“Oneness is achieved by recognizing yourself.” So my Yogi teabag told me this morning.
Each December 31st is the time of the year when we collectively look back. When we humans – or at least Americans as I know them, or at least the people whom I know, or at least my family, okay maybe it is just me… -- anyway, so now is the time when I reflect on the year that was and take stock of me and my life. What’s different, what’s endured, and what might I want to consider doing differently. Rarely one to rely on the calendar, the seasons, or the weather to determine my mood or my movements, this year I feel drawn to musing on my ahead based on my behind.
The last year was quite a series of trials for me: the beginning of it was spent hunkered down in a dry docking maintenance availability where virtually all of the machinery under my purview was either out of the water, unlubricated, or otherwise disassembled. Hundreds of hours of complex testing, networking, and constant oversight on the part of painfully few of us got the plants back together and the ship back to sea. Through this and part of the spring I fought and trained to get in shape and run farther and faster than I had done since my left foot had been reconstructed in the summer of 2003. I was supposed to leave sea duty sometime that spring… four consecutive years and multiple prolonged underway periods had taken its toll on my patience, my marriage, my head. Spring became summer and by the end of July, I was finally at liberty to go. Headed to a billet that was the backup to the backup billet, I knew very little what to expect.
As any of you who have been following the episodes of “As the Polygon Turns” since September know, there was an unusual learning curve for me, adjusting to life on a Staff. I’m not saying I’ve got it licked now, but suffice it to say that I foresee the drama of the early Polygon days subsiding. Just this morning I did some kick-ass staff work and I feel I have really made myself indispensible. –but we’re not here to reflect on just today.
Earlier this month, a golden opportunity presented itself to me. I learned of an opening for a speechwriter position for a prominent individual. At first I thought it might be a position beyond my capabilities and one that might involve more working hours than I should reasonably want to accept on shore duty. I asked around, talked it up, and took a long introspective journey back into my files to discover the Me as Writer Past, Writer Present, and wondered if I should choose the dreamy path of the Writer yet to Come. The process involved submitting two writing samples, and as I canvassed my files, I found an array of goofiness, tear-jerkers, poetry, heart-felt letters, and scholarship that probably barely interested my professors but always enriched my own literary soul. I have been really enjoying this nonsensical blog for the past several months, but could I become a real writer… for real? I found my answer in this piece that I wrote over six years ago (entitled ‘Calling’):
“Over the various adventures and travails that have beset me since I joined the Navy, since I was in college, since I was an adolescent, since I was a born, I have labored with language, with writing (maybe I didn’t labor with writing when I was a kid, but I did have a noticeable stutter). My worst fear was for people to define me by a single epithet. I wanted to be more than just a fast runner, a good swimmer, a good base line shooter, an athlete, a person who gets good grades, an English Major, an NROTC Midshipman, a Surface Warfare Officer, a Nuke, a nutcase… Whenever I heard myself labeled as such I would raise my right index finger and say, “but wait, there’s…” some other thing I can do really well that contradicts whatever you just tried to label me as. Through my six years in the Navy and over the past year that I have spent trying to re-integrate myself into academia, I have come to realize that the only single epithet I would be happy with is to be known as a writer.
“I have moved in many circles and have conditioned myself to excel in various, often incongruous, activities; in so doing I have come in contact with all different sorts of people and have gotten along with them marvelously and appreciated their company insofar as it passed the time and made life, living, and working more enjoyable. Beyond such basic and ephemeral intercourse and interaction I have never been intimately bound to any one person (or even one activity). At some point along the road of interaction and experience, people always fail me, connections break, and I am left with myself to forge ahead, light out on another path, with my head in the clouds, ear to the ground, nose to the grindstone, knee to the groin… in search of another connection, another chance to lose myself in a cause, to devote myself to a reputedly noble duty or to answer someone else’s calling.”
That was Me about seven years ago. Not an unhappy Me, just one not fully committed – or maybe one who should have been committed (to an asylum). Since then with the help of those whom I love and a love for what I do, I have focused my heart, my head, and my soul on people and purposes. And I can say that I am proud of what I have done and am, but I still at bottom long to be a writer, an author.
I put my package in for the position. We’ll see if I get it.
If not, whatever! In the spirit of my mother, there’s always room for new frontiers in goofiness. That at least, I recognize.
31 December 2008
20 December 2008
As the Polygon Turns: Dr. Shoess (Episode 18)
If you haven’t figured it out by now, I should tell you that the only other Navy people who work in my office with me are pilots. They all go by nicknames – oh, I am sorry, “callsigns” – like Face, Bingo, Delta, Lou Brock, and Mojo. What I have noticed over my years of observing pilots, is that it seems that they are incapable of socially interacting with (or at least accepting) someone unless they give that person a callsign too. The freakishly large SEAL in the office is now named “Beef,” the Army Major who has a French sounding first name is “Frenchie,” and me, I have been dubbed “Shoe” – short for black shoe. Naval Aviators wear brown shoes, and the rest of us wear black shoes. Per regulation, we all could wear either color, but in the Navy, blood is thicker than leather, so with a couple of exceptions, all of us simply stick to tradition.
The other guys whom I work with inhabit cubicles not directly connected with mine, but close enough so when anyone of us speaks much above a whisper, we can all hear what each other is saying. Like typical pilots, they spend a lot of time sitting around joking while I, the Shoe, am working. When they want to include me, or to heckle me, they speak to me in short disconnected sentences, like in a Dr. Seuss book:
“Shoe!”
“Yes.”
“Shoe, what you up to?”
“Working on a prep book.”
“See Shoe work!”
“Someone has to.”
“Shut up Shoe!”
“Why, think of what we have to get done!”
But I didn’t really want to ruin their fun.
“Shoe, why you so rigid? Quit reminding us about work!” they add with a jerk.
But I just ignore them and smirk.
When leaving the office for the day, they ask me:
“Are you really working on something or are you just being a Shoe?”
“No, I have to get this finished…”
“See Shoe work!”
“That’s right.”
"Work Shoe Work."
One day I got in late and I started complaining about the foul weather and the tardy bus before I reminded myself that at least I wasn’t standing a four hour deck watch in this weather. Giving no breaks, though, a pilot caught me bitching and said:
“I don't know which is worse: hearing Shoe complain about standing in the rain or listening to the fact that she just added 10 and 15 to get 20.”
And I thought, “Here we go again: hear shoe whine, four and five is nine. Watch shoe add, rainy weather doesn’t make her glad.”
Sometimes they don’t want my unsolicited opinion and they tell me: “Shoe, who gave you permission to speak?” This makes me feel like a freak, but I never become bleak because I know there will always be next week.
The other day I realized that I may have been short a uniform item for a function that night and I mentioned this to my buddies.
“You’d better get going, Shoe!”
“I have until 4…”
Then I looked at my wrist,
and pounded my fist,
thinking I had better head for the door!
“Run Shoe Run!” I heard the boys cheer,
as I put it in gear.
I changed really fast,
and was off with a blast.
“Watch Shoe go!” they cried,
and out of the door I flied!
I ran through the rain,
bypassing bus and train.
In no time at all,
I was at the uniform mall.
The pin of a Shoe’s heritage I bought,
and as I left the store I thought,
“Now my wardrobe is complete, thanks to this Shoe’s fleet feet!”
The other guys whom I work with inhabit cubicles not directly connected with mine, but close enough so when anyone of us speaks much above a whisper, we can all hear what each other is saying. Like typical pilots, they spend a lot of time sitting around joking while I, the Shoe, am working. When they want to include me, or to heckle me, they speak to me in short disconnected sentences, like in a Dr. Seuss book:
“Shoe!”
“Yes.”
“Shoe, what you up to?”
“Working on a prep book.”
“See Shoe work!”
“Someone has to.”
“Shut up Shoe!”
“Why, think of what we have to get done!”
But I didn’t really want to ruin their fun.
“Shoe, why you so rigid? Quit reminding us about work!” they add with a jerk.
But I just ignore them and smirk.
When leaving the office for the day, they ask me:
“Are you really working on something or are you just being a Shoe?”
“No, I have to get this finished…”
“See Shoe work!”
“That’s right.”
"Work Shoe Work."
One day I got in late and I started complaining about the foul weather and the tardy bus before I reminded myself that at least I wasn’t standing a four hour deck watch in this weather. Giving no breaks, though, a pilot caught me bitching and said:
“I don't know which is worse: hearing Shoe complain about standing in the rain or listening to the fact that she just added 10 and 15 to get 20.”
And I thought, “Here we go again: hear shoe whine, four and five is nine. Watch shoe add, rainy weather doesn’t make her glad.”
Sometimes they don’t want my unsolicited opinion and they tell me: “Shoe, who gave you permission to speak?” This makes me feel like a freak, but I never become bleak because I know there will always be next week.
The other day I realized that I may have been short a uniform item for a function that night and I mentioned this to my buddies.
“You’d better get going, Shoe!”
“I have until 4…”
Then I looked at my wrist,
and pounded my fist,
thinking I had better head for the door!
“Run Shoe Run!” I heard the boys cheer,
as I put it in gear.
I changed really fast,
and was off with a blast.
“Watch Shoe go!” they cried,
and out of the door I flied!
I ran through the rain,
bypassing bus and train.
In no time at all,
I was at the uniform mall.
The pin of a Shoe’s heritage I bought,
and as I left the store I thought,
“Now my wardrobe is complete, thanks to this Shoe’s fleet feet!”
07 December 2008
As the Polygon Turns: Less Than "Great Expectations" (Episode 17)
If Dickens had worked at the National Polygon, he would have written about the happenings in the basement; for it is the Underworld, the slums, the debtor prison, the orphanage, the milieu of the vagabonds and unsavory misfortunates of the Polygon's wretched side. Whenever I find myself down there I recall his words: “A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other.”
I traverse through the basement when I want to make best speed from my office to the PAC (Polygon Athletic Center). Monday I miscalculated (which is a nice way of saying that I just plain wasn't paying attention) and got off the escalator on the mezzanine. Mezzanine mezzanine – sounds so glorious: the mezzanine, like the sun deck on a cruise ship or the really choice seats at a sports stadium! But no, come now. This is our National Polygon. Still, it is one step above the basement – or at least one floor. Anyway, I walked about half a corridor over before I looked up and realized that they had not cleaned up the walls and relocated some reputable offices in the basement, but rather I was off course. I was at the wrong latitude.
After regaining my track, I found my way down one more level and began to wend my way through the thoroughly confusing but always amusing circuitous corridors of the ‘B’ ring of the ‘B’ level. As I approached the first blind intersection, I saw that my path was inexorably blocked by a large grey cart straight out of a Star Wars movie. Strange it was to me that driver of this six foot by four foot gray rectangular bucket didn’t pause at intersections; when I had a chance to get a look at him, I realized that neither caution nor anything resembling responsible adult behavior typically occurred to him.
That was fine. Although I had been eagerly speedwalking to get to my workout, I was so intrigued by this creature, I had no problem waiting for him to pass by at his parade-like pace. He looked to be no more than about seven and forty years old, but was probably actually ten years younger still. Within the maximum height restriction of 5'5", he was as challenged as he was proud of the garbage car he wheeled with such dominance through these corridors: never once careening it off of the walls as seems to have been the fate of so many to have come before his. English was clearly not this man’s first language, but his senses (and sense of his surroundings) seemed alien to my most vocal body language – which is not to say that I was farting; just that I was practically doing the Heisman to get around his cart and executing a veritable game of red rover to safely get to the next corridor so I could continue on my way to workout bliss. I made a point of breathing like I had a cold since my nose was pretty much level with the contents of his trash bin during this whole encounter. Providence saw it fit on this day for me to make it past this Quasimodian garbageman, and I safely made it to the PAC without further incident.
Upon my return to this particular section of the basement, the bowels really, where the elevators terminate, there were three people lounging on tall boxes, mocking a fourth who was attempting to sweep the floor near their feet. The latter fellow – a bent over Mexican-looking man, younger than the others, looked to be annoying the ring-leader of the trio a great deal. I am sure there was some history behind the angst he was causing Ho-Chi-Mihn (who kept snarling and sucking like his dentures were in backwards), but damned if I could see what he was really doing wrong at this instant.
“You need to shhiitt down-- oveah dare-- go ova dare and shhhittt… Nooooooah! You go shhhhiiiiitttt ovah dare! I can take no more. Schtopp!”
Jose almost seemed to be enjoying the rage he was inciting because he just kept sweeping. I chuckled to myself – or at least I thought it was to myself. The pair of people behind the ring-leader, a yoda-like man and a woman who looked like a telly tubby, regarded me curiously as I paused for a moment to take this scene in before I rounded the corner on my journey back to civilization – or at least militarization. And again I heard dear Dickens: “In any of the burial places of this city through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?”
I traverse through the basement when I want to make best speed from my office to the PAC (Polygon Athletic Center). Monday I miscalculated (which is a nice way of saying that I just plain wasn't paying attention) and got off the escalator on the mezzanine. Mezzanine mezzanine – sounds so glorious: the mezzanine, like the sun deck on a cruise ship or the really choice seats at a sports stadium! But no, come now. This is our National Polygon. Still, it is one step above the basement – or at least one floor. Anyway, I walked about half a corridor over before I looked up and realized that they had not cleaned up the walls and relocated some reputable offices in the basement, but rather I was off course. I was at the wrong latitude.
After regaining my track, I found my way down one more level and began to wend my way through the thoroughly confusing but always amusing circuitous corridors of the ‘B’ ring of the ‘B’ level. As I approached the first blind intersection, I saw that my path was inexorably blocked by a large grey cart straight out of a Star Wars movie. Strange it was to me that driver of this six foot by four foot gray rectangular bucket didn’t pause at intersections; when I had a chance to get a look at him, I realized that neither caution nor anything resembling responsible adult behavior typically occurred to him.
That was fine. Although I had been eagerly speedwalking to get to my workout, I was so intrigued by this creature, I had no problem waiting for him to pass by at his parade-like pace. He looked to be no more than about seven and forty years old, but was probably actually ten years younger still. Within the maximum height restriction of 5'5", he was as challenged as he was proud of the garbage car he wheeled with such dominance through these corridors: never once careening it off of the walls as seems to have been the fate of so many to have come before his. English was clearly not this man’s first language, but his senses (and sense of his surroundings) seemed alien to my most vocal body language – which is not to say that I was farting; just that I was practically doing the Heisman to get around his cart and executing a veritable game of red rover to safely get to the next corridor so I could continue on my way to workout bliss. I made a point of breathing like I had a cold since my nose was pretty much level with the contents of his trash bin during this whole encounter. Providence saw it fit on this day for me to make it past this Quasimodian garbageman, and I safely made it to the PAC without further incident.
Upon my return to this particular section of the basement, the bowels really, where the elevators terminate, there were three people lounging on tall boxes, mocking a fourth who was attempting to sweep the floor near their feet. The latter fellow – a bent over Mexican-looking man, younger than the others, looked to be annoying the ring-leader of the trio a great deal. I am sure there was some history behind the angst he was causing Ho-Chi-Mihn (who kept snarling and sucking like his dentures were in backwards), but damned if I could see what he was really doing wrong at this instant.
“You need to shhiitt down-- oveah dare-- go ova dare and shhhittt… Nooooooah! You go shhhhiiiiitttt ovah dare! I can take no more. Schtopp!”
Jose almost seemed to be enjoying the rage he was inciting because he just kept sweeping. I chuckled to myself – or at least I thought it was to myself. The pair of people behind the ring-leader, a yoda-like man and a woman who looked like a telly tubby, regarded me curiously as I paused for a moment to take this scene in before I rounded the corner on my journey back to civilization – or at least militarization. And again I heard dear Dickens: “In any of the burial places of this city through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?”
