I've adopted a pre-execution last meal approach to every bite I put into my mouth...I won't get to eat (Krispy Kremes, homemade vanilla ice cream, insert other impossibly unhealthy, gloriously tasty foods here) for a long time, I'd better enjoy it now.
Consider, gentle readers, the 1 1/2-inch thick filet mignon I bought last weekend and have been too busy to grill up. It was still fresh, so I coated it with a light coat of olive oil and pressed into it a dry rub of every appealling savory seasoning in my cupboard. I heated the grill as blistering as it could get and hit it for a couple of minutes each side, intending to sear it, create a seasoned crust, while preserving a cool, blood-red, tender inside.
Ambrosia of the gods. The fat and olive oil crusted perfectly with the seasonings, the whole thing remained astonishingly tender. Intially, I tucked into it like a starved hostage. But then I cut smaller and smaller bits, slowed down, savored the crisp-tender, almost silky texture of the fine meat, the slight smokiness. I even ate the bits of pure fat, which were the most flavorful of all and retained the finest crusting. Seasoned juice puddled in the plate with each cut. It's too cool to eat outside, but I wouldn't have wanted any distractions for this one. I was happy to be alone, at my antique dining room table, in this sun-filled room, not holding up one end of a conversation. I had full focus on this thing.
I've never had such fine steak--no upscale New Orleans restaurant could rival it. The local brewpub doesn't even come close, and I love their filet mignon.
My favorite side dish when grilling is cibollitas, or plain old green onions minus the white part, sprayed with Pam, dusted with Kosher salt, grilled just long enough for hints of brownness to show, then liberally drowned in lime juice. When I lived in New Orleans, I would drive all the way across town to have them at a Mexican restaurant we loved. And now I eat them at home several times a week.
At this rate, I won't even fit into my uniform for the initial liftoff...but judging by the 20-40 pound weight loss I've seen out of folks landing there in that impossible heat, I'm not terribly concerned.
And honestly, during these last few days of time off I'll have for the next 365 days, I just don't give one baby rat's ass.
Saturday, May 29, 2004
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Saturday, May 22, 2004
Let the Games Begin
It's 1:00 am on a Sunday morning, and I've been here since 7 am. On Saturday. We awaited the arrival of the sixteen Guard and Reserve soldiers who will deploy with my platoon. The weather's been dreadful. Flights were delayed, cancelled, baggage was misplaced, it's been storming all day and last night, too. The latest storm to roll through rages outside now, and the last vanful of arrivals now unpack their excessive baggage and repacking it according to the Brigade's packing list. We're all ass-whupped exhausted, hungry, wet, irritable.
So we're rebuilding this team from the ground up. These soldiers just finished training, they have no operational experience at all, and the soldiers we expected to take get to stay here and get a bit of stabilization time. Some of the new ones are Guard, some Reserves, from all four corners of the United States, and very cognizant of the Active Component's perception of Guard and Reserves. They all plan to sew on our Division's patch right away. Many are cops in real life, and most speak at least one other language. They're all friendly and seem eager to integrate.
My first impression of the females, however, is that they could get ahold of some attitude down the line--they showed up here in tight-fitting, low-cut outfits wearing a great deal of makeup. There are three, and this is true of them all. Two visibly sidelined themselves as bags were being uploaded, and two are noticibly overweight.
More to follow, I'm sure...
So we're rebuilding this team from the ground up. These soldiers just finished training, they have no operational experience at all, and the soldiers we expected to take get to stay here and get a bit of stabilization time. Some of the new ones are Guard, some Reserves, from all four corners of the United States, and very cognizant of the Active Component's perception of Guard and Reserves. They all plan to sew on our Division's patch right away. Many are cops in real life, and most speak at least one other language. They're all friendly and seem eager to integrate.
My first impression of the females, however, is that they could get ahold of some attitude down the line--they showed up here in tight-fitting, low-cut outfits wearing a great deal of makeup. There are three, and this is true of them all. Two visibly sidelined themselves as bags were being uploaded, and two are noticibly overweight.
More to follow, I'm sure...
Thursday, May 20, 2004
Military Terms
Some military jargon:
lickey chewey: n. A treat or snack, usually sent to soldiers where none are available. Make sure the Chinook hovers over the firebase long enough to kick out that bag of lickey chewies to Sergeant R's squad.
soup sandwich: n. or adj. Evidence of incompetence or laziness. LT S's convoy ended up in a minefield because he can't read a map--man, that's soup sandwich.
shit the bed/went tits up: v. Ceased to function. We got four miles outside the gate when the humvee shit the bed. It went tits up outside Kabul.
cut the sling load: v. To dispose of people who are weight without benefit, as if from a load-bearing Chinook helicopter. Sergeant F is too lazy to take with us, we need to cut the sling load and leave him here.
take a knee, drink water: v. Action taken in order to recover from some arduous event. Sergeant R stepped on a landmine while we were on patrol, so I told him to take a knee, drink water, and drive on.
lickey chewey: n. A treat or snack, usually sent to soldiers where none are available. Make sure the Chinook hovers over the firebase long enough to kick out that bag of lickey chewies to Sergeant R's squad.
soup sandwich: n. or adj. Evidence of incompetence or laziness. LT S's convoy ended up in a minefield because he can't read a map--man, that's soup sandwich.
shit the bed/went tits up: v. Ceased to function. We got four miles outside the gate when the humvee shit the bed. It went tits up outside Kabul.
cut the sling load: v. To dispose of people who are weight without benefit, as if from a load-bearing Chinook helicopter. Sergeant F is too lazy to take with us, we need to cut the sling load and leave him here.
take a knee, drink water: v. Action taken in order to recover from some arduous event. Sergeant R stepped on a landmine while we were on patrol, so I told him to take a knee, drink water, and drive on.
Monday, May 10, 2004
Any News Delivered Before 7 a.m. Will Ruin Your Day
"LT, SSG R, come on into the classroom."
This from the C.O. (Commander), as soon as we walked in the door this morning. My heart sank. I even joked, "He's fixin to tell us something we don't want to hear."
Sure enough. We got sucked into the deployment. We leave in three weeks. AND we're now a permanent part of D Co, which is unfortunate. Unfortunate because I really liked B Co's command structure, the soldiers, all of it. I've heard nothing but horror stories about D Co's commander.
Anyone out there who could foster a couple of adorable, well-behaved, sweet cats, email me at kristenb1970@hotmail.com. They are my biggest concern right now. Get them taken care of, I can handle everything else.
This from the C.O. (Commander), as soon as we walked in the door this morning. My heart sank. I even joked, "He's fixin to tell us something we don't want to hear."
Sure enough. We got sucked into the deployment. We leave in three weeks. AND we're now a permanent part of D Co, which is unfortunate. Unfortunate because I really liked B Co's command structure, the soldiers, all of it. I've heard nothing but horror stories about D Co's commander.
Anyone out there who could foster a couple of adorable, well-behaved, sweet cats, email me at kristenb1970@hotmail.com. They are my biggest concern right now. Get them taken care of, I can handle everything else.
Thursday, May 06, 2004
Triple Snooze
I just went to lunch with Vic, the other Lieutenant in the company (he's the Executive Officer and he's great) and my Platoon Sergeant, Staff Sergeant R. SSG R is a calm, humorous, competent professional. I already trust them both completely.
We went to a new Mexican restaurant off post called Antojito's. The only other Mexican restaurant in the entire area is out in Sackets, and it's not very good. Antojito's features tamales that are enough like the ones I loved in El Paso that I can only conclude that there is a genuine Mexican back there. Tamales tend to be made by women, and I used to buy them by the dozen from a convenience store...I'd walk in, ask for a dozen chicken-green chile tamales, and she'd stop working on her stack of the same to plop them into the steamer.
They were amazing. One of the only things I liked about El Paso was the food. But even that didn't compensate for that oppressively barren landscape.
So, today there were tamales...and damn good ones! And for dessert, cheesecake wrapped in a tortilla and deep fried, with an apricot/honey sauce on top.
Immediately afterward, all three of us had a briefing from Range Control--in order to run a range (where we shoot our rifles and qualify on them), you have to have this class. It's about an hour long, in a dark, cool room with comfy chairs that recline just enough...
We were knocked the hell out. All three of us. I'd look over at SSG R (who's a muscular, bald, black man) just as his head would tip and wake him abruptly. Then I'd struggle. Vic was just flat-out asleep at one point. It was torture and I don't think I retained any information at all, except that if you leave food in your vehicle at the range, the bears might break your window and trash your car. I felt sorry for the briefer but I could not force myself to stay awake. I looked around the room and everyone struggled with it. Heads tipped, mouths dropped open, eyelids fluttered. That guy could've told us the Seven Horses of the Apocalypse had just pulled up outside, there'd be no reaction.
Note to self: never schedule briefings, as the giver or the taker, just after lunch. And avoid tamales and fried cheesecake if the timing can't be helped.
We went to a new Mexican restaurant off post called Antojito's. The only other Mexican restaurant in the entire area is out in Sackets, and it's not very good. Antojito's features tamales that are enough like the ones I loved in El Paso that I can only conclude that there is a genuine Mexican back there. Tamales tend to be made by women, and I used to buy them by the dozen from a convenience store...I'd walk in, ask for a dozen chicken-green chile tamales, and she'd stop working on her stack of the same to plop them into the steamer.
They were amazing. One of the only things I liked about El Paso was the food. But even that didn't compensate for that oppressively barren landscape.
So, today there were tamales...and damn good ones! And for dessert, cheesecake wrapped in a tortilla and deep fried, with an apricot/honey sauce on top.
Immediately afterward, all three of us had a briefing from Range Control--in order to run a range (where we shoot our rifles and qualify on them), you have to have this class. It's about an hour long, in a dark, cool room with comfy chairs that recline just enough...
We were knocked the hell out. All three of us. I'd look over at SSG R (who's a muscular, bald, black man) just as his head would tip and wake him abruptly. Then I'd struggle. Vic was just flat-out asleep at one point. It was torture and I don't think I retained any information at all, except that if you leave food in your vehicle at the range, the bears might break your window and trash your car. I felt sorry for the briefer but I could not force myself to stay awake. I looked around the room and everyone struggled with it. Heads tipped, mouths dropped open, eyelids fluttered. That guy could've told us the Seven Horses of the Apocalypse had just pulled up outside, there'd be no reaction.
Note to self: never schedule briefings, as the giver or the taker, just after lunch. And avoid tamales and fried cheesecake if the timing can't be helped.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
GI Jive Turkey
I spent over an hour typing up a post about my impending departure, my first major home improvement project, and how badly those goddamn "soldiers" in Iraq who took those pictures (you know the ones) have damaged us. And this damn computer loses connectivity for no evident reason (DO NOT BUY DELL). So allow me to take on each topic again.
First, I'm attempting to create my own website, so I can post photos. And as I struggle with getting Frontpage to publish to my newly-purchased site (www.gi-jive-turkey.org), I marvel that so many jackasses manage to create websites every day. Judging by much of the content out there, these folks are a far cry from brain surgeons. Seems like I should be able to figure it out.
