, then flying back here...all expenses paid, including hotel and rental car, plus a salary that we haven't begun to discuss yet. The Harley dealership in Sierra Vista rents out bikes. I cannot imagine a more perfect solution to my year of limbo awaiting the NY State Police job...all three companies will call me back Monday with more details. This all happened in the space of two hours on Friday afternoon, while I cleaned the house with a storming brain, still cloudy with indecision about leaving the Army. It must be a sign.
I rode down to Pulaski (pronounced pull-ASK-eye, not pull-ASK-ee), New York, for a 10K run. Another idyllic upstate New York town, bisected by the Salmon River and overflowing with fly fishermen, standing only about four meters apart in the river wearing their comical hip boots and the bucolic flop-hats dotted with flies. Just like in some sentimental movie about times past. One thing I love about this area is that the old homes have been lovingly preserved, having been spared such inconveniences as Sherman's bloody swath of ruin and centuries of hurricanes.
The two small Southern towns I lived in: Oxford, Mississippi, and Athens, Georgia, were also lovely and featured the older homes and buildings I love. But college towns are bleak and annoying if you aren't actually in college. All the downtown restaurants and bars feel hostile to the over-30 crowd and there is nothing, nothing so irritating as a home football weekend. The next day's mountains of chicken bones and beer bottles alone were enough to drive a local mad.
I may not feel so charitable after I've lived through one of the formidable winters up here. We've already hit the mid-40's a couple of nights, and the leaves are changing. I couldn't enjoy this last year, when I was home for those two weeks, because I couldn't climb out of the hole that knowing I had to go back to Iraq for eight months dug me into.
This year, I get to enjoy it fully.
I rode down to Pulaski (pronounced pull-ASK-eye, not pull-ASK-ee), New York, for a 10K run. Another idyllic upstate New York town, bisected by the Salmon River and overflowing with fly fishermen, standing only about four meters apart in the river wearing their comical hip boots and the bucolic flop-hats dotted with flies. Just like in some sentimental movie about times past. One thing I love about this area is that the old homes have been lovingly preserved, having been spared such inconveniences as Sherman's bloody swath of ruin and centuries of hurricanes.
The two small Southern towns I lived in: Oxford, Mississippi, and Athens, Georgia, were also lovely and featured the older homes and buildings I love. But college towns are bleak and annoying if you aren't actually in college. All the downtown restaurants and bars feel hostile to the over-30 crowd and there is nothing, nothing so irritating as a home football weekend. The next day's mountains of chicken bones and beer bottles alone were enough to drive a local mad.
I may not feel so charitable after I've lived through one of the formidable winters up here. We've already hit the mid-40's a couple of nights, and the leaves are changing. I couldn't enjoy this last year, when I was home for those two weeks, because I couldn't climb out of the hole that knowing I had to go back to Iraq for eight months dug me into.
This year, I get to enjoy it fully.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Slight Change
Due to the increasing volume of moronic comment spam, everyone now has to type in a word verification in order to post a comment...you've seen these before, it'll have some squiggly-wavy word, and you have to type it in the little space. Talk About Annoying.
Thanks for your patience.
Thanks for your patience.
...OK, Now I'm Better
Whew, that was a strong one. No, I'm not staying in...because while it is miserable not having enough money, Iraq was even more miserable. And while chances are, I'll never run out of money again, the chance I'll go back to Iraq if I stay in sits at 100%.
The NY State Police job means almost a full year of unemployment--or not-gainful employment, anyway--as the first Academy date I can reasonably expect is next August. But that's one tough year, and I'm back on my feet in a job I'll like and will pay me well. And looking out two years...NY Bureau of Criminal Investigation on one hand, Iraq on the other...no-brainer. Even if I lucked into a cushy assignment, I strongly predict I'd still deploy. MI Captains are just too scarce. And anyway, staying in would just delay the inevitable--I don't see doing thirteen more years, and in a couple of years I'll be established with another career, rather than facing Army separation.
I can't believe the damn advertisers have figured out how to spam blog comments. A pox on your houses, spammers one and all. That last one was a true idiot--poor grammar, and obviously thinks I'm one of those pundit bloggers...give me a break! I just discovered I can delete comments as I see fit...so spam all you want, you rat bastards, I'll just delete it anyway.
The NY State Police job means almost a full year of unemployment--or not-gainful employment, anyway--as the first Academy date I can reasonably expect is next August. But that's one tough year, and I'm back on my feet in a job I'll like and will pay me well. And looking out two years...NY Bureau of Criminal Investigation on one hand, Iraq on the other...no-brainer. Even if I lucked into a cushy assignment, I strongly predict I'd still deploy. MI Captains are just too scarce. And anyway, staying in would just delay the inevitable--I don't see doing thirteen more years, and in a couple of years I'll be established with another career, rather than facing Army separation.
I can't believe the damn advertisers have figured out how to spam blog comments. A pox on your houses, spammers one and all. That last one was a true idiot--poor grammar, and obviously thinks I'm one of those pundit bloggers...give me a break! I just discovered I can delete comments as I see fit...so spam all you want, you rat bastards, I'll just delete it anyway.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
I'm Getting Weak!!!
Someone please promptly drive up to northern New York and slap the crap out of me. I'm thinking about staying in the Army, giving it a shot as a Captain in an assignment far, far away from the Infantry. I just don't know that I'm ready to take off this uniform yet--I'm so proud of what I do. And I make a lot of money...and while money isn't everything, not having to worry about anything even vaguely related to money is pretty liberating. I can't remember the last time I used a credit card; I just pay for everything outright. No kidding. And I have a ready-made family everywhere I go, complete with a wide safety net. I just don't perceive the civilian workplace as having this sort of family feel.
Watching all the Katrina drama unfold on CNN just brought back a flood (pun intended) of memories of my time in New Orleans. There is nothing worse than having to call your landlord and tell him you'll be late on the rent, again. My truck languished on the curb for three months because the starter broke and I couldn't scrape up the cash to fix it. I finally pulled the old one out myself, put in a backpack, and rode my bicycle to AutoZone for a swap-out. I didn't buy new clothes for a couple of years. My credit cards and student loans were all miserably late and my credit was in ruins.
It felt like shit. It took until just now to fix my credit...and fix it I did, my score is nearly perfect now. And the Army is, regardless of the mission and how people feel about it, an eternally honorable profession.
I could: go to the Captain's Course (about six months long) in Arizona, and see where they assign me. If I don't like it, I'm out in less than a year--with more savings and a renewed Top Secret clearance. But I could get Fort Gordon in Augusta, Georgia, putting me back in the South. Or Fort Meade, Maryland, where I wouldn't deploy. Or Arizona, no deployments.
I know my friends are now howling NNNOOOO at their screens. Maybe I'm just feeling weak, but everyone must admit, the Army can be a really sweet deal with the right assignment. I think what I've hated the most about it is being a Lieutenant in an Infantry brigade...LT is the most odious rank in the entire military, because they put you in charge of momentous things, yet encourage a dynamic where LT's are looked upon as buffoonish amateurs, no matter who you are. It's a constant power struggle, and most of my heartache in Iraq was from Captains.
As I said, someone come up here and slap me hard across the face, quickly.
Watching all the Katrina drama unfold on CNN just brought back a flood (pun intended) of memories of my time in New Orleans. There is nothing worse than having to call your landlord and tell him you'll be late on the rent, again. My truck languished on the curb for three months because the starter broke and I couldn't scrape up the cash to fix it. I finally pulled the old one out myself, put in a backpack, and rode my bicycle to AutoZone for a swap-out. I didn't buy new clothes for a couple of years. My credit cards and student loans were all miserably late and my credit was in ruins.
It felt like shit. It took until just now to fix my credit...and fix it I did, my score is nearly perfect now. And the Army is, regardless of the mission and how people feel about it, an eternally honorable profession.
I could: go to the Captain's Course (about six months long) in Arizona, and see where they assign me. If I don't like it, I'm out in less than a year--with more savings and a renewed Top Secret clearance. But I could get Fort Gordon in Augusta, Georgia, putting me back in the South. Or Fort Meade, Maryland, where I wouldn't deploy. Or Arizona, no deployments.
I know my friends are now howling NNNOOOO at their screens. Maybe I'm just feeling weak, but everyone must admit, the Army can be a really sweet deal with the right assignment. I think what I've hated the most about it is being a Lieutenant in an Infantry brigade...LT is the most odious rank in the entire military, because they put you in charge of momentous things, yet encourage a dynamic where LT's are looked upon as buffoonish amateurs, no matter who you are. It's a constant power struggle, and most of my heartache in Iraq was from Captains.