25 November 2008
As the Polygon Turns: Off Santa (Episode 16)
After spending two weeks in Navyland and a weekend of yukking it up with family, I was a little off on Monday -- even for a Monday, even for me. I would like to blame my dull edge on something other than my own psyche, but when you're like me (either intensely focused or completely detached to the point of flakiness), you can't honestly look far for excuses. For starters, though, the 6:20 bus didn't show up. With only Jack Frost to keep me company and yearning to question the bus god about a schedule change, I waited for over 20 minutes until (what I thought was) the 6:35 bus picked me up. A similar thing happened to me this morning only Jack Frost had the day off and Mr. Manwhossonjustgothislicense waited with me. He'd been out there since before 6, though. Mr. Nice Guy who lives in the house adjacent to the bus stop told us that he wishes he had known we were out here; he would have made a bigger pot of coffee and invited us in to read his paper. Today when I got on the bus, I quizzed the driver about the beloved, tardy 6:20 bus, and she sheepishly admitted that she was late. 15 min late! Crazy.
So anyway... Holy crap! The bus driver just asked us "Do we go straight or to the right?" A chorus of ten helpermonkeys screamed "Right!". Hmmm. It is all becoming clear to me now. Sheesh. It's already 7 am. We're usually at the Polygon by now. I am taking a nap.
Sleep seemed like the best way to gather my thoughts (though unfortunately not my saliva) and have a better Tuesday than Monday.
Later in the day I carved some time out of my schedule to put to rest this chore called getting my dinner dress uniform striped and tailored. While Washington DC may have a plethora of military personnel, it is not necessarily a hub of accommodating Naval Uniform facilities. In fact, until I met the Uniform Santa, the only thing more UNaccomodating was the fit of women's Navy uniforms themselves. I could seriously discourse and demonstrate for hours about the ridiculous sizes, fits and inconsistencies of these hopeless trappings we attempt to pass off as professional attire. I mean who or what in the HELL is used to size these things? A male mannequin with a basketball for an ass, t-rex arms, thankles, and cabbage patch feet? But there I go... Sorry. So, back to my story.
I had heard rumor of there being a uniform shop at the Navy Annex complex, so I took the shuttle over there around lunchtime. Before getting off, I asked the driver where the uniform tailor was. Atypical of bus drivers in the region, he was completely UNhelpful. He had no clue and merely mumbled something about maybe finding the Exchange. There was a loopy Air Force Sergeant of some flavor behind me, though. As eager to help as he was to provide running commentary on subjects of interest to no one, he pointed me in the direction of the Marine Corps Exchange. Once I was inside this mall-like edifice, it took me 5 minutes to get the attention of one of the six bird brains behind the perfume counter. I think I said "pardon me" or "excuse me" 7 or 8 times. The only one I could get to acknowledge me directed me to the upstairs and told me I should ask again up there. Mind you, all this time I am schlepping that superlong skirt and silly coat with me -- I rate a lot of fabric. So I get upstairs and the man up there matter-of-factly directs me to a small room next to the men's changing room -- hello, scary! The tailor in there looks at me like I have ten heads. So who scared whom? Seriously, I wanted him to tailor a woman's skirt and jacket?!! Perish the thought. He would have nothing to do with me and in broken English told me that I needed to go to the next building. Hmmmmnph. So I went back to the man who directed me to that tailor. He confusedly tried to direct me to the uniform store somewhere else, leading me to believe it was around the corner, in another building in this complex of buildings called Harrison Hall. (The Marines are a very mixed up breed). As I muddled off, some kind lady - who ought to be sainted, by the way - interrupted and told me that I need to go back to the Navy Annex where the shuttle dropped me off, in the main building and down the 6th corridor. Uh, okay. So that is what I did. I followed some signs and found myself at a tailor and dry-cleaner at the base of a stairwell. I am in luck! I think - not so fast. When I entered, rang the bell, and inquired about getting my uniform tailored and striped, the young lady there tells me "No. Tailor is on vacation."
Huh? You cannot be serious! The drama the drama.
"Not till 10 days. She on vacation."
"So what do I do.... Where can I go to have this done?"
"I know."
"You don't know? Where can I go? Is there a military tailor around here?"
"I know."
"You don't know?" How can you not know? I think.
"Yes, I know."
"Oh, you do? Where."
"You go to uniform santa."
"Uniform Santa?"
"Yes, uniform santa, uniform santa... I show you."
WTF... Uniform Santa? Is this some sort of holiday special? Or a hoax?
She takes me out the door & points down the hall at a sign with an arrow that reads: Uniform Center.
Aaaahhhh, okay! Uniform CEN -TER. Hmmmnpf. Who knew?
Well, to make an already long story a little less long, the lady in there was great -- quite the little helper. She let me swap out a skirt and a shirt for ones of the same "size" that fit better. What's more is that she generally empathized with the plight of the Naval Woman in Washington and our entire uniform dilemma. So ho ho ho (the holiday, not the trampy kind - these are uniforms we are talking about people. Have some respect!)
So anyway... Holy crap! The bus driver just asked us "Do we go straight or to the right?" A chorus of ten helpermonkeys screamed "Right!". Hmmm. It is all becoming clear to me now. Sheesh. It's already 7 am. We're usually at the Polygon by now. I am taking a nap.
Sleep seemed like the best way to gather my thoughts (though unfortunately not my saliva) and have a better Tuesday than Monday.
Later in the day I carved some time out of my schedule to put to rest this chore called getting my dinner dress uniform striped and tailored. While Washington DC may have a plethora of military personnel, it is not necessarily a hub of accommodating Naval Uniform facilities. In fact, until I met the Uniform Santa, the only thing more UNaccomodating was the fit of women's Navy uniforms themselves. I could seriously discourse and demonstrate for hours about the ridiculous sizes, fits and inconsistencies of these hopeless trappings we attempt to pass off as professional attire. I mean who or what in the HELL is used to size these things? A male mannequin with a basketball for an ass, t-rex arms, thankles, and cabbage patch feet? But there I go... Sorry. So, back to my story.
I had heard rumor of there being a uniform shop at the Navy Annex complex, so I took the shuttle over there around lunchtime. Before getting off, I asked the driver where the uniform tailor was. Atypical of bus drivers in the region, he was completely UNhelpful. He had no clue and merely mumbled something about maybe finding the Exchange. There was a loopy Air Force Sergeant of some flavor behind me, though. As eager to help as he was to provide running commentary on subjects of interest to no one, he pointed me in the direction of the Marine Corps Exchange. Once I was inside this mall-like edifice, it took me 5 minutes to get the attention of one of the six bird brains behind the perfume counter. I think I said "pardon me" or "excuse me" 7 or 8 times. The only one I could get to acknowledge me directed me to the upstairs and told me I should ask again up there. Mind you, all this time I am schlepping that superlong skirt and silly coat with me -- I rate a lot of fabric. So I get upstairs and the man up there matter-of-factly directs me to a small room next to the men's changing room -- hello, scary! The tailor in there looks at me like I have ten heads. So who scared whom? Seriously, I wanted him to tailor a woman's skirt and jacket?!! Perish the thought. He would have nothing to do with me and in broken English told me that I needed to go to the next building. Hmmmmnph. So I went back to the man who directed me to that tailor. He confusedly tried to direct me to the uniform store somewhere else, leading me to believe it was around the corner, in another building in this complex of buildings called Harrison Hall. (The Marines are a very mixed up breed). As I muddled off, some kind lady - who ought to be sainted, by the way - interrupted and told me that I need to go back to the Navy Annex where the shuttle dropped me off, in the main building and down the 6th corridor. Uh, okay. So that is what I did. I followed some signs and found myself at a tailor and dry-cleaner at the base of a stairwell. I am in luck! I think - not so fast. When I entered, rang the bell, and inquired about getting my uniform tailored and striped, the young lady there tells me "No. Tailor is on vacation."
Huh? You cannot be serious! The drama the drama.
"Not till 10 days. She on vacation."
"So what do I do.... Where can I go to have this done?"
"I know."
"You don't know? Where can I go? Is there a military tailor around here?"
"I know."
"You don't know?" How can you not know? I think.
"Yes, I know."
"Oh, you do? Where."
"You go to uniform santa."
"Uniform Santa?"
"Yes, uniform santa, uniform santa... I show you."
WTF... Uniform Santa? Is this some sort of holiday special? Or a hoax?
She takes me out the door & points down the hall at a sign with an arrow that reads: Uniform Center.
Aaaahhhh, okay! Uniform CEN -TER. Hmmmnpf. Who knew?
Well, to make an already long story a little less long, the lady in there was great -- quite the little helper. She let me swap out a skirt and a shirt for ones of the same "size" that fit better. What's more is that she generally empathized with the plight of the Naval Woman in Washington and our entire uniform dilemma. So ho ho ho (the holiday, not the trampy kind - these are uniforms we are talking about people. Have some respect!)
17 November 2008
As the Polygon Turns: Somewhat Unrelated Ridiculousity (Episode 15)
Well, it has been over a week since I have posted a post and I feel obligated to make some comment on what’s been going on in my world. It’s been a little discombobulated I tell you, kind of like the place where I am. Tennessee: unusually slow-paced and drawn out, yet with splashes of flair, humor, culture and downright freakish ridiculosity. Yes, I made up that word ridiculosity; for there really isn’t a word that typifies the noun form of ridiculous. It is my neologism. Funny thing about that word neologism. The first time I used it around someone who used to work for me, he thought it sounded dirty – like really dirty, fit only for a porno, very unlike something that I would use so freely and candidly, which is to say without smirking or speaking softly lest someone should actually hear me. So, yeah, around him I stopped using that word for made up words.
Anyway, so here are some bits and quotes of the week with background stories or editorial comments thrown in either for context or just for my own amusement or gratification (often one in the same).
Favorite line from a FITREP:
“________ [community] …sends only it’s best to… ____ [command]. CDR ______ is tops!”
-- The officers there are so great they are above proper grammar.
Tank commander
-- Moniker for the dude who verifies only people on the precepts letter sit in on the tank sessions (selection proceedings); basically he is a bouncer with a ripped-off, dorky name
Piggy
-- name of a colleague who snorts, hmmmms, ah-has, taps, and keeps asking for more records to review or more petty bits of administrative labor, causing the rest of us to think he should lay off of the crack. He is a nice enough guy, though, so we shouldn’t poke too much fun – but it is so easy!
Flying Saucer
-- They have 200 beers on tap. To become a member of the UFO club you have to drink at least one of each beer. I was seriously considering taking on the challenge during my 12 days here until I learned of the catch: they will only count three per night. I suppose that is some self-righteous way of discouraging binge drinking. Hmmmmfph. They just lost a lot of business from me. Still, we went back three times over the course of three days (Thurs-Sat), which just goes to show, you can’t keep a thirsty dog from stepping up to the water bowl --or something like that.
$5.68
-- the amount you will pay for 4 beers at Chili’s. That’s right. They are 2 for the price of 1. Once you order one (which is really two), how can you resist the second (the third and the fourth)? The first night we went there, I ordered just the 1 (2), then felt I needed to order the 2nd (3rd/4th) because I feared my company was so lame that I needed a little more alcohol to lively at least myself up to suffer their company. The second time we went there, I only planned on having the 1 (2), but when I was halfway through the 2nd (1st ‘round’) and the waitress asked if I wanted another, my previously lame (though still teetotaling – mango teetotaling, actually) friend said “she’ll have another.” And so I did. And so I did. Shoot, who could beat the price?
Ducks in the hotel
--yeah, so ducks live in the Peabody Hotel. I don’t know if anyone knew this. These fowl inhabitants are apparently the hotel’s claim to fame. They live on the roof and recreate in a fountain in the lobby, taking an elevator down & then up again in the morning and the evening.
House of the Rising Sun
--back in the day Elvis named his horse Rising Sun. He called the stable the House of Rising Sun. This and so much more I learned at Graceland. …wouldn’t you know it that even amid the flurry of 50+ white jumpsuits and a room with a green carpeted ceiling, the pun would leave the most lasting impression on me? "Thank 'ya verry much!"
15 minutes
-- the period of time that it will take anyone to get anywhere or to do anything around these parts. Ask someone how long it will take to get from Millington to Memphis or from Wood Hall to the Commissary and the answer will be 15 minutes. If you have seen them move or do math, then you would know why.
Saturday night follies:
Some of the colorful conversation we superheroes had Saturday night at B.B. King's...
Robin: Did you know that lady was a prostitute?
Batman: Yes. They all are.
Robin: All three of them?
Batman: Seriously, you thought they were actually interested in you?
Robin: No, but--- well, I mean not until she asked me how long I was going to be in town and how far I wanted to go… man, that’s… sheesh.
Batman: It’s all right, brother.
[When referring to the conversation he just had with a girl carrying around a blow up doll wearing a wife beater that read ‘Marry me Sara.’]
Robin: That’s a bachelorette party!
Wonder Woman: Uh, Yeah.
Robin: You knew that?!
Wonder Woman: [feeling a little bad because this so closely resembled the conversation Robin had had with Batman about a half an hour earlier (see above)] Uh, yeah, that’s what goes on… didn’t you know that? You can sign the doll’s leg if you want to.
Robin: No thanks.
Anyway, so here are some bits and quotes of the week with background stories or editorial comments thrown in either for context or just for my own amusement or gratification (often one in the same).
Favorite line from a FITREP:
“________ [community] …sends only it’s best to… ____ [command]. CDR ______ is tops!”
-- The officers there are so great they are above proper grammar.
Tank commander
-- Moniker for the dude who verifies only people on the precepts letter sit in on the tank sessions (selection proceedings); basically he is a bouncer with a ripped-off, dorky name
Piggy
-- name of a colleague who snorts, hmmmms, ah-has, taps, and keeps asking for more records to review or more petty bits of administrative labor, causing the rest of us to think he should lay off of the crack. He is a nice enough guy, though, so we shouldn’t poke too much fun – but it is so easy!
Flying Saucer
-- They have 200 beers on tap. To become a member of the UFO club you have to drink at least one of each beer. I was seriously considering taking on the challenge during my 12 days here until I learned of the catch: they will only count three per night. I suppose that is some self-righteous way of discouraging binge drinking. Hmmmmfph. They just lost a lot of business from me. Still, we went back three times over the course of three days (Thurs-Sat), which just goes to show, you can’t keep a thirsty dog from stepping up to the water bowl --or something like that.
$5.68
-- the amount you will pay for 4 beers at Chili’s. That’s right. They are 2 for the price of 1. Once you order one (which is really two), how can you resist the second (the third and the fourth)? The first night we went there, I ordered just the 1 (2), then felt I needed to order the 2nd (3rd/4th) because I feared my company was so lame that I needed a little more alcohol to lively at least myself up to suffer their company. The second time we went there, I only planned on having the 1 (2), but when I was halfway through the 2nd (1st ‘round’) and the waitress asked if I wanted another, my previously lame (though still teetotaling – mango teetotaling, actually) friend said “she’ll have another.” And so I did. And so I did. Shoot, who could beat the price?
Ducks in the hotel
--yeah, so ducks live in the Peabody Hotel. I don’t know if anyone knew this. These fowl inhabitants are apparently the hotel’s claim to fame. They live on the roof and recreate in a fountain in the lobby, taking an elevator down & then up again in the morning and the evening.
House of the Rising Sun
--back in the day Elvis named his horse Rising Sun. He called the stable the House of Rising Sun. This and so much more I learned at Graceland. …wouldn’t you know it that even amid the flurry of 50+ white jumpsuits and a room with a green carpeted ceiling, the pun would leave the most lasting impression on me? "Thank 'ya verry much!"
15 minutes
-- the period of time that it will take anyone to get anywhere or to do anything around these parts. Ask someone how long it will take to get from Millington to Memphis or from Wood Hall to the Commissary and the answer will be 15 minutes. If you have seen them move or do math, then you would know why.
Saturday night follies:
Some of the colorful conversation we superheroes had Saturday night at B.B. King's...
Robin: Did you know that lady was a prostitute?
