Jackass has been so unnaturally nice these last few days, I'm waiting for the catch, the proverbial Other Shoe. He said I looked tired last night and sent me home. Huh???
I slept soundly until about ten pm local time when BOOM!!! Huge explosion. BOOOM! Even bigger one five minutes later. A bunch of us gathered outside after turning off our porch lights so the sumbitches wouldn't have anything to aim at. We could see blue flashes of light from both the east and west, the ground shook. There's no bunker, so we stood there laughing nervously.
"Was that one closer? Are they bracketing?" someone asked. Bracketing is what folks do with artillery, use a spotter and tell the dude firing the tube to crank it left or right so they can hit the target.
So we all felt pretty sheepish this morning when we read that only the first explosion was an incoming mortar...the other ten? Us firing back, hallalujah.
Just now all the field grade officers in the Brigade Headquarters freaked out, walked from office to office shouting and swearing and threatening to fire folks. A fist fight almost broke out between two majors.
When will these infantry types learn that it's in times of chaos that calm counts the most? And that jackassery has a way of trickling down if you don't have a strong enough leader in the middle as a stopper? They all reminded me of little barking chihuahuas, walking around spreading vitriol without task or purpose or direction.
So I escaped. It's air conditioned in here. I snuck out with our Warrant Officer and Shayla, the other female lieutenant. They won't miss us in the chaos.
Friday, July 23, 2004
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Let the Jackassery Begin
No shit, there I was, moving north from Kuwait to Baghdad on a three-day hell convoy. I had a PFC driving, the ambient temperature with the asphalt and whatnot was about 130º, we wore full body armor, and the first thing we saw outside the gate was a dead camel stretched halfway across the road. Unbelievable stench attendant.
You would think that the road connecting Kuwait to Baghdad, roughly the same route Saddam marched years back, would involve a nice, four-lane interstate. And parts of it were. But mostly, it was worse than the back roads of Mississippi. I had neither door nor seatbelt to keep my body-armored butt in the vehicle, so spent a significant amount of energy just holding on. That and pointing my rifle out the door, ready to tear somebody's ass up if they messed with us.
The radio consumed the rest of my effort--I had no speaker, so had to hold the handmike under the kevlar helmet the whole trip. My ear was purple when we finally arrived. But we're not there yet.
The first flat tire hit just after the dead camel. We'd been out the gate maybe twenty minutes. It took almost an hour to change it...the truck was huge and heavy and bent the jack like a paperclip. The next flat tire hit the next day. There were six in all. And then the coup de grace.
"Shit, is that a wheel in the road?" I drove at this point, the PFC almost passed out from the heat and fatigue. Sure enough, an entire wheel spun off the road, the heaviest truck we have beached to the left of the road. Thank Allah there was no fuel truck convoy from the opposite direction at that particular moment.
For three hours, midday heat, we stood on the side of the road. Everyone kept both hands on weapons, fully alert despite the face-melting heat--we were, after all, in Iraq by this time.
The third day began with the outpost where we'd "slept" getting mortared. Time to hit the road, folks, let's move. Next, I fully exploded on a Staff Sergeant from another unit who dismounted his vehicle moments before we were to depart in order to inform me, snidely, that our trailer/big satellite dish had a tail light out. He'd been openly disrespectful the whole trip, and my Flip Mode went something like this: "No shit, Sergeant! It's been like that for four days, jackass! Get back in your goddamn vehicle and get your head out of your ass! And take whatever personal bullshit problem you have with you!" I think there was more as he slunk back to his truck.
We finally arrived here. I have my own room in an air-conditioned trailer. I bought a fridge. But that is where the luxury ends. We're two miles from the chow hall. A mile to work. Three miles to the higher headquarters. No vehicles. Very hot. I'm buying a bike today.
Three days of holding urine for hours on end to my GREAT discomfort culminated in a bladder/kidney infection that hit me like a bag of bricks yesterday. It went from "Hmm, I may have to go to sick call tomorrow" to "Holy shit is there an emergency room around here?" in the span of an hour. Nothing like pissing volumes of blood and suffering pain that doubles you over speechless to make you move toward the doc.
What's next? Possibly, some days of frustration and more jackassery from my commander. I'm getting better at avoiding him entirely.
You would think that the road connecting Kuwait to Baghdad, roughly the same route Saddam marched years back, would involve a nice, four-lane interstate. And parts of it were. But mostly, it was worse than the back roads of Mississippi. I had neither door nor seatbelt to keep my body-armored butt in the vehicle, so spent a significant amount of energy just holding on. That and pointing my rifle out the door, ready to tear somebody's ass up if they messed with us.
The radio consumed the rest of my effort--I had no speaker, so had to hold the handmike under the kevlar helmet the whole trip. My ear was purple when we finally arrived. But we're not there yet.
The first flat tire hit just after the dead camel. We'd been out the gate maybe twenty minutes. It took almost an hour to change it...the truck was huge and heavy and bent the jack like a paperclip. The next flat tire hit the next day. There were six in all. And then the coup de grace.