As I said, someone come up here and slap me hard across the face, quickly.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
It's My Blog and I'll Cry Foul if I Want to...
But I don't want to. This will not become a forum for my political rantings...there is enough of that unpleasantness on every TV station, 24/7. I occasionally include a hiccup or two, and keep the rest to myself.
I lay awake many (ok, most) nights, staring at the ceiling fan, listening to geese honking overhead as they already fly south, and asking myself, for the ten millionth time, Am I doing the right thing by leaving the Army? Will I live to regret it?? I was up until 1 am last night, deeply engaged in another mini-freakout.
The Army has given me things I never thought I'd have--home ownership, professional purpose, direction, and skill, a Top Secret clearance, an honorable profession, and a wealth of experiences in five states and six countries (not even including the ones I got to see while traveling). Not to mention great stories. And I've given the Army seven years, most of which were spent deployed, recovering from deployments, and training for the next one. And it struck me, the perfect analogy:
My relationship with the Army is much like a marriage.
I'm sure every unhappy spouse goes through the same process, the same fears, the same apprehension about turbulence and instability, when considering a divorce...what if I never meet another man? What if I end up living in a box in Thompson Park? What if he reforms after I leave? What if I miss him??
But alas, our relationship has soured. We fight all the time and the kids (otherwise known as my subordinate soldiers) will probably be healthier in the end without Mom constantly pissed off at Dad. This last year, I've asked myself countless times, Why do you put up with this crap?? Are you some kind of coward??
When my friends witness and hear about how he treats me, I find myself a bit embarassed and defensive: He's not usually like this. He didn't mean it. Really, he's much nicer than you see. We're constantly having to move from city to city, before I can really settle in fully. I'm making more sacrifices than he is, he doesn't listen to me, he makes all the decisions about where and how we live, and I'm beginning to not like who I am in this thing. I'm not comfortable around him, I'm almost never at ease unless he's not around. I wake up in the morning, I dread spending time with him, even if the kids are on their best behavior. I'm tired.
In short, he brings out the worst in me. And that has got to be the death knell of any relationship.
I have an interview Tuesday with a headhunting firm that only interviews candidates with security clearances. And here I sit on a Top Secret, with a college degree and more awards, experience, and honors than you can shake a stick at. I'm the divorcee' equivalent of a supermodel, and yet I lie awake sweating about finding a new man.
Granted, I am picky. I may never find marital Bliss. But I'll settle for Not Misery.
Right now, the NY State Police gig looks like the best one--not the richest, but infinitely interesting (not to mention rewarding), especially with the prospect of becoming an agent in the NY Criminal Bureau of Investigation or the Albany Counterterrorism Task Force in two years. There are a dozen large corporations out there with defense contracts who would pay me big bucks...to go live in Washington, DC. They'd have to pay me extra big bucks for that one--I'm not prepared to sacrifice my quality of life to live in a big city like that. The FBI is still in the dating pool, but I think the FBI bears too much resemblance to my husband...same man, different package.
Stay tuned, I think the drama could look like Jerry Springer in uniform when the divorce papers get signed...
I lay awake many (ok, most) nights, staring at the ceiling fan, listening to geese honking overhead as they already fly south, and asking myself, for the ten millionth time, Am I doing the right thing by leaving the Army? Will I live to regret it?? I was up until 1 am last night, deeply engaged in another mini-freakout.
The Army has given me things I never thought I'd have--home ownership, professional purpose, direction, and skill, a Top Secret clearance, an honorable profession, and a wealth of experiences in five states and six countries (not even including the ones I got to see while traveling). Not to mention great stories. And I've given the Army seven years, most of which were spent deployed, recovering from deployments, and training for the next one. And it struck me, the perfect analogy:
My relationship with the Army is much like a marriage.
I'm sure every unhappy spouse goes through the same process, the same fears, the same apprehension about turbulence and instability, when considering a divorce...what if I never meet another man? What if I end up living in a box in Thompson Park? What if he reforms after I leave? What if I miss him??
But alas, our relationship has soured. We fight all the time and the kids (otherwise known as my subordinate soldiers) will probably be healthier in the end without Mom constantly pissed off at Dad. This last year, I've asked myself countless times, Why do you put up with this crap?? Are you some kind of coward??
When my friends witness and hear about how he treats me, I find myself a bit embarassed and defensive: He's not usually like this. He didn't mean it. Really, he's much nicer than you see. We're constantly having to move from city to city, before I can really settle in fully. I'm making more sacrifices than he is, he doesn't listen to me, he makes all the decisions about where and how we live, and I'm beginning to not like who I am in this thing. I'm not comfortable around him, I'm almost never at ease unless he's not around. I wake up in the morning, I dread spending time with him, even if the kids are on their best behavior. I'm tired.
In short, he brings out the worst in me. And that has got to be the death knell of any relationship.
I have an interview Tuesday with a headhunting firm that only interviews candidates with security clearances. And here I sit on a Top Secret, with a college degree and more awards, experience, and honors than you can shake a stick at. I'm the divorcee' equivalent of a supermodel, and yet I lie awake sweating about finding a new man.
Granted, I am picky. I may never find marital Bliss. But I'll settle for Not Misery.
Right now, the NY State Police gig looks like the best one--not the richest, but infinitely interesting (not to mention rewarding), especially with the prospect of becoming an agent in the NY Criminal Bureau of Investigation or the Albany Counterterrorism Task Force in two years. There are a dozen large corporations out there with defense contracts who would pay me big bucks...to go live in Washington, DC. They'd have to pay me extra big bucks for that one--I'm not prepared to sacrifice my quality of life to live in a big city like that. The FBI is still in the dating pool, but I think the FBI bears too much resemblance to my husband...same man, different package.
Stay tuned, I think the drama could look like Jerry Springer in uniform when the divorce papers get signed...
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Missing in Action
I would gladly extend my Army service if the unit deployed down south to help out with Katrina. Helping American citizens on American soil would be a welcome change.
It's tough for me to watch the news--my old neighborhood in New Orleans, the upscale restaurant where I worked, my studio in the Warehouse District, all appear to be destroyed. It's gut-wrenching. And I just do not understand why people would not go to shelters if they didn't evacuate. That's where the casualty tolls originate, all those people who looked a Category Five storm in the eye and decided they could take it on.
Unfortunately, among those lacking the sense God gave a billy goat seen hanging from rooftops, I have a bad feeling my brother could well be among them in Mobile. I haven't heard from him in nearly two years, and last anyone knew, he was homeless in Mobile. If I know Jon, with the anti-government/anti-authority bent that landed him on the streets in the first place, there is no way in hell he would have evacuated, or checked in to a shelter. The only communication I've had with him since our mom died is through email at the public library or friends' houses--which, if he did make it okay, he won't have for months. I just have a bad feeling about it and there is no way to get information. We may never hear anything at all.
And, interestingly, I was invited to interview for the Chicago Reader, an alternative publication, to give the supervisor point of view for the same mo-mo who disastrously spoke with a reporter in Baghdad. I'm sure the article will paint him as a hero among amoral, knuckledragging cowboys. So be it. I'm not saying shit. We all signed a Non-Disclosure Agreement that has no statute of limitations, and if this idiot wants to be court-martialled, I say, give him all the rope he needs to hang himself. But leave MY happy ass out of it.
Shame on the oil companies for gouging in a time of such national crisis. And it is gouging--there has not been time for the shortages to effect a 30% increase, for God's sake.
It's tough for me to watch the news--my old neighborhood in New Orleans, the upscale restaurant where I worked, my studio in the Warehouse District, all appear to be destroyed. It's gut-wrenching. And I just do not understand why people would not go to shelters if they didn't evacuate. That's where the casualty tolls originate, all those people who looked a Category Five storm in the eye and decided they could take it on.
Unfortunately, among those lacking the sense God gave a billy goat seen hanging from rooftops, I have a bad feeling my brother could well be among them in Mobile. I haven't heard from him in nearly two years, and last anyone knew, he was homeless in Mobile. If I know Jon, with the anti-government/anti-authority bent that landed him on the streets in the first place, there is no way in hell he would have evacuated, or checked in to a shelter. The only communication I've had with him since our mom died is through email at the public library or friends' houses--which, if he did make it okay, he won't have for months. I just have a bad feeling about it and there is no way to get information. We may never hear anything at all.
And, interestingly, I was invited to interview for the Chicago Reader, an alternative publication, to give the supervisor point of view for the same mo-mo who disastrously spoke with a reporter in Baghdad. I'm sure the article will paint him as a hero among amoral, knuckledragging cowboys. So be it. I'm not saying shit. We all signed a Non-Disclosure Agreement that has no statute of limitations, and if this idiot wants to be court-martialled, I say, give him all the rope he needs to hang himself. But leave MY happy ass out of it.