My reasons for outrage concerning those photos, besides the glaringly obvious moral bankruptcy of it all:
1) Arab anger=attacks on Americans. Rocket science? I think not.
2) Iraqis will not take kindly to apprehension, will die fighting to avoid it. Chemlite up my ass? I'll pass.
3) What are the chances American prisoners will now be treated humanely? Slim to none, and Slim just left.
But I didn't have any training! I asked for guidance! Military Intelligence told me to! Horseshit, people! Does anybody really need to be told not to torture prisoners? Haven't we all been trained on the tenets of the Geneva Convensions? (The answer is yes, by the way, it's part of the absolute basic soldiering skills, I don't buy they'd never heard of it.) Are you THAT stupid? How many times have we been told to disobey illegal orders? And oh, by the way, my platoon of interrogaters all tell me that's bullshit, that it's SOP to direct the MP's to "prep" them. Doesn't happen.
And then to take pictures, for chrissake.
It WILL cost American lives. The damage IS permanent. I keep thinking that at some point, I'll stop being surprised by stupidity, but it hasn't happened yet. I'm freshly astonished regularly at what imbeciles lurk among us.
It's 5:15 am, and I've been up since about 3:30. I'm not sleeping well since learning I'm most likely headed to Iraq for a full year, leaving in under a month. Yes, I'm pissed off. I know dozens of officers who have never deployed, and here I get two in one year.
A full year deployed is utterly incomprehensible to me--that's a Korea tour. I just bought this house and it looks like I won't get to enjoy it, or even get all the way unpacked. I'll have to either find a surrogate home for the kitties (how likely is that?), or a new home altogether, which hurts my heart to no end. I'm terribly attached to my little guys, my perfectly-proportioned, fluffy grey Esther and the sleek, handsome little black panther, Oscar. Ouch. There is still a slight chance we won't go, but if I've learned anything about the Army, it's that the news is never good.
It was on the news last night, and annoyed the crap out of me. Our local TV station cannot seem to EVER get unit names correct...they called us 1-10th MI, when we're 110th MI. Seems like a small thing, but it's not...that dash would make us part of a regiment, which we aren't. We're direct support to the Division and the Infantry Brigades.
Then, in the true tradition of Army Public Affairs misinformation, it was stated that NO SOLDIERS WHO HAVE RECENTLY RETURNED ARE INCLUDED IN THIS DEPLOYMENT, when my entire company just got back from a year in Iraq only two months ago. Then the chirpy little anchorwoman said, "Some of these soldiers have been back less than a year!" I had to laugh. Try three months, you Whore of Babylon. It's not her fault, she's only repeating the misinformation handed her by those pogues at Public Affairs.
It will be a daily test of my character; it's in times of chaos that calmness counts the most. I have to think of how my behavior will effect my soldiers, keep that in the front of my mind at all times. Whether or not I agree with the mission or the timing is irrelevant--if my platoon goes, I go, simple as that. I should count my blessings that I have such great soldiers, especially the Warrant Officer who so clearly has my back. I'm lobbying against sending the Sergeant First Class about whom I've only heard the worst possible gossip...he's lazy as hell, he's a liability, etc. The Staff Sergeant who is currently my Platoon Sergeant is so overtly outstanding, to replace him with this bag-o-donuts would really chap my ass.
I think the weblog will be a base of sanity. I'm liable to get really, really bluesy if this thing kicks off like we think it will.
First, I'm attempting to create my own website, so I can post photos. And as I struggle with getting Frontpage to publish to my newly-purchased site (www.gi-jive-turkey.org), I marvel that so many jackasses manage to create websites every day. Judging by much of the content out there, these folks are a far cry from brain surgeons. Seems like I should be able to figure it out.
My reasons for outrage concerning those photos, besides the glaringly obvious moral bankruptcy of it all:
1) Arab anger=attacks on Americans. Rocket science? I think not.
2) Iraqis will not take kindly to apprehension, will die fighting to avoid it. Chemlite up my ass? I'll pass.
3) What are the chances American prisoners will now be treated humanely? Slim to none, and Slim just left.
But I didn't have any training! I asked for guidance! Military Intelligence told me to! Horseshit, people! Does anybody really need to be told not to torture prisoners? Haven't we all been trained on the tenets of the Geneva Convensions? (The answer is yes, by the way, it's part of the absolute basic soldiering skills, I don't buy they'd never heard of it.) Are you THAT stupid? How many times have we been told to disobey illegal orders? And oh, by the way, my platoon of interrogaters all tell me that's bullshit, that it's SOP to direct the MP's to "prep" them. Doesn't happen.
And then to take pictures, for chrissake.
It WILL cost American lives. The damage IS permanent. I keep thinking that at some point, I'll stop being surprised by stupidity, but it hasn't happened yet. I'm freshly astonished regularly at what imbeciles lurk among us.
It's 5:15 am, and I've been up since about 3:30. I'm not sleeping well since learning I'm most likely headed to Iraq for a full year, leaving in under a month. Yes, I'm pissed off. I know dozens of officers who have never deployed, and here I get two in one year.
A full year deployed is utterly incomprehensible to me--that's a Korea tour. I just bought this house and it looks like I won't get to enjoy it, or even get all the way unpacked. I'll have to either find a surrogate home for the kitties (how likely is that?), or a new home altogether, which hurts my heart to no end. I'm terribly attached to my little guys, my perfectly-proportioned, fluffy grey Esther and the sleek, handsome little black panther, Oscar. Ouch. There is still a slight chance we won't go, but if I've learned anything about the Army, it's that the news is never good.
It was on the news last night, and annoyed the crap out of me. Our local TV station cannot seem to EVER get unit names correct...they called us 1-10th MI, when we're 110th MI. Seems like a small thing, but it's not...that dash would make us part of a regiment, which we aren't. We're direct support to the Division and the Infantry Brigades.
Then, in the true tradition of Army Public Affairs misinformation, it was stated that NO SOLDIERS WHO HAVE RECENTLY RETURNED ARE INCLUDED IN THIS DEPLOYMENT, when my entire company just got back from a year in Iraq only two months ago. Then the chirpy little anchorwoman said, "Some of these soldiers have been back less than a year!" I had to laugh. Try three months, you Whore of Babylon. It's not her fault, she's only repeating the misinformation handed her by those pogues at Public Affairs.
It will be a daily test of my character; it's in times of chaos that calmness counts the most. I have to think of how my behavior will effect my soldiers, keep that in the front of my mind at all times. Whether or not I agree with the mission or the timing is irrelevant--if my platoon goes, I go, simple as that. I should count my blessings that I have such great soldiers, especially the Warrant Officer who so clearly has my back. I'm lobbying against sending the Sergeant First Class about whom I've only heard the worst possible gossip...he's lazy as hell, he's a liability, etc. The Staff Sergeant who is currently my Platoon Sergeant is so overtly outstanding, to replace him with this bag-o-donuts would really chap my ass.
I think the weblog will be a base of sanity. I'm liable to get really, really bluesy if this thing kicks off like we think it will.
Monday, April 26, 2004
Hellfire and Damnation
First day on the job: I like the soldiers, I like the leadership, and I hear very good things about the Commander and First Sergeant who will take the company soon. We ran 3 miles as a company this morning, and it was easy enough for me that I jumped out and called cadence. The commander specifically requested me as a Platoon Leader/Executive Officer because there is no female leadership in the company and he thought my maturity and professionalism would serve all the soldiers, but especially the females, well. I am very comfortable in that role. That's the good news.
The bad news: the company spent a year in Iraq, and were among the first in, long before the initial assault. The stories the soldiers told me were unlike anything I've ever heard--the logistics were so bad, they were down to one bottle of water a day in that heat, they deployed with only a rucksack and so couldn't wash or change clothes for months.
What it all adds up to: the soldiers are highly competent, but they are beyond burned out. They just got back from that year in hell last month. Most of the soldiers now in the platoon will either PCS or leave the Army soon, as I'm sure is true at the end of any long deployment. So we're pretty much starting over.
The bad news: the company spent a year in Iraq, and were among the first in, long before the initial assault. The stories the soldiers told me were unlike anything I've ever heard--the logistics were so bad, they were down to one bottle of water a day in that heat, they deployed with only a rucksack and so couldn't wash or change clothes for months.
What it all adds up to: the soldiers are highly competent, but they are beyond burned out. They just got back from that year in hell last month. Most of the soldiers now in the platoon will either PCS or leave the Army soon, as I'm sure is true at the end of any long deployment. So we're pretty much starting over.
Sunday, April 25, 2004
Up at Four
I awoke at four a.m., after the quietest night of sleep in recent memory. I can lock the cats downstairs and sleep in silent bliss in that nice, dark room. I am utterly in love with this house and accepting housewarming gifts already...there was a hanging light thing, used but quite nice, on the porch this morning. No note.
Saturday, April 24, 2004
Mattress Taco
I'm sitting in my new den surrounded by boxes and rubbish, exhausted and sore but very happy that my internet already works. And what a ride these last two days have been.
I retrieved the keys at about 8:30 yesterday morning, drove straight here, and ripped all the carpet out of the den and dining room. I'll get to the upstairs eventually, right now I want the entire downstairs to look stellar. It was pure hell ripping out the carpets--filthy, backbreaking work, and I ignored the sage advice of the Do-It-Yourself Network by leaving it all in one piece rather than ripping it up into nice four-foot pieces. Just seemed like a waste of time to rip it up...that is, until that mammoth chunk of carpet got stuck in the door. I kicked, I pulled, I even slammed my full bodyweight into it. I was sweating profusely and I only had about an hour before I was supposed to go meet my new commander. I don't know what aspect of Providence finally smiled down on me, but it gave and I crashed through the door on top of the whole mess. It's all out on the porch, awaiting the trash hauler to come get it on Tuesday.
The floors...I was hoping for perfection shadowed by the ugly carpeting...and I got something between unsalvagable and perfectly presentable. Once I sand it down and refinish it, it'll look amazing. True to the shortcutting nature of whatever fool last made a weak attempt at restoration, the floor was sanded and finished in a ring around the large area carpet Sally Shittytaste had before Sally Shittiertaste covered it with the grey carpeting.
The next project: address the human filth caked all over the bathroom and kitchen. I sprayed Pinesol in the fridge and let it soften the layer of ancient orange juice on the bottom shelf. The crispers and what shelves could be removed soaked in soapy water on the back porch. I then had to use a putty knife to scrape the funk from the rest of the surfaces. Cat hair, people. In the fridge.
And the bathroom made my skin crawl. This was NOT the funk that accumulated in the span of a month or two. This was an absolute coating, an unspeakable spooge so thick and vile, I completely wore out two scrubby sponges just on the floor. I used an entire spray bottle of mildew remover in the bathtub alone.
Where I come from, we call people who live like that Po' White Trash. No hometrainin'. The next door neighbors even offered to help her clean it, and she flatly stated that she didn't plan to clean at all. Fine, I'll just knock about a hundred bucks off the price of the washer/dryer. We never agreed on a price and she can't take it back now.