"Shit, is that a wheel in the road?" I drove at this point, the PFC almost passed out from the heat and fatigue. Sure enough, an entire wheel spun off the road, the heaviest truck we have beached to the left of the road. Thank Allah there was no fuel truck convoy from the opposite direction at that particular moment.
For three hours, midday heat, we stood on the side of the road. Everyone kept both hands on weapons, fully alert despite the face-melting heat--we were, after all, in Iraq by this time.
The third day began with the outpost where we'd "slept" getting mortared. Time to hit the road, folks, let's move. Next, I fully exploded on a Staff Sergeant from another unit who dismounted his vehicle moments before we were to depart in order to inform me, snidely, that our trailer/big satellite dish had a tail light out. He'd been openly disrespectful the whole trip, and my Flip Mode went something like this: "No shit, Sergeant! It's been like that for four days, jackass! Get back in your goddamn vehicle and get your head out of your ass! And take whatever personal bullshit problem you have with you!" I think there was more as he slunk back to his truck.
We finally arrived here. I have my own room in an air-conditioned trailer. I bought a fridge. But that is where the luxury ends. We're two miles from the chow hall. A mile to work. Three miles to the higher headquarters. No vehicles. Very hot. I'm buying a bike today.
Three days of holding urine for hours on end to my GREAT discomfort culminated in a bladder/kidney infection that hit me like a bag of bricks yesterday. It went from "Hmm, I may have to go to sick call tomorrow" to "Holy shit is there an emergency room around here?" in the span of an hour. Nothing like pissing volumes of blood and suffering pain that doubles you over speechless to make you move toward the doc.
What's next? Possibly, some days of frustration and more jackassery from my commander. I'm getting better at avoiding him entirely.
Saturday, July 10, 2004
Close Call(s)
"Um, is that an HE round?"
HE, or High Explosive--an artillery round. This question from the driver, a Specialist in my platoon and one of my favorite soldiers. We drove willy-nilly through the desert, ten Humvees, thirty personnel. We were on our way to yet another range, another day spent in the face-melting heat. If we could just get there.
People went on a recon the day before, to make sure we could get out to the range. It's notoriously hard to find, this one--out in the middle of the Kuwaiti desert. They finally found it, somehow, and now led the pack. We were already late, having wasted half an hour before we left due to a mixup with guard duty and the last-minute addition of several vehicles to the convoy without telling me.
ME, the Range Officer-In-Charge. Yeah, ME, the one who organized all this crap for the last three weeks. ME, the one who needs to know about additions to the convoy so I can get the paperwork done.
But surely there is a real road that leads to this range, or what passes for a road out here--generally two little mounds on either side to guide you through the loose sand. Only out here, no guidance. Only craters and spent artillery that indicated we were in an impact zone.
At first, it was funny. The Commander has us lost and wandering like the Philistines through an impact area. Ha ha, we could get hit with a mortar.
We drove through herd of camels. Passed heavily scaled lizards as big as your leg. Turned around more than once. I instructed the soldiers in my vehicle to scan for heffalumps in homage to that Winnie the Pooh where they wander in circles through the forest.
Two hours of nudging camels and dodging lizards (but thankfully, no mortars), we arrived at the range. One of the infantry units from our brigade occupied the range off to our right about 400 meters, well visible on the desolate desert floor. The heat has become even more intense these last few days. In the afternoons, stepping out of the tent into the glare makes me think of that Nazi sumbitch on Raiders of the Lost Ark who opened the Ark, and his face ran off onto his shirt, eyeballs rolling off his chin. It literally feels as if your meat is cooking.
As we assembled the big weapons we were to shoot, I bent into a Humvee to get another bottle of water. And then there was a MASSIVE explosion. I straightened up to see sand falling about 150 meters from us, between our site and the infantry guys. Someone close to me yelled, "What the hell was that??"
"Cease fire, cease fire, cease fire!!!" I yelled. I was the Range Safety Officer. I got onto the radio to Range Control. The consensus among our guys was that it was a mortar round, far too big for anything we or the infantry guys fired that day.
It's a point of contention. There was a mortar platoon up the hill from us who categorically denied having fired at all. And so the range went on.
But we did notice, on passing the mortar platoon a second time on our way home, that the tubes all pointed in a different direction than they had when we'd passed them earlier.
Well, yeah, it could've been bad. But it wasn't, and makes a good story.
HE, or High Explosive--an artillery round. This question from the driver, a Specialist in my platoon and one of my favorite soldiers. We drove willy-nilly through the desert, ten Humvees, thirty personnel. We were on our way to yet another range, another day spent in the face-melting heat. If we could just get there.
People went on a recon the day before, to make sure we could get out to the range. It's notoriously hard to find, this one--out in the middle of the Kuwaiti desert. They finally found it, somehow, and now led the pack. We were already late, having wasted half an hour before we left due to a mixup with guard duty and the last-minute addition of several vehicles to the convoy without telling me.