Shame on the oil companies for gouging in a time of such national crisis. And it is gouging--there has not been time for the shortages to effect a 30% increase, for God's sake.
Friday, August 26, 2005
File Under "TMI"
Just in the last 24 hours, I've been subjected to personal revelations from two different neighbors that were neither solicited nor welcome.
Dave lets me use his lawnmower--I don't have a garage, and I only mow when the grass is high enough to hide my truck anyway. I just pop over and pull it out of their garage and run with it. Yesterday I walked into his garage as he was fully unzipped and pissing into the drain in the middle of the garage. Perhaps walking into the house was too much trouble.
Then, this morning, I arose at about 4:45 and stumbled into the kitchen, thirsty and looking to get rid of the foul flavor the antibiotic I'm taking leaves on my tongue. A movement outside the window caught my eye, and I glanced up just in time to see the neighbor on the other side, the woman who removes her teeth to shout obscenities at her husband from the porch, upwards of sixty years old, fully framed in her kitchen window and completely naked save for the towel on her head. I'd hate to have mammaries that large at that age. They have a teenaged son living at home...hell, I don't walk around downstairs like that, and I live alone!
Our houses are entirely too close together. I also get center stage for every shouting match, every teenaged temper tantrum, the drunken parties. Consequently, I have far more insight into that marriage than is proper or desired.
Switching gears here: this morning, I rode to work behind a pickup truck with a dryer strapped to the bed. I tend to keep a pretty good distance behind any truck with open cargo. We were clipping along at about 70MPH when a pipe, looked to be the dryer exhaust pipe--about three inches in diameter and eighteen inches long--flipped out the back of the truck, clanged to the pavement, and bounced end over end directly in front of me. I had enough time to swerve (sharply) but had to make that split-second prediction of which way the pipe would bounce. I went left. It also went left, but I went about an inch farther left, into the oncoming lane. I missed it by a hair and shudder to think of what would have happened if I'd hit it, if I'd been three feet closer to the truck, if I'd tried slamming on the brakes.
Skills Test #1 successfully completed, I suppose. But it scared the shit out of me--my hands were shaking as I pulled my ID out at the Ft. Drum gate and the guy behind me, who'd seen the whole thing, pulled up into the lane to my right at the gate.
"I thought you were going down," he said, eyes wide, eyebrows raised.
"Yeah," I said, "You and me both."
Dave lets me use his lawnmower--I don't have a garage, and I only mow when the grass is high enough to hide my truck anyway. I just pop over and pull it out of their garage and run with it. Yesterday I walked into his garage as he was fully unzipped and pissing into the drain in the middle of the garage. Perhaps walking into the house was too much trouble.
Then, this morning, I arose at about 4:45 and stumbled into the kitchen, thirsty and looking to get rid of the foul flavor the antibiotic I'm taking leaves on my tongue. A movement outside the window caught my eye, and I glanced up just in time to see the neighbor on the other side, the woman who removes her teeth to shout obscenities at her husband from the porch, upwards of sixty years old, fully framed in her kitchen window and completely naked save for the towel on her head. I'd hate to have mammaries that large at that age. They have a teenaged son living at home...hell, I don't walk around downstairs like that, and I live alone!
Our houses are entirely too close together. I also get center stage for every shouting match, every teenaged temper tantrum, the drunken parties. Consequently, I have far more insight into that marriage than is proper or desired.
Switching gears here: this morning, I rode to work behind a pickup truck with a dryer strapped to the bed. I tend to keep a pretty good distance behind any truck with open cargo. We were clipping along at about 70MPH when a pipe, looked to be the dryer exhaust pipe--about three inches in diameter and eighteen inches long--flipped out the back of the truck, clanged to the pavement, and bounced end over end directly in front of me. I had enough time to swerve (sharply) but had to make that split-second prediction of which way the pipe would bounce. I went left. It also went left, but I went about an inch farther left, into the oncoming lane. I missed it by a hair and shudder to think of what would have happened if I'd hit it, if I'd been three feet closer to the truck, if I'd tried slamming on the brakes.
Skills Test #1 successfully completed, I suppose. But it scared the shit out of me--my hands were shaking as I pulled my ID out at the Ft. Drum gate and the guy behind me, who'd seen the whole thing, pulled up into the lane to my right at the gate.
"I thought you were going down," he said, eyes wide, eyebrows raised.
"Yeah," I said, "You and me both."
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Biker Barbeque
Last Friday, a Warrant Officer who works in my building asked me to go riding on Saturday. His name is Jay, I don't know him very well. But I figure, what the hell, might be fun.
We rode all day...down to Syracuse to a BBQ joint (wait, they have those up here???) called Dinosaur BBQ. We pulled up and there were about a hundred bikes lined up at the curb, mostly Harleys, two crotch-rockets, and a spare Yamaha or two. I smelled that lovely barbeque fragrance from four blocks away--this place was like a visit home. The bikes were all huge and tricked out. We sat down with a table of Harley ladies--I don't really fit in, but they are outgoing and friendly by nature. They have great stories.
Harley ladies tend to be ten to twenty years older than I am. They wear tight Levi's, the kind that go all the way up to your natural waist, tight black t-shirts and they don't care to hide the spare tire, high-heeled boots, lots of makeup, and they've done entirely too much chemical damage to their hair. Their faces are heavily lined and they smoke.
They've lived.
And here's where Harley folks and soldiers have a great deal in common, besides the bikes: they are all deep and abiding patriots. Soldiers develop more love of the Land by traveling outside it--you see how small the living is throughout the rest of the world, and greet each day with grateful appreciation for the astonishing good fortune to have been born American. And bikers, they get it on the road here in the States--they ride all the backroads from sea to shining sea and they experience it all atop an icon embedded in Americanism more than apple pie itself. The Harley. Freedom and the spirit of adventure embodied.
And here I am, chin-length hair (no chemicals), low-waisted boot cut jeans, also high-heeled boots but mine are Nine West casual and brown, and a purple long-sleeved t-shirt. Little to no makeup. But I ride, and that's all they care about.
We got to talking to Ed, whose ruined right arm concerned me a bit (did he wreck??). He rides a gargantuan, custom-built Dyna Wide, and told me a story about the two soldiers to whom he rents his back apartment. He speaks of them with reverence. Bikers love soldiers, no doubt about that.
Then he got to looking at my bike. Jay pointed out that I'd only been riding a month and had put over 1000 miles on it. Ed looked at me with raised eyebrows.
"That's your first bike?"
I nodded. "Have you laid it down?" he asked.
"No, thank God."
Now he's nodding. "If you've logged a thousand miles on that baby without laying it down, you're all set." He waves to the other ninety bikes out there. "If you can ride a Sportster, you can handle anything out here."
He goes on to say that Sportsters are extremely difficult to ride--they are very narrow, where the larger bikes gain stability through width. He was very impressed that I started out on a Sportster.
Jay rode it around the block to try it out. "That sucker is fast," he said. "Yeah, you can ride anything if you can ride that."
I gathered names, phone numbers, and times/locations for group rides. I finally feel like I can keep up, having barrelled down to Syracuse behind Jay at about 80 MPH. It's infinitely more fun with people--I've only ridden alone, and this is a great way to meet people with great stories. I don't listen out of shallow politeness--I want to hear about the road, the wackos they've encountered, the years of unconventional living.
Maybe I'll start writing about them.
We rode all day...down to Syracuse to a BBQ joint (wait, they have those up here???) called Dinosaur BBQ. We pulled up and there were about a hundred bikes lined up at the curb, mostly Harleys, two crotch-rockets, and a spare Yamaha or two. I smelled that lovely barbeque fragrance from four blocks away--this place was like a visit home. The bikes were all huge and tricked out. We sat down with a table of Harley ladies--I don't really fit in, but they are outgoing and friendly by nature. They have great stories.
Harley ladies tend to be ten to twenty years older than I am. They wear tight Levi's, the kind that go all the way up to your natural waist, tight black t-shirts and they don't care to hide the spare tire, high-heeled boots, lots of makeup, and they've done entirely too much chemical damage to their hair. Their faces are heavily lined and they smoke.
They've lived.
And here's where Harley folks and soldiers have a great deal in common, besides the bikes: they are all deep and abiding patriots. Soldiers develop more love of the Land by traveling outside it--you see how small the living is throughout the rest of the world, and greet each day with grateful appreciation for the astonishing good fortune to have been born American. And bikers, they get it on the road here in the States--they ride all the backroads from sea to shining sea and they experience it all atop an icon embedded in Americanism more than apple pie itself. The Harley. Freedom and the spirit of adventure embodied.