So then, I dragged myself back out to Sackets Harbor to sleep, woke up very early, drove into town, and finished pulling staples out of the floor so my help wouldn't tear themselves up. All those people who told me they'd help out? Three showed, even with the keg of beer delivered by the Brewpub. God bless 'em, my three heroes. I don't know what I would've done. We completely filled that massive 26' truck. Unloading is so much more fun, and the Mattress Taco made my whole day.
See, my staircase is not very tall, as in the distance from the stairs to the ceiling at one point...the queen-sized mattress made it through fairly easily. I knew, though, when the guys had to bend it over and smush it through, we could be in trouble with the box spring.
It just flat-out did not fit. We needed about five more inches. I called a local mattress store and asked about buying a split box spring, and the jackass who answered the phone explained in a voice I don't even use with children that they aren't really box springs anymore, you rarely see springs in them, blah blah blah and who gives a shit, buddy?
Then, he went on to explain that I would have to buy two split support mattresses, just one wouldn't be big enough. Are you kidding me? Do I sound like a complete idiot? No, really, you moron, I thought I'd just buy one tiny little support (not box spring, mind you, very rarely do you actually see springs in them) and just let the rest of the mattress flop over it. Holy SHIT where do they find these people?
So screw that, I just spent a thousand bucks on this mattress set not even one year ago. But I figured, if I'm going to have to trash the original, one-piece BOX SPRING, we might as well try to McGuyver something. We discussed taking a hammer to the part of the ceiling that was in the way. Nah, it wouldn't buy us enough space. By this time, several more people had shown up and the keg had been tapped. We discussed pulling it up the roof and into a window...no windows big enough.
So here's what we did...borrowed a Skil saw, sawed through only two boards, removed the center support bar, and folded that bitch in half like a taco. It actually worked. I took pictures. We were all in hysterics and someone suggested it looked like a cheap horror film, getting swallowed by a mattress taco.
Then the pizza came and the party started. Phil and Dave assembled my new barbeque grill and just for shits and giggles, we put some pizza on it. It was damn good. The patio furniture fits just right, Jon's iron mosquito sculpture guards the whole arrangement. Plans for the house were discussed. It was agreed that the floors wouldn't be a big deal...easy for them to say, they don't have to do it by themselves! Everyone left at around 7 pm, I took a very nice bath in my very clean bathroom, and now I'm sitting here drinking a beer. I'm fixing to go put my linens on and go to sleep.
I am one happy girl.
I retrieved the keys at about 8:30 yesterday morning, drove straight here, and ripped all the carpet out of the den and dining room. I'll get to the upstairs eventually, right now I want the entire downstairs to look stellar. It was pure hell ripping out the carpets--filthy, backbreaking work, and I ignored the sage advice of the Do-It-Yourself Network by leaving it all in one piece rather than ripping it up into nice four-foot pieces. Just seemed like a waste of time to rip it up...that is, until that mammoth chunk of carpet got stuck in the door. I kicked, I pulled, I even slammed my full bodyweight into it. I was sweating profusely and I only had about an hour before I was supposed to go meet my new commander. I don't know what aspect of Providence finally smiled down on me, but it gave and I crashed through the door on top of the whole mess. It's all out on the porch, awaiting the trash hauler to come get it on Tuesday.
The floors...I was hoping for perfection shadowed by the ugly carpeting...and I got something between unsalvagable and perfectly presentable. Once I sand it down and refinish it, it'll look amazing. True to the shortcutting nature of whatever fool last made a weak attempt at restoration, the floor was sanded and finished in a ring around the large area carpet Sally Shittytaste had before Sally Shittiertaste covered it with the grey carpeting.
The next project: address the human filth caked all over the bathroom and kitchen. I sprayed Pinesol in the fridge and let it soften the layer of ancient orange juice on the bottom shelf. The crispers and what shelves could be removed soaked in soapy water on the back porch. I then had to use a putty knife to scrape the funk from the rest of the surfaces. Cat hair, people. In the fridge.
And the bathroom made my skin crawl. This was NOT the funk that accumulated in the span of a month or two. This was an absolute coating, an unspeakable spooge so thick and vile, I completely wore out two scrubby sponges just on the floor. I used an entire spray bottle of mildew remover in the bathtub alone.
Where I come from, we call people who live like that Po' White Trash. No hometrainin'. The next door neighbors even offered to help her clean it, and she flatly stated that she didn't plan to clean at all. Fine, I'll just knock about a hundred bucks off the price of the washer/dryer. We never agreed on a price and she can't take it back now.
So then, I dragged myself back out to Sackets Harbor to sleep, woke up very early, drove into town, and finished pulling staples out of the floor so my help wouldn't tear themselves up. All those people who told me they'd help out? Three showed, even with the keg of beer delivered by the Brewpub. God bless 'em, my three heroes. I don't know what I would've done. We completely filled that massive 26' truck. Unloading is so much more fun, and the Mattress Taco made my whole day.
See, my staircase is not very tall, as in the distance from the stairs to the ceiling at one point...the queen-sized mattress made it through fairly easily. I knew, though, when the guys had to bend it over and smush it through, we could be in trouble with the box spring.
It just flat-out did not fit. We needed about five more inches. I called a local mattress store and asked about buying a split box spring, and the jackass who answered the phone explained in a voice I don't even use with children that they aren't really box springs anymore, you rarely see springs in them, blah blah blah and who gives a shit, buddy?
Then, he went on to explain that I would have to buy two split support mattresses, just one wouldn't be big enough. Are you kidding me? Do I sound like a complete idiot? No, really, you moron, I thought I'd just buy one tiny little support (not box spring, mind you, very rarely do you actually see springs in them) and just let the rest of the mattress flop over it. Holy SHIT where do they find these people?
So screw that, I just spent a thousand bucks on this mattress set not even one year ago. But I figured, if I'm going to have to trash the original, one-piece BOX SPRING, we might as well try to McGuyver something. We discussed taking a hammer to the part of the ceiling that was in the way. Nah, it wouldn't buy us enough space. By this time, several more people had shown up and the keg had been tapped. We discussed pulling it up the roof and into a window...no windows big enough.
So here's what we did...borrowed a Skil saw, sawed through only two boards, removed the center support bar, and folded that bitch in half like a taco. It actually worked. I took pictures. We were all in hysterics and someone suggested it looked like a cheap horror film, getting swallowed by a mattress taco.
Then the pizza came and the party started. Phil and Dave assembled my new barbeque grill and just for shits and giggles, we put some pizza on it. It was damn good. The patio furniture fits just right, Jon's iron mosquito sculpture guards the whole arrangement. Plans for the house were discussed. It was agreed that the floors wouldn't be a big deal...easy for them to say, they don't have to do it by themselves! Everyone left at around 7 pm, I took a very nice bath in my very clean bathroom, and now I'm sitting here drinking a beer. I'm fixing to go put my linens on and go to sleep.
I am one happy girl.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Asscrackistan Revisited
I get the keys tomorrow to the new house. I met my new neighbors, and I got lucky once again in that department. Great older couple, been there 25 years. And they have redone their house much the same way I'd do mine if I had the money--knocked out the wall between the kitchen and dining room, gorgeous pine floors, new cabinetry and countertops. I doubt I'll be able to do all that anytime soon.
I've already been swapped from one company to another within my new battalion...I thought I'd be with A Co, who's still deployed, but now it's B Co and they aren't sure what platoon I'll have. They are leaning toward Human Intelligence, which is what I've wanted all along and what I had in A Co. AND, B Co will deploy sooner than A Co. I could find myself right back in Asscrackistan by the end of the year. In which case, I'd have to give away the kitties--I can't put them (or myself, for that matter) through all that again, locking them in the house with little human contact. I do like the company commander I'll work for, though--I'm told he's the type leader who takes his role as supervisor/mentor very seriously, puts much thought, time, and effort into developing junior officers. Sounds like what any LT would want.
I have a 6 mile ruckmarch tomorrow, my last PT with the Engineers. I've superglued extra-large bandaids to my heels, hoping to ward off the usual bloodying these things hand me. Damn it, I'll be all shitty-footed for the move...I'm not kidding, I use superglue on the bandaids in hopes of keeping them on there. Pain in my ass.
I've already been swapped from one company to another within my new battalion...I thought I'd be with A Co, who's still deployed, but now it's B Co and they aren't sure what platoon I'll have. They are leaning toward Human Intelligence, which is what I've wanted all along and what I had in A Co. AND, B Co will deploy sooner than A Co. I could find myself right back in Asscrackistan by the end of the year. In which case, I'd have to give away the kitties--I can't put them (or myself, for that matter) through all that again, locking them in the house with little human contact. I do like the company commander I'll work for, though--I'm told he's the type leader who takes his role as supervisor/mentor very seriously, puts much thought, time, and effort into developing junior officers. Sounds like what any LT would want.
I have a 6 mile ruckmarch tomorrow, my last PT with the Engineers. I've superglued extra-large bandaids to my heels, hoping to ward off the usual bloodying these things hand me. Damn it, I'll be all shitty-footed for the move...I'm not kidding, I use superglue on the bandaids in hopes of keeping them on there. Pain in my ass.
Friday, April 16, 2004
Is It Finally Spring?
Today was the first real springlike day--63ยบ, gloriously sunny, etc. Now, if we could just get some damn leaves on the trees, maybe some flowers, perhaps it could help get me out of this first-rate funk. It only strikes at night, the funk...certainly a byproduct of all the stress around Dad, the impending move, the job change next week. Let's see...Dad with dementia, first-time homebuying and the move to go with it, taking over a Tactical HUMINT Platoon (spies, they're spies, that's all I know about it) in a new unit where I don't know anyone...stress? What stress?
I think the best therapy will come by way of home improvement projects...I bought six gallons of paint today. I lovely soft amber for the den, a slightly darker of the same in high gloss for the kitchen, a cream color, also high-gloss, for the cabinets, my favorite dusty purple for the bedroom, light sage for the dining room, and an oil-based chocolate brown for the trim in the bathroom that is currently bile pink. The lighter amber will go on the walls. It will be perfectly lovely. Now, if I could just get off my ass and knock out the packing...
Last night the Commanding General returned with all the Battalion Commanders on board...arrival time, midnight. So being that I'm still on the staff, I had to be there. Pried my eyes open at 11:00, back into uniform, drove in cradling a large go-cup of strong coffee. Pull into the parking lot and notice a number of sleepy-looking folks getting back into their cars.
"Hey, soldier, did the flight get delayed?" I asked some youngun walking toward me.
"Uh, yes ma'am, it looks like it'll be 3:30." He has, in the meantime, locked himself at attention.
"Relax, I'm just a lieutenant," I told him. I don't insist on all the bullshit. You can tell if someone respects you or not, regardless of their attention to formalities. I find that putting subordinates at ease this way is an effective way to establish rapport...and rapport with young, lower-enlisted soldiers means they will tell you everything that is going on and you'll have your finger on the pulse of your organization.