ME, the Range Officer-In-Charge. Yeah, ME, the one who organized all this crap for the last three weeks. ME, the one who needs to know about additions to the convoy so I can get the paperwork done.
But surely there is a real road that leads to this range, or what passes for a road out here--generally two little mounds on either side to guide you through the loose sand. Only out here, no guidance. Only craters and spent artillery that indicated we were in an impact zone.
At first, it was funny. The Commander has us lost and wandering like the Philistines through an impact area. Ha ha, we could get hit with a mortar.
We drove through herd of camels. Passed heavily scaled lizards as big as your leg. Turned around more than once. I instructed the soldiers in my vehicle to scan for heffalumps in homage to that Winnie the Pooh where they wander in circles through the forest.
Two hours of nudging camels and dodging lizards (but thankfully, no mortars), we arrived at the range. One of the infantry units from our brigade occupied the range off to our right about 400 meters, well visible on the desolate desert floor. The heat has become even more intense these last few days. In the afternoons, stepping out of the tent into the glare makes me think of that Nazi sumbitch on Raiders of the Lost Ark who opened the Ark, and his face ran off onto his shirt, eyeballs rolling off his chin. It literally feels as if your meat is cooking.
As we assembled the big weapons we were to shoot, I bent into a Humvee to get another bottle of water. And then there was a MASSIVE explosion. I straightened up to see sand falling about 150 meters from us, between our site and the infantry guys. Someone close to me yelled, "What the hell was that??"
"Cease fire, cease fire, cease fire!!!" I yelled. I was the Range Safety Officer. I got onto the radio to Range Control. The consensus among our guys was that it was a mortar round, far too big for anything we or the infantry guys fired that day.
It's a point of contention. There was a mortar platoon up the hill from us who categorically denied having fired at all. And so the range went on.
But we did notice, on passing the mortar platoon a second time on our way home, that the tubes all pointed in a different direction than they had when we'd passed them earlier.
Well, yeah, it could've been bad. But it wasn't, and makes a good story.
Sunday, July 04, 2004
Oh Say Can You See...
No, not really. Not in this sandstorm. And I don't think we'll see any fireworks. Everyone please have an extra beer for us today and I'll catch up when I get back.
I managed to creep into my tent yesterday and spent the afternoon writing and reading a summertime trash novel: Trading Up by Candace Bushnell of Sex and the City fame. It's exactly what I need--a frivolous tale about some rich, hip girls in New York, driving out to the Hamptons for parties on the beach.
Talk about escapism. What, am I supposed to read Hamlet out here?
Still, I can't let my brain go to mush, so the next novel on the trail is Flannery O'Connor's The Violent Must Bear it Away. Great Southern black humor, too bad she died at 32. She would've continued to whup ass.
I have never lived well with people. Right now I'm crammed into a tattered, filthy tent with thirteen other females, and I'm the oldest one by at least ten years. I cope using earplugs and a frou-frou little blue silk eye pillow that allows me to shut off my lights whenever I get away from the Headquarters at night.
Most of these ladies, they're good people, just a bit young. But two of them just annoy the hell out of me--it's just this constant litany of honking, braying laughter, loud enough to shatter glass. One of them plays the I'm So Cute role, using babytalk and all other manner of nerve-grating, little-girl vernacular. The other plays Poor Me, My Life's So Hard. AND they BOTH greatly exaggerated illness and injury while we were in the desert in order to get driven back here, away from all that hard stuff. And they're both Sergeants!
Nothing annoys me more than a female soldier who feeds right into all the negative stereotypes many of our male counterparts assign us: we're lazy, we're weak, we malinger and complain.
The First Sergeant made my whole day yesterday when he told me that officers live in single-person rooms. I won't have to listen to all that blah blah blah from those two.
I managed to creep into my tent yesterday and spent the afternoon writing and reading a summertime trash novel: Trading Up by Candace Bushnell of Sex and the City fame. It's exactly what I need--a frivolous tale about some rich, hip girls in New York, driving out to the Hamptons for parties on the beach.
Talk about escapism. What, am I supposed to read Hamlet out here?
Still, I can't let my brain go to mush, so the next novel on the trail is Flannery O'Connor's The Violent Must Bear it Away. Great Southern black humor, too bad she died at 32. She would've continued to whup ass.
I have never lived well with people. Right now I'm crammed into a tattered, filthy tent with thirteen other females, and I'm the oldest one by at least ten years. I cope using earplugs and a frou-frou little blue silk eye pillow that allows me to shut off my lights whenever I get away from the Headquarters at night.
Most of these ladies, they're good people, just a bit young. But two of them just annoy the hell out of me--it's just this constant litany of honking, braying laughter, loud enough to shatter glass. One of them plays the I'm So Cute role, using babytalk and all other manner of nerve-grating, little-girl vernacular. The other plays Poor Me, My Life's So Hard. AND they BOTH greatly exaggerated illness and injury while we were in the desert in order to get driven back here, away from all that hard stuff. And they're both Sergeants!