And here I am, chin-length hair (no chemicals), low-waisted boot cut jeans, also high-heeled boots but mine are Nine West casual and brown, and a purple long-sleeved t-shirt. Little to no makeup. But I ride, and that's all they care about.
We got to talking to Ed, whose ruined right arm concerned me a bit (did he wreck??). He rides a gargantuan, custom-built Dyna Wide, and told me a story about the two soldiers to whom he rents his back apartment. He speaks of them with reverence. Bikers love soldiers, no doubt about that.
Then he got to looking at my bike. Jay pointed out that I'd only been riding a month and had put over 1000 miles on it. Ed looked at me with raised eyebrows.
"That's your first bike?"
I nodded. "Have you laid it down?" he asked.
"No, thank God."
Now he's nodding. "If you've logged a thousand miles on that baby without laying it down, you're all set." He waves to the other ninety bikes out there. "If you can ride a Sportster, you can handle anything out here."
He goes on to say that Sportsters are extremely difficult to ride--they are very narrow, where the larger bikes gain stability through width. He was very impressed that I started out on a Sportster.
Jay rode it around the block to try it out. "That sucker is fast," he said. "Yeah, you can ride anything if you can ride that."
I gathered names, phone numbers, and times/locations for group rides. I finally feel like I can keep up, having barrelled down to Syracuse behind Jay at about 80 MPH. It's infinitely more fun with people--I've only ridden alone, and this is a great way to meet people with great stories. I don't listen out of shallow politeness--I want to hear about the road, the wackos they've encountered, the years of unconventional living.
Maybe I'll start writing about them.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Lazy Last Day
I've been blissfully hiding out here for three weeks, against my better judgement...after all, I'm about to be unemployed, and three weeks of leave would have paid a couple grand when I get the payoff from all my unused leave. But I've been running so hard for the last several years, I haven't taken much vacation...and therefore, even after these 20 days off, I still have fifty to sell back at the end of it all.
And this last week, I rediscovered my love of reading. I'm working on the fourth of the stack of books I bought, currently ass-deep in Walker Percy's The Moviegoer, set in New Orleans in the late fifties. The protagonist's aunt lives in the Garden District, not too terribly far from where I lived, and it's wonderful to read about it in Percy's capable hands.
The last several days have gone like this: up at around eight, breakfast and coffee, gym, and back to the house by about 11:00. Then the rest of the day is mine to spend sprawled out in my now-gorgeous den (the floors really do look amazing), the breeze flowing through the bank of open windows in the den to the screen door to the deck, and I spend hours intermittently reading and just listening.
After a year in the desert, I still richly enjoy the sounds of my home, yard, and neighborhood. The steady drone of some north-faring locust, a sound forever entwined with lazy summer afternoons. Crickets, the wind in the huge maple in my back yard, the neighbors getting to know their new puppy, faroff lawnmowers, and an ice-cream truck that blares a tinky-sounding rendition of The Entertainer for blocks before it crosses my field of vision. The dishwasher or washing machine completing a cycle. More wind. One amazing afternoon, I killed all the lights in the house (which aren't needed in the daytime at any rate--I get great light from the tall windows) in favor of a crashing thunderstorm, complete with hail and visible strikes of lightning to the ground.
I could be out of the Army on September the fifth. I'm hoping for October 31st, as two more months of pay and accumulated leave wouldn't hurt. But in my heart, three weeks from now would be lovely--never have I been in such a good position to leave the Army, with all the deployment savings.
Six months of reading, working to get my sculpture mojo back, and enjoying the seasons, followed by about four months of waiting tables. It sounds perfectly lovely. The thing I enjoy about waiting tables is this: at the end of the shift, your feet ache, your pocket bulges with straight cash, there's a cold beer and good company/gossip, and not a care in the world. After the many stresses of Army Officership and the attendant 24/7 weight of it all, a year spent this way sounds heavenly.
And this last week, I rediscovered my love of reading. I'm working on the fourth of the stack of books I bought, currently ass-deep in Walker Percy's The Moviegoer, set in New Orleans in the late fifties. The protagonist's aunt lives in the Garden District, not too terribly far from where I lived, and it's wonderful to read about it in Percy's capable hands.
The last several days have gone like this: up at around eight, breakfast and coffee, gym, and back to the house by about 11:00. Then the rest of the day is mine to spend sprawled out in my now-gorgeous den (the floors really do look amazing), the breeze flowing through the bank of open windows in the den to the screen door to the deck, and I spend hours intermittently reading and just listening.
After a year in the desert, I still richly enjoy the sounds of my home, yard, and neighborhood. The steady drone of some north-faring locust, a sound forever entwined with lazy summer afternoons. Crickets, the wind in the huge maple in my back yard, the neighbors getting to know their new puppy, faroff lawnmowers, and an ice-cream truck that blares a tinky-sounding rendition of The Entertainer for blocks before it crosses my field of vision. The dishwasher or washing machine completing a cycle. More wind. One amazing afternoon, I killed all the lights in the house (which aren't needed in the daytime at any rate--I get great light from the tall windows) in favor of a crashing thunderstorm, complete with hail and visible strikes of lightning to the ground.
I could be out of the Army on September the fifth. I'm hoping for October 31st, as two more months of pay and accumulated leave wouldn't hurt. But in my heart, three weeks from now would be lovely--never have I been in such a good position to leave the Army, with all the deployment savings.
Six months of reading, working to get my sculpture mojo back, and enjoying the seasons, followed by about four months of waiting tables. It sounds perfectly lovely. The thing I enjoy about waiting tables is this: at the end of the shift, your feet ache, your pocket bulges with straight cash, there's a cold beer and good company/gossip, and not a care in the world. After the many stresses of Army Officership and the attendant 24/7 weight of it all, a year spent this way sounds heavenly.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Springer Spaniel
My three weeks of blissful vacation are almost finished; I return to work on Tuesday. I managed to get some things accomplished--I've faithfully gone to the gym at least four times a week, and running is already much less painful, and I made some progress on the house. The horrid pink room is still pink and junky, but I'm about to have a great deal of time to kill while gainfully unemployed. The next State Police Academy I can get into is next August...I'll be eligible for 26 weeks of unemployment, which is not much but will get me through the winter with my savings. Then I plan to wait tables out in Sackets Harbor once the weather warms and the wealthy tourists reconverge on the town. So a year of pretending to be 25 again. No problem.
So today I'm spending the day on the porch with a book, The Devil Wears Prada, which is pure fluff and a great summer read. Like reality TV--bitchy and entertaining, devoid of any meaning or real quality. In the same book-buying frenzy, I bought Walker Percey's The Moviegoer, two titles by David Sedaris (you must read this man if you haven't already), Cormac McCarthy's latest (also a must-read: William Faulkner meets Charles Bukowski out west--not literally, of course), and Gabriel Garcia Marquez's autobiography. Plenty of meat in those dishes, I'm just having dessert first. I'll bring the other books to work and not feel embarassed to be caught reading them.
On the porch, reading about spoiled New York princesses I'd probably fight the urge to drop-kick if I actually met one, 98 pounds of flying fluff squealing EEEeewww all the way, I witnessed a real life princess in action. I'm sure, gentle readers, you recall my observations of my nextdoor neighbors, known to me and my friends and the other neighbors as the Springers. Drama from Day One. That fateful morning I moved in, when all my friends' cellphones rang because the notice of the Iraq deployment had just made its way from Rumsfeld to the 10th Mountain Division HQ, I got my first taste of the Northcountry's answer to trailer park trash. The matriarch, clearly sauced, stood on the front porch before us all, removed her teeth, and spat pure obscenity-laced vitriol at the patriarch...who, by the way, seems like an upstanding, agreeable man. Also recall my own latenight bouts of screaming obscenities from my window in response to their incessantly-barking dog, chained outside all night just beneath my window.
Fortunately, something clicked in the mind of the dog while I was away--it is now an angel. I have no decibel-related complaints about the NNY Springers. I have one aesthetic complaint--all the trash piled up on the side of the house, and the exposed Tyvec on one side. The combination means I cannot truly enjoy my deck--it's like sipping a Stoli martini in a junkyard. My plan is to build a trellis along the offending side of the deck, and coax morning glories up the side come spring, just block it all out entirely.
I digress. Today, the teenage son and his quintessentially Northern New York girlfriend appeared on the porch. Here we go, I thought, and focused intensely on my book while listening to their conversation. If you could call it that.