So here it was, midnight, and I've got 3 1/2 hours until this damn ceremony even kicks off. It was too cold to sleep in the car. I opted to drive all the way home, 30 minutes each way...the entire time, thinking how wonderful it would be to live so much closer.
I repeated this statement all day long, when I'd gone home early in order to sleep, and the downstairs neighbor's goddamn dog barked all day long. I swear, if I'd had a loaded weapon, I'da shot that sumbitch through the floor. I was wiped out, and plus I HATE other people's noise. I like the downstairs neighbor, but I don't like his music, which is loud enough it makes my drink shake on the table.
Home ownership. It's a quiet neighborhood. The neighbors don't have kids or dogs. If the music is loud, I doubt I'll hear it. Ahhh.
I think the best therapy will come by way of home improvement projects...I bought six gallons of paint today. I lovely soft amber for the den, a slightly darker of the same in high gloss for the kitchen, a cream color, also high-gloss, for the cabinets, my favorite dusty purple for the bedroom, light sage for the dining room, and an oil-based chocolate brown for the trim in the bathroom that is currently bile pink. The lighter amber will go on the walls. It will be perfectly lovely. Now, if I could just get off my ass and knock out the packing...
Last night the Commanding General returned with all the Battalion Commanders on board...arrival time, midnight. So being that I'm still on the staff, I had to be there. Pried my eyes open at 11:00, back into uniform, drove in cradling a large go-cup of strong coffee. Pull into the parking lot and notice a number of sleepy-looking folks getting back into their cars.
"Hey, soldier, did the flight get delayed?" I asked some youngun walking toward me.
"Uh, yes ma'am, it looks like it'll be 3:30." He has, in the meantime, locked himself at attention.
"Relax, I'm just a lieutenant," I told him. I don't insist on all the bullshit. You can tell if someone respects you or not, regardless of their attention to formalities. I find that putting subordinates at ease this way is an effective way to establish rapport...and rapport with young, lower-enlisted soldiers means they will tell you everything that is going on and you'll have your finger on the pulse of your organization.
So here it was, midnight, and I've got 3 1/2 hours until this damn ceremony even kicks off. It was too cold to sleep in the car. I opted to drive all the way home, 30 minutes each way...the entire time, thinking how wonderful it would be to live so much closer.
I repeated this statement all day long, when I'd gone home early in order to sleep, and the downstairs neighbor's goddamn dog barked all day long. I swear, if I'd had a loaded weapon, I'da shot that sumbitch through the floor. I was wiped out, and plus I HATE other people's noise. I like the downstairs neighbor, but I don't like his music, which is loud enough it makes my drink shake on the table.
Home ownership. It's a quiet neighborhood. The neighbors don't have kids or dogs. If the music is loud, I doubt I'll hear it. Ahhh.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Do You Think She's Gay Why Else Isn't She Married Yet and What's Up With Wearing Boy Clothes All Day Anyway?
It has been brought to my attention that some saboteur bitch named herself Miss Kristen and made quite a name for herself and her blog back, oh, five years ago. So now I'm evidently plagerizing.
So help me think of a new title for the blog...the Bath Party? "Do You Think She's Gay Why Else Isn't She Married Yet and What's Up With Wearing Boy Clothes All Day Long Anyway?" Actually, I kind of like that last one. And no, by the way, in case anyone was wondering, I'm not gay. I would've been WAY out of the closet LONG ago if I were.
But I certainly don't have a problem with folks who are--I've even known a growing cast of characters in the Army who are. How do I know? They tell me, for some reason, and not because they think I might be a Sister, and not because I asked or assumed. They all just TELL me, and usually at the most unexpected times...S told me while we brushed our teeth in Afghanistan. C told me offhand while we shot pool. R told me because he was about to tell the Commander and get out of the Army. The other C had me come into her room in Colombia, showed me pictures of her and her girlfriend, and said, "Um, I'm gay." And these are some of my favorite people in the Army. My usual response? "Oh, okay."
Maybe they just know I'll be okay with it and find it helpful to spill the beans to someone. It cannot be easy, gay in the Army, in this culture where I feel mildly persecuted as a Democrat.
So help me think of a new title for the blog...the Bath Party? "Do You Think She's Gay Why Else Isn't She Married Yet and What's Up With Wearing Boy Clothes All Day Long Anyway?" Actually, I kind of like that last one. And no, by the way, in case anyone was wondering, I'm not gay. I would've been WAY out of the closet LONG ago if I were.
But I certainly don't have a problem with folks who are--I've even known a growing cast of characters in the Army who are. How do I know? They tell me, for some reason, and not because they think I might be a Sister, and not because I asked or assumed. They all just TELL me, and usually at the most unexpected times...S told me while we brushed our teeth in Afghanistan. C told me offhand while we shot pool. R told me because he was about to tell the Commander and get out of the Army. The other C had me come into her room in Colombia, showed me pictures of her and her girlfriend, and said, "Um, I'm gay." And these are some of my favorite people in the Army. My usual response? "Oh, okay."
Maybe they just know I'll be okay with it and find it helpful to spill the beans to someone. It cannot be easy, gay in the Army, in this culture where I feel mildly persecuted as a Democrat.
Insects, arachnids, arthropods
Someone in Iraq sent me a photo of some soldiers dangling two appallingly large and fierce-looking spiders. One appears to gnaw on a chunklet of the other's ass, latched on securely enough that he's just dangling from him. They look to be Bad. Mamma. Jammas. The debate now intensifies among everyone I forwarded it to, are they truth or fiction, is the photo doctored or not?
We hear all kinds of urban myths about the camel spider from our buddies as they redeploy...I know better than to believe they can run 25 MPH, jump six feet high, suck the blood from an animal four times its size...but you know what? If there's a 10% truth there, that is all I need, jack. We joked about them in the office, about the absurdity of some of the myths. One could chase your Humvee and flip it over with the characteristics assigned to them by the locals in Iraq.
In Korea, I always gauged my reaction to all the enlarged and threatening insects and arthropods by the way the Koreans reacted to them. Once during PT, someone picked up a rock and a H U G E red centipede/millipede I don't care which came boiling out from under it. One basic law of nature--if something that crawls on the ground is bright red, steer clear. It doesn't need to camoflage itself, friends and neighbors, and has survived as a species for these many milennia. And probably not due to its winning personality and sunny disposition. And besides, the Koreans solemnly scattered, directly. I'm sure among Koreans and some of the joes returning from Korea, those centi/millipedes run 40MPH, leap 7 feet into the air and onto your neck, and each little leg contains a poisonous syringe.
Again, a 10% truth is all I need. If it's bigger than my hand in any direction, I want no part of it.
We hear all kinds of urban myths about the camel spider from our buddies as they redeploy...I know better than to believe they can run 25 MPH, jump six feet high, suck the blood from an animal four times its size...but you know what? If there's a 10% truth there, that is all I need, jack. We joked about them in the office, about the absurdity of some of the myths. One could chase your Humvee and flip it over with the characteristics assigned to them by the locals in Iraq.
In Korea, I always gauged my reaction to all the enlarged and threatening insects and arthropods by the way the Koreans reacted to them. Once during PT, someone picked up a rock and a H U G E red centipede/millipede I don't care which came boiling out from under it. One basic law of nature--if something that crawls on the ground is bright red, steer clear. It doesn't need to camoflage itself, friends and neighbors, and has survived as a species for these many milennia. And probably not due to its winning personality and sunny disposition. And besides, the Koreans solemnly scattered, directly. I'm sure among Koreans and some of the joes returning from Korea, those centi/millipedes run 40MPH, leap 7 feet into the air and onto your neck, and each little leg contains a poisonous syringe.
Again, a 10% truth is all I need. If it's bigger than my hand in any direction, I want no part of it.
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
Bugout
This morning, six staff officers (myself included) stretched and chatted prior to our run. I mentioned I was having a bugout party next Saturday, with beer and pizza as the incentive for folks helping me move.
"Yeah," Stan said, "The seventeen-year cicada comes out this year. They said it'd be really bad in some places, cicadas everywhere. Cool idea to have a party."
Silence. What the hell's he talking about?? Reference earlier post from Afghanistan, my conversation with him about the Scooby Doo Mystery Van and Bigfoot up on the Hindu Kush slopes and were rugs invented or discovered? That's Stan. You gotta love 'im.
"Are you thinking of the 17-year locust?" I asked, thinking we'd somehow changed the subject away from my party and would now discuss large, musical insects.
"Same thing, really." Stan changed legs on the thigh stretch, wiped his nose on his sleeve. Suddenly, I got it.
"BUGOUT PARTY...NO, silly! Bugout as in bugging out of my apartment!" I kept recalling this conversation as we ran, giggled all morning.
"Yeah," Stan said, "The seventeen-year cicada comes out this year. They said it'd be really bad in some places, cicadas everywhere. Cool idea to have a party."
Silence. What the hell's he talking about?? Reference earlier post from Afghanistan, my conversation with him about the Scooby Doo Mystery Van and Bigfoot up on the Hindu Kush slopes and were rugs invented or discovered? That's Stan. You gotta love 'im.
"Are you thinking of the 17-year locust?" I asked, thinking we'd somehow changed the subject away from my party and would now discuss large, musical insects.
"Same thing, really." Stan changed legs on the thigh stretch, wiped his nose on his sleeve. Suddenly, I got it.
"BUGOUT PARTY...NO, silly! Bugout as in bugging out of my apartment!" I kept recalling this conversation as we ran, giggled all morning.
Friday, April 09, 2004
Everything Must Go
Last Wednesday, the officers in the Battalion ran the Black River Trail...5 miles, and I love it. For one thing, it's too narrow to run all together, so it's at your own pace. Secondly, Josee joined us this time, and she's about where I am with running--in need of some work. We struggled to finish in about :50, when I was able to run it in :45 before deploying to the sand box. And thirdly, it's gorgeous, paralleling the river the full length.
Drove to the office and noticed there was a message on my cell phone...these days, any time I see a 662 area code pop up, my first thought is that Dad's done something again. I wasn't mistaken.
He was released from the inpatient psychiatric care necessary after his commando low crawl episode, directly got into his car, went downtown, got drunk, then subsequently picked up for DUI. The same day. Word on the street is that it took over four miles of being tailed by the squad car in full lights and siren to pull him over. There is speculation that it was intentional, that he wanted to go back to the hospital rather than home alone.
Initially, I was furious. I went to my supervisor to ask if I could take some more leave and get down there, and to my horror, started crying in his office. I am NOT one of those ladies who uses tears as leverage. In my business, bearing is everything and there is nothing worse than losing control. He was, of course, understanding (not to mention uncomfortable), and once I'd showered and ranted to Josee for about twenty minutes, I was fine. I'd even laughed while we were running earlier that I'd do damn near anything to get out of the battalion run on Friday...and I got my wish. I know, not funny, but it made me feel better to laugh about it.
So I loaded up the truck and drove south. It snowed all the way through Pennsylvania and most of Ohio. Then suddenly I rousted out of that autopilot distance-driving trance and noticed that somewhere in Kentucky, I'd crossed the seasonal line into full-blown spring. Wisteria, crepe myrtle, dogwoods, azaleas, all fully decked out. There were even leaves on the trees, even if they were that pale chartreuse of new growth, not the deeper green of full-sized, fleshed-out foliage. I shed my jacket somewhere in central Tennessee.