Nothing annoys me more than a female soldier who feeds right into all the negative stereotypes many of our male counterparts assign us: we're lazy, we're weak, we malinger and complain.
The First Sergeant made my whole day yesterday when he told me that officers live in single-person rooms. I won't have to listen to all that blah blah blah from those two.
Friday, July 02, 2004
No Wonder They Hate Us, You Jackass!
I just took a blessedly long, cool shower and changed into freshly laundered and pressed DCU's after five days out in the desert. I was FILTHY. Sand ground into the scalp filthy.
I've concluded that they must've filmed the Tatooine piece of the original Star Wars here. I've never seen such a vast expanse of utter nothingness. Not a bush, not a scrub tree anywhere in view. I thought El Paso was bleak...this place looks like the surface of the moon.
But I'm satisfied. I ran five ranges in four days, successfully trained the company on a myriad of combat tasks. And the best part of each day out there was the early morning "range sweep," bearing close resemblance to a Rat Patrol remake.
It was that short period of time in this moonscape that it's actually pleasurable--the sun's just up, it's still cool, and there's a pink-purple cast on everything. My range sweeps involved my riding shotgun in a Humvee with some crusty old retired-Infantry Sergeant Major, smoking and cursing, as we hauled ass through the landscape. Felt like a bobblehead doll, almost fell out a time or two, and loved every minute of it.
The purpose of the Range Sweep is to chase off the Bedoins. Hard to imagine, in this day and age, a herd of camels sheparded by an astonishingly wiry Bedoin, accompanied by a pack mule and a dog, roaming the landscape in search of scant feed for the herd. But we chased them off the range all day, keep them from getting accidentally shot.
I'm strictly limited on time, so I have to keep this abbreviated.
There was another unit out there with us on an adjacent range, and I watched them through my binoculars as they chased a herd of sheep away...they did it differently from us though. We politely asked the shepard to move on, using gun-gestures to explain they might get shot if they stayed. Usually worked just fine. These jackasses, however, barreled right into this poor man's herd. I SAW them run over a lamb.
I was PISSED.
I saw the Lieutenant, a guy I've dealt with here from time to time. I asked him, "Hey, did ya'll just run over that guy's flock???"
He smirked. "I think we scared one, it might've had a heart attack."
I stared at him for a moment. "No wonder they hate us, you jackass," I said, then walked away.
I can't abide arrogant American assholes. Period.
I've concluded that they must've filmed the Tatooine piece of the original Star Wars here. I've never seen such a vast expanse of utter nothingness. Not a bush, not a scrub tree anywhere in view. I thought El Paso was bleak...this place looks like the surface of the moon.
But I'm satisfied. I ran five ranges in four days, successfully trained the company on a myriad of combat tasks. And the best part of each day out there was the early morning "range sweep," bearing close resemblance to a Rat Patrol remake.
It was that short period of time in this moonscape that it's actually pleasurable--the sun's just up, it's still cool, and there's a pink-purple cast on everything. My range sweeps involved my riding shotgun in a Humvee with some crusty old retired-Infantry Sergeant Major, smoking and cursing, as we hauled ass through the landscape. Felt like a bobblehead doll, almost fell out a time or two, and loved every minute of it.
The purpose of the Range Sweep is to chase off the Bedoins. Hard to imagine, in this day and age, a herd of camels sheparded by an astonishingly wiry Bedoin, accompanied by a pack mule and a dog, roaming the landscape in search of scant feed for the herd. But we chased them off the range all day, keep them from getting accidentally shot.
I'm strictly limited on time, so I have to keep this abbreviated.
There was another unit out there with us on an adjacent range, and I watched them through my binoculars as they chased a herd of sheep away...they did it differently from us though. We politely asked the shepard to move on, using gun-gestures to explain they might get shot if they stayed. Usually worked just fine. These jackasses, however, barreled right into this poor man's herd. I SAW them run over a lamb.
I was PISSED.
I saw the Lieutenant, a guy I've dealt with here from time to time. I asked him, "Hey, did ya'll just run over that guy's flock???"
He smirked. "I think we scared one, it might've had a heart attack."
I stared at him for a moment. "No wonder they hate us, you jackass," I said, then walked away.
I can't abide arrogant American assholes. Period.
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Holy Exploding Assholes, Batman!
It happened in Korea. Then it happened in Colombia. Then in Afghanistan. Now it's happening here in the Sandbox.
The case of the Exploding Ass.
I wash my hands religiously. I use gallons of hand sanitizer. I only drink bottled water. To no avail. I still spend all my free time hunched over in the portajohn...which, by the way, is essentially an oven in the midday heat. When I'm briefing the Colonel, I'm praying all the while, not here, not now.
Here's a way you can approximate how we live here, exploding ass excepted: bundle up in long sleeves, pants, etc. Then add the thickest down vest you can find (that's the body armor). Weigh yourself down with a bunch of gear, put a motorcycle helmet on your head. Now hop into your car in the middle of the day after it's been out in the direct sun. Go ahead and leave the door open, I'll allow that. Crank it up, turn the heat on high, and sit there with that blast in your face for a few hours.