I've never heard this young lady speak in a volume under Pure Shriek, just as foul as her potential mother-in-law. Twenty years from now, she'll be standing on some poor bastard's porch in Daisy Dukes gumming obscenities at said poor bastard.
You don't make any sense! She screamed in that flat, almost-Canadian, nasal twang they have up here. Ten times more grating than any Southern accent I've ever heard. You been screwing around with a buncha skanky bitches! At least TELL me before you wanna go run around with those whores!
And just like with his dad, I can never hear his responses. Low muttering. When she noticed me on the porch, she really started railing, as if to impress me--looka here! I don't take NO SHIT offa NO ONE!
And all I can think is, you poor girl. He'll be gone any minute now. Women like her feel that men are lucky to be with them because they're reasonably cute in an area of the country with a sky-high obesity rate. But I've never quite understood what any woman felt she would gain with shrill, self-righteous, nagging tantrums. Who would want to hang around? A man without other options, that's who. And as young as these two are, he still has other options. And I'm thinking, someone should tell her, maybe she'll learn. No one ever kept a lover by screeching at them night and day...me, it would take ONE interaction like that, I'd leave and never look back. If you can't handle life's day-to-day challenges without becoming histrionic, how would you handle the real problems in your life, the ones that blindside you at 4 pm on some idle Tuesday? Just fall apart??
But the fact is, they don't learn, ever. This town is full of them--miserable married couples, both of whom just look exhausted, hounded to the nub. It's the men, too--they talk to these women like they'd just as soon spit on them. Not the neighbors, mind you, these are the couples I see in the grocery store, or resignedly pushing baskets through Wal-Mart, dull and glazed-over, quarrelling visciously over some real or perceived slight.
This princess, she ended this row by spinning around on her flip-flopped heel and prancing to her car, her middle finger extended over her retreating shoulder. The boy just watched, at once puzzled and resigned. I went back to my book.
So today I'm spending the day on the porch with a book, The Devil Wears Prada, which is pure fluff and a great summer read. Like reality TV--bitchy and entertaining, devoid of any meaning or real quality. In the same book-buying frenzy, I bought Walker Percey's The Moviegoer, two titles by David Sedaris (you must read this man if you haven't already), Cormac McCarthy's latest (also a must-read: William Faulkner meets Charles Bukowski out west--not literally, of course), and Gabriel Garcia Marquez's autobiography. Plenty of meat in those dishes, I'm just having dessert first. I'll bring the other books to work and not feel embarassed to be caught reading them.
On the porch, reading about spoiled New York princesses I'd probably fight the urge to drop-kick if I actually met one, 98 pounds of flying fluff squealing EEEeewww all the way, I witnessed a real life princess in action. I'm sure, gentle readers, you recall my observations of my nextdoor neighbors, known to me and my friends and the other neighbors as the Springers. Drama from Day One. That fateful morning I moved in, when all my friends' cellphones rang because the notice of the Iraq deployment had just made its way from Rumsfeld to the 10th Mountain Division HQ, I got my first taste of the Northcountry's answer to trailer park trash. The matriarch, clearly sauced, stood on the front porch before us all, removed her teeth, and spat pure obscenity-laced vitriol at the patriarch...who, by the way, seems like an upstanding, agreeable man. Also recall my own latenight bouts of screaming obscenities from my window in response to their incessantly-barking dog, chained outside all night just beneath my window.
Fortunately, something clicked in the mind of the dog while I was away--it is now an angel. I have no decibel-related complaints about the NNY Springers. I have one aesthetic complaint--all the trash piled up on the side of the house, and the exposed Tyvec on one side. The combination means I cannot truly enjoy my deck--it's like sipping a Stoli martini in a junkyard. My plan is to build a trellis along the offending side of the deck, and coax morning glories up the side come spring, just block it all out entirely.
I digress. Today, the teenage son and his quintessentially Northern New York girlfriend appeared on the porch. Here we go, I thought, and focused intensely on my book while listening to their conversation. If you could call it that.
I've never heard this young lady speak in a volume under Pure Shriek, just as foul as her potential mother-in-law. Twenty years from now, she'll be standing on some poor bastard's porch in Daisy Dukes gumming obscenities at said poor bastard.
You don't make any sense! She screamed in that flat, almost-Canadian, nasal twang they have up here. Ten times more grating than any Southern accent I've ever heard. You been screwing around with a buncha skanky bitches! At least TELL me before you wanna go run around with those whores!
And just like with his dad, I can never hear his responses. Low muttering. When she noticed me on the porch, she really started railing, as if to impress me--looka here! I don't take NO SHIT offa NO ONE!
And all I can think is, you poor girl. He'll be gone any minute now. Women like her feel that men are lucky to be with them because they're reasonably cute in an area of the country with a sky-high obesity rate. But I've never quite understood what any woman felt she would gain with shrill, self-righteous, nagging tantrums. Who would want to hang around? A man without other options, that's who. And as young as these two are, he still has other options. And I'm thinking, someone should tell her, maybe she'll learn. No one ever kept a lover by screeching at them night and day...me, it would take ONE interaction like that, I'd leave and never look back. If you can't handle life's day-to-day challenges without becoming histrionic, how would you handle the real problems in your life, the ones that blindside you at 4 pm on some idle Tuesday? Just fall apart??
But the fact is, they don't learn, ever. This town is full of them--miserable married couples, both of whom just look exhausted, hounded to the nub. It's the men, too--they talk to these women like they'd just as soon spit on them. Not the neighbors, mind you, these are the couples I see in the grocery store, or resignedly pushing baskets through Wal-Mart, dull and glazed-over, quarrelling visciously over some real or perceived slight.
This princess, she ended this row by spinning around on her flip-flopped heel and prancing to her car, her middle finger extended over her retreating shoulder. The boy just watched, at once puzzled and resigned. I went back to my book.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
The Circling Sharks
Raoul, his wife Karen, and Mark. Friday night at the Brewpub out in Sackets Harbor. Mark traveled up here, rather unexpectedly, with this terribly unpleasant dude named Fred.Mark and Fred arrived at about midnight Thursday, sent by their company to install some A/C unit on a piece of equipment on Friday. Mark sounded less than thrilled that Fred was along, told me the guy would get fired when they got home because he didn't know what the hell he was doing; their company is so desperate for techs, they hired this guy sight unseen.
And what a scary sight he was. One eye peered about forty-five degrees to the right and his eyebrows protruded at least a full inch from his temples. When Mark told me he'd been bouncing from job to job for years and would soon lose this one, I felt sorry for the old guy. Especially since he's from a town in Mississippi about one hour from my own.
But then he started in on the rants about "women drivers," while in the same breath declaring he spends his life fighting for "women's rights." Well, that term hasn't been used by anyone actually interested in that concept for many years. We won the vote, you know. No wonder he can't hold a job--I bet he spouts the same shit about "black's rights" whenever that's his audience. We got rid of him as soon as we could with any professionalism and/or relative civility. What a mo-mo.
We had dinner and drinks at the Brewpub before the Comedy Club (which was a blast), and ran into Raoul and Karen, owners of the 44-foot sailboat I occasionally get invited to enjoy. I thought perhaps it was my imagination that they both looked a bit, well...predatory as we sat and had a drink with them, and I attributed the sensation to a rumor I'd heard that they were, you know, swingers. But they're in their sixties, for chrissake, I'm thinking. Surely not.
But then they went on about how next time Mark is in town, we'll have to come sailing, just the four of us, and then my gay friend Eric later relayed the tale about how he'd been nearly ravished on their boat. "Always go in groups," Eric repeated, shaking his head. "Always, always in groups." So much for sailing...I was somewhat horrified. I cannot, for the life of me, imagine a more uncomfortable scenario. I think Mark was amused. I always knew Raoul was a dirty old man after he pulled my underwear that peeked out a bit in the back because all the ladies who wear the lower-waisted pants know, when you lean forward, the panties become a bit visible. Nothing too tawdry, just a little bit of fabric. But not something you want and old guy tugging on, not by any stretch of the imagination. But I adore Karen and I'm sorry I won't see her in the same light after not one, but two tales like Eric's are making the rounds.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Paradise Found
I got a map of New York State--a detailed map, the kind that differentiates the types of roads: solid red for highway, dotted double line for dirt, etc--and mapped out enough day-rides to last several weeks. That's the thing about northern New York--it's rural enough for this type thing, and here we sit at the foothills of the Adirondacks.I write the directions on my left forearm because I can take my left hand from the clutch and read it while I'm moving--you can't really wave your right hand around on a bike, it's the throttle and the front brake, not to be abandoned, ever.