I also understand that my latent Southern accent reappears with a fierceness when I'm talking to other Southerners, especially if I need them on my side. The nurses at Dad's hospital, the guys who fixed my flat tire (for free, mind you!), old friends...it amused me to hear it from myself. If I'd brought someone I know up here with me, they would've thought I got hit with the Bubba stick at the Mason-Dixon line.
At some point in my late adolescence, I mistakenly judged the Southern accent sounded ignorant, and worked--successfully--at eliminating my own. How stupid. The only people to whom a well-spoken Southerner sounds ignorant, are themselves ignorant and snobbish, and fuck 'em anyway.
Dad is much changed. His speech is slurred, his hair uncombed, and he hadn't shaved...and he has always been a sharp dresser, even around the house. He asked me if I'd made Sergeant yet. "Yes," I told him. "Four years ago." Just the facts, ma'am, I didn't get pissed or sound surprised. We told him we were selling the house, it was his suggestion to sell the car, and we're working a spot for him at the Veteran's Home in Oxford. He was an Active Duty Marine for only eight months...long enough to qualify, evidently.
I visited the Veteran's Home and got the tour from the warm and professional staff nurse. It's a nice enough place, but the vast proponderance of (the first word that came to mind was "inmates") of the patients there were completely incoherent, drooling, babbling...I left the facility in a first-class funk. I kept thinking Dad doesn't belong there, but in reality, he does. The Easter decorations and crafts classroom only made me feel worse, as if I were sentencing him to relive his grade-school years. I don't see where there is another option.
He seemed relieved about the whole thing, as if he'd been overwhelmed by coping alone in that house in the woods. His mail hadn't been opened in months, there were about twenty loads of laundry all over the floor, he hadn't been eating, his finances in a sorry state. The gorgeous antique dining room table and matching sideboard languished in the open carport, where they'd been since early fall, judging by the leaves piled up around the legs and the fine yellow pollen coating it all. The hours I spent in the house were filled with phone calls from sharply demanding creditors, each of whom asking for a copy of my Power of Attorney. Exactly WHO would benefit from my sending it to them? Not Dad, and not me. So go get stuffed, ya'll.
It was deeply depressing. It was worse than when I'd gone home for Mom's funeral. The finality of it all was not to be dismissed. It would've been much worse if not for the good fortune of it all happening in Oxford, Mississippi. The thing about small towns is, when the shit hits the fan, everyone galvanizes, there is help everywhere you turn--from the guys who fixed my tire for free, to the honorable lawyer who's been handling all the mess, to the family who took the little dog and has tirelessly handled the daily details, to more old friends I ran into who scooped me up in great, sincere bear hugs. One old friend wants to buy the house. Another has vowed to drive the dilapidated old van up to New York with the rest of the stuff I can't bear to sell--in exchange, he'll get to keep the old van. I don't expect to ever again see the house where my parents lived for twenty years. Or if I do see it, Amos and his wife will be very happy there.
I rented a trailer, gathered up the dining room suite and a few things that had been on top of the mass of junk piled everywhere, loaded it up, and drove it home. I'm back in New York, and my accent's gone again. I miss it a little. And it's winter here, no dogwoods, no azaleas, and I don't think wisteria even survives here. And I can't be angry with him--in a sense, he did bring it on himself by drinking himself damn near to death--the diagnosis is alcohol-induced dementia, which is essentially brain damage, irreversable, and is enough like Alzheimer's that they are more or less interchangable.
But how could I hold onto anger when he is losing everything and will be locked away until he dies? My brother might be able to hold a grudge against even all this, but I can't. And I'm glad I can't.
Drove to the office and noticed there was a message on my cell phone...these days, any time I see a 662 area code pop up, my first thought is that Dad's done something again. I wasn't mistaken.
He was released from the inpatient psychiatric care necessary after his commando low crawl episode, directly got into his car, went downtown, got drunk, then subsequently picked up for DUI. The same day. Word on the street is that it took over four miles of being tailed by the squad car in full lights and siren to pull him over. There is speculation that it was intentional, that he wanted to go back to the hospital rather than home alone.
Initially, I was furious. I went to my supervisor to ask if I could take some more leave and get down there, and to my horror, started crying in his office. I am NOT one of those ladies who uses tears as leverage. In my business, bearing is everything and there is nothing worse than losing control. He was, of course, understanding (not to mention uncomfortable), and once I'd showered and ranted to Josee for about twenty minutes, I was fine. I'd even laughed while we were running earlier that I'd do damn near anything to get out of the battalion run on Friday...and I got my wish. I know, not funny, but it made me feel better to laugh about it.
So I loaded up the truck and drove south. It snowed all the way through Pennsylvania and most of Ohio. Then suddenly I rousted out of that autopilot distance-driving trance and noticed that somewhere in Kentucky, I'd crossed the seasonal line into full-blown spring. Wisteria, crepe myrtle, dogwoods, azaleas, all fully decked out. There were even leaves on the trees, even if they were that pale chartreuse of new growth, not the deeper green of full-sized, fleshed-out foliage. I shed my jacket somewhere in central Tennessee.
I also understand that my latent Southern accent reappears with a fierceness when I'm talking to other Southerners, especially if I need them on my side. The nurses at Dad's hospital, the guys who fixed my flat tire (for free, mind you!), old friends...it amused me to hear it from myself. If I'd brought someone I know up here with me, they would've thought I got hit with the Bubba stick at the Mason-Dixon line.
At some point in my late adolescence, I mistakenly judged the Southern accent sounded ignorant, and worked--successfully--at eliminating my own. How stupid. The only people to whom a well-spoken Southerner sounds ignorant, are themselves ignorant and snobbish, and fuck 'em anyway.
Dad is much changed. His speech is slurred, his hair uncombed, and he hadn't shaved...and he has always been a sharp dresser, even around the house. He asked me if I'd made Sergeant yet. "Yes," I told him. "Four years ago." Just the facts, ma'am, I didn't get pissed or sound surprised. We told him we were selling the house, it was his suggestion to sell the car, and we're working a spot for him at the Veteran's Home in Oxford. He was an Active Duty Marine for only eight months...long enough to qualify, evidently.
I visited the Veteran's Home and got the tour from the warm and professional staff nurse. It's a nice enough place, but the vast proponderance of (the first word that came to mind was "inmates") of the patients there were completely incoherent, drooling, babbling...I left the facility in a first-class funk. I kept thinking Dad doesn't belong there, but in reality, he does. The Easter decorations and crafts classroom only made me feel worse, as if I were sentencing him to relive his grade-school years. I don't see where there is another option.
He seemed relieved about the whole thing, as if he'd been overwhelmed by coping alone in that house in the woods. His mail hadn't been opened in months, there were about twenty loads of laundry all over the floor, he hadn't been eating, his finances in a sorry state. The gorgeous antique dining room table and matching sideboard languished in the open carport, where they'd been since early fall, judging by the leaves piled up around the legs and the fine yellow pollen coating it all. The hours I spent in the house were filled with phone calls from sharply demanding creditors, each of whom asking for a copy of my Power of Attorney. Exactly WHO would benefit from my sending it to them? Not Dad, and not me. So go get stuffed, ya'll.
It was deeply depressing. It was worse than when I'd gone home for Mom's funeral. The finality of it all was not to be dismissed. It would've been much worse if not for the good fortune of it all happening in Oxford, Mississippi. The thing about small towns is, when the shit hits the fan, everyone galvanizes, there is help everywhere you turn--from the guys who fixed my tire for free, to the honorable lawyer who's been handling all the mess, to the family who took the little dog and has tirelessly handled the daily details, to more old friends I ran into who scooped me up in great, sincere bear hugs. One old friend wants to buy the house. Another has vowed to drive the dilapidated old van up to New York with the rest of the stuff I can't bear to sell--in exchange, he'll get to keep the old van. I don't expect to ever again see the house where my parents lived for twenty years. Or if I do see it, Amos and his wife will be very happy there.
I rented a trailer, gathered up the dining room suite and a few things that had been on top of the mass of junk piled everywhere, loaded it up, and drove it home. I'm back in New York, and my accent's gone again. I miss it a little. And it's winter here, no dogwoods, no azaleas, and I don't think wisteria even survives here. And I can't be angry with him--in a sense, he did bring it on himself by drinking himself damn near to death--the diagnosis is alcohol-induced dementia, which is essentially brain damage, irreversable, and is enough like Alzheimer's that they are more or less interchangable.
But how could I hold onto anger when he is losing everything and will be locked away until he dies? My brother might be able to hold a grudge against even all this, but I can't. And I'm glad I can't.
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
She's Taking Over!
There is a brand-new lieutenant taking over my current position in about a month...and given the decidedly unfruitful housing market in the area right now, she's also taking my apartment as I move into the House I Own. She hasn't even seen the apartment yet...but I can absolutely understand where she's coming from. She's seen only crappy apartments, just like I saw during my househunt. Folks in this area just aren't very aesthetically oriented. They're beauty-challenged. Not the locals as people, cosmetically (although no one in the Army looks to the locals for lovin', it's decidedly slim pickins)...the homes. The apartments. They're just awful. There's still a great deal of panelling and dark carpet out there.
Except mine. I'll actually miss it, my pretty little apartment in my pretty little harbor town. I'm sure the joys of ripping up nasty carpet and painting over pink grossness will get me past missing the old place in short order.
I submitted an initial application to the FBI. I want to see that it's a solid possibility before I go submitting any paperwork to separate from the Army. I don't think I'll make the move unless it's for the FBI--the last thing I want is to find myself out on the civilian job market, even with my skills and marketability. Uncertainty, I don't need, AT ALL...been there, done that, never going back.
We have an NBC range today...entailing the following: ride out to a sealed building, spend about three hours putting on a chemical mask over and over again, then go inside the building, breathe in some riot gas until you're covered in snot and drool and vomiting all over the floor, put the mask back on, exit. Sound like a monstrous pain in the ass? It is. Then tomorrow we have a grenade range...get a bunch of fake grenades, sprint around on a course throwing them into bunkers and over little walls while someone shouts at you to get the lead out, repeat four or five times until any motivation you might have had is long gone and you're exhausted beyond redemption. And in my case, so sore the next day that Physical Training is excruciating.
At least for now I'm spared the ultimate in pointless, painful training, the Bayonet Range. I've never even heard of anyone affixing a bayonet to their rifle in modern times. We prefer to SHOOT the rifles, not use them as great big knives. The unit went through a Bayonet Range last year, and the entire time I tried to appear like a motivated leader while thinking, Jesus, this is the stupidest shit I've ever seen. And true to the Army doctrine I like to call Make Everything as Miserable as Possible, you're forced to lowcrawl through a pit of slushy, slimy bilge that smells like dead fish, bayonet/rifle in hand. And you're supposed to holler, "Kill Kill Kill What makes the grass grow green...GUTS GUTS GUTS." I'm not kidding. And at the end of it all, you've ruined a uniform and will spend the next two weeks scrubbing your kevlar helmet and flak jacket of the filth you've ground into it with your full body weight.