But you know, for some reason I'm not miserable. Actually, I felt okay all day. I'm either acclimating or just accepting it all. Okay, so it's hot. Yep, there's blowing sand. Roger, we live in the ghetto. And yeah, I'm not crazy about the job I've been given. But at some point I think I must've mentally rolled up my sleeves and decided to quit fighting it all, just roll with it. I feel better when I force myself to be cheerful--mood follows actions.
I'll somehow make it through this thing. I wish I could be more descriptive, but Operational Security dictates discretion.
The case of the Exploding Ass.
I wash my hands religiously. I use gallons of hand sanitizer. I only drink bottled water. To no avail. I still spend all my free time hunched over in the portajohn...which, by the way, is essentially an oven in the midday heat. When I'm briefing the Colonel, I'm praying all the while, not here, not now.
Here's a way you can approximate how we live here, exploding ass excepted: bundle up in long sleeves, pants, etc. Then add the thickest down vest you can find (that's the body armor). Weigh yourself down with a bunch of gear, put a motorcycle helmet on your head. Now hop into your car in the middle of the day after it's been out in the direct sun. Go ahead and leave the door open, I'll allow that. Crank it up, turn the heat on high, and sit there with that blast in your face for a few hours.
But you know, for some reason I'm not miserable. Actually, I felt okay all day. I'm either acclimating or just accepting it all. Okay, so it's hot. Yep, there's blowing sand. Roger, we live in the ghetto. And yeah, I'm not crazy about the job I've been given. But at some point I think I must've mentally rolled up my sleeves and decided to quit fighting it all, just roll with it. I feel better when I force myself to be cheerful--mood follows actions.
I'll somehow make it through this thing. I wish I could be more descriptive, but Operational Security dictates discretion.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
The Sandbox, with gale-force winds
We're in Kuwait for the next three weeks. And you know, if I lived in a place like this, I might be pissed off at the world, too. It is an absolute shithole.
The winds vary from Moderately Annoying Sandstorm to No Visibility Sandstorm, depending on the time of day and how many degrees over 100 it happens to reach. The hotter it gets, the higher the winds.
I'm told we'll live well once we get to our permanent area. I'll believe it when I see it. Right now we're crammed into a damaged tent--I wake up several times a night to a sandblast to the face, which I suppose could have theraputic exfoliating qualities...but not when I'm trying to sleep, damn it!
My job right now is as Collection Manager, which means I marry up intel requirements to assets. Booooo---rrrrinng! I'm trying to understand how the HUMINT Platoon Leader gets sucked into this one.
But I did tell everyone who needs to know up my chain that I intend to leave the Army, got the paperwork started. One officer tried to talk me back into staying in the Army, but I stopped him in his tracks. Buddy, you don't get it, I am DONE with this crap.
It can only get better. Right?
The winds vary from Moderately Annoying Sandstorm to No Visibility Sandstorm, depending on the time of day and how many degrees over 100 it happens to reach. The hotter it gets, the higher the winds.
I'm told we'll live well once we get to our permanent area. I'll believe it when I see it. Right now we're crammed into a damaged tent--I wake up several times a night to a sandblast to the face, which I suppose could have theraputic exfoliating qualities...but not when I'm trying to sleep, damn it!
My job right now is as Collection Manager, which means I marry up intel requirements to assets. Booooo---rrrrinng! I'm trying to understand how the HUMINT Platoon Leader gets sucked into this one.
But I did tell everyone who needs to know up my chain that I intend to leave the Army, got the paperwork started. One officer tried to talk me back into staying in the Army, but I stopped him in his tracks. Buddy, you don't get it, I am DONE with this crap.
It can only get better. Right?
Monday, June 14, 2004
Part One, Mefloquine Madness
The first of the technicolor, Mefloquine-tainted, virtual-reality dreams came upon me last night. Reference earlier post from Afghanistan about the psychological side-effects of Mefloquine. Shit makes me crazy. The dreams are the best part of it. The paranoia, irritability, and the way it turns your entire digestive tract inside-out...I could do without those little perks.
So at any rate, in this dream, I had returned from Iraq, left the Army, taken a job in some swank office building that also contained my apartment. And what an apartment it was--huge, with plush bathrooms for each oversized bedroom, windows everywhere. I walked around deciding which room I would call my bedroom...except that the place was trashed.
The previous occupants were ditzy coeds. Dirty laundry, old garbage, long-spoiled food languished everywhere you stepped. I had just decided to call the landlady and raise holy hell when I came across the head of a cat on the kitchen floor. As I stood horrified, it began wiggling around, making noise. And the whole garbage can was full of rotting kitty corpses, all moving around and making a fuss.
See what I mean, psychological side effects? I dream about houses all the time, and it's almost always a case of their being large and beautiful and full of doors that open to entire wings of rooms I hadn't known about previously. And almost always in a state of disrepair, in need of an owner who would make it into something. And these dreams started a decade ago, long before I owned a house.