Sidebar: notice, if you get behind a motorcycle, that when another bike comes from the opposite direction, both riders lift left hands and point them down at a 45-degree angle. It's a salute, hey howya doin', and it doesn't matter what kind of bike you're on. Harley, crotch-rocket, whatever, we all wave to each other. Initially, I was too unstable to remove the left hand, felt like I'd hurtle right off the road with one wrong move, and I left many salutes rudely unrequited. I'm comfortable enough now, I always pay respects.
So today, I plotted a ride I figured would take about two hours, winding through the hills to the east of Watertown, all of it on small, paved roads. And it was amazing.
As soon as I turned off the main highway (itself only a two-lane), I knew I'd found heaven. I like to ride at about 6:30 pm, when the going-home traffic has reached destination and most folks sit down to dinner. It's cooling off, the breeze dies down, and I love that amber light. This far north, it doesn't go dark until about 9:00, which allows for a long, leisurely ride every day.
Out where I ride, there is no traffic at all--it's purely farmland, and what farmer has any use for a post-supper joyride? It's all rolling hills and winding roads, the shadows are long (no need for sunglasses, another plus), and I ride through cornfields, past rusting silos and old farmhouses. These are family farms, here for generations, and the land shows it--old growth hardwood forest, rolls of hay out in the fields, cows, gracefully aging barns, rocky creeks winding throughout. Closer to Adirondack Park, rock outcroppings and steep grades, absolutely breathtaking scenery. God's country. And when the leaves change in early October, it'll knock my eyes out with all that color--it's primarily maples up here, queen of the autumn, my favorite season.
This is what I had in mind when I bought the bike. I have no desire (blasphemy, pure blasphemy!!) to ride cross-country--long rides at highway speed have got to be exhausting. Put your hand out the window, hold it up straight next time you're on the freeway, and imagine your entire body subjected to that force of wind for hours at a time. I am still surprised by the force of it, even at 60 MPH. Freeways are not attractive by their very nature, and my truck would be much more comfortable. You can't eat or drink, or listen to music...although many bikers do, to me it just doesn't seem right...and you're at the total mercy of the elements, other drivers, and the large bugs that would take the paint right off your helmet at 70 MPH. Your eyes would feel like sandpaper, even with protection--just like in Iraq, the wind always creeps in, no matter what precautions you take. Doesn't sound like a good time to me.
Besides, I've seen this country and quite a few others, I've been from one coast to the other and back again, several times. And it's mostly strip malls, tacky car dealerships, fast food joints, and most freeway towns look the same. The real living is along the country roads, dotted with little mom and pop ice cream stands and cider mills.
I learn something on every ride, such as face-shield placement: if you know you'll travel at over 40 MPH, it goes all the way shut, no anti-fogging crack needed. Plenty of wind still circulates through there, and any more than the bare minimum sets the eyes to watering. And in my case, it mixes with the sunscreen, they water more, and then I have to pull over and wipe my eyes because now I can't see shit.
Also, even though it might seem silly to pull into a gas station and put one gallon in the tank before a long ride, do it. I actually ran out of gas today, out in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. Guess that little low-fuel warning light is either non-functional, or an extra I didn't pay for. It's in the owner's manual, but at any rate...it's pure jackassery to run out of gas. And of course, I had no cellphone along. Fortunately, Harleys have a reserve fuel valve, with about a half-gallon. More than enough to get me back to Burrville's Mobile station, which was *blessedly* open.
Another event that would ONLY occur out there in the land of no people--I picked up where I'd left off on my route after gassing up, and as I made the left onto 162, there was an old dude on his porch, completely naked. No shit. He sat beneath a blue umbrella-thing, which he moved to shield his face as I rode past. I probably wouldn't have even seen him without the blue flag movement...but all the guy wore was a baseball cap and some house shoes. I giggled inside the helmet. There's no mistaking my gender out there--I mostly wear a lavender long-sleeve t-shirt, and no guy I know would wear lavender.
More adventures to come, I'm sure. When the leaves start to change and I have my saddlebags, I plan to ride up into the Adirondacks, find the scenic routes a couple of hours from here, and fully indulge in the "leaf-peeping" ritual (peeping? Why the hell "peeping?") I'll ride until I get tired, and stop at one of the thousands of bed-and-breakfasts up there.
*Sigh* I feel like myself again, not that bitchy, stressed-out, watered-down version in Iraq.
Monday, July 18, 2005
YIKES!!!
This, in my Army email box just now:
1. A reservation has been entered in the Army Training Requirements and Resources System (ATRRS) by the quota source manager controlling the subject course for the following soldier/student: XXXXXX, KRISTEN E, O2, XXX-XX-2948, MI BN MI CO GS, 0110 MI BN CO GS, FT DRUM, NY, 136020000, UIC: WDR5D02. FOR: School Code 301 Intelligence School - SC: 301, Fort Huachuca, Arizona 85613-6000, Course Number: 3-30-C22, Phase , Course Title: MILITARY INTELLIGENCE CAPTAINS CAREER, Class 003,Report date 2006-03-05 End date 2006-07-27, Class Location Fort Huachuca, Arizona 85613-60003. O2 XXXXXX, KRISTEN E. has a valid reservation in ATRRS under quota source OPMD - HRC ALEXANDRIA, VA. The copies of the soldier/student reservation are posted in ATRRS under the Class Roster Function for the subject course and the Reservation by Soldier/student function on the ATRRS Portals...blah blah blah...
SHIT! What this means: I'm in the system for attending my Captain's Course in March...and yes, I should be out by then. BUT, if they generate orders based on this slot, I will not get to leave the Army. No kidding. Yes, they can do that. And, since everyone is on block leave (except, of course, the office that issued this email, they're in DC), I can't even start to fix this until August. So I have to hope that they won't shit out some orders. Damn it!!
I have one last hope for fixing this now--a civilian who handles officer personnel issues at Division. Here's to hoping civilians don't get block leave...
1. A reservation has been entered in the Army Training Requirements and Resources System (ATRRS) by the quota source manager controlling the subject course for the following soldier/student: XXXXXX, KRISTEN E, O2, XXX-XX-2948, MI BN MI CO GS, 0110 MI BN CO GS, FT DRUM, NY, 136020000, UIC: WDR5D02. FOR: School Code 301 Intelligence School - SC: 301, Fort Huachuca, Arizona 85613-6000, Course Number: 3-30-C22, Phase , Course Title: MILITARY INTELLIGENCE CAPTAINS CAREER, Class 003,Report date 2006-03-05 End date 2006-07-27, Class Location Fort Huachuca, Arizona 85613-60003. O2 XXXXXX, KRISTEN E. has a valid reservation in ATRRS under quota source OPMD - HRC ALEXANDRIA, VA. The copies of the soldier/student reservation are posted in ATRRS under the Class Roster Function for the subject course and the Reservation by Soldier/student function on the ATRRS Portals...blah blah blah...
SHIT! What this means: I'm in the system for attending my Captain's Course in March...and yes, I should be out by then. BUT, if they generate orders based on this slot, I will not get to leave the Army. No kidding. Yes, they can do that. And, since everyone is on block leave (except, of course, the office that issued this email, they're in DC), I can't even start to fix this until August. So I have to hope that they won't shit out some orders. Damn it!!
I have one last hope for fixing this now--a civilian who handles officer personnel issues at Division. Here's to hoping civilians don't get block leave...
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Have Harley, Will Travel
How I'm Spending My Time
"I've never owned a bike before." Me, at the dealership, signing the final papers.
"But you are a rider, right?"
"Of course!" Yeah, as of last Saturday at 9am. I figured they wouldn't let me leave the parking lot with it if I provided that tidbit of information. I joked about it being a starter bike, a little bike, and the guy peered at me over his glasses.
"You know, I hear people say that, and it's just crazy...we're talking a bike with almost 900 cc's! It is NOT a little bike. And many people get Sportsters saying it's a 'starter bike,' and never buy another one." All said and done, it's the second-fastest bike Harley makes--first being the 1200cc Sportster. Because they are lighter than all the rest, they jump.
They walked me through all the peculiarities of the Family of Harleys...starting with the choke, the wierd kickstand (called a "jiffy stand," which sounds too sissy for a Harley part, if you ask me), the maintenance schedule, how to clean it without ruining all that chrome, the Harley Owners' Group (HOG, get it?) automatic membership, group rides, welcome to the family, etc.
Then I mounted the bike. At 550 pounds, it ain't the little 250 I learned on, not by any stretch of the imagination. I must be out of my damn mind.