I think I've just grown irrevocably uninterested in all this crap. I'm sure machine guns and grenades are exciting for a 20-year-old guy, but I only participate because I have to. The fact is, I hate this shit, the "soldier skills." I haven't touched a grenade since basic training and have a very difficult time imagining a scenario in which I would deploy one...if your intelligence officer is throwing grenades, you have lost the fort and you're all gonna die. I know, I know, we're all soldiers first and individually skilled in our jobs second...but I can't help having completely lost interest.
I am, however, still very interested in the intelligence work. Which contributes to my gut feeling that it's time to think about leaving the Army in search of greener pastures. The direction the Army's moving is toward more and more of the kind of training I so detest.
Except mine. I'll actually miss it, my pretty little apartment in my pretty little harbor town. I'm sure the joys of ripping up nasty carpet and painting over pink grossness will get me past missing the old place in short order.
I submitted an initial application to the FBI. I want to see that it's a solid possibility before I go submitting any paperwork to separate from the Army. I don't think I'll make the move unless it's for the FBI--the last thing I want is to find myself out on the civilian job market, even with my skills and marketability. Uncertainty, I don't need, AT ALL...been there, done that, never going back.
We have an NBC range today...entailing the following: ride out to a sealed building, spend about three hours putting on a chemical mask over and over again, then go inside the building, breathe in some riot gas until you're covered in snot and drool and vomiting all over the floor, put the mask back on, exit. Sound like a monstrous pain in the ass? It is. Then tomorrow we have a grenade range...get a bunch of fake grenades, sprint around on a course throwing them into bunkers and over little walls while someone shouts at you to get the lead out, repeat four or five times until any motivation you might have had is long gone and you're exhausted beyond redemption. And in my case, so sore the next day that Physical Training is excruciating.
At least for now I'm spared the ultimate in pointless, painful training, the Bayonet Range. I've never even heard of anyone affixing a bayonet to their rifle in modern times. We prefer to SHOOT the rifles, not use them as great big knives. The unit went through a Bayonet Range last year, and the entire time I tried to appear like a motivated leader while thinking, Jesus, this is the stupidest shit I've ever seen. And true to the Army doctrine I like to call Make Everything as Miserable as Possible, you're forced to lowcrawl through a pit of slushy, slimy bilge that smells like dead fish, bayonet/rifle in hand. And you're supposed to holler, "Kill Kill Kill What makes the grass grow green...GUTS GUTS GUTS." I'm not kidding. And at the end of it all, you've ruined a uniform and will spend the next two weeks scrubbing your kevlar helmet and flak jacket of the filth you've ground into it with your full body weight.
I think I've just grown irrevocably uninterested in all this crap. I'm sure machine guns and grenades are exciting for a 20-year-old guy, but I only participate because I have to. The fact is, I hate this shit, the "soldier skills." I haven't touched a grenade since basic training and have a very difficult time imagining a scenario in which I would deploy one...if your intelligence officer is throwing grenades, you have lost the fort and you're all gonna die. I know, I know, we're all soldiers first and individually skilled in our jobs second...but I can't help having completely lost interest.
I am, however, still very interested in the intelligence work. Which contributes to my gut feeling that it's time to think about leaving the Army in search of greener pastures. The direction the Army's moving is toward more and more of the kind of training I so detest.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Pushy Bitch in Public
Okay, I'm having to resubmit this entry--had to delete it entirely after it published twice. So now it's a bit out of sequence, but here goes...
I walked into Sears last night after work because the tires I'd just had put on seemed to wobble. The effect was strong enough I could hear loose change rattling in the cupholder. There was no one behind the counter, so I stepped five feet to the right in order to check out a nice barbecue grill (which I bought), over a hundred bucks off on sale. I chatted with the salesman and noticed an older woman come in and stand at the counter. The salesman noticed, too. He got on the store phone to the mechanics.
"Flora, there's a lady out here in military uniform, she was actually here first."
But that lady who walked in behind me, she was not having it. She proceeded to assault the poor counter person with her conviction that her new tire had a broken belt. Another mechanic had told her so. The counterlady took her keys and left us all standing there...another man had come in behind her. He had a kind look to him. Pushy Woman looked at the American flag on my uniform, sewn (with much trouble on my part--I had to keep ripping it off and recentering it) just underneath my combat patch.
"Why is your flag backwards?" It is backwards, the stars and stripes live on the right side as you're looking at it. But the way she asked it, she clearly thought I'd just sewn it on wrong. When did I tatoo the red letters spelling IDIOT on my forehead?
Me: "You know, I don't know, but I'm sure there's a reason."
She rolled her eyes, "After 23 years in the Air Force, I can tell you there's not always a reason. It's probably a mistake." !!! Here's where I stopped trying to be polite.
"I can tell you that IN THE ARMY, when it comes to uniforms or customs and courtesies or The Flag, there is ALWAYS a reason. WE actually have three hundred years of history that come through in various ways." My tone was downright nasty. Meanwhile, an Infantry Captain walked in.
She sniffed. "They're probably made in China and once they ordered them, they couldn't make it right."
Me: "Do you really think the Army is that STUPID?" I looked to the others for support. The Captain raised his eyebrows as if to ask what the trouble was. I gestured toward her. "This lady thinks we all put the flags on backwards BY MISTAKE. As if 300,000 soldiers are all complete imbeciles."
Infantry Captain: "Actually, it's 'backwards' because as you're charging forward into battle, that's how it would look on the flagpole. The stripes are always forward...you'll never see it from behind, because we never retreat. It's NOT an accident."
Me: "Thank you! I just hadn't heard the reason yet. But I knew there was one."
Pushy Bitch: "Well, in the Air Force, they just put things on the uniform without much reason."
Me: "Well, the Air Force doesn't have three hundred years of tradition dictating these things."
The counterlady came back and we all stood there in line rolling our eyes at each other as she spent the next ten minutes arguing about the broken belt--the Sears folks advocated it was some other defect, not a broken belt. This was after they had already agreed to replace the tire, so the whole conversation was completely pointless and I couldn't help but think she was stalling to make us suffer after she'd already been proved wrong once that day. She was unbearably pushy and the poor lady behind the counter was as patient as she could be. The store manager finally had to be called. He asked what the problem was, heard the bitch's argument, and asked again what the problem was, since they'd already agreed to replace the tire.
She finally left the store and I noted the time they'd told her to come back and get the vehicle, made a mental note not to be around at that time. I shook my head as I got to the counter.
"And you were actually here first," the counterlady said.
Me: "What a bitch!" Everyone laughed.
I walked into Sears last night after work because the tires I'd just had put on seemed to wobble. The effect was strong enough I could hear loose change rattling in the cupholder. There was no one behind the counter, so I stepped five feet to the right in order to check out a nice barbecue grill (which I bought), over a hundred bucks off on sale. I chatted with the salesman and noticed an older woman come in and stand at the counter. The salesman noticed, too. He got on the store phone to the mechanics.
"Flora, there's a lady out here in military uniform, she was actually here first."
But that lady who walked in behind me, she was not having it. She proceeded to assault the poor counter person with her conviction that her new tire had a broken belt. Another mechanic had told her so. The counterlady took her keys and left us all standing there...another man had come in behind her. He had a kind look to him. Pushy Woman looked at the American flag on my uniform, sewn (with much trouble on my part--I had to keep ripping it off and recentering it) just underneath my combat patch.
"Why is your flag backwards?" It is backwards, the stars and stripes live on the right side as you're looking at it. But the way she asked it, she clearly thought I'd just sewn it on wrong. When did I tatoo the red letters spelling IDIOT on my forehead?
Me: "You know, I don't know, but I'm sure there's a reason."
She rolled her eyes, "After 23 years in the Air Force, I can tell you there's not always a reason. It's probably a mistake." !!! Here's where I stopped trying to be polite.
"I can tell you that IN THE ARMY, when it comes to uniforms or customs and courtesies or The Flag, there is ALWAYS a reason. WE actually have three hundred years of history that come through in various ways." My tone was downright nasty. Meanwhile, an Infantry Captain walked in.
She sniffed. "They're probably made in China and once they ordered them, they couldn't make it right."
Me: "Do you really think the Army is that STUPID?" I looked to the others for support. The Captain raised his eyebrows as if to ask what the trouble was. I gestured toward her. "This lady thinks we all put the flags on backwards BY MISTAKE. As if 300,000 soldiers are all complete imbeciles."
Infantry Captain: "Actually, it's 'backwards' because as you're charging forward into battle, that's how it would look on the flagpole. The stripes are always forward...you'll never see it from behind, because we never retreat. It's NOT an accident."
Me: "Thank you! I just hadn't heard the reason yet. But I knew there was one."
Pushy Bitch: "Well, in the Air Force, they just put things on the uniform without much reason."
Me: "Well, the Air Force doesn't have three hundred years of tradition dictating these things."
The counterlady came back and we all stood there in line rolling our eyes at each other as she spent the next ten minutes arguing about the broken belt--the Sears folks advocated it was some other defect, not a broken belt. This was after they had already agreed to replace the tire, so the whole conversation was completely pointless and I couldn't help but think she was stalling to make us suffer after she'd already been proved wrong once that day. She was unbearably pushy and the poor lady behind the counter was as patient as she could be. The store manager finally had to be called. He asked what the problem was, heard the bitch's argument, and asked again what the problem was, since they'd already agreed to replace the tire.
She finally left the store and I noted the time they'd told her to come back and get the vehicle, made a mental note not to be around at that time. I shook my head as I got to the counter.
"And you were actually here first," the counterlady said.
Me: "What a bitch!" Everyone laughed.
Bad Army Day
I have tried everything to get blogger to delete that double post...I even deleted the whole thing, both entries. It still shows up. Maybe it's time I figured out the Dreamweaver html program I have, suck it up, and create my own website. That way I could post photos as well.
I keep dreaming about the new house, about opening a door and finding a whole new room or set of rooms. Last night it was a big, gorgeous bedroom with many windows and a walk-in closet so large someone had pulled a desk in there. The real bedrooms in my real house are rather small, like the kitchen...but I'd rather have small rooms I can paint and floor and, well, own, than big rooms I've rented. There will be time later on to have a bigger house. And I am only one person and a couple of rowdy cats, this house is more space than I've ever had.
It was a busy week and I'm so sore from physical training, I feel like I aged fifty years in two days. We played basketball (which I don't enjoy, by the way, I'm just not an agile person), but had to play as vigorously as possible so as not to let down the other two members of my team. And yesterday we had a company formation run that was pure torture. And I suppose there's a first time for everything--I couldn't keep up. However, the company commander (a guy I'm not wild about) took off at the beginning. The first mile was in less than seven minutes. The standard is to be able to run four miles at a nine-minute-mile pace, or four miles in :36. My fastest two-mile time for the Army Physical Fitness Test is right at fifteen minutes, or two 7:30 miles. I cannot maintain a seven-minute-mile pace even for one mile. AND I still finished the four miles in under 36 minutes.