But dead kitty heads running around on the floor?!? Good lord!
I must admit, though, it is HIGH entertainment.
So at any rate, in this dream, I had returned from Iraq, left the Army, taken a job in some swank office building that also contained my apartment. And what an apartment it was--huge, with plush bathrooms for each oversized bedroom, windows everywhere. I walked around deciding which room I would call my bedroom...except that the place was trashed.
The previous occupants were ditzy coeds. Dirty laundry, old garbage, long-spoiled food languished everywhere you stepped. I had just decided to call the landlady and raise holy hell when I came across the head of a cat on the kitchen floor. As I stood horrified, it began wiggling around, making noise. And the whole garbage can was full of rotting kitty corpses, all moving around and making a fuss.
See what I mean, psychological side effects? I dream about houses all the time, and it's almost always a case of their being large and beautiful and full of doors that open to entire wings of rooms I hadn't known about previously. And almost always in a state of disrepair, in need of an owner who would make it into something. And these dreams started a decade ago, long before I owned a house.
But dead kitty heads running around on the floor?!? Good lord!
I must admit, though, it is HIGH entertainment.
Sunday, June 13, 2004
Encounters With Nature
Yesterday, I took a 5-mile run on a trail I love that parallels the Black River the whole way. I mostly gazed out at the river, not my feet, and hence came very, very close to one rather large, well-fed porcupine.
It stood up on its hind legs on the side of the trail, some sort of vine in its hand which it slowly ate. I braked just in time. I didn't want to jump over it, 'cause can't they, like, shoot quills at you?
Then I just bent down and watched it. "Hey, uh, I tell you what, you go your way and I'll just go mine, deal?" It reacted like a pampered patron at the Four Seasons seated at the table next to Anna Nicole Smith's entourage...shot me an annoyed glance over its shoulder, kept eating leisurely. How uncouth, how untoward. Can you NOT see I'm trying to enjoy my luncheon here?
I grinned and crept past, still envisioning quills! shooting! into! my! leg! He was gone by the time I'd finished the trail and came back his direction.
Then this morning, I heard the distressed squawking of a bird growing steadily louder and closer. And Esther crashed into the dining room through the slightly-open deck door with a grey dove in her mouth, which she released into the kitchen as all hell broke loose.
It flew into the window, POW! Then into the wall, BANG! I thought the next impact would surely crush its light little skull. It hit the floor as I pushed the cat out of the way, then darted into a space I didn't even know existed...under the cabinet, there is a hole in the baseboard that leads into a small, awkward spot under the counter, where the drawers don't reach.
Shit! How the hell to get it out of there? I could hear it flapping a squawking. I tried a broom...hell no. I tried to pry up the countertop...it became clear right away that I'd have to remove the entire sink for that one to work. Finally, I just stood there and waited.
It didn't take long for it to head for the light and burst from the little hole it had squeezed through. I caught it and held it in my hands, all trembly bird energy. It didn't seem hurt and flew for the stately maple tree in my yard when I released it.
I've been a terrible procrastinator. I must go pack for this goddamn deployment. I'm putting together a series of care packages for myself, all the crap I can't fit in that giant rucksack...my fancy-schmancy Camelbak, eight books (Tom Robbins, mostly, and some Flannery O'Connor), extra superpowered sunscreen, girly shit like haircolor because I've gone so grey and I just don't need to see it.
But right now, I'm not quite done with this month's Runner's World and it's a beautiful, warm day. The front porch beckons.
It stood up on its hind legs on the side of the trail, some sort of vine in its hand which it slowly ate. I braked just in time. I didn't want to jump over it, 'cause can't they, like, shoot quills at you?
Then I just bent down and watched it. "Hey, uh, I tell you what, you go your way and I'll just go mine, deal?" It reacted like a pampered patron at the Four Seasons seated at the table next to Anna Nicole Smith's entourage...shot me an annoyed glance over its shoulder, kept eating leisurely. How uncouth, how untoward. Can you NOT see I'm trying to enjoy my luncheon here?
I grinned and crept past, still envisioning quills! shooting! into! my! leg! He was gone by the time I'd finished the trail and came back his direction.
Then this morning, I heard the distressed squawking of a bird growing steadily louder and closer. And Esther crashed into the dining room through the slightly-open deck door with a grey dove in her mouth, which she released into the kitchen as all hell broke loose.
It flew into the window, POW! Then into the wall, BANG! I thought the next impact would surely crush its light little skull. It hit the floor as I pushed the cat out of the way, then darted into a space I didn't even know existed...under the cabinet, there is a hole in the baseboard that leads into a small, awkward spot under the counter, where the drawers don't reach.
Shit! How the hell to get it out of there? I could hear it flapping a squawking. I tried a broom...hell no. I tried to pry up the countertop...it became clear right away that I'd have to remove the entire sink for that one to work. Finally, I just stood there and waited.
It didn't take long for it to head for the light and burst from the little hole it had squeezed through. I caught it and held it in my hands, all trembly bird energy. It didn't seem hurt and flew for the stately maple tree in my yard when I released it.