Batman: Yes. They all are.
Robin: All three of them?
Batman: Seriously, you thought they were actually interested in you?
Robin: No, but--- well, I mean not until she asked me how long I was going to be in town and how far I wanted to go… man, that’s… sheesh.
Batman: It’s all right, brother.
[When referring to the conversation he just had with a girl carrying around a blow up doll wearing a wife beater that read ‘Marry me Sara.’]
Robin: That’s a bachelorette party!
Wonder Woman: Uh, Yeah.
Robin: You knew that?!
Wonder Woman: [feeling a little bad because this so closely resembled the conversation Robin had had with Batman about a half an hour earlier (see above)] Uh, yeah, that’s what goes on… didn’t you know that? You can sign the doll’s leg if you want to.
Robin: No thanks.
10 November 2008
As the Polygon Turns: Transition times... warding off disappointment (Episode 14)
So, a new President has been elected. And while it might amuse you all to read what I have to say about the election, whom I voted for, or what I think about the road ahead, having never been a political person before in my life, I am not about to start now. Don't get me wrong; I care. The things I do on a daily basis are affected a great deal by who the President is and what his policies are going to be. I simply prefer not to pontificate about it. There are a lot more fun and ephemeral things to discuss. Let's take this transition season for example. For the past few months (since I started working in the office I work at now), there have been several instances in meetings that I have been in people have put off making a decision about one thing or another because "in a few months, who knows what is going to happen... who knows if this body is even going to exist?" ...amazing the excuses people find to justify their inaction! Rather than have a plan, a body or a policy ready for the new administration to approve, rather than having something ready and in place to brief the transition team on, they would rather throw their proverbial hands up in the air or nestle farther into their cubicles and do nothing. That is funny to me. So, I decided to kick off this transition season with my own brand of diffidence: by returning to the fold of my parent service and giving a little back to my warfare community. My meetings and binders and emails and bureaucracy will be waiting for me when I get back. For such is the speed of government. It's transition season... I've got time.
Within minutes of landing at the Memphis International Airport, I learned two very important facts. First, the airport ladies room also serves as a natural disaster shelter. I assume the same goes for the men's room. I'm not real familiar with the airport's other options as far as safe havens go, but the prospect of huddling in this stankass brick-walled rectangle with potentially hundreds of pannicking women would be a downright natural disaster in and of itself. Shoosh. Anyway, the second thing I learned was a touch less dramatic. Actually, it was veritibly anti-climactic. I mean there I was, having just landed in the city of Elvis and Blues and barbeque ribs, civil rights, and ducks who walk on red carpets, and the banner above my head as I descended the escalator into baggage claim read: "Memphis, The Distribution Center of America." Seriously? Yep. Disappointed, huh? Me too.
Earlier, during my layover in Atlanta, I encountered anything but disappointment. My expectations were a lot lower, though, so there you go. After an hour searching for a store that sold black socks, I settled in to grab a little din din at the illustrious Miller Lite Restaraunt. Here follows my account of my dining experience.
A waitress just stopped by and inquired about the second chair at my table: "Anyone using this?"
What I said was: "uh, no."
What I should have said was, "my imaginary friend."
How much funnier would that have made things? Instead, it was only entertainment in my world (my head). If only I hadn't been so slow on the uptake.
Ah, there goes the last sip of my very tall glass of Miller Lite. Ah, breathe. I do believe my headache's gone. What a rejeuvenating beverage: beer.
"Are you sure you don't want another one?"
Temptress waitress. I wasn't going to.
"Uh, why not?" Carefree in Atlanta. It's the next best thing to footloose and fancy free - or so it seems to me at this moment. The Steelers are ahead of the Colts. Am I allowed to use their names in this forum without the express written consent of the National Football League? If not, strike that. Let us just say that the Pennsylvania Metal Factory workers are up on the Horsies. Shoot, that sounds funnier anyway. So, take that, copywright infringe...
Oooooh, my new extra tall and frosty frothy goodness Miller Light just arrived -- talk about a shiny nickel? So yeah, take that copyright infringement laws!
Hup. The receipt - I mean the check - just arrived. Crappers, time to do math. Um, half of 18 is 9, half of 9 is 4 and a half, so 4 plus 18 is 22, to make the $18.60 even let's go with 23, so in reverse that's a $4.40 cent tip, right? Well, that's what I wrote down. Russ threatened to get me a math drills/exercises book. Screw that. I will just concentrate a little harder. I can do math fine. Sometimes I just get a little distracted or diffident. Math and me is like that time worn quote: "some people say that the two biggest problems today are ignorance and apathy. But I don't know and I don't care." Ha! Cracks me up. Maybe I will eat these potato chips. They are here -- but then I might not be able to finish my beer. Seriously? Yeah, maybe I'll do without the chips after all. I am so fortunate I have a built in alter ego to consult.
Ah, beer is such a transformational beverage. So lovely.
Woahoop. 10 min 'till my flight boards. I had better suck this beer back and hop to it.
-no pun intended -- seriously!
Within minutes of landing at the Memphis International Airport, I learned two very important facts. First, the airport ladies room also serves as a natural disaster shelter. I assume the same goes for the men's room. I'm not real familiar with the airport's other options as far as safe havens go, but the prospect of huddling in this stankass brick-walled rectangle with potentially hundreds of pannicking women would be a downright natural disaster in and of itself. Shoosh. Anyway, the second thing I learned was a touch less dramatic. Actually, it was veritibly anti-climactic. I mean there I was, having just landed in the city of Elvis and Blues and barbeque ribs, civil rights, and ducks who walk on red carpets, and the banner above my head as I descended the escalator into baggage claim read: "Memphis, The Distribution Center of America." Seriously? Yep. Disappointed, huh? Me too.
Earlier, during my layover in Atlanta, I encountered anything but disappointment. My expectations were a lot lower, though, so there you go. After an hour searching for a store that sold black socks, I settled in to grab a little din din at the illustrious Miller Lite Restaraunt. Here follows my account of my dining experience.
A waitress just stopped by and inquired about the second chair at my table: "Anyone using this?"
What I said was: "uh, no."
What I should have said was, "my imaginary friend."
How much funnier would that have made things? Instead, it was only entertainment in my world (my head). If only I hadn't been so slow on the uptake.
Ah, there goes the last sip of my very tall glass of Miller Lite. Ah, breathe. I do believe my headache's gone. What a rejeuvenating beverage: beer.
"Are you sure you don't want another one?"
Temptress waitress. I wasn't going to.
"Uh, why not?" Carefree in Atlanta. It's the next best thing to footloose and fancy free - or so it seems to me at this moment. The Steelers are ahead of the Colts. Am I allowed to use their names in this forum without the express written consent of the National Football League? If not, strike that. Let us just say that the Pennsylvania Metal Factory workers are up on the Horsies. Shoot, that sounds funnier anyway. So, take that, copywright infringe...
Oooooh, my new extra tall and frosty frothy goodness Miller Light just arrived -- talk about a shiny nickel? So yeah, take that copyright infringement laws!
Hup. The receipt - I mean the check - just arrived. Crappers, time to do math. Um, half of 18 is 9, half of 9 is 4 and a half, so 4 plus 18 is 22, to make the $18.60 even let's go with 23, so in reverse that's a $4.40 cent tip, right? Well, that's what I wrote down. Russ threatened to get me a math drills/exercises book. Screw that. I will just concentrate a little harder. I can do math fine. Sometimes I just get a little distracted or diffident. Math and me is like that time worn quote: "some people say that the two biggest problems today are ignorance and apathy. But I don't know and I don't care." Ha! Cracks me up. Maybe I will eat these potato chips. They are here -- but then I might not be able to finish my beer. Seriously? Yeah, maybe I'll do without the chips after all. I am so fortunate I have a built in alter ego to consult.
Ah, beer is such a transformational beverage. So lovely.
Woahoop. 10 min 'till my flight boards. I had better suck this beer back and hop to it.
-no pun intended -- seriously!
28 October 2008
As the Polygon Turns: Here Ye (Episode 13)
I spent a good portion of my morning with a man named Lamont. Yesterday he approached me about carpooling over to ____ for a meeting that was also going to be broadcast as a SVTC, which stands for Secret Videoteleconference and is pronounced "sieve-itts". If one is going to remotely attend such a meeting, the act of doing so is called sievettsing in - this never ceases to crack me up. So when Lamont asked me to carpool I asked him if he had a car. He replied yes, and I told him in that case I would love to. That rather cracked me up too.
We took what he called his “humble black chariot” – an S class Mercedes Benz - and rode in style. Funny was such luxury for me (not “ha ha” funny) because I rarely ride in style. I am just not a rideinstyle kind of girl. Anyway, so as Lamont and I were discussing things or I was telling him one story or another, he would rejoinder not by saying yes” or “oh” or “hmmm” or “I see,” but rather he would nod and say “here here.” He would utter these words so frequently too, like one attending a gospel service might say “amen.” He would say "here here" so often over the course of my stories that I just kept on talking to see how long I could maintain both his attention and his concurrence. I am not typically a big talker (when it comes to people whom I have only just met), but I just wanted to keep blabbing on and on with him cheering me on with his "here heres," like the way people are inspired to keep running a long race because crowds are celebrating them. Hmmmuh. I just reminded myself of a funny pun that might take a bit of history to explain.
First I will make the pun/joke, then I will explain it. That way those of you who already know the background can skip over it and not be annoyed or bored. So, here goes:
'If Lamont were in a propulsion plant, where would you find him?'
'In a hear-here booth!'
Ha ha ha ha ha. I crack myself up – I know, I can hear the groaning (here) from all of those already in the know.
For those who aren't, here's the history (here): down in the propulsion plants it is very loud (due to the rotating machinery & steam). Therefore, when watchstanders have to communicate on the phone, they put their heads in soundproof booths that we call “hear-here” – or is it “here-hear?” I could never decide which – booths. So, yeah, that would be where you could find Lamont if he were in the propulsion plant. Okay, that horse is still dead. Sorry to belabor the pun.
So the meeting was good. I believe I gave good input, helped advance my cause and generally kicked ass. Funny, that is certainly a testament to my line of work now. In days past, I might have measured daily accomplishments by how much maintenance got done on my watch, whether we got underway or started the plants up safely, or whether we were able to engage all of our targets in suchandsuch an exercise. Instead, now all I can say is that I kicked ass in a meeting and I created and briefed a successful prep book for the General. Late in the afternoon yesterday (the wacko things always happen after 4 pm in the office, it is like the witching hour, things get a little squirrelly, people get a little punchy), one of my colleagues (we’ll call him Lou Brock) started cheering, “Yeah! Yeah! Damn, when I was a kid and I dreamed of being in the Navy, this was the stuff I knew I would be great at: printing off slides, punching holes, setting tabs, and preparing KICK ASS binders! Yeah!” You said it Lou. Here here!
We took what he called his “humble black chariot” – an S class Mercedes Benz - and rode in style. Funny was such luxury for me (not “ha ha” funny) because I rarely ride in style. I am just not a rideinstyle kind of girl. Anyway, so as Lamont and I were discussing things or I was telling him one story or another, he would rejoinder not by saying yes” or “oh” or “hmmm” or “I see,” but rather he would nod and say “here here.” He would utter these words so frequently too, like one attending a gospel service might say “amen.” He would say "here here" so often over the course of my stories that I just kept on talking to see how long I could maintain both his attention and his concurrence. I am not typically a big talker (when it comes to people whom I have only just met), but I just wanted to keep blabbing on and on with him cheering me on with his "here heres," like the way people are inspired to keep running a long race because crowds are celebrating them. Hmmmuh. I just reminded myself of a funny pun that might take a bit of history to explain.
First I will make the pun/joke, then I will explain it. That way those of you who already know the background can skip over it and not be annoyed or bored. So, here goes:
'If Lamont were in a propulsion plant, where would you find him?'
'In a hear-here booth!'
Ha ha ha ha ha. I crack myself up – I know, I can hear the groaning (here) from all of those already in the know.
For those who aren't, here's the history (here): down in the propulsion plants it is very loud (due to the rotating machinery & steam). Therefore, when watchstanders have to communicate on the phone, they put their heads in soundproof booths that we call “hear-here” – or is it “here-hear?” I could never decide which – booths. So, yeah, that would be where you could find Lamont if he were in the propulsion plant. Okay, that horse is still dead. Sorry to belabor the pun.
So the meeting was good. I believe I gave good input, helped advance my cause and generally kicked ass. Funny, that is certainly a testament to my line of work now. In days past, I might have measured daily accomplishments by how much maintenance got done on my watch, whether we got underway or started the plants up safely, or whether we were able to engage all of our targets in suchandsuch an exercise. Instead, now all I can say is that I kicked ass in a meeting and I created and briefed a successful prep book for the General. Late in the afternoon yesterday (the wacko things always happen after 4 pm in the office, it is like the witching hour, things get a little squirrelly, people get a little punchy), one of my colleagues (we’ll call him Lou Brock) started cheering, “Yeah! Yeah! Damn, when I was a kid and I dreamed of being in the Navy, this was the stuff I knew I would be great at: printing off slides, punching holes, setting tabs, and preparing KICK ASS binders! Yeah!” You said it Lou. Here here!
18 October 2008
As the Polygon Turns: Pageantry (Episode 12)
Though often thought provoking, the conference I attended earlier this week was beset by boring moments of poor oratory or overbelabored scholarship. To amuse myself during these latter instances, I created a beauty pageant in my head, featuring the conference attendees. Now these people to whom I refer are by no means "knockout models" or even people of "inner beauty." These individuals were those who might inspire you to sarcastically exclaim: "Look at him/her! S/He is a real beauty!" (or even a "bute," for short). So here you go, you be the judge. Here are the top five contestants:
Contestant #1:
He's a 40 something year old man sporting a Navy blue sportsjacket. Unable to decide whether he's hot or cold, he periodically puts his jacket on and takes it off. When he's not wearing it, he fastidiously arranges it as he might a drapery for the back of his chair. Careful to keep the shoulder pads just so, I wonder why he has been careless enough to fail to notice that his left sleeve has one fewer button than the right. He is THE MAN WITH SEVEN BUTTONS.
Contestant #2:
This man is a prune personified if he is anything at all: wrinkled in face, body, speech, and clothing. I am amazed that I had overlooked him all morning up until lunchtime - perhaps because OCD 7 button boy was my shiney nickel of the morning. He's easily 60-something with silvergrey hair scraggled about his neck and a bearded face like a lovingly crumpled dog bed. A yellowing undershirt tries to free itself at the collar from the confines of a scrunched up blue buttondown shirt stuffed into a green tweed blazer that had its heyday in the late 60s (1860s maybe). He carried his head like it was an obligation, craning it above the level of his hunched back, as a turtle would from its shell. And if appearances were insufficient, we witnessed the true breadth of his persona when he engaged us in conversation. Here is how it happened. My buddy JP and I were alternately hovering and (we'd like to think non-descriptly) pecking away at the dessert buffet spread, when the walrus made eye contact with us and started talking to us. So much as I can recall, our repartee went thus:
"Well, you know I just love blah military blah dishes in the sink in the grand canyon on a Thursday cream cheese afternoon bicycle fish armoire skates it was nice and I can remember times when clocks and general chairs with wheels friends on ice and cake with peach colored manage projects major tables..."
"Yes, hmmm" I said.
"You see, the best time was when flights of mice and mess machines with clown noses finger sandwiches..."
"Oh, yeah," JP chimed in.
"I am telling you that the jeeps of captain made the crumpets laugh and pickled dresses red and green Martians hot spots on the moon with green cheese..."
"Yes, hmmm," I nodded, feigning interest (what was he saying??).
"And so those were just the dog in the cat house of dinosaur history of the blah blah COOKIES!"
"Yes, Sir, I know exactly what you mean." JP affirmed.
Me, I nodded and noted aloud that the next presentation was about to begin. I excused myself. Holy crap, I can't believe JP followed that. I so suck at listening. A little while later, I asked JP what the guy was talking about and he said, "I have absolutely no idea. The only word I could make out was 'cookies,' and then he stopped talking." Oh, okay. That is contestant #2, The Walrus (coo-coo-cuh-choo).
Contestant #3:
Old Miss Inappropriate. She's a 45 yr+ woman in a mini skirt "Ohmigosh, Linda did you see that??!" Face quietly exclaimed with a look of quiet revulsion.
"No."
"She walked right by you as you were coming back to sit down... I don't know how you could have missed it." He waved his hand dismissively. "Some people do NOT need to be wearing miniskirts. Maybe 25 years ago… or maybe not..."
A little while later, during a presentation, he whispered and motioned for me to look across the room. And 'Oh My' was right. I saw her from a side profile, she wore navy blue tights, chunky pumps, a thigh-length cream-colored blazer and nothing else, so far as I could tell. Her skirt was THAT short. By the looks of her dyed, stringy black hair, monstrous quadriceps, and pancaked face, this broad was clearly past her prime. What could she have been thinking this morning when she assembled that outfit?
"She just has no business, no business, wearing a skirt like that," Face said, flabbergasted. She is OLD MISS INAPPROPRIATE.
Contestant #4:
Man with prostate problem(?). Before these days when they advertise every drug imaginable on TV, this thought would never have occurred to me. But as I saw a somewhat portly, concerned man, piddling about the conference room floor, in and out of the door, up and down from his table, back and forth to the exit, I thought, “perhaps he has a very week bladder. Perhaps his growing problem has become a going problem.” He’d sit down, seem very engaged, write a few notes, then apparently without cause, he’d get up, look around, and apologetically make his way to the door. Within five minutes, he’d inevitably return, stride to his seat and seem to pick up right where he left off. Fifteen to twenty minutes later, he would repeat the process. What was this man about, I wondered, what was his struggle? I began to feel sorry for him that he had to couldn’t stay engaged in the conference, listen to the speakers, and have his thoughts provoked instead of his bladder. Over the course of the day, however, it hit me. He doesn’t have a prostate problem… he is the main orchestrator of the conference. I am not sure if this suddenly banal fact and behavioral justification disqualifies him, but there you have it, Contestant #4: COMPULSIVE CONFERENCE COORDINATOR MAN.
Contestant #5:
Linen Lover. Okay, let me put this in perspective, it’s late October. We are in Virginia, not Cuba. It is NOT that hot here. Not hot enough to justify wearing an entire linen outfit. I think that this man simply wears linen as an excuse not to iron. One summer when I was in Montreal, I went shopping and considered buying a linen dress. Honestly what sold me on it was the gay guy’s declaration that wearing this, I need not worry about the wrinkles, “You’re on the metro, it’s hot and sticky, you get up, the back of your dress is all wrinkled, but no problem! Shoosh, it’s linen! No one ever expects linen NOT to be wrinkly, Sweetheart!” Oh, okay. I want to tell this man to just look around him: plenty of well-dressed and semi well-dressed men in Black, Navy, and Gray suits, Khaki pants and sports jackets… Seriously, Dude, why did you opt for the linen pants, linen jacket, and linen shirt? Was it to match your wrinkly leather bag? …hmmm wrinkles seem to be a fixation sticking point with me today. First the walrus, now this bloke. I know where he is coming from, but I can’t help but feel that his passion for this particular textile is a cop out on one of life’s essential chores: ironing. He IS THE LINEN LOVER.
So, what ‘ill it be? Who gets the award for Bute of the Weak? :
(1) MAN WITH SEVEN BUTTONS aka OCD BOY
(2) THE WALRUS aka COOKIE MONSTER
(3) OLD MISS INAPPROPRIATE aka MINISKIRT BITCH
(4) COMPULSIVE CONFERENCE COORDINATOR MAN aka POTENTIAL PROSTATE PROBLEM PERSON
(5) LINEN LOVER aka PRESSING PROTESTOR
Contestant #1:
He's a 40 something year old man sporting a Navy blue sportsjacket. Unable to decide whether he's hot or cold, he periodically puts his jacket on and takes it off. When he's not wearing it, he fastidiously arranges it as he might a drapery for the back of his chair. Careful to keep the shoulder pads just so, I wonder why he has been careless enough to fail to notice that his left sleeve has one fewer button than the right. He is THE MAN WITH SEVEN BUTTONS.
Contestant #2:
This man is a prune personified if he is anything at all: wrinkled in face, body, speech, and clothing. I am amazed that I had overlooked him all morning up until lunchtime - perhaps because OCD 7 button boy was my shiney nickel of the morning. He's easily 60-something with silvergrey hair scraggled about his neck and a bearded face like a lovingly crumpled dog bed. A yellowing undershirt tries to free itself at the collar from the confines of a scrunched up blue buttondown shirt stuffed into a green tweed blazer that had its heyday in the late 60s (1860s maybe). He carried his head like it was an obligation, craning it above the level of his hunched back, as a turtle would from its shell. And if appearances were insufficient, we witnessed the true breadth of his persona when he engaged us in conversation. Here is how it happened. My buddy JP and I were alternately hovering and (we'd like to think non-descriptly) pecking away at the dessert buffet spread, when the walrus made eye contact with us and started talking to us. So much as I can recall, our repartee went thus:
"Well, you know I just love blah military blah dishes in the sink in the grand canyon on a Thursday cream cheese afternoon bicycle fish armoire skates it was nice and I can remember times when clocks and general chairs with wheels friends on ice and cake with peach colored manage projects major tables..."
"Yes, hmmm" I said.
"You see, the best time was when flights of mice and mess machines with clown noses finger sandwiches..."
"Oh, yeah," JP chimed in.
"I am telling you that the jeeps of captain made the crumpets laugh and pickled dresses red and green Martians hot spots on the moon with green cheese..."
"Yes, hmmm," I nodded, feigning interest (what was he saying??).
"And so those were just the dog in the cat house of dinosaur history of the blah blah COOKIES!"
"Yes, Sir, I know exactly what you mean." JP affirmed.
Me, I nodded and noted aloud that the next presentation was about to begin. I excused myself. Holy crap, I can't believe JP followed that. I so suck at listening. A little while later, I asked JP what the guy was talking about and he said, "I have absolutely no idea. The only word I could make out was 'cookies,' and then he stopped talking." Oh, okay. That is contestant #2, The Walrus (coo-coo-cuh-choo).
Contestant #3:
Old Miss Inappropriate. She's a 45 yr+ woman in a mini skirt "Ohmigosh, Linda did you see that??!" Face quietly exclaimed with a look of quiet revulsion.
"No."
"She walked right by you as you were coming back to sit down... I don't know how you could have missed it." He waved his hand dismissively. "Some people do NOT need to be wearing miniskirts. Maybe 25 years ago… or maybe not..."
A little while later, during a presentation, he whispered and motioned for me to look across the room. And 'Oh My' was right. I saw her from a side profile, she wore navy blue tights, chunky pumps, a thigh-length cream-colored blazer and nothing else, so far as I could tell. Her skirt was THAT short. By the looks of her dyed, stringy black hair, monstrous quadriceps, and pancaked face, this broad was clearly past her prime. What could she have been thinking this morning when she assembled that outfit?
"She just has no business, no business, wearing a skirt like that," Face said, flabbergasted. She is OLD MISS INAPPROPRIATE.
Contestant #4:
Man with prostate problem(?). Before these days when they advertise every drug imaginable on TV, this thought would never have occurred to me. But as I saw a somewhat portly, concerned man, piddling about the conference room floor, in and out of the door, up and down from his table, back and forth to the exit, I thought, “perhaps he has a very week bladder. Perhaps his growing problem has become a going problem.” He’d sit down, seem very engaged, write a few notes, then apparently without cause, he’d get up, look around, and apologetically make his way to the door. Within five minutes, he’d inevitably return, stride to his seat and seem to pick up right where he left off. Fifteen to twenty minutes later, he would repeat the process. What was this man about, I wondered, what was his struggle? I began to feel sorry for him that he had to couldn’t stay engaged in the conference, listen to the speakers, and have his thoughts provoked instead of his bladder. Over the course of the day, however, it hit me. He doesn’t have a prostate problem… he is the main orchestrator of the conference. I am not sure if this suddenly banal fact and behavioral justification disqualifies him, but there you have it, Contestant #4: COMPULSIVE CONFERENCE COORDINATOR MAN.
Contestant #5:
Linen Lover. Okay, let me put this in perspective, it’s late October. We are in Virginia, not Cuba. It is NOT that hot here. Not hot enough to justify wearing an entire linen outfit. I think that this man simply wears linen as an excuse not to iron. One summer when I was in Montreal, I went shopping and considered buying a linen dress. Honestly what sold me on it was the gay guy’s declaration that wearing this, I need not worry about the wrinkles, “You’re on the metro, it’s hot and sticky, you get up, the back of your dress is all wrinkled, but no problem! Shoosh, it’s linen! No one ever expects linen NOT to be wrinkly, Sweetheart!” Oh, okay. I want to tell this man to just look around him: plenty of well-dressed and semi well-dressed men in Black, Navy, and Gray suits, Khaki pants and sports jackets… Seriously, Dude, why did you opt for the linen pants, linen jacket, and linen shirt? Was it to match your wrinkly leather bag? …hmmm wrinkles seem to be a fixation sticking point with me today. First the walrus, now this bloke. I know where he is coming from, but I can’t help but feel that his passion for this particular textile is a cop out on one of life’s essential chores: ironing. He IS THE LINEN LOVER.
So, what ‘ill it be? Who gets the award for Bute of the Weak? :
(1) MAN WITH SEVEN BUTTONS aka OCD BOY
(2) THE WALRUS aka COOKIE MONSTER
(3) OLD MISS INAPPROPRIATE aka MINISKIRT BITCH
(4) COMPULSIVE CONFERENCE COORDINATOR MAN aka POTENTIAL PROSTATE PROBLEM PERSON
(5) LINEN LOVER aka PRESSING PROTESTOR
15 October 2008
Feet of Strength
"I have been training for this moment my whole life." That's often a statement you'd hear from an Olympian or some other athlete after s/he wins the big game or event. While I like to consider myself an athlete, and the feat that I accomplished did involve some degree of athleticism, what I achieved would be by no man's measure an official event. I suceeded in maintaining my balance (thus neither bumping into my fellow passengers nor awkwardly busting my own ass) on the Metro train.
While throughout my life I have endeavored to improve my balance and coordination mainly to overcome my innate clumsiness, my training began in earnest last summer while riding public transportation in Hong Kong. It began as kind of a silly game to see if I could remain erect while the train took off and stopped, partly to combat boredom, partly because it entertained my friends, and partly because it annoyed my husband. Then, I picked it up again here in the DC area for my own nostalgic amusement, and it became such a regular habit of mine that it has ceased to annoy my husband (good man). These days, however, I am typically in uniform when I ride the metro train or bus, so I have to behave myself. I have had to clandestinely hone my skills which has actually served to intensify my training.
This morning my dedication and due diligence were unexpectedly put to the test. On my way to a conference, I hopped on the green line in the teeth of the commuter hour. Obviously there were no seats, and I had to move to part of the train that had no bars to hold. Inexperienced, frightened souls around me feverishly glanced about for a bar to grip for a secure handhold. Not me. I was sure of foot and stout of heart. I knew that this was my moment. I stood firm and dug in my proverbial (and literal) heels. The train lurched forward and whammo! my body remained virtually still, feet planted, solid as a church. When the time came for the train to stop, I likewise remained as firm in my footing as a tightroperope walker. When I alighted the train, I was so gleeful I wanted to hop up and click my heels. But I knew my limits. I hadn't practiced heel clicking. Besides, I was in uniform.
While throughout my life I have endeavored to improve my balance and coordination mainly to overcome my innate clumsiness, my training began in earnest last summer while riding public transportation in Hong Kong. It began as kind of a silly game to see if I could remain erect while the train took off and stopped, partly to combat boredom, partly because it entertained my friends, and partly because it annoyed my husband. Then, I picked it up again here in the DC area for my own nostalgic amusement, and it became such a regular habit of mine that it has ceased to annoy my husband (good man). These days, however, I am typically in uniform when I ride the metro train or bus, so I have to behave myself. I have had to clandestinely hone my skills which has actually served to intensify my training.
This morning my dedication and due diligence were unexpectedly put to the test. On my way to a conference, I hopped on the green line in the teeth of the commuter hour. Obviously there were no seats, and I had to move to part of the train that had no bars to hold. Inexperienced, frightened souls around me feverishly glanced about for a bar to grip for a secure handhold. Not me. I was sure of foot and stout of heart. I knew that this was my moment. I stood firm and dug in my proverbial (and literal) heels. The train lurched forward and whammo! my body remained virtually still, feet planted, solid as a church. When the time came for the train to stop, I likewise remained as firm in my footing as a tightroperope walker. When I alighted the train, I was so gleeful I wanted to hop up and click my heels. But I knew my limits. I hadn't practiced heel clicking. Besides, I was in uniform.
14 October 2008
As the Polygon Turns: A broad, humbly speaking (Episode 11)
So how do I begin to sum up the adventures of last week? Unlike how I usually manage to find so-called adventures in seemingly inconsequential, banal events and occurrences, I actually traveled to another country, met a lot of new people and saw some interesting sights, by anyone’s standards.
Last Monday morning I went to work with the intension of leaving around lunchtime. When I had left work the previous Friday, our trip was still up in the air – which is to say that it wasn’t 100% for certain that we would be able to go. Our country clearance hadn’t been submitted within the requisite 3 business days. We (although the “me” part of “we” had nothing to do with the arrangements, I was merely along for the ride; I am not exactly sure who the “we” was…) so, we had submitted the clearance request on Thursday, but it was well after close of business in the place where we were going. So, really, it was a matter of misunderstanding that Friday, Monday and Tuesday counted as 3 business days since the conference was to begin on Wednesday. We were to arrive in the country on Tuesday morning. I tell you, this was the way to do it. We left Monday night, arrived Tuesday morning and the conference was all day Wednesday, they took us out to dinner that night and had some business to do on Thursday morning, and we didn’t fly out again until Friday morning to arrive back home by Friday afternoon, just in time for a 3 day weekend. Boon-DOG-GLE!
I traveled there with Mojo and another Air Force Colonel, we’ll call him Special Ross (since he is a Special Ops pilot and he never told me his call sign). They didn’t care too much where we went, just that we found something to do to fill the time. Me, I hadn’t been to London in over 12 years and had a few specific and many general things that I wanted to accomplish. The illustrious Dr. Johnson, my father’s idol, said “when a man is tired of London, then he is tired of life.”
We spent Tuesday wandering the streets, tracking down little haunts and generally listening to me prattle on about this bit of history, that bit of literature, and other such random snippets about British life and times. After awhile, before they would ask me a question about some place or some building, they would say, “now for $2000, what is…” as though I were the most winningest game show contestant ever.
In Hyde Park in London there is a place called Speaker’s Corner. It is basically a non-descript patch of sidewalk where anyone can put down a milk crate (or a soap box), stand on it, and pontificate about whatever their little heart desires. If the speaker is good or interesting , a crowd will gather, if not, obviously, s/he is ignored or, perhaps, replaced by a louder, more interesting orator. I remember going there to check it out the first time I went to London and being a little disappointed. Not that I was expecting to hear Daniel Webster or some other stentorian spokesman, but the only voice that stood out above the hopeful, wandering masses of people listening was a man who declared that “A MAN’S PENIS IS HIS COMPASS! HE FOLLOWS IT WHEREVER HE GOES…” I looked at my friends, raised my eyebrows, and we knowingly walked away. So there you have it: Speaker’s Corner. I am sure that there are really worthwhile speeches that transpire there, but I had heard enough. I was on to other things, so see where my inner compass would lead me, if you will.
I always imagined that a big city park such as Hyde Park or Central Park would be an excellent place for a Humbler’s Corner. That’s right: Humbler’s Corner. A person (maybe me) could sit there in a little booth like Lucy Van Pelt. The booth would have a little sign at the top reading “Humbling, $1” or “Humbling, free to those who need it.” And there the Humbler would dispense not necessarily insults – insult is too strong a word – but just a few pity phrases or observances to knock arrogant people back down to the same plane as the rest of us. This ambition for a vocation like this may be a surprise to those who are aware that one of my four rules is “never pass up the opportunity to give someone a compliment.” Really, I am not about putting people down, just enabling them to realize what a value there is in realizing that they don’t posses all there is to offer to the world. It is kind of like arrogance busting. Everyone has to suck at something I (I suck at driving backwards and doing math in public). Otherwise, we could get too full of ourselves and risk losing empathy for our fellow human. It is my philosophy that one should be a human being nice, not a human being mean. When I least expect it, life’s great level moments – let us call them “humblings” – happen to me. I realize that some normally successful people are not so fortunate that happenstance happens to slap them in the face from time to time. I am not talking about big disappointments like failing a test or screwing up a relationship or being unable to connect with your best friend… I am talking about little crumblings of circumstance that make you realize that you too can seem like a complete idiot. Crumblings of humblings… that has a nice sound.
So there I was, the last morning I was in London, in the shower. Normally I love bathing like a pig loves mud. When I was a kid I distinctly remember drawing a bath with the hottest possible water. Then I would inch my way in, one toe at a time, put a whole foot in, then both feet, then stand there until I could stand to sit down, then I would methodically stretch my legs out until my knee caps were immersed, then I would work on laying down to wet my back then eventually the rest of my body from head to toe. I’d wash up, then stay in there until the water turned cold, my toes and fingers looking like prunes. Then I would drain the water out of the tub and soap the tub up really good until it was as slippery as a vasoline covered watermelon. I’d position myself at the foot of the tub (opposite the faucet) and slip and slide until I could no longer take the bruising and banging or until someone came knocking on the bathroom door, inquiring about the cacaughoney. Man, I have always loved bathing...
So, that morning was the fourth time I had used the shower in this hotel. Typically hotel showers have very poor water pressure. Not this place! Holy crap, the first time I turned the shower on, it pretty much hurt. My head loved it and my back could take it, but in order to get my front clean I had to hold my arms in front of my chest and do a quick little turn around sprinkler splashy maneuver. It made a wantonly magical, relaxing wondrous time a bit uncomfortable. I mean it wasn’t unbearable, it was merely a matter of introducing displeasure into my usual daily slice of heaven. Friday morning, towards the end of my shower, while being positively pelted with bullets of man-made rain, I somehow developed sense enough to turn the knob just a little clockwise (or less counterclockwise); that is, I turned the pressure down. Oh… I am an idiot. You see, ladies and gentlemen, I said to the audience in my head, I too am an idiot. And then I just continued to stand there, staring at my feet, making slow-motion pirouettes, realizing my entire body could receive the water pain-free, unafraid… dumbfounded. For I, had found dumb. Dumb was me.
So, I would like to be a Humbler, to set up my shingle in Humbler’s Corner in Central Park. I would like to be able to give others who aren’t so fortunate to have epiphanies of their own idiocy, people who think too little about their own failings such that they think that it is okay to patronize others. I believe that over the course of my life, I have amassed a lot of such ridiculous revelations … and if someone happens to stop by my booth and put me in my place, then good on them, good for me, good for us all. I have to suck at something sometimes too.
Last Monday morning I went to work with the intension of leaving around lunchtime. When I had left work the previous Friday, our trip was still up in the air – which is to say that it wasn’t 100% for certain that we would be able to go. Our country clearance hadn’t been submitted within the requisite 3 business days. We (although the “me” part of “we” had nothing to do with the arrangements, I was merely along for the ride; I am not exactly sure who the “we” was…) so, we had submitted the clearance request on Thursday, but it was well after close of business in the place where we were going. So, really, it was a matter of misunderstanding that Friday, Monday and Tuesday counted as 3 business days since the conference was to begin on Wednesday. We were to arrive in the country on Tuesday morning. I tell you, this was the way to do it. We left Monday night, arrived Tuesday morning and the conference was all day Wednesday, they took us out to dinner that night and had some business to do on Thursday morning, and we didn’t fly out again until Friday morning to arrive back home by Friday afternoon, just in time for a 3 day weekend. Boon-DOG-GLE!
I traveled there with Mojo and another Air Force Colonel, we’ll call him Special Ross (since he is a Special Ops pilot and he never told me his call sign). They didn’t care too much where we went, just that we found something to do to fill the time. Me, I hadn’t been to London in over 12 years and had a few specific and many general things that I wanted to accomplish. The illustrious Dr. Johnson, my father’s idol, said “when a man is tired of London, then he is tired of life.”
We spent Tuesday wandering the streets, tracking down little haunts and generally listening to me prattle on about this bit of history, that bit of literature, and other such random snippets about British life and times. After awhile, before they would ask me a question about some place or some building, they would say, “now for $2000, what is…” as though I were the most winningest game show contestant ever.
In Hyde Park in London there is a place called Speaker’s Corner. It is basically a non-descript patch of sidewalk where anyone can put down a milk crate (or a soap box), stand on it, and pontificate about whatever their little heart desires. If the speaker is good or interesting , a crowd will gather, if not, obviously, s/he is ignored or, perhaps, replaced by a louder, more interesting orator. I remember going there to check it out the first time I went to London and being a little disappointed. Not that I was expecting to hear Daniel Webster or some other stentorian spokesman, but the only voice that stood out above the hopeful, wandering masses of people listening was a man who declared that “A MAN’S PENIS IS HIS COMPASS! HE FOLLOWS IT WHEREVER HE GOES…” I looked at my friends, raised my eyebrows, and we knowingly walked away. So there you have it: Speaker’s Corner. I am sure that there are really worthwhile speeches that transpire there, but I had heard enough. I was on to other things, so see where my inner compass would lead me, if you will.
I always imagined that a big city park such as Hyde Park or Central Park would be an excellent place for a Humbler’s Corner. That’s right: Humbler’s Corner. A person (maybe me) could sit there in a little booth like Lucy Van Pelt. The booth would have a little sign at the top reading “Humbling, $1” or “Humbling, free to those who need it.” And there the Humbler would dispense not necessarily insults – insult is too strong a word – but just a few pity phrases or observances to knock arrogant people back down to the same plane as the rest of us. This ambition for a vocation like this may be a surprise to those who are aware that one of my four rules is “never pass up the opportunity to give someone a compliment.” Really, I am not about putting people down, just enabling them to realize what a value there is in realizing that they don’t posses all there is to offer to the world. It is kind of like arrogance busting. Everyone has to suck at something I (I suck at driving backwards and doing math in public). Otherwise, we could get too full of ourselves and risk losing empathy for our fellow human. It is my philosophy that one should be a human being nice, not a human being mean. When I least expect it, life’s great level moments – let us call them “humblings” – happen to me. I realize that some normally successful people are not so fortunate that happenstance happens to slap them in the face from time to time. I am not talking about big disappointments like failing a test or screwing up a relationship or being unable to connect with your best friend… I am talking about little crumblings of circumstance that make you realize that you too can seem like a complete idiot. Crumblings of humblings… that has a nice sound.
So there I was, the last morning I was in London, in the shower. Normally I love bathing like a pig loves mud. When I was a kid I distinctly remember drawing a bath with the hottest possible water. Then I would inch my way in, one toe at a time, put a whole foot in, then both feet, then stand there until I could stand to sit down, then I would methodically stretch my legs out until my knee caps were immersed, then I would work on laying down to wet my back then eventually the rest of my body from head to toe. I’d wash up, then stay in there until the water turned cold, my toes and fingers looking like prunes. Then I would drain the water out of the tub and soap the tub up really good until it was as slippery as a vasoline covered watermelon. I’d position myself at the foot of the tub (opposite the faucet) and slip and slide until I could no longer take the bruising and banging or until someone came knocking on the bathroom door, inquiring about the cacaughoney. Man, I have always loved bathing...
So, that morning was the fourth time I had used the shower in this hotel. Typically hotel showers have very poor water pressure. Not this place! Holy crap, the first time I turned the shower on, it pretty much hurt. My head loved it and my back could take it, but in order to get my front clean I had to hold my arms in front of my chest and do a quick little turn around sprinkler splashy maneuver. It made a wantonly magical, relaxing wondrous time a bit uncomfortable. I mean it wasn’t unbearable, it was merely a matter of introducing displeasure into my usual daily slice of heaven. Friday morning, towards the end of my shower, while being positively pelted with bullets of man-made rain, I somehow developed sense enough to turn the knob just a little clockwise (or less counterclockwise); that is, I turned the pressure down. Oh… I am an idiot. You see, ladies and gentlemen, I said to the audience in my head, I too am an idiot. And then I just continued to stand there, staring at my feet, making slow-motion pirouettes, realizing my entire body could receive the water pain-free, unafraid… dumbfounded. For I, had found dumb. Dumb was me.
So, I would like to be a Humbler, to set up my shingle in Humbler’s Corner in Central Park. I would like to be able to give others who aren’t so fortunate to have epiphanies of their own idiocy, people who think too little about their own failings such that they think that it is okay to patronize others. I believe that over the course of my life, I have amassed a lot of such ridiculous revelations … and if someone happens to stop by my booth and put me in my place, then good on them, good for me, good for us all. I have to suck at something sometimes too.
04 October 2008
Dog Daze
As most of you know, we have Boston Terriers - two of them. Many of you may also be aware that when they are together, they don't get along with other dogs. Ever the optimistic mommy, I like to point out to Russ they don't try to attack EVERY dog that they meet. We have encountered 3 that they haven't acted like Kujo towards. Separately, however, they are fine. Peculair, huh? I attribute this quirk to the fact that they share a brain.
A future meeting with their uncle Watson (who is nearly 1.5 times their size but 3 times their age) is not only inevitable but a family obligation. So we measured them for a pair of custom made leather muzzles. Well, their Hannibal Lecter masks arrived in the mail last week. The day they arrived, when I got home from work, I didn't get my usual greeting. Isn't that just one of the greatest feelings in the world: a dog's hello? I could have failed a calculus test, ran over a squirrel, cut off an old lady, pooped my pants, robbed a bank, picked my nose and ate it, got caught pretending I had turrets, whatever; but my dogs, my dogs are my biggest cheerleaders, and I am the hero of their earth: "Woo-hooooooo! Thank God, you are home! My you have been gone for-EV-er. I thought I would never see you again. Ohmygosh, you are Ah-live! I can hardly contain myself, my life is complete!"
Anyway, so when I didn't get my usual greeting, I figured they were outside. Russ heard me come in the door and announced that the dogs had gotten a package in the mail. I came around the corner and saw them frozen, each one a perfect statue of a muzzled Boston Terrier. Russ had put their new muzzles on them about 15 minutes earlier, Rosetta was on the couch and Flint was on the floor a couple of feet from the coffee table. They were both sitting with their heads bowed, like gargoyles. They wouldn't move - even when they saw me. They would only shift their eyes, as a mime would, and loll their heads in the most abject state of depression. Knowing that they weren't in any physical pain and that they had brought this psychological trauma on themselves, I chuckled a bit and shook my head.
After we watched them for awhile, Russ and I decided to take them for a walk to see how they'd do. Holy crap, was that ever a scene to behold! Normally when we ask them if they want to go on a walk, they act like they are tagging in on Wrestlemania. On this day they were submissive, dejected, and just plain ANG-ry. As soon as we were out the front door, their angst transformed into pure avarice. As Flint walked down the sidewalk, his front paws clutched at his imprisoned snout while his back legs made all of the ambulatory contributions. He looked like an otter doing a reverse wheelbarrow walk. And Rosetta, Rosetta felt the weight of ignominy for the entire Boston Terrier race. Proving she possesses only a fraction of a brain and that what she has is housed in a very thick skull, she repeatedly banged her head - that's right, banged her HEAD - against the pavement: "For shame, for shame! Woe is the Muzzled Boston Terrier! Woe is the Muzzled Boston Terrier! Never has one known such disgrace as this! NEVER!!! God-damn-IT! Get this thing off of my snout! I WON'T stand for it! URGHHHHHhHHhH!”
And so it went, for a little less than a block. Then Russ and I were laughing too hard to continue. Tears started streaming down our cheeks. Rosetta had shit herself with frustration and, in the fray, gotten some of it on Flint's back and whilst flailing her head in rage, she whacked her head so hard against my left ankle bone that it made my foot immediately bruise and swell up. Too much. It was too, too much. Drool sluished out the corners of her mouth as she howled and caterwalled like a banshee. Wheuff. We'd seen enough. We took them back home, cleaned them up, went for a walk by ourselves, and demuzzled the poor poor terries after they had calmed down.
The next day, when we had company, we put the muzzles on them again, partly as part of the adjustment process, but also so we could show my friend just how silly these dogs get. The dogs were all kinds of cheerful, lovin' life... but, again, the moment we muzzled them, they froze, hanging their heads like gargoyles. We tried to get them to come out to the backyard, their domain and BT heaven on earth; but they were stricken, fixed to the ground as firmly as Lot's wife. We picked them up and put them out on the grass. They continued to hang their little heads ignominiously praying that their archenemies the squirrels and the neighbor dogs wouldn't catch sight of them.
We cajoled Flint to come back inside and he was bold enough to walk across the rest of the yard, but I had to pick up Rosetta and to get her back inside. She buried her head in my armpit to hide her face from the accusing cruel, cruel world. Once we demuzzled them, they gamboled about with renewed canine glee.
Since then, Russ has made them wear their "shame and torture devices" for about an hour each day. He says that they freeze initially, but as soon as he stops staring at them and pretends to ignore them, they run about and play. I guess they only feel humiliated when someone is watching.
A future meeting with their uncle Watson (who is nearly 1.5 times their size but 3 times their age) is not only inevitable but a family obligation. So we measured them for a pair of custom made leather muzzles. Well, their Hannibal Lecter masks arrived in the mail last week. The day they arrived, when I got home from work, I didn't get my usual greeting. Isn't that just one of the greatest feelings in the world: a dog's hello? I could have failed a calculus test, ran over a squirrel, cut off an old lady, pooped my pants, robbed a bank, picked my nose and ate it, got caught pretending I had turrets, whatever; but my dogs, my dogs are my biggest cheerleaders, and I am the hero of their earth: "Woo-hooooooo! Thank God, you are home! My you have been gone for-EV-er. I thought I would never see you again. Ohmygosh, you are Ah-live! I can hardly contain myself, my life is complete!"
Anyway, so when I didn't get my usual greeting, I figured they were outside. Russ heard me come in the door and announced that the dogs had gotten a package in the mail. I came around the corner and saw them frozen, each one a perfect statue of a muzzled Boston Terrier. Russ had put their new muzzles on them about 15 minutes earlier, Rosetta was on the couch and Flint was on the floor a couple of feet from the coffee table. They were both sitting with their heads bowed, like gargoyles. They wouldn't move - even when they saw me. They would only shift their eyes, as a mime would, and loll their heads in the most abject state of depression. Knowing that they weren't in any physical pain and that they had brought this psychological trauma on themselves, I chuckled a bit and shook my head.
After we watched them for awhile, Russ and I decided to take them for a walk to see how they'd do. Holy crap, was that ever a scene to behold! Normally when we ask them if they want to go on a walk, they act like they are tagging in on Wrestlemania. On this day they were submissive, dejected, and just plain ANG-ry. As soon as we were out the front door, their angst transformed into pure avarice. As Flint walked down the sidewalk, his front paws clutched at his imprisoned snout while his back legs made all of the ambulatory contributions. He looked like an otter doing a reverse wheelbarrow walk. And Rosetta, Rosetta felt the weight of ignominy for the entire Boston Terrier race. Proving she possesses only a fraction of a brain and that what she has is housed in a very thick skull, she repeatedly banged her head - that's right, banged her HEAD - against the pavement: "For shame, for shame! Woe is the Muzzled Boston Terrier! Woe is the Muzzled Boston Terrier! Never has one known such disgrace as this! NEVER!!! God-damn-IT! Get this thing off of my snout! I WON'T stand for it! URGHHHHHhHHhH!”
And so it went, for a little less than a block. Then Russ and I were laughing too hard to continue. Tears started streaming down our cheeks. Rosetta had shit herself with frustration and, in the fray, gotten some of it on Flint's back and whilst flailing her head in rage, she whacked her head so hard against my left ankle bone that it made my foot immediately bruise and swell up. Too much. It was too, too much. Drool sluished out the corners of her mouth as she howled and caterwalled like a banshee. Wheuff. We'd seen enough. We took them back home, cleaned them up, went for a walk by ourselves, and demuzzled the poor poor terries after they had calmed down.
The next day, when we had company, we put the muzzles on them again, partly as part of the adjustment process, but also so we could show my friend just how silly these dogs get. The dogs were all kinds of cheerful, lovin' life... but, again, the moment we muzzled them, they froze, hanging their heads like gargoyles. We tried to get them to come out to the backyard, their domain and BT heaven on earth; but they were stricken, fixed to the ground as firmly as Lot's wife. We picked them up and put them out on the grass. They continued to hang their little heads ignominiously praying that their archenemies the squirrels and the neighbor dogs wouldn't catch sight of them.
We cajoled Flint to come back inside and he was bold enough to walk across the rest of the yard, but I had to pick up Rosetta and to get her back inside. She buried her head in my armpit to hide her face from the accusing cruel, cruel world. Once we demuzzled them, they gamboled about with renewed canine glee.
Since then, Russ has made them wear their "shame and torture devices" for about an hour each day. He says that they freeze initially, but as soon as he stops staring at them and pretends to ignore them, they run about and play. I guess they only feel humiliated when someone is watching.
01 October 2008
As the Polygon Turns: Who let the dog out? (Episode 10)
I know it's been awhile. I have been a little out of sorts. So, for whatever reason, call it shame (the kind that’s featured in the Seventh Inning Stretch Song), I feel obliged to begin this entry with a formal acknowledgement of my grief about the Mets losing their last game of the season, their last game in Shea Stadium, the last game where it was possible for them to head to the post-season. Yes, I know. They lost. Okay, okay. Enough. Moving onward…
Today during a Video Teleconference I attended, one of the participants, sporting a speech impediment, described an operative's claim to flame as detecting bombs before they blow. That cracked me up. I didn't laugh, but, man, I wanted to. Next time I am going to be sure NOT to sit directly behind the person who has the camera trained on him. That way everyone from Bhagdad to Honalulu isn't saying, "Hey look at that Navy Chick falling asleep or making funny faces!"
Today for my workout I banged it out on the treadmill. I do that when I want to make myself run fast. On a ship we don't have the option to do anything BUT derive our exercise from machines. Here, there are nice paths nearby, and still I often find that the machines are always heavily populated. When I leave the building for a run, though, I guess I do see a lot of people doing that too. The path and sidewalks extending from the back of the Athletic Center to the surrounding paths and bridges across the Potomac are well worn by the determined strides of the inmates of the Polygon, busting out for their regular constitutional only to be methodically reeled back in within an hour or less.
Treadmillland is different, though. In treadmillland faces are more blank, all plugged in, tuned out, going through the motions of "the workout" as though it is another action to process. Me, I feed on that turpitude. When I enter treadmillland I think, "look here motherfuckers, I am about to let the dog out of the house." The outdoor runs are for my soul, the treadmill runs fire up my heart. I start out a little easy, but I am not satisfied until my sweat is spraying everywhere like the music dripping from my ears; my stomach starts to feel a little upset and my little legs can do nothing more than pray like a cartoon character: "feet don't fail me now!"
A guy I used to run with in college got hit by a car once and cracked his femur. He couldn't run for a very long time. One day I saw him coming around the block, looking like he had just finished up a run. I said, "Hey, Jon, you doing better? I thought you couldn't run?" He grimaced at me, wagged his finger and said, "Sometimes you just gotta let the dog out of the house."
Later on this afternoon, Bingo (one of the guys I work with) said, “Geez… [#2] you were making me tired just watching you on the treadmill. How fast were you going?” That is what I do on the treadmill at least once a week, just to break up the monotony and remind myself that I am still alive. I go crazy and wonder if those around me are really so fixated on their news program or their iPods, if they stop for a moment or more and think, "Look at that bitch run!"
I am not a bitch, just a dog getting out of the house.
Today during a Video Teleconference I attended, one of the participants, sporting a speech impediment, described an operative's claim to flame as detecting bombs before they blow. That cracked me up. I didn't laugh, but, man, I wanted to. Next time I am going to be sure NOT to sit directly behind the person who has the camera trained on him. That way everyone from Bhagdad to Honalulu isn't saying, "Hey look at that Navy Chick falling asleep or making funny faces!"
Today for my workout I banged it out on the treadmill. I do that when I want to make myself run fast. On a ship we don't have the option to do anything BUT derive our exercise from machines. Here, there are nice paths nearby, and still I often find that the machines are always heavily populated. When I leave the building for a run, though, I guess I do see a lot of people doing that too. The path and sidewalks extending from the back of the Athletic Center to the surrounding paths and bridges across the Potomac are well worn by the determined strides of the inmates of the Polygon, busting out for their regular constitutional only to be methodically reeled back in within an hour or less.
Treadmillland is different, though. In treadmillland faces are more blank, all plugged in, tuned out, going through the motions of "the workout" as though it is another action to process. Me, I feed on that turpitude. When I enter treadmillland I think, "look here motherfuckers, I am about to let the dog out of the house." The outdoor runs are for my soul, the treadmill runs fire up my heart. I start out a little easy, but I am not satisfied until my sweat is spraying everywhere like the music dripping from my ears; my stomach starts to feel a little upset and my little legs can do nothing more than pray like a cartoon character: "feet don't fail me now!"
A guy I used to run with in college got hit by a car once and cracked his femur. He couldn't run for a very long time. One day I saw him coming around the block, looking like he had just finished up a run. I said, "Hey, Jon, you doing better? I thought you couldn't run?" He grimaced at me, wagged his finger and said, "Sometimes you just gotta let the dog out of the house."
Later on this afternoon, Bingo (one of the guys I work with) said, “Geez… [#2] you were making me tired just watching you on the treadmill. How fast were you going?” That is what I do on the treadmill at least once a week, just to break up the monotony and remind myself that I am still alive. I go crazy and wonder if those around me are really so fixated on their news program or their iPods, if they stop for a moment or more and think, "Look at that bitch run!"
I am not a bitch, just a dog getting out of the house.
23 September 2008
As the Polygon Turns: Word Up (Episode 9)
This week I have been out of the office in training. The training is pretty dry. JP went through this course last week, and when I saw him last Wednesday, I asked him how it was. His only response was: "Bring something to keep you awake." Banned from drinking Red Bull (by my husband who claims it will fuck up my kidneys), and armed with only one teabag's worth of Yogi Green Tea, what do you think I used to stay alert? My imagination, of course. Except in the rarest of instances (I am struggling to recall any just now), my imagination gets me out of tough scrapes, makes wrong turns right, frees me from mental torpor, and generally renders any ordinary situation just a little more silly. Most of the time I don't even think these thoughts on purpose. I am imaginatively hard of hearing and often reading. You've heard of people's minds playing tricks on them? Well mine has an involuntary gag reflex - of the humorous kind. Guess it has a thing for funny boners.
When my classmates at Nuke School or Department Head school would struggle to stay awake even after pounding liters of coffee/soda and getting plenty of sleep (by anyone's standards, not just a SWO's), I would attribute their sleepiness to having a weak mind; that they lacked imagination. When speakers just aren't holding my interest, I make things up either about them or I shamelessly misconstrue their words. Sometimes what I come up with just makes me go “hmmmm” and sometimes it just downright cracks me up – sometimes to the point where I draw attention to myself by excessively grinning, laughing, or even snorting apparently out of context. When I am trying to instill people with the confidence that I am one to be taken seriously, however, I can usually turn it off or tone it down to a simple simper. I never said that I was actually attentive, my imagination is just a mechanism to ward off the sleepiness that stems from boredom, just creating the illusion that I am paying attention.
ANYWAY, now that you have the background, I'll discuss what has transpired in class.
There are a number of tools on our intranet that never cease to crack me up. For instance:
- Wiki - derived from the worldwide web’s internet encyclopedia tool "wikipedia," it is our version of the same thing; when I read it or hear the word I hear it repeated four times, like in the 80's song "Jam On It": wiki wiki wiki wiki -- shut up! Jam through the night, then night turns to day, time is all I want to hear you say, jam on it, jam on it, I say ja ja ja ja jam on it...
- Portlets - sub sections of a web page that bring the user to another page or dropdown menu; my brain sees/hears "port-o-lets," you know, portopotties, honeybuckets, Portajohns; and whatever is in the new window or drop down menu makes me think of literally a selection for things that one may drop down a portolet or a new portal within the portolet, like in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. ...where does it go? Eeeeewww, gross.
- "We're going live!" - meaning we are on the same server/intranet as the rest of the building, as opposed to the training server. The instructor warns us by officially and dramatically shouting that phrase to let us know that we could potentially send one of our test messages/taskings to the Chairman (Admiral Mullen). While the ramifications of doing so do make me immaturely snicker, it's more the instructor's drama that cracks me up; for I picture him as Chris Elliott in Groundhog Day, standing behind a TV camera with his fingers in the air: "We're going live in three, two, one -- you're on the air!" And nothing seems changed: hello? We're still in this stultifying classroom.
- Dirty words - certain key words that the “Top Secret” Guard system looks for that prevent downgrading a file's classification. It’s obvious where one can go with this one… leaves us all wondering what those words are… literally, the military’s dirty little secrets!
- CHOD – stands for Chief of Defense (of another country); makes me think of Chode, a derogatory term that one of my Senior Chiefs on the destroyer used to use to describe someone whom he particularly despised and had no respect for. I am pretty sure I don’t even want to look up the true meaning of the slang. Still, it makes me sophomorically chuckle.
One of the first exercises we did in class was to create a test document that we later moved around to show how to transfer data between the various repositories and applications on our system. To do this, we were supposed to simply create a new Word document, write a test sentence like "STU014 test document" and save it. There was no one preventing me from writing something else, though. I knew I shouldn't write something off color (which I am almost ashamed to say was actually the first thing that came to mind – but consider the company I kept for the past 3.5 years on sea duty). And when I was an Ensign at SWOS many moons ago, I was counseled for typing "this is lame" in a test message exercise... I can still hear the pedantic Lieutenant, LT Monsour (“You couldn’t think of anything else to write… you need to improve your attitude blah blah blah blah!”) Instead, I wrote "My favorite way to eat pretzels is to stuff a lot of them into my mouth at once." This elicited a giggle from my classmate (and longtime friend) on my left. My shorthand description read "STU14's monograph for her preferred pretzel eating tactic." The best part came when in a later exercise we had to search the entire intranet for our file by keywords. When I entered the keyword "tactic," my document was second only to one about the Indian Army's new tank tactics. Hmmmm - a 75% match!
Later, we familiarized ourselves with some data spreadsheets we're supposed to use. One was called DART (Director's Action Response Tracker) and another was called CART (Chairman's Action Response Tracker). There was a third in the grouping that was unabbreviated: 4 star Action Response Tracker. Why don't they call it FART? Beats me.
One of our instructors was getting her ass kicked by malaprops too. So that too provided no small amount of amusement. For example, she told us to antiquate ourselves with a certain program, that she was going to flush out the details of somethingorother.
Have you ever noticed that if you have the "hand" selected in a PDF file and you hold your mouse on it and move it up and down really quickly, you can make it look like you are punching the page? For kicks, try doing it really fast.
There is one woman who works in the Training Center there who is actually a full professor. She used to teach writing at Rutgers. She talked of active voice, gerunds, properly placed participles, and the malice of common military redundancies like "at this time," "past history," and "advanced planning." Her words were music to my ears, and I was thoroughly impressed that our military had someone on the Staff. While she was giving her bio, I began to daydream about my days as a writing tutor in college. Atop of all this, both days, she has brought in the most amazing baked goods, too: muffins, cinnamon pound cake! And she pleasantly smiles and sweetly greets each and every person who comes into the classroom, carefully listening and maternally seeing that our every need is met while we are in her charge. She’s truly the Polygon’s Mom.
So she got up to teach us, and what do you think ran through my imagination. Well, since she actually knew how to instruct, knew how to speak, I was actually paying attention. She told us that here at the National Polygon we were breathing rarefied air. When we have those days when we get discouraged about what we are doing, she entreated us to remember the younger person who joined the military for noble reasons. If we should feel that the papers we're producing are just insignificant bureaucracy, remember there is a kid out there, a soldier, a sailor, an airman who is depending on what you write… because of the work you are doing here, you will be renewed as individuals.
Man, did I feel like crap for literally making a mockery of this class. I am such a SUCKER.
So, she taught her lesson, introduced us to the “family of forms” (which conjured images of Italians seated around a table full of spaghetti and meatballs). She knew how dry the material was and reached out to us in a very real way: “I feel your pain… in more ways than one… that’s why I bake.” Bless you lady, bless you.
When my classmates at Nuke School or Department Head school would struggle to stay awake even after pounding liters of coffee/soda and getting plenty of sleep (by anyone's standards, not just a SWO's), I would attribute their sleepiness to having a weak mind; that they lacked imagination. When speakers just aren't holding my interest, I make things up either about them or I shamelessly misconstrue their words. Sometimes what I come up with just makes me go “hmmmm” and sometimes it just downright cracks me up – sometimes to the point where I draw attention to myself by excessively grinning, laughing, or even snorting apparently out of context. When I am trying to instill people with the confidence that I am one to be taken seriously, however, I can usually turn it off or tone it down to a simple simper. I never said that I was actually attentive, my imagination is just a mechanism to ward off the sleepiness that stems from boredom, just creating the illusion that I am paying attention.
ANYWAY, now that you have the background, I'll discuss what has transpired in class.
There are a number of tools on our intranet that never cease to crack me up. For instance:
- Wiki - derived from the worldwide web’s internet encyclopedia tool "wikipedia," it is our version of the same thing; when I read it or hear the word I hear it repeated four times, like in the 80's song "Jam On It": wiki wiki wiki wiki -- shut up! Jam through the night, then night turns to day, time is all I want to hear you say, jam on it, jam on it, I say ja ja ja ja jam on it...
- Portlets - sub sections of a web page that bring the user to another page or dropdown menu; my brain sees/hears "port-o-lets," you know, portopotties, honeybuckets, Portajohns; and whatever is in the new window or drop down menu makes me think of literally a selection for things that one may drop down a portolet or a new portal within the portolet, like in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. ...where does it go? Eeeeewww, gross.
- "We're going live!" - meaning we are on the same server/intranet as the rest of the building, as opposed to the training server. The instructor warns us by officially and dramatically shouting that phrase to let us know that we could potentially send one of our test messages/taskings to the Chairman (Admiral Mullen). While the ramifications of doing so do make me immaturely snicker, it's more the instructor's drama that cracks me up; for I picture him as Chris Elliott in Groundhog Day, standing behind a TV camera with his fingers in the air: "We're going live in three, two, one -- you're on the air!" And nothing seems changed: hello? We're still in this stultifying classroom.
- Dirty words - certain key words that the “Top Secret” Guard system looks for that prevent downgrading a file's classification. It’s obvious where one can go with this one… leaves us all wondering what those words are… literally, the military’s dirty little secrets!
- CHOD – stands for Chief of Defense (of another country); makes me think of Chode, a derogatory term that one of my Senior Chiefs on the destroyer used to use to describe someone whom he particularly despised and had no respect for. I am pretty sure I don’t even want to look up the true meaning of the slang. Still, it makes me sophomorically chuckle.
One of the first exercises we did in class was to create a test document that we later moved around to show how to transfer data between the various repositories and applications on our system. To do this, we were supposed to simply create a new Word document, write a test sentence like "STU014 test document" and save it. There was no one preventing me from writing something else, though. I knew I shouldn't write something off color (which I am almost ashamed to say was actually the first thing that came to mind – but consider the company I kept for the past 3.5 years on sea duty). And when I was an Ensign at SWOS many moons ago, I was counseled for typing "this is lame" in a test message exercise... I can still hear the pedantic Lieutenant, LT Monsour (“You couldn’t think of anything else to write… you need to improve your attitude blah blah blah blah!”) Instead, I wrote "My favorite way to eat pretzels is to stuff a lot of them into my mouth at once." This elicited a giggle from my classmate (and longtime friend) on my left. My shorthand description read "STU14's monograph for her preferred pretzel eating tactic." The best part came when in a later exercise we had to search the entire intranet for our file by keywords. When I entered the keyword "tactic," my document was second only to one about the Indian Army's new tank tactics. Hmmmm - a 75% match!
Later, we familiarized ourselves with some data spreadsheets we're supposed to use. One was called DART (Director's Action Response Tracker) and another was called CART (Chairman's Action Response Tracker). There was a third in the grouping that was unabbreviated: 4 star Action Response Tracker. Why don't they call it FART? Beats me.
One of our instructors was getting her ass kicked by malaprops too. So that too provided no small amount of amusement. For example, she told us to antiquate ourselves with a certain program, that she was going to flush out the details of somethingorother.
Have you ever noticed that if you have the "hand" selected in a PDF file and you hold your mouse on it and move it up and down really quickly, you can make it look like you are punching the page? For kicks, try doing it really fast.
There is one woman who works in the Training Center there who is actually a full professor. She used to teach writing at Rutgers. She talked of active voice, gerunds, properly placed participles, and the malice of common military redundancies like "at this time," "past history," and "advanced planning." Her words were music to my ears, and I was thoroughly impressed that our military had someone on the Staff. While she was giving her bio, I began to daydream about my days as a writing tutor in college. Atop of all this, both days, she has brought in the most amazing baked goods, too: muffins, cinnamon pound cake! And she pleasantly smiles and sweetly greets each and every person who comes into the classroom, carefully listening and maternally seeing that our every need is met while we are in her charge. She’s truly the Polygon’s Mom.
So she got up to teach us, and what do you think ran through my imagination. Well, since she actually knew how to instruct, knew how to speak, I was actually paying attention. She told us that here at the National Polygon we were breathing rarefied air. When we have those days when we get discouraged about what we are doing, she entreated us to remember the younger person who joined the military for noble reasons. If we should feel that the papers we're producing are just insignificant bureaucracy, remember there is a kid out there, a soldier, a sailor, an airman who is depending on what you write… because of the work you are doing here, you will be renewed as individuals.
Man, did I feel like crap for literally making a mockery of this class. I am such a SUCKER.
So, she taught her lesson, introduced us to the “family of forms” (which conjured images of Italians seated around a table full of spaghetti and meatballs). She knew how dry the material was and reached out to us in a very real way: “I feel your pain… in more ways than one… that’s why I bake.” Bless you lady, bless you.
20 September 2008
As the Polygon Turns: Bus a Move (Episode 8)
17 Sep-
So the 0623 bus came early - at 0619. I was 3 houses away and I heard it and thought, "gee, that sounds like a bus; it's probably just a school bus, though. I'm not going to be faked out like usual and start hustling like a dufus." Then I watched it go by. "You've got to be fuckin' shitin' me!" I said aloud. Every bloody day I have waited out there 9 minutes before the bus is due and nothing, nothing. I just wait and wait and every time it has been 1 to 25 minutes late. But this morning, this morning, it takes me an extra couple of minutes to pack my bag since I was transferring things to a heartier backpack, and whammo! The tardy bus comes early. Humph. Another reason why I didn't come out here as early as usual is because I left my jacket at work and there is a bit of a chill in the air. Oh well, I thought, "I won't be out there but a few minutes..." 15 minutes LATER... I am still waiting, now with a moist nose (healthy pup). One of my neighbors showed up and I somehow deemed it my duty to rat on the 0623 bus. He said that he always shoots for the 0635 K bus since it is a horse race with the 0638 H bus. At this point two giant jockeys (dressed in kelly green and royal blue argyle pattern satin outfits) riding atop a metrobus apiece went racing past my mind... the buses were running just as fast as they could on clean natural gas, their brakes puffing and whinneying as they made their respective stops and lurched forward again, all the while the jockeys whipping them with crops and digging in their heels.
I smiled and sniff-chuckled to myself. Maybe I should shoot for the 0635K/0638H combo too. Moments later, the K bus showed up with the H rolling closely behind... As I heard announcers hawking a horsie play-by-play, I shook my head. I was truly cracking myself up. Ah well...
Later on, while we were trotting along, I realized something else about this horsie-bus: when the driver steps on the brakes ever so slightly, the bus makes a noise that from inside sounds like Roscoe Pico Train (excuse the spelling, I am no authority) from The Dukes of Hazard. "Coo-coo-cooh!" Where's Flash?
18 Sep-
No issues with the bus today. The afternoon one was a little late in arriving to take me home, but oh well. It must have been a tough day at the races. The General and the Colonel missed their meeting yesterday on account of a DoD shuttle bus. That was an interesting flail. Whatever the event, when a Flag Officer is involved and something goes awry, the fur starts flying. That too cracks me up; although I am truly sorry she missed her meeting - particularly given all of the time we (#1, Face and I) had spent prepping for it. This afternoon Mojo shared a story with me about how one time he called the transit authority as he was waiting for a bus that hadn't shown up. And although Mojo was enumerating the schedule to the person on the other end of the life, the motherfucker still denied it, saying the posted schedule must be wrong. As the conversation got more heated, and the man continued to deny such credible evidence like "I am reading the schedule posted here at the stop" --it must be out of date -- and "this is a brand new bus stop placard" -- well, it can't be right -- "I am reading it right in front of me. It says right here this bus was supposed to be here 20 minutes ago" -- well, I think you are lying; you weren't there when you said you were -- "Huh? Do you think I have that kind of time?" Shoot. Even if you did, THAT's what you'd do with it. Honestly! The DoD drivers... Who do they "work" for, anyway?
19 Sep-
This morning at 0613 as I was getting dressed, I heard a bus lumber by. "I had better get a move on. At least it sounds like it is on time this morning. That damn 6:23 bus..." I grumbled, recalling my follies earlier in the week.
"You know it's a 6:20 bus, right? Not 6:23," Russ said.
"Seriously?"
There is a life lesson somewhere in here; I am sure of it.
Later this morning, I took the infamously elusive DoD shuttle bus to the Main State Department office with no incident. It wasn't schoolbusish like the one that goes to the Anacostia ghetto. Rather it was the size of what we used to call tart carts when I was a kid. You know: the "short bus." Hmmmm, so what does that say about it; what does that say about me? The driver was Indian/Pakistani and digging his country music. Can you tell I have been spending my time reading and studying about how themes, messages, and images can map and govern not only how people think, but how they are portrayed?
Earlier this week I became conscious of this game that I play with myself. It's called "Would I wear that?". While many women, and men for that matter, might think that it is dull and creativity-squashing to wear a uniform everyday, I am actually glad. People, particularly women, are so often instantly judged by the image their clothes conveyed. The uniform levels the playing field, I think. Perhaps that is the idea; but seriously, it makes me feel like I will be assessed by my words and actions and not necessarily by a conclusion drawn from my garb. Heck, I am not saying I want to go out and wear a berka by any means... but I am attempting to do a professional job, to be judged equally, so it helps to look the same.
Holy crap, why did I go there? Oh yeah, I was talking about the game of "Would I wear that?". So, when I see a non-uniformed woman walking around, I ponder her outfit and think "Would I wear that?". It really does amuse me as I try to picture myself in a moo-moo or frumpy pants suit or a brightly patterned somethingorother. But in light of that last conversation, my game has kind of lost its luster. Ah well, the bus is almost at my stop. It is time to get a move on. Coo-coo-cooh!
So the 0623 bus came early - at 0619. I was 3 houses away and I heard it and thought, "gee, that sounds like a bus; it's probably just a school bus, though. I'm not going to be faked out like usual and start hustling like a dufus." Then I watched it go by. "You've got to be fuckin' shitin' me!" I said aloud. Every bloody day I have waited out there 9 minutes before the bus is due and nothing, nothing. I just wait and wait and every time it has been 1 to 25 minutes late. But this morning, this morning, it takes me an extra couple of minutes to pack my bag since I was transferring things to a heartier backpack, and whammo! The tardy bus comes early. Humph. Another reason why I didn't come out here as early as usual is because I left my jacket at work and there is a bit of a chill in the air. Oh well, I thought, "I won't be out there but a few minutes..." 15 minutes LATER... I am still waiting, now with a moist nose (healthy pup). One of my neighbors showed up and I somehow deemed it my duty to rat on the 0623 bus. He said that he always shoots for the 0635 K bus since it is a horse race with the 0638 H bus. At this point two giant jockeys (dressed in kelly green and royal blue argyle pattern satin outfits) riding atop a metrobus apiece went racing past my mind... the buses were running just as fast as they could on clean natural gas, their brakes puffing and whinneying as they made their respective stops and lurched forward again, all the while the jockeys whipping them with crops and digging in their heels.
I smiled and sniff-chuckled to myself. Maybe I should shoot for the 0635K/0638H combo too. Moments later, the K bus showed up with the H rolling closely behind... As I heard announcers hawking a horsie play-by-play, I shook my head. I was truly cracking myself up. Ah well...
Later on, while we were trotting along, I realized something else about this horsie-bus: when the driver steps on the brakes ever so slightly, the bus makes a noise that from inside sounds like Roscoe Pico Train (excuse the spelling, I am no authority) from The Dukes of Hazard. "Coo-coo-cooh!" Where's Flash?
18 Sep-
No issues with the bus today. The afternoon one was a little late in arriving to take me home, but oh well. It must have been a tough day at the races. The General and the Colonel missed their meeting yesterday on account of a DoD shuttle bus. That was an interesting flail. Whatever the event, when a Flag Officer is involved and something goes awry, the fur starts flying. That too cracks me up; although I am truly sorry she missed her meeting - particularly given all of the time we (#1, Face and I) had spent prepping for it. This afternoon Mojo shared a story with me about how one time he called the transit authority as he was waiting for a bus that hadn't shown up. And although Mojo was enumerating the schedule to the person on the other end of the life, the motherfucker still denied it, saying the posted schedule must be wrong. As the conversation got more heated, and the man continued to deny such credible evidence like "I am reading the schedule posted here at the stop" --it must be out of date -- and "this is a brand new bus stop placard" -- well, it can't be right -- "I am reading it right in front of me. It says right here this bus was supposed to be here 20 minutes ago" -- well, I think you are lying; you weren't there when you said you were -- "Huh? Do you think I have that kind of time?" Shoot. Even if you did, THAT's what you'd do with it. Honestly! The DoD drivers... Who do they "work" for, anyway?
19 Sep-
This morning at 0613 as I was getting dressed, I heard a bus lumber by. "I had better get a move on. At least it sounds like it is on time this morning. That damn 6:23 bus..." I grumbled, recalling my follies earlier in the week.
"You know it's a 6:20 bus, right? Not 6:23," Russ said.
"Seriously?"
There is a life lesson somewhere in here; I am sure of it.
Later this morning, I took the infamously elusive DoD shuttle bus to the Main State Department office with no incident. It wasn't schoolbusish like the one that goes to the Anacostia ghetto. Rather it was the size of what we used to call tart carts when I was a kid. You know: the "short bus." Hmmmm, so what does that say about it; what does that say about me? The driver was Indian/Pakistani and digging his country music. Can you tell I have been spending my time reading and studying about how themes, messages, and images can map and govern not only how people think, but how they are portrayed?
Earlier this week I became conscious of this game that I play with myself. It's called "Would I wear that?". While many women, and men for that matter, might think that it is dull and creativity-squashing to wear a uniform everyday, I am actually glad. People, particularly women, are so often instantly judged by the image their clothes conveyed. The uniform levels the playing field, I think. Perhaps that is the idea; but seriously, it makes me feel like I will be assessed by my words and actions and not necessarily by a conclusion drawn from my garb. Heck, I am not saying I want to go out and wear a berka by any means... but I am attempting to do a professional job, to be judged equally, so it helps to look the same.
Holy crap, why did I go there? Oh yeah, I was talking about the game of "Would I wear that?". So, when I see a non-uniformed woman walking around, I ponder her outfit and think "Would I wear that?". It really does amuse me as I try to picture myself in a moo-moo or frumpy pants suit or a brightly patterned somethingorother. But in light of that last conversation, my game has kind of lost its luster. Ah well, the bus is almost at my stop. It is time to get a move on. Coo-coo-cooh!
15 September 2008
As the Polygon Turns: Off Time (Episode 7)
So today I ventured out of the compound for a run. I had heard from #1 that to get to the monument area downtown I could go out the back of the PAC and over a footbridge and blah blah blah blah blah blah I stopped listening... daydreams overtook dayreality.
The other day as Russ and I were driving by, I pointed out the supposed "route," mumbling what is supposed to happen after one crosses the footbridge immediately outside the exit. Russ, obviously the better listener, called me out on the fact that I was seriously short on details.
"So what? I'm sure I can figure it out."
"And get lost."
"So, how lost can I get?" Besides, being so-called lost is merely a gateway to an adventure!
So there I was, freely trotting along, over the footbridge... oooh, a park... cross the street, follow the paths, look at the water... I wonder how far this goes?
Hmmm, a little shade, nice trees, hmmm, now I am in a parking lot... another path over there, a smelly dumpster, a weird looking construction worker (good thing I am going the other way)... crappers, another dead end, the same construction worker, cut some corners to avoid some other ones... another path, a sign telling me that the way I aim to go is closed and that I should use the Ladybird Johnson Footbridge. Gee, thanks. Where is that, ahhh, who cares? Turn around, another path, head towards a memorial, nope a big circle, make a path, head into a shady grove, looks like some people whom I saw 10 minutes ago are now walking in this direction... hmmm, nice path along the road, running along, look up -- hey where I want to be is up there! I am supremely jealous of joggers on an overpass above me. Well, there is only one way that I can see to get up there. I clamber up the side of a highway hump and cross four lanes of traffic. What could have been easier? Umm, going the right way the first time. Aw, whatever!
After my diddling about, I found my way to pay a visit to my favorite President: Lincoln. When I found myself in between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument, I paused and took stock of where I was blessed to be: in the sun, running, an American part of something bigger than these goofy thoughts about getting lost and fabricating adventures, trying to make a difference in the sunny day, my running, and America.
Where was I going?
Oh yeah, back to work. Eventually I made my way back there, immersed in the soundtrack of my life pumping via my iPod, did a bunch of extra leg exercises, got cleaned up and headed back up to the office. Somewhere in there, however, I also contemplated the symbolism that was slapping me in the jowels. The metaphor of being out on a run: some piddley attempt to escape the confines of the office, pretending like I know where I am going or just not really caring that I actually don't because it will bring me to something out of the ordinary. Waiting for something to happen, someone to show me the way, only so I can miss his directions in the buzz of my own daydreams.
Some days, in my waiting I hit it too hard. I beat the shit out of my body, yearning for some intensity, go running really hard on a really hot and humid morning, give myself headache… then later try to clear the headache with gallons and gallons of water and, when that fails, switch to beer, believing that the beer did the trick, have another and another, then believe that I need to eat that third piece of pizza (arh! That third piece of pizza – what a litany of life lessons I could write to the metaphor of having that third piece of pizza!)… falling asleep in between games of a double header only to wake up and be barely conscious for the second game and to drink maybe another beer and then nap and slam three bottles of Vitamin Water in an effort to gain my wits and feel the back of my throat again before bed… then believe that I am ready for bed and but realize that I am not tired but rather being victimized by the pizza bloat… and so I am awake, awkward and lonely in my quiet neighborhood as I stay up until the wee hours of the morning, reading a book supposedly about America written by a German who has never been here and once imagined that he awoke one morning to find himself transformed into a very large bug…
But then you rally again like in the Tubthumping song that reminds me of my friend Erik (Mr. puke and rally himself -- I get knocked down...), and come around the corner into the 4th mile just as “Jump Around” opens -- "get up, get in, let me begin" -- and you pass three chicks who look to be in better shape than you are… and you end of finishing better than you thought you would but still only get second… to a woman whose upper thighs seemed a little jellier than yours and whom you saw walking up that last hill. WALKING! Well, walking can be deceptive… remember that half marathon when you were chugging up that hill and in order for Erik to stick back with you he had to walk? Then you ended up dragging him along... And so there you are: you had a decent Sunday although the Mets lost and that sent you spiraling into anger, so much so that you took it out on yourself in the form of a really hard shoulder/bi/tri workout and then could only manage one beer that night. “Excuse me please, one more drink… can you make it strong 'cause I don't need to think?” Ahh, the soundtrack of my life. It's just music, Silly.
On my way back to the office from the PAC, I bypassed the escalators and used the stairs that I discovered someone else using during my trip down. They are very narrow stairs, though. So narrow that only one person can realistically use them at one time. What will I say to someone should I encounter someone coming the opposite direction?
Fight the power!
Yeah, that’s what I will say!
Someone approaches me as I am heading up and round the corner. I don’t say anything to him. So much for that.
Later in the afternoon I decided to fill one of my units of time with a trip down to the MWR office to purchase some baseball tickets for Wednesday’s Nats-Mets game.
MWR was closed! Another attempt at freedom and something different with which to occupy my time was thwarted! Since I was out of my cell, though, I took the opportunity to use the head on my way back to the office.
Urgh! My favorite stall was soiled… and the one after that and the one after that! When technology goes awry -- or just gives up (the toilets have "electric eyes"). When technology goes awry: one more reason to avoid escalators. Fortunately, that was the head situated in between the D & E rings. Here stalls aren't numbered, so it made my selection of an alternate stall a little less disruptive as it was easier to suspend my disbelief that I wasn't following routine. Had I been in the other head on this corridor and not been able to use stall # 3 or # 2 and sink # 4 or # 14… I very well could have had a Rain Man episode. Okay, not really, but emotional adjustments would have had to have been made. I would have been visibly upset for about 2 tenths of a second.
The other day as Russ and I were driving by, I pointed out the supposed "route," mumbling what is supposed to happen after one crosses the footbridge immediately outside the exit. Russ, obviously the better listener, called me out on the fact that I was seriously short on details.
"So what? I'm sure I can figure it out."
"And get lost."
"So, how lost can I get?" Besides, being so-called lost is merely a gateway to an adventure!
So there I was, freely trotting along, over the footbridge... oooh, a park... cross the street, follow the paths, look at the water... I wonder how far this goes?
Hmmm, a little shade, nice trees, hmmm, now I am in a parking lot... another path over there, a smelly dumpster, a weird looking construction worker (good thing I am going the other way)... crappers, another dead end, the same construction worker, cut some corners to avoid some other ones... another path, a sign telling me that the way I aim to go is closed and that I should use the Ladybird Johnson Footbridge. Gee, thanks. Where is that, ahhh, who cares? Turn around, another path, head towards a memorial, nope a big circle, make a path, head into a shady grove, looks like some people whom I saw 10 minutes ago are now walking in this direction... hmmm, nice path along the road, running along, look up -- hey where I want to be is up there! I am supremely jealous of joggers on an overpass above me. Well, there is only one way that I can see to get up there. I clamber up the side of a highway hump and cross four lanes of traffic. What could have been easier? Umm, going the right way the first time. Aw, whatever!
After my diddling about, I found my way to pay a visit to my favorite President: Lincoln. When I found myself in between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument, I paused and took stock of where I was blessed to be: in the sun, running, an American part of something bigger than these goofy thoughts about getting lost and fabricating adventures, trying to make a difference in the sunny day, my running, and America.
Where was I going?
Oh yeah, back to work. Eventually I made my way back there, immersed in the soundtrack of my life pumping via my iPod, did a bunch of extra leg exercises, got cleaned up and headed back up to the office. Somewhere in there, however, I also contemplated the symbolism that was slapping me in the jowels. The metaphor of being out on a run: some piddley attempt to escape the confines of the office, pretending like I know where I am going or just not really caring that I actually don't because it will bring me to something out of the ordinary. Waiting for something to happen, someone to show me the way, only so I can miss his directions in the buzz of my own daydreams.
Some days, in my waiting I hit it too hard. I beat the shit out of my body, yearning for some intensity, go running really hard on a really hot and humid morning, give myself headache… then later try to clear the headache with gallons and gallons of water and, when that fails, switch to beer, believing that the beer did the trick, have another and another, then believe that I need to eat that third piece of pizza (arh! That third piece of pizza – what a litany of life lessons I could write to the metaphor of having that third piece of pizza!)… falling asleep in between games of a double header only to wake up and be barely conscious for the second game and to drink maybe another beer and then nap and slam three bottles of Vitamin Water in an effort to gain my wits and feel the back of my throat again before bed… then believe that I am ready for bed and but realize that I am not tired but rather being victimized by the pizza bloat… and so I am awake, awkward and lonely in my quiet neighborhood as I stay up until the wee hours of the morning, reading a book supposedly about America written by a German who has never been here and once imagined that he awoke one morning to find himself transformed into a very large bug…
But then you rally again like in the Tubthumping song that reminds me of my friend Erik (Mr. puke and rally himself -- I get knocked down...), and come around the corner into the 4th mile just as “Jump Around” opens -- "get up, get in, let me begin" -- and you pass three chicks who look to be in better shape than you are… and you end of finishing better than you thought you would but still only get second… to a woman whose upper thighs seemed a little jellier than yours and whom you saw walking up that last hill. WALKING! Well, walking can be deceptive… remember that half marathon when you were chugging up that hill and in order for Erik to stick back with you he had to walk? Then you ended up dragging him along... And so there you are: you had a decent Sunday although the Mets lost and that sent you spiraling into anger, so much so that you took it out on yourself in the form of a really hard shoulder/bi/tri workout and then could only manage one beer that night. “Excuse me please, one more drink… can you make it strong 'cause I don't need to think?” Ahh, the soundtrack of my life. It's just music, Silly.
On my way back to the office from the PAC, I bypassed the escalators and used the stairs that I discovered someone else using during my trip down. They are very narrow stairs, though. So narrow that only one person can realistically use them at one time. What will I say to someone should I encounter someone coming the opposite direction?
Fight the power!
Yeah, that’s what I will say!
Someone approaches me as I am heading up and round the corner. I don’t say anything to him. So much for that.
Later in the afternoon I decided to fill one of my units of time with a trip down to the MWR office to purchase some baseball tickets for Wednesday’s Nats-Mets game.
MWR was closed! Another attempt at freedom and something different with which to occupy my time was thwarted! Since I was out of my cell, though, I took the opportunity to use the head on my way back to the office.
Urgh! My favorite stall was soiled… and the one after that and the one after that! When technology goes awry -- or just gives up (the toilets have "electric eyes"). When technology goes awry: one more reason to avoid escalators. Fortunately, that was the head situated in between the D & E rings. Here stalls aren't numbered, so it made my selection of an alternate stall a little less disruptive as it was easier to suspend my disbelief that I wasn't following routine. Had I been in the other head on this corridor and not been able to use stall # 3 or # 2 and sink # 4 or # 14… I very well could have had a Rain Man episode. Okay, not really, but emotional adjustments would have had to have been made. I would have been visibly upset for about 2 tenths of a second.
13 September 2008
As the Polygon Turns: Business As Usual (Episode 6)
So, I had a pretty interesting week, as far as weeks go or, I should say have gone thus far here at the National Polygon. As you can tell by the length of time since my last post, much time has elapsed... which is not to say that a lot has happened. But wait, I thought I just said that I had an interesting week? Duh... not the same thing!
Okay, so I am stalling. You already know my Monday (Episode 5), and Tuesday I did some stepping out. In anticipation of a lunchtime conference, Tuesday morning I went to the PAC as soon as I arrived at work. On the treadmill, I slaughtered some imaginary competitors to the tunes of my iPod, whipping my sweaty hair about because again I forgot to bring my hat. Then I tossed some weights around and had just enough time to clean up and make it up to the office by 0900. I called JP to let me in the door, but no luck. So, I rang the doorbell and a usually pissed off Master Sergeant let me in. Okay, "pissed off" is a little harsh, maybe she is just possesses a perpetually peeved posture. Yeah, that's it.
At 1030 JP and I headed down to the metro station to meet one of the Colonels we work with (the one who is rarely there). We paced up and down the station looking for him only to realize that the train we needed to catch operates from the platform below us. I'll tell you what, though, we were digging using our SmarTrip cards (I refer to mine as my Smart Rip because the way they tried to combine the words just doesn't make a proper compound word)... they're so easy to use: just make the card kiss the top of the turnstile, and whammo! you're through. It makes me feel so in the know.
When we got down to the lower platform, there isn't a soul down there. We figure the Colonel must have just gotten on the train, so we hop on the next one. I swear, oftentimes we give these O-6s way too much credit -- oh, you'll see. We get on the train and as we are standing there, I start laughing to myself -- not out loud really, just that little sniffing, snickering shiteatingrin thing I tend to do when a thought occurs to me that just cracks me up. The thought hasn't fully morphed into slap my thigh territory yet, however. JP looks from side to side and then kind of insecurely asks me, "What?"
"Well, I am getting a little sick of hearing the same lady's voice on all of these trains: 'Stand back, doors closing. Stand back, doors closing!.' I would really like to hear maybe a different voice for each line... maybe a person from a different part of the country, you know, using a different accent, a regional patois. The red line lady could be a Souther Belle: 'Stand back, y'all, don't get snapped in the doors!' Maybe a surfer for the blue line: 'Dude, Look out, man, doors are closin'.' The green line: 'Waach the caah dawrs...' in a Bahston accent -- you get the idea."
"Yeah, that would be funny. What I would also like is for there to be a little noise of disappointment when someone misses the train," JP offers.
"Whaa-whaa," (like on a game show), I add, "--or 'Sucks to be You!' So we go on like this, senselessly babbling about how much more fun it would be to ride the metro. I mean, would it really cost a whole lot more? Why not make it like Disneyland?
Anyway, we get to our stop, look around for the lost Colonel and then find the building we are supposed to go to and wait in the lobby for the Colonel. And wait and wait and wait and wait-- Oh, there he is, coming up out of the metro station, the dude in the flight suit (DON'T get me STARTED on that bit of misetiquitte that is practiced here in our Nation's Capitol!). We flag him down, sign in, listen to his lame and mumbled excuses for his tardiness and take the elevator up to where we are supposed to attend this conference.
The conference was incidentally very interesting. It was about the numerous works of Arab literature and films that portray themes that are contrary to the violent extremism that dominates and hampers Arabian culture in the region. The presentation and ensuing discussion leaves me feeling so hopeful, warm and philanthropic inside... yet also so helpless when I consider the sheer enormity of the task... what it will take to put these works in a position/venue where they could have a noticeable impact. They're out there, though. I just feel like these works are so many seedlings on a barren mountainside where we dream of having a forest someday...
So, that was a nice break. JP and I went back to the office after that and discussed the merits of bringing a lunch. I hadn't brought a lunch that day, so I acted like I was content to mack down on my protein bar while he ate his juicy Turkey sandwich. While I was doing that, I wrote up a little synopsis of the talk we just heard for the other Colonel -- the one we work for. He was rushing about about something and babbled something about having to go to a meeting and that he would be back for the 1330 meeting we all had (news to me), but also had to pick some up some people (who were running the meeting) and he might not make it back in time for that, they were coming from the metro, so maybe one of us could go meet them if he wasn't back by ten of, did we think that was something we could do?
"Sure, yes, Sir!" I said to be helpful.
"What do they look like?" JP asked.
"Oh, I don't know. There are two of them --in a group of two, two people coming up from the metro. He used to be in the CIA," the Colonel very distractedly tried to explain.
"Oh, that will be easy," I offered, "I'll just ask everybody coming up from the metro to strip and the one that doesn't have a tattoo will be the guy!"
[Chrip chirp] That didn't go over well. Oh well.
"We'll figure it out, Sir." JP said, and the Colonel walked away. "Seriously," he looked at me, "how does he think we can find these people? 'Oh there are two of them,'" he mocked. Good point.
"How about we hold up a sign, like a limo driver in an airport?" I offered again, hoping this joke would go over better than the first.
""Hey! That's a great idea! We'll just make a sign that says [insert name here]. I like it!" Score! Slightly proud of ourselves, we pondered it for another couple of seconds and then sat down at our respective computers and forgot all about it until the Colonel came whirlwinding back through our cubicle farm at 5 minutes 'till 1330. Shoot, where had the time gone!
We went into the conference room and waited for the rest of the folks for the meeting to arrive.
Blah blah blah insert meeting contents here -- the contents actually were fascinating to me, so unlike anything I have dealt with before, but I cannot disclose them in such an open forum as this I am afraid. Suffice it to say that your government is doing some pretty cool and innovative things to counter threats and keep you all safe!
The next morning when I got in, JP and I planned our day around an 1100-1300 Videoteleconference we had to attend for the Colonel. That too was very interesting, funny even at times to see how many people we at the Polygon throw at meetings and how little the other Combatant Commanders seem to give a damn. --just my impression, just my impression.
Later on when I got back to the office I had a little heart to heart with Big Tony. He was all there was really there to talk to and also I figured he would give me an outsider's unbiased view. "So, Tony, tell me if I am off the mark here, okay?"
"Okay," he says as he turns around in his chair to face me, folding his hands like he is going to do the 'here is the church' trick.
"Since nobody has really been able to really explain it to me, I have been trying to figure out just what my job is here." He's still listening. "So, we go to these meetings and conferences and take notes, come back write some shit up for the Colonel; then we surf the Classified and Unclas web and look for people, movements and websites of interest, do a little research and at the end of the week we summarize what we've done and where we've been in a one page document which we feed to the General so she can talk to the higher ups about it and maybe do something about our musings."
"Yeah, that's pretty much it."
"But to WHAT END? I mean I am just used to having a mission to work towards... inspections... targets... something. Everything here is just so vast and nebulous!"
"Yeah, pretty much," Tony nods.
"Oh. Okay. Thanks, Tony."
"No problem."
I go back to my desk, somewhat satisfied about something...
Okay, so I am stalling. You already know my Monday (Episode 5), and Tuesday I did some stepping out. In anticipation of a lunchtime conference, Tuesday morning I went to the PAC as soon as I arrived at work. On the treadmill, I slaughtered some imaginary competitors to the tunes of my iPod, whipping my sweaty hair about because again I forgot to bring my hat. Then I tossed some weights around and had just enough time to clean up and make it up to the office by 0900. I called JP to let me in the door, but no luck. So, I rang the doorbell and a usually pissed off Master Sergeant let me in. Okay, "pissed off" is a little harsh, maybe she is just possesses a perpetually peeved posture. Yeah, that