I fired her up...holy shit you should hear this baby roar. I can't even move it in neutral unless I stand up and lean into it. And did I say, you should hear it. Pure power. I sat there, with a growing nervousness, feeling all 883 cc's firing away, as it warmed up. I gave it some throttle, still in neutral--it felt like it would jump out from under me.
So the mechanic and the sales guy, both very evidently old-school Harley dudes, watched as I shifted into first and began testing out the friction zone in the clutch...you know, that sweet spot where it catches...trying to find the balance. Again, it felt as through the cheetah was fixing to leap out from under me, and I'd be left astonished on the pavement, squarely on my ass. All I could think about was the highway that led home--20 miles of two-lane, and me trembling on this monster.
I spent about half an hour in the parking lot, stopping, starting, figure 8's...nothing like the little class bike. The weight makes the cornering feel like tipping over. But all the instruction came back immediately--keep your head and eyes level, and you won't feel like you're going over. Look through the curve, not at the ground. Roll some throttle to gain traction when cornering.
Still somewhat intimidated, but determined to get 'er done, I left the parking lot, baby bird flying from the nest. The first few stoplights and turns were a bit tense, but then I got it, started to get the feel of it. The wind at 50 MPH (max speed in the first 100 miles of break-in), plus unstable weather patterns, definitely had me gritting my teeth on the highway. Some jackass tailgated me until I slowed enough that he had to pass, not allowing him to rush me.
I took it to the empty lot at the high school close to my house, more figure 8's, more quick stopping, up and down-shifting, etc.
That was yesterday. And today, I rode it almost all day, despite the threat of rain. And now it feels more like an extension of my legs than some external beast. I'm relaxed now--not completely comfortable, mind you, but relaxed. This afternoon I headed toward Lake Ontario on one of the many gorgeous 2-lane highways around here, and just rode, no particular goal in mind, just out for a Sunday ride. It was amazing. I came to one of the little villages by the lake, ate lobster at a quaint little restaurant, and a couple crusty characters saw my helmet, connected it to the Harley outside, and sat right down.
I told them it was my first bike. They grinned ear-to-ear, welcomed me to the Family, and proceed to regale me with bike stories--Sturgis, St. Augustine, cross-country rides that veered up into Canada's mountains, etc. The Harley dynamic--it's truly a brotherhood.
They had me follow them a bit, one guy behind me and the rest out front. They showed me a great little road to ride, and told me to stop back in anytime I find myself back out in Clayton. And again, as I rode home through Watertown, singing in my helmet (perfect acoustic environment, by the way), pulled up next to another hog-rider at a stoplight, had another great little conversation, waving to each other when I veered off onto my street.
There are motorcycle riders, and then there are Harley riders. A friendly, unpretentious lot they are. They do not look down on my smaller Sportster, it's all in the family. What a great thing, to have bought this bike on a whim with encouragement from four Harley riders I worked with in Iraq. I knew I'd love it.
So now it's time to order some saddlebags...carrying everything in the back pocket is less than ideal. I need someplace to put the sunscreen, wallet, waterbottle, etc.
Zoom zoom.
Here she is. I've put almost 300 miles on her in two days--only 200 more miles until the break-in period is finished. I can't go faster than 60 until I hit 500 miles...but honestly, 60 is plenty fast right now.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Hog-tied
I go get my bike in a couple of hours...I had to wait almost a week. They say you need a couple of hours--they go over every inch of the bike with you (which I like), and there are papers to sign, saddlebags to buy, etc. I didn't know what my work schedule would look like this week (it looked like this: sit around and stare at each other until 5 pm each day--a total waste of time, but there you have it); I made a 9am Saturday morning appointment knowing I could make it, and spend the rest of the day playing on the bike. AND today is Day One of a three-week vacation period for me. Three weeks of working on the house, riding the bike, and job-hunting.
And I have found my perfect job. No, really. I did finally decide (again) to leave the Army. I can't even abide the garrison crap--we had four formations yesterday, during which the Sergeant Major stood up there eating a sandwich and screaming about the same shit he screamed about the last formation. And the one before that. And the one before that. And mind you, our weather right now is exactly the same as MIAMI--92 degrees and humid as hell. So we're all standing out there getting soaked, my sunscreen running down my face, annoyed as hell. And earlier this week while standing there like that, I had an epiphany: my heart is just NOT in this anymore.
So my perfect job--get ready for this one--New York State Police. Yes, I want to be a State Trooper. It pays extremely well, I think I would like the actual job, and the work week is a huge plus. See, one week you work 60 hours, or five 12-hour shifts. Say you have Tuesday and Wednesday off that week and work the rest. Then the next week, Tuesday and Wednesday are the only days you work! So it averages to just over 40 hours a week, 12-hour days are nothing, and you get these great chunks of time off all lumped together. AND, going in with a Bachelor's means you can go Investigator after two years, with the attendant $15,000 raise. Good God!
The first assignment may not be terribly desirable--downstate somewhere--but then I could get back up here, keep my house, and live happily ever after. I take the exam on September 25, and after reading the study guide, I know I will ace it. Easy stuff. Nothing like the FBI. Actually, this sounds better to me than the FBI--fewer hours, better pay, less stress.
I will definitely post a photo of myself in the grey uniform when/if the time comes. But for now, today is Hog Day around here. Now, I just need to find a parking lot where I can go practice without feeling like an idiot...oh, and the bike is really loud. It is, after all, a Harley.
And I have found my perfect job. No, really. I did finally decide (again) to leave the Army. I can't even abide the garrison crap--we had four formations yesterday, during which the Sergeant Major stood up there eating a sandwich and screaming about the same shit he screamed about the last formation. And the one before that. And the one before that. And mind you, our weather right now is exactly the same as MIAMI--92 degrees and humid as hell. So we're all standing out there getting soaked, my sunscreen running down my face, annoyed as hell. And earlier this week while standing there like that, I had an epiphany: my heart is just NOT in this anymore.
So my perfect job--get ready for this one--New York State Police. Yes, I want to be a State Trooper. It pays extremely well, I think I would like the actual job, and the work week is a huge plus. See, one week you work 60 hours, or five 12-hour shifts. Say you have Tuesday and Wednesday off that week and work the rest. Then the next week, Tuesday and Wednesday are the only days you work! So it averages to just over 40 hours a week, 12-hour days are nothing, and you get these great chunks of time off all lumped together. AND, going in with a Bachelor's means you can go Investigator after two years, with the attendant $15,000 raise. Good God!
The first assignment may not be terribly desirable--downstate somewhere--but then I could get back up here, keep my house, and live happily ever after. I take the exam on September 25, and after reading the study guide, I know I will ace it. Easy stuff. Nothing like the FBI. Actually, this sounds better to me than the FBI--fewer hours, better pay, less stress.
I will definitely post a photo of myself in the grey uniform when/if the time comes. But for now, today is Hog Day around here. Now, I just need to find a parking lot where I can go practice without feeling like an idiot...oh, and the bike is really loud. It is, after all, a Harley.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
You'll Never See a Motorcycle Parked Outside a Psychiatrist's Office
I have a confession to make: until yesterday at approximately 9 am (in the pouring rain, I might add), I had never been on a motorcycle. Yes, I bought a Harley and had never ridden a bike.
But I knew I would love it. I took the Basic Rider Course, taught by state-certified Rider Coaches, and the program was worth every penny of the $275 I paid for it. Even guys who'd been riding twenty years said they learned a great deal.
The day began with how to start the motorcycle--I mean, this was basic in the beginning--and by the end of today, we were cornering at 30 MPH, quick-stopping, swerving to avoid obstacles, shifting up and down while scanning for the stop signal, all of it. Me? I took to it like a duck to water. I loved it. AND I passed my New York State road test with flying colors--scored about the same as the experienced riders. The coaches said it was because I didn't have any bad habits to unlearn, and I did exactly what they told me to.
I am now a fully licensed motorcyclist, and can pick my bike up whenever I find someone to take me to the Harley dealership. I'm not going to be stupid about it--I'll spend as much time as I need to in the Harley parking lot until I'm comfortable with my bike before I take it on the road to my house. I learned on a 250cc bike, and mine's an 883. It'll take some getting used to, to say the least.
But that course was so great, I honestly feel well prepared to get the bike and practice around here, get better and better. And I'm signed up for an Advanced Rider Course in August, where I'll learn even more.
I knew I'd love it. I just knew it.
But I knew I would love it. I took the Basic Rider Course, taught by state-certified Rider Coaches, and the program was worth every penny of the $275 I paid for it. Even guys who'd been riding twenty years said they learned a great deal.