I've been a terrible procrastinator. I must go pack for this goddamn deployment. I'm putting together a series of care packages for myself, all the crap I can't fit in that giant rucksack...my fancy-schmancy Camelbak, eight books (Tom Robbins, mostly, and some Flannery O'Connor), extra superpowered sunscreen, girly shit like haircolor because I've gone so grey and I just don't need to see it.
But right now, I'm not quite done with this month's Runner's World and it's a beautiful, warm day. The front porch beckons.
Saturday, June 12, 2004
The Perfect Brownie
Awoke earlier than I'd intended due to the bright sunlight streaming into my room. I adore this house--any time of the day, there's sunlight everywhere. This particular morning, though, it's thirty-nine degrees. In June. I'm running the heat, for chrissakes.
God I'm going to miss my life here. We leave Wednesday. I can't help having a bad attitude about it, because I don't want to go. Period. I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels this way, but I was somewhat excited before we went to Afghanistan, it was this big adventure. But now I know the truth about deploying--it sucks. It's boring, it's acutely uncomfortable, and I was only in Afghanistan for five months. This one is for a year.
I can't even conceive of it--that's a Korea tour. And THAT felt like a decade, the year I spent in Korea--where I had a room, a bed, a shower, hot food, all the books I wanted, subway trips to Seoul. There will be none of that in Iraq.
I'm struggling to wrap my head around this thing, because this time I'm the one in charge. Right now I need to pull an Oscar-winning performance out of my ass, smile like an idiot, and GET EXCITED! Isn't this fun, ya'll??
I think I found the absolute perfect Brownie recipe. I should've known it would be the best one, it came from Good Eats, on the Food Network.
Good Eats is hosted by this character named Alton Brown. I love this guy. He's like a Mr. Science for food. He'll demonstrate why your souffle' falls by blowing up twenty white balloons and going into the Molecular Structure of Egg Whites. But these brownies, they have four eggs and two sticks of butter--just pure fat and sugar, like a brownie should be. I just heated some up and topped it with some vanilla ice cream for breakfast.
That's what I'm talkin about!!
God I'm going to miss my life here. We leave Wednesday. I can't help having a bad attitude about it, because I don't want to go. Period. I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels this way, but I was somewhat excited before we went to Afghanistan, it was this big adventure. But now I know the truth about deploying--it sucks. It's boring, it's acutely uncomfortable, and I was only in Afghanistan for five months. This one is for a year.
I can't even conceive of it--that's a Korea tour. And THAT felt like a decade, the year I spent in Korea--where I had a room, a bed, a shower, hot food, all the books I wanted, subway trips to Seoul. There will be none of that in Iraq.
I'm struggling to wrap my head around this thing, because this time I'm the one in charge. Right now I need to pull an Oscar-winning performance out of my ass, smile like an idiot, and GET EXCITED! Isn't this fun, ya'll??
I think I found the absolute perfect Brownie recipe. I should've known it would be the best one, it came from Good Eats, on the Food Network.
Good Eats is hosted by this character named Alton Brown. I love this guy. He's like a Mr. Science for food. He'll demonstrate why your souffle' falls by blowing up twenty white balloons and going into the Molecular Structure of Egg Whites. But these brownies, they have four eggs and two sticks of butter--just pure fat and sugar, like a brownie should be. I just heated some up and topped it with some vanilla ice cream for breakfast.
That's what I'm talkin about!!
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
Sign Here, Then Grab Your Ankles
"I got a call from the CG about you today."
CG=Commanding General, as in the two-star guy...and this one, he stands about six-eleven and sounds like the Voice of God from high in the stratosphere. Needless to say, I got a call from the CG about you is NOT a statement I'm looking to hear from the mouth of my commander, jackass or not.
"Yep, he says you're non-deployable. Do you know what that's about?"
For one moment, my heart soared. But then reason took hold...I knew it would be some mundane technicality, one that would quickly get resolved.
I was, of course, absolutely spot-on.
"Um, it must be because I just got back from Afghanistan."
"Oh, so you'll need to sign this form..." He (with much mustered nonchalance) pushed a counseling form across the desk to me, already filled out, with the title DECLINATION OF STABILIZATION PERIOD/VOLUNTARY DEPLOYMENT. Then I got it.
He (my commander) waited this long to present me with the fact that I could, in fact, decline this deployment. I felt a little sick to my stomach as I read the form...I understand that this deployment is for the period of one year or until mission completion...my participation is entirely voluntary...
See, the commander knew that if they'd presented me with this document a month ago, I may very well have refused to sign. I still could. It was never pitched to me as something I could opt out of--instead, I got the speech that went something like this: the Army never guaranteed any standard length of time between deployments, this is what you signed on for whether you knew it or not, we're counting on you to be the kind of leader who will stand strong for this mission...
In other words, vastly different from what's actually going down on paper. On paper, I fully stepped forward and said, Ooo! Ooo! I WANNA GO!!