It pissed me off. I guess this guy thinks he has something to prove, that a company formation run is an opportunity for him to stroke his ego. I've never fallen out of a formation run in my life. And you know, later in the day I spoke at length with a woman I met who is an FBI agent in Kentucky...this Army ego bullshit will only get worse for me as I get older and my run times start to decline. It's not that I cannot meet the standard--I score the maximum on my PT test every time I take it--but it ruins my whole day to fall out of a run, even though logic tells me there is nothing I can do when someone takes off at that pace.
The FBI has roughly the same physical standards the Army has--you must be under a certain body fat percentage and pass a physical fitness test every six months. The big difference (and it is BIG) is that in the FBI, you are expected to maintain your fitness on your own, there isn't this group training. They even allow you time during the work week to work out. In other words, they treat you like an adult by trusting you to take care of your own business. That aspect alone could sell me on switching over.
The very idea of waking up in the morning, getting out of bed, and running from my home, showering there, and getting to work--it's VERY appealing. And military veterans get all kinds of perks and preferences--higher pay, more vacation time, more autonomy in choosing assignments, etc. I've been tossing this idea around for a couple of years now--I have 18 months left on my obligation. I have to drop the paperwork one year out, and it puts a cloud over one's head to do so. Supervisors don't treat you as well, everyone regards you with a certain degree of condescension, they treat you like a bit of a traitor. But you know, I'd emerge from that year even more convinced that I'm doing the right thing.
I keep dreaming about the new house, about opening a door and finding a whole new room or set of rooms. Last night it was a big, gorgeous bedroom with many windows and a walk-in closet so large someone had pulled a desk in there. The real bedrooms in my real house are rather small, like the kitchen...but I'd rather have small rooms I can paint and floor and, well, own, than big rooms I've rented. There will be time later on to have a bigger house. And I am only one person and a couple of rowdy cats, this house is more space than I've ever had.
It was a busy week and I'm so sore from physical training, I feel like I aged fifty years in two days. We played basketball (which I don't enjoy, by the way, I'm just not an agile person), but had to play as vigorously as possible so as not to let down the other two members of my team. And yesterday we had a company formation run that was pure torture. And I suppose there's a first time for everything--I couldn't keep up. However, the company commander (a guy I'm not wild about) took off at the beginning. The first mile was in less than seven minutes. The standard is to be able to run four miles at a nine-minute-mile pace, or four miles in :36. My fastest two-mile time for the Army Physical Fitness Test is right at fifteen minutes, or two 7:30 miles. I cannot maintain a seven-minute-mile pace even for one mile. AND I still finished the four miles in under 36 minutes.
It pissed me off. I guess this guy thinks he has something to prove, that a company formation run is an opportunity for him to stroke his ego. I've never fallen out of a formation run in my life. And you know, later in the day I spoke at length with a woman I met who is an FBI agent in Kentucky...this Army ego bullshit will only get worse for me as I get older and my run times start to decline. It's not that I cannot meet the standard--I score the maximum on my PT test every time I take it--but it ruins my whole day to fall out of a run, even though logic tells me there is nothing I can do when someone takes off at that pace.
The FBI has roughly the same physical standards the Army has--you must be under a certain body fat percentage and pass a physical fitness test every six months. The big difference (and it is BIG) is that in the FBI, you are expected to maintain your fitness on your own, there isn't this group training. They even allow you time during the work week to work out. In other words, they treat you like an adult by trusting you to take care of your own business. That aspect alone could sell me on switching over.
The very idea of waking up in the morning, getting out of bed, and running from my home, showering there, and getting to work--it's VERY appealing. And military veterans get all kinds of perks and preferences--higher pay, more vacation time, more autonomy in choosing assignments, etc. I've been tossing this idea around for a couple of years now--I have 18 months left on my obligation. I have to drop the paperwork one year out, and it puts a cloud over one's head to do so. Supervisors don't treat you as well, everyone regards you with a certain degree of condescension, they treat you like a bit of a traitor. But you know, I'd emerge from that year even more convinced that I'm doing the right thing.
Friday, March 19, 2004
Stoplight Races
There's a stoplight just past Wal-Mart on the way to Sackets Harbor on Route 3 where the four-lane becomes a two-lane about two hundred meters past. It's also just after the left everyone makes to Lowe's. I usually stick to the right-hand lane, the one that ends, because there's usually one in every crowd wanting to make the Lowe's left, and if you get stuck behind them, forget about the next light or two, you're Stuck like Chuck.
Today I spent over $200 at Victoria's Secret (sounds excessive, but they make The Only bra I can wear, period) and on the way back, got caught in the right hand lane at the light. I'd have to merge over. The car to my left was a little Neon, or the Dixie Cup of automobiles. They drive like a sewing machine, I rented one once. Behind the wheel a typical North Country character hunched--morbidly obese, long stringy hair, general look of disgruntlement on her face.
Mind you, I'm not usually one of those jerks who floors it on the green light. I drive a four-door pickup truck, a far cry from a Camaro or some other hey-look-at-me sports car. I'm perfectly content to merge in behind someone else at that light. Today, however, was different.
At the exact nanosecond the light changed, Miss Neon stomped the gas. Her tires squealed a bit. Oh, hell no, I thought, and gunned my big V6. I glanced across at her--she actually leaned forward over the steering wheel, as if this would be a photofinish, and perhaps her glasses would get her across the wire first.
Fortunately, my big bertha has a fierce third gear, got me safely into the left lane, ahead of Miss Neon...who then slowed to about twenty in a forty-five and made a left into a driveway about three minutes later. ??? I don't get it.
Anthropologists have their work cut out for them. Once, at that same light, some jerk cut me off so sharply I had to hit the brakes HARD. He then slowed to about fifteen where there was no way to pass him, blowing his horn and flipping me off all the while. And I wasn't even the one merging, the light was green, I was just driving along, minding my own business. He had those absurd silver silhouettes of naked, seated women with big hair and bigger boobs affixed to each mudflap, you know the ones. He was one of those. I didn't tailgate him, I know for a fact that those stupid Playboy girls go hand-in-hand with a large-caliber rifle in the backseat. Or a readily-brandished lug wrench.
I've learned that in most situations behind the wheel, if you just RELAX, quit viewing every driving transgression against you as a personal snub, be courteous enough to let people get in front of you, etc--you get there in the same amount of time and in a much better mood than if you'd tailgated, swore, showed people your middle finger, and cut them off.
But I still couldn't resist once I saw that lady hunched over the wheel. She had to get left behind, and that's all I've got to say about that.
Today I spent over $200 at Victoria's Secret (sounds excessive, but they make The Only bra I can wear, period) and on the way back, got caught in the right hand lane at the light. I'd have to merge over. The car to my left was a little Neon, or the Dixie Cup of automobiles. They drive like a sewing machine, I rented one once. Behind the wheel a typical North Country character hunched--morbidly obese, long stringy hair, general look of disgruntlement on her face.
Mind you, I'm not usually one of those jerks who floors it on the green light. I drive a four-door pickup truck, a far cry from a Camaro or some other hey-look-at-me sports car. I'm perfectly content to merge in behind someone else at that light. Today, however, was different.
At the exact nanosecond the light changed, Miss Neon stomped the gas. Her tires squealed a bit. Oh, hell no, I thought, and gunned my big V6. I glanced across at her--she actually leaned forward over the steering wheel, as if this would be a photofinish, and perhaps her glasses would get her across the wire first.
Fortunately, my big bertha has a fierce third gear, got me safely into the left lane, ahead of Miss Neon...who then slowed to about twenty in a forty-five and made a left into a driveway about three minutes later. ??? I don't get it.
Anthropologists have their work cut out for them. Once, at that same light, some jerk cut me off so sharply I had to hit the brakes HARD. He then slowed to about fifteen where there was no way to pass him, blowing his horn and flipping me off all the while. And I wasn't even the one merging, the light was green, I was just driving along, minding my own business. He had those absurd silver silhouettes of naked, seated women with big hair and bigger boobs affixed to each mudflap, you know the ones. He was one of those. I didn't tailgate him, I know for a fact that those stupid Playboy girls go hand-in-hand with a large-caliber rifle in the backseat. Or a readily-brandished lug wrench.
I've learned that in most situations behind the wheel, if you just RELAX, quit viewing every driving transgression against you as a personal snub, be courteous enough to let people get in front of you, etc--you get there in the same amount of time and in a much better mood than if you'd tailgated, swore, showed people your middle finger, and cut them off.
But I still couldn't resist once I saw that lady hunched over the wheel. She had to get left behind, and that's all I've got to say about that.
Monday, March 15, 2004
Irene, You Shore Look GOOD In That Hot Pank Sweatsuit!
I waited until the mid-afternoon to venture to Wal-Mart. Big mistake. Always go at about 7 am, before the throngs of screaming, scampering toddlers and pushy, toothless women leading surly, scruffy little husbands descend upon the place like the American Army in a sandscaped country. I was a P.O.W. for over an hour.
Mind you, this dynamic, the general populace of the Watertown area missing teeth and looking for all intents and purposes like products of an all-too-shallow gene pool, explains the interiors of those houses I looked at last week. Why did it come as a surprise that bad taste translates rather seamlessly from oversized, hot pink sweatsuit (complete with holes in places that make one wonder exactly how they got there--delete! delete! Damn, I can't lose the image!!) at Wally World to brown and orange shag carpet in the home?
Lord, folks, I KNOW you're watching television--surely you noticed the absence of hot pink sweatsuits and brown shag carpet? What, are you watching The Brady Bunch by day and Flashdance all night?
And I have to make the point that I spend more money at the grocery store than I would if I ate out every single meal. Why do I spend over $100 a week on groceries? Because it costs more to eat healthy food. Fresh blueberries cost more than a supersized combo meal. I don't even want to TALK about how many packages of low-calorie raisin English muffins (LORD, they're yummy) I go through in a given week. Not to mention the luscious, 3-point Chocolate Chocolate Chip muffins I have to have you know, every day. Nuke it for thirty seconds, it tastes just like a freshly baked brownie. For about two bucks each.
Soft, gooey, fragrant chocolate cakey muffin for 3 little points--hell, I earned 5 points running this morning...again, in the snow, in a punishing wind. Only this time, when I got to my turnaround point out on the shore of Lake Ontario, I had it made--the wind that had made me feel like I was in that Talking Heads video, Road to Nowhere, suddenly felt like a helping hand, like it was all downhill without the knee-crushing impact.
It's okay that I spend a small fortune on foods like out-of-season fruit and things that taste amazing but won't make me fat. Again, commitment. And the alternative is a hot pink sweatsuit and brown shag carpet.
Mind you, this dynamic, the general populace of the Watertown area missing teeth and looking for all intents and purposes like products of an all-too-shallow gene pool, explains the interiors of those houses I looked at last week. Why did it come as a surprise that bad taste translates rather seamlessly from oversized, hot pink sweatsuit (complete with holes in places that make one wonder exactly how they got there--delete! delete! Damn, I can't lose the image!!) at Wally World to brown and orange shag carpet in the home?