The day began with how to start the motorcycle--I mean, this was basic in the beginning--and by the end of today, we were cornering at 30 MPH, quick-stopping, swerving to avoid obstacles, shifting up and down while scanning for the stop signal, all of it. Me? I took to it like a duck to water. I loved it. AND I passed my New York State road test with flying colors--scored about the same as the experienced riders. The coaches said it was because I didn't have any bad habits to unlearn, and I did exactly what they told me to.
I am now a fully licensed motorcyclist, and can pick my bike up whenever I find someone to take me to the Harley dealership. I'm not going to be stupid about it--I'll spend as much time as I need to in the Harley parking lot until I'm comfortable with my bike before I take it on the road to my house. I learned on a 250cc bike, and mine's an 883. It'll take some getting used to, to say the least.
But that course was so great, I honestly feel well prepared to get the bike and practice around here, get better and better. And I'm signed up for an Advanced Rider Course in August, where I'll learn even more.
I knew I'd love it. I just knew it.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Don't Kick the Baby!
Hurricane Claire
I'm trying not to kick the baby, but she's so tiny and always just underfoot. She has definitely imprinted to me--she does not leave my side. In fact, as I type, she has concluded another dizzying rampage around the house and collapsed, exhausted, in my lap. She's so tiny, you can barely see her under my dining room table. And here you can see a bit of the destroyed hardwood floor, soon to be replaced.
Esther and I were so saddened by the Oscar Incident that we went and got this tiny new roommate. She behaves as if the folks at the shelter taught her how to be conspicuously cute for her new owner.
Wish me luck on the FBI Field Agents' Exam on July 27. I'm actually having to study for it--it has been many, many moons since I deigned to address any math above basic square footage calculations...I've got my work cut out for me. I don't suck at math, I just find it terribly tedious and I'm easily distracted.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Independence Day, a Retrospective
4 July 2004...Yes, Iraq looks like this. Trash and random animals everywhere you look.
4 July 2003...big fun, our own sanctioned Pirate Day, out sailing on Lake Ontario, terrorizing the Yacht People with water balloon artillery volleys and threats to scuttle them one and all...one of these philistines called the Coast Guard and we were subjected to a Stern Lecture.
Independence Day 2002
It looks more fun than it is. 10-mile ruck march with 45 pounds plus weapon and gear...this was Officer Candidate School, fourteen weeks of hell, at the end of which, you become An Officer. Which I thought I would love and maybe I still will, but right now I'm wishing I'd stayed a Staff Sergeant.
And this is what I'll likely end up doing today. ;) No, really. I was supposed to go sailing, but the owners of the big boat got called back to Montreal. So I'm going to a big family barbeque with my excellent nextdoor neighbors. Drink beer, maybe some Redneck Horseshoes...no, wait, I'll be the only redneck there.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Sneaking Suspicion
Downtown Baghdad, Election Day Just thought I'd throw that one in there; besides, I wanted to try out the other method for posting photos. Good picture, and one of the scant few positive experiences I had during that year. This was taken from the roof of the Al Khadra Iraqi Police Headquarters the evening of the elections--I didn't stay out there long, what with all the celebratory gunfire and all.
I've been thinking about Oscar all day, running through what I could have done differently to keep him alive...and there's nothing, he had a very happy life. But here's my sneaking suspicion: four days after he disappeared, I walked by the road next to the heavily wooded south end of the park, whistling for him. My neighbor from two doors down was out watering his yard.
"You looking for the black one?" He asked. (How would he know that???)
"Yes, have you seen him?"
He scratched his head. Old guy, pushing seventy or maybe even eighty, standing out there in dingy shorts and a stained tank top, hose in hand. "Well, I saw him a few days ago, he wandered into my basement and was locked in there for two days."
"But you let him out?"
A pause. "Yeah, that was a few days ago. I haven't seen him since."
Now I'm thinking he'd been locked in there long enough to die, and this crumbly just put him in the ditch across the street to make it look like he'd been hit by a car. I hope I'm wrong. How could he be in there for two days, though? That cat did not have a soft little polite voice like Esther has--rather piercing and annoying, actually, so how do you not hear that for two days?? I really think that may be the case--the old guy looked rather uncomfortable, and took a rather longish time to answer when I asked about letting him out. My gut tells me he was lying, that my little panther died in his basement...and knowing what a prolonged, excruciating death it must have been makes me feel much worse than if I'd found him visibly run over.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Rockets' Red Glare
This is how I spent the day…cluttered with crap and hot pank to boot. The previous owner of my home, in her infinite wisdom, painted my third bedroom hot pank with battleship gray trim and this conspicuously bucolic lighthouse border. AND the wench didn't bother to cover the 1910-installed, original hardwood flooring in doing so. Because as we all know, battleship gray carpet is much more attractive than original oak flooring. Good lord. This is what I'm dealing with here.
The mess, though…all mine. Just before I deployed, I piled everything I didn't immediately need in this horrid room, shut the door, and walked away. Honestly, if I lit the whole thing on fire and danced around the flames, would I even miss any of the crap in there? I waded about halfway through this garbage yesterday, and at about 5:30, poured myself a glass of sauvignon blanc and stepped out onto the porch. It was a perfect northern New York summer day—low 70's, no humidity, blinding blue sky.
Except that it wasn't exactly blue at that point.
Thick clouds of black smoke boiled into the sky from what must have been a massive fire, seemingly only scant blocks away. I strolled out onto the street, where a small group of my neighbors gathered, and asked, "What the hell is that??"
One neighbor, the one across and down three, openly glared at my wine glass, as if the moral fabric of the neighborhood was suddenly threatened by this open display of hedonistic consumption. She's no prize herself—every recessive gene in her evidently shallow pool manifests itself in her: Coke-bottle thick plastic-framed glasses, eyes slightly crossed (or perhaps it's an illusion), pasty skin, wormy, downturned mouth, thin, broken-off hair…I guess if I looked like that, I'd be bitter, too. No, actually, I'd put my ass on the treadmill and get some color, find a good eye doctor, and learn that tank tops are not for everyone.
She didn't answer, still openly glaring at my gorgeous glass with guileless contempt. The other guy out there, he lives one house down from her, answered that it was a factory downtown. And just then, the power went out—you could hear the fans and televisions simultaneously power down.
I relished a long sip of wine, exaggerating the whole act for Lady Miss Contempt's benefit, and took my time strolling back inside. I was barefoot to boot. Screw you, moron, I more than earned this glass of wine.
So Miss Esther, my obese little kitty who is very saddened by the recent departure of her brother and has not left my side since his demise, curled up in my lap on the porch. And we dozed off. Every home on the street boasted barbequing masses—we live at the base of the city park's steeply wooded hill, and the Sunset Symphony celebration was underway. So from our houses, you could clearly hear the orchestra.
Then there was a chest-thumping explosion unlike anything I've heard since the 122mm Chinese rockets impacted our base in Iraq and killed about a dozen soldiers. Esther clawed my left leg to shreds on her six-foot launch into the air and subsequent barreling into the house, all the way to the basement. I instinctively dove belly-down onto the floor of the porch. And then remembered where I was…and that the Sunset Symphony culminates in the big fireworks display. The neighbors directly across the street stopped what they were doing, staring at me and whispering among themselves.
I dusted myself off, feeling pretty damn stupid, and called out, "Sorry! I just got back from Iraq!" They laughed. My hands shook for about fifteen minutes…which explains why the pictures came out so wonky:
Backyard Bombardment
The best view was from the back deck, so I poured myself another glass of wine, propped my feet up on the café table out there, and donned a sweater. It went down into the forties last night.
After the grand finale, you could hear every American in town cheering and honking car horns…every back yard for miles, plus the crowd in the park, all screaming their heads off.
Power was restored about an hour later, and I did something absolutely asinine…that damn computer, the one that has been a piece of crap since I bought it last year, once again gave me the Blue Screen of Death, eating a rather large blog post I'd just written. Furious, I slammed my fist onto the keyboard…and killed it. It felt damn good. But it definitely proved to be the fatal blow for that miserable excuse for a $1500 laptop…and when I went back to the one I bought back in 2001, I wasn't even very surprised to see that it works ten times faster. I tried fixing the stupid thing all last week—ran all kinds of diagnostics, ensured it wasn't infected with spyware or viruses, etc.
I'll get that damn thing fixed (maybe), but I forsee getting rid of it one way or another—since Dell has miserable customer service and wouldn't take it back even three weeks after I bought it without the unethical "restocking fee," I'll likely just sell it for parts, consider it an expensive lesson in consumer wisdom. And NEVER even CONSIDER buying another Dell product, ever.
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