So did I sign? I hesitated, while certain thoughts went through my mind: what do you care, you're fixing to leave the Army and join the FBI, you could stay and work on the house...
But of course I signed, and here's why: I'm a leader of soldiers, I'm in charge of forty-two people, we're in this together. And who would suffer if I acted like a little bitch and backed out one week before we leave? Not my commander, not the CG...these soldiers and my fellow lieutenants, that's who.
See, I have to be able to look myself in the eye as I'm brushing my teeth in the morning. And the six years I've already served would be forever tainted by this one cowardly act, refusing to go to combat with my troops. And the thing is? The commander KNEW that. That's why he waited until the CG called, until my not having signed that form became an issue with The Boss.
But here's what I also know: I'd still get deployed in September or January, at least this way I'm getting it over with. Also, I know I was hand-selected for this position, and it's a testament to the Battalion Commander's confidence in my abilities to lead this platoon. AND, the other lieutenants in the Battalion, the ones who could/would potentially replace me...well, this platoon needs someone who's willing to be A Total Bitch (i.e, ME) and stick up for them with this commander. I don't trust them to anyone else. You know, when you want something done right, you do it yourself? Yep, that's exactly the case here.
I'm not a Patton. I'm not a Bradley, not a McArthur. But neither am I a chickenshit, and the thing is, I DO care (very much, actually) about what happens to these folks.
So this job, I'll do it myself. I couldn't stand it if one of these soldiers approached me on returning and reported how fucked up things were and that their Platoon Leader wouldn't stick up for them.
So what I need to do now is quit thinking about how I could've said no. I need to quit being pissed off about getting sent right back out the door, get my head in the game, and just move out, do what needs to be done.
OK, got it. Saluting smartly and moving out.
CG=Commanding General, as in the two-star guy...and this one, he stands about six-eleven and sounds like the Voice of God from high in the stratosphere. Needless to say, I got a call from the CG about you is NOT a statement I'm looking to hear from the mouth of my commander, jackass or not.
"Yep, he says you're non-deployable. Do you know what that's about?"
For one moment, my heart soared. But then reason took hold...I knew it would be some mundane technicality, one that would quickly get resolved.
I was, of course, absolutely spot-on.
"Um, it must be because I just got back from Afghanistan."
"Oh, so you'll need to sign this form..." He (with much mustered nonchalance) pushed a counseling form across the desk to me, already filled out, with the title DECLINATION OF STABILIZATION PERIOD/VOLUNTARY DEPLOYMENT. Then I got it.
He (my commander) waited this long to present me with the fact that I could, in fact, decline this deployment. I felt a little sick to my stomach as I read the form...I understand that this deployment is for the period of one year or until mission completion...my participation is entirely voluntary...
See, the commander knew that if they'd presented me with this document a month ago, I may very well have refused to sign. I still could. It was never pitched to me as something I could opt out of--instead, I got the speech that went something like this: the Army never guaranteed any standard length of time between deployments, this is what you signed on for whether you knew it or not, we're counting on you to be the kind of leader who will stand strong for this mission...
In other words, vastly different from what's actually going down on paper. On paper, I fully stepped forward and said, Ooo! Ooo! I WANNA GO!!
So did I sign? I hesitated, while certain thoughts went through my mind: what do you care, you're fixing to leave the Army and join the FBI, you could stay and work on the house...
But of course I signed, and here's why: I'm a leader of soldiers, I'm in charge of forty-two people, we're in this together. And who would suffer if I acted like a little bitch and backed out one week before we leave? Not my commander, not the CG...these soldiers and my fellow lieutenants, that's who.
See, I have to be able to look myself in the eye as I'm brushing my teeth in the morning. And the six years I've already served would be forever tainted by this one cowardly act, refusing to go to combat with my troops. And the thing is? The commander KNEW that. That's why he waited until the CG called, until my not having signed that form became an issue with The Boss.
But here's what I also know: I'd still get deployed in September or January, at least this way I'm getting it over with. Also, I know I was hand-selected for this position, and it's a testament to the Battalion Commander's confidence in my abilities to lead this platoon. AND, the other lieutenants in the Battalion, the ones who could/would potentially replace me...well, this platoon needs someone who's willing to be A Total Bitch (i.e, ME) and stick up for them with this commander. I don't trust them to anyone else. You know, when you want something done right, you do it yourself? Yep, that's exactly the case here.
I'm not a Patton. I'm not a Bradley, not a McArthur. But neither am I a chickenshit, and the thing is, I DO care (very much, actually) about what happens to these folks.
So this job, I'll do it myself. I couldn't stand it if one of these soldiers approached me on returning and reported how fucked up things were and that their Platoon Leader wouldn't stick up for them.
So what I need to do now is quit thinking about how I could've said no. I need to quit being pissed off about getting sent right back out the door, get my head in the game, and just move out, do what needs to be done.
OK, got it. Saluting smartly and moving out.
Saturday, May 29, 2004
The Last Supper...and Lunch....and Breakfast...
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.
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.
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--63º, 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.
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