Lord, folks, I KNOW you're watching television--surely you noticed the absence of hot pink sweatsuits and brown shag carpet? What, are you watching The Brady Bunch by day and Flashdance all night?
And I have to make the point that I spend more money at the grocery store than I would if I ate out every single meal. Why do I spend over $100 a week on groceries? Because it costs more to eat healthy food. Fresh blueberries cost more than a supersized combo meal. I don't even want to TALK about how many packages of low-calorie raisin English muffins (LORD, they're yummy) I go through in a given week. Not to mention the luscious, 3-point Chocolate Chocolate Chip muffins I have to have you know, every day. Nuke it for thirty seconds, it tastes just like a freshly baked brownie. For about two bucks each.
Soft, gooey, fragrant chocolate cakey muffin for 3 little points--hell, I earned 5 points running this morning...again, in the snow, in a punishing wind. Only this time, when I got to my turnaround point out on the shore of Lake Ontario, I had it made--the wind that had made me feel like I was in that Talking Heads video, Road to Nowhere, suddenly felt like a helping hand, like it was all downhill without the knee-crushing impact.
It's okay that I spend a small fortune on foods like out-of-season fruit and things that taste amazing but won't make me fat. Again, commitment. And the alternative is a hot pink sweatsuit and brown shag carpet.
Sunday, March 14, 2004
Update on my dad: he's been moved to a "Psychiatric Care Facility" in a nearby town where we also have family. He's still completely delusional, not to mention a little beaten up after his commando low crawl across the street. I'm told his house is an absolute disaster, the kind of place you walk into and know that there is something dreadfully wrong with the occupant. I worry about how all this will be paid for--I know I cannot contribute much if anything, and my brother is homeless. With any luck, though, Jon will come home to Oxford and move in with Dad, look after him. I hope that arrangement works out--he clearly can't live on his own, and since Jon's homeless and all...living with a raging lunatic beats sleeping in the car.
I just watched Breakfast at Tiffany's for the first time in years...20/20 hindsight, I was appalled at the Mickey Rooney character. So unapologetically racist! I know, the movie's a classic, it was a different time, and I understand...still, it was almost unbearably annoying. I'm not judging Blake Edwards or Audrey Hepburn or Mickey Rooney--I can be annoyed and sympathic at the same time.
Then I spent about an hour cleaning the house top to bottom, all except this office room, which is a disaster beyond help until I move out. I plan to go through all this crap this week, throw out masses of clothing, paper, etc. Even at my worst, this room is really NOT that bad. A little cluttered, but you can tell the clutter is recent clutter, not the buildup of one losing touch or the ability to care.
I just watched Breakfast at Tiffany's for the first time in years...20/20 hindsight, I was appalled at the Mickey Rooney character. So unapologetically racist! I know, the movie's a classic, it was a different time, and I understand...still, it was almost unbearably annoying. I'm not judging Blake Edwards or Audrey Hepburn or Mickey Rooney--I can be annoyed and sympathic at the same time.
Then I spent about an hour cleaning the house top to bottom, all except this office room, which is a disaster beyond help until I move out. I plan to go through all this crap this week, throw out masses of clothing, paper, etc. Even at my worst, this room is really NOT that bad. A little cluttered, but you can tell the clutter is recent clutter, not the buildup of one losing touch or the ability to care.
Saturday, March 13, 2004
5 Miles-O-Hell
Last week I read on the area running club's website that there was a 5 Mile Shamrock Run to take place this morning. It was mid-afternoon as I read about it, cozy warm in the home, and it all sounded like a fine idea. I have to get back into middle distance at some point, right?
So last night I went to the Brewpub only briefly, and sat there with my little glass of water, went to bed early. I accidentally awoke at 4:00 this morning (it happens from time to time), made coffee and oatmeal, then took a little nap prior to the 10 am start time. I saw that it was 6ยบ outside, but was not discouraged. I layered up, drove downtown, and followed the other runners to the starting line.
It was a pretty sparse crowd--given the increasing rate of snowfall and the bone-chilling wind, it wasn't surprising. I chatted with an old teammate of mine from the Fort Drum Army 10-Miler team. It's amazing to me now that I could run 10 miles only six months ago.
I knew the first mile would be a bit difficult, with the cold and wind and snow. But actually, the first mile passed fairly pleasantly--I hit the mile marker in 9:00, which is pedestrian for me when I'm in better shape, but the way I'm rolling right now, I have to be patient, take what I can get.
Then we took a hard left turn, into the blistering wind, and straight up a steep hill. It would be the first of many. Despite our location in the middle of the formidable Hindu Kush Mountains in Afghanistan, Bagram Air Field is flat as a pancake. Nary a hill to be found.
I comforted myself by thinking that the return trip of the out-and-back course would be all downhill. And the wind would be at our backs. I even felt a burst of energy and motivation just before the turn-around point, surged ahead, and passed one runner after another...I'd set my sights on the next struggling figure, and accelerate until I'd reeled them in. I felt great. For about a half-mile.
Then came the turn-around point, when you get to see just how far back in the pack you are as you face everyone behind you. At first I saw literally no one outside the few I'd passed in my moment of strength. There was a car behind one lady...the trail vehicle? I wondered. A deflating thought, that I was this close to the trail vehicle, otherwise known as the vulture, the buzzard, waiting to pick off those of us who succumbed to the strong temptation to lie down on the pavement.
Someone hit the toggle switch, on both the wind and hills. So much for a downhill, backwinded cruise home. That stretch where I'd felt strong enough to surge ahead? It was downhill, now a fat uphill that snaked as far as the eye could see. The urge to lie down on the pavement became a compulsion. I began to wonder what the hell I'd been thinking to leave my warm bed--I could be at the Tin Pan eating pancakes with my buddy right then, rather than chugging up a long hill. In the snow. In the wind. What was I thinking?
I passed the ambulance coming the opposite way, the real trail vehicle. Just in front of it loped an old man, all decked out in ski goggles and bright red tights, just grinning away, happy to be there, even if it was just in front of the vulture. I remembered the half-marathon I ran in Korea, when I was the one just in front of the ambulance--I could hear it patiently breathing behind me, wondered what the guys inside were saying (probably pointing out my big ass, I figured). And right now it was all I could do not to lie down in front of the ambulance, take me! But that old guy, he shouted good morning at me as he waddled past.
Then reason kicked in...I know what I was thinking, why I do this shit to myself--I've made a commitment to fitness, one I hedged on while in Afghanistan by not working out as hard or as often as I knew I should. At least I'm out here gutting it out, I thought, at least I've still got the drive to do this. At least I'm not walking.
And there were plenty of people behind me--younger, thinner, many of them male. Behind me. I finished in an unimpressive :47 and some change. My lungs feel as though I spent the morning in the gas chamber. My right knee, recently diagnosed with osteoarthritis, crunches and creaks and causes great pain going down the stairs. I'll be sore tomorrow--I haven't run that far since early January. But I'm glad as hell I ran that race instead of stuffing my face with pancakes this morning!
Besides, pancakes don't fit well into the Weight Watchers program, another commitment I've made. Too expensive, points-wise. As The Penguin (John Bingham, another back-of-the-packer who writes for Runner's World) points out: The miracle is not that I finished, it's that I had the courage to start.
Waddle on, friends.
So last night I went to the Brewpub only briefly, and sat there with my little glass of water, went to bed early. I accidentally awoke at 4:00 this morning (it happens from time to time), made coffee and oatmeal, then took a little nap prior to the 10 am start time. I saw that it was 6ยบ outside, but was not discouraged. I layered up, drove downtown, and followed the other runners to the starting line.
It was a pretty sparse crowd--given the increasing rate of snowfall and the bone-chilling wind, it wasn't surprising. I chatted with an old teammate of mine from the Fort Drum Army 10-Miler team. It's amazing to me now that I could run 10 miles only six months ago.
I knew the first mile would be a bit difficult, with the cold and wind and snow. But actually, the first mile passed fairly pleasantly--I hit the mile marker in 9:00, which is pedestrian for me when I'm in better shape, but the way I'm rolling right now, I have to be patient, take what I can get.
Then we took a hard left turn, into the blistering wind, and straight up a steep hill. It would be the first of many. Despite our location in the middle of the formidable Hindu Kush Mountains in Afghanistan, Bagram Air Field is flat as a pancake. Nary a hill to be found.
I comforted myself by thinking that the return trip of the out-and-back course would be all downhill. And the wind would be at our backs. I even felt a burst of energy and motivation just before the turn-around point, surged ahead, and passed one runner after another...I'd set my sights on the next struggling figure, and accelerate until I'd reeled them in. I felt great. For about a half-mile.
Then came the turn-around point, when you get to see just how far back in the pack you are as you face everyone behind you. At first I saw literally no one outside the few I'd passed in my moment of strength. There was a car behind one lady...the trail vehicle? I wondered. A deflating thought, that I was this close to the trail vehicle, otherwise known as the vulture, the buzzard, waiting to pick off those of us who succumbed to the strong temptation to lie down on the pavement.
Someone hit the toggle switch, on both the wind and hills. So much for a downhill, backwinded cruise home. That stretch where I'd felt strong enough to surge ahead? It was downhill, now a fat uphill that snaked as far as the eye could see. The urge to lie down on the pavement became a compulsion. I began to wonder what the hell I'd been thinking to leave my warm bed--I could be at the Tin Pan eating pancakes with my buddy right then, rather than chugging up a long hill. In the snow. In the wind. What was I thinking?
I passed the ambulance coming the opposite way, the real trail vehicle. Just in front of it loped an old man, all decked out in ski goggles and bright red tights, just grinning away, happy to be there, even if it was just in front of the vulture. I remembered the half-marathon I ran in Korea, when I was the one just in front of the ambulance--I could hear it patiently breathing behind me, wondered what the guys inside were saying (probably pointing out my big ass, I figured). And right now it was all I could do not to lie down in front of the ambulance, take me! But that old guy, he shouted good morning at me as he waddled past.
Then reason kicked in...I know what I was thinking, why I do this shit to myself--I've made a commitment to fitness, one I hedged on while in Afghanistan by not working out as hard or as often as I knew I should. At least I'm out here gutting it out, I thought, at least I've still got the drive to do this. At least I'm not walking.
And there were plenty of people behind me--younger, thinner, many of them male. Behind me. I finished in an unimpressive :47 and some change. My lungs feel as though I spent the morning in the gas chamber. My right knee, recently diagnosed with osteoarthritis, crunches and creaks and causes great pain going down the stairs. I'll be sore tomorrow--I haven't run that far since early January. But I'm glad as hell I ran that race instead of stuffing my face with pancakes this morning!
Besides, pancakes don't fit well into the Weight Watchers program, another commitment I've made. Too expensive, points-wise. As The Penguin (John Bingham, another back-of-the-packer who writes for Runner's World) points out: The miracle is not that I finished, it's that I had the courage to start.
Waddle on, friends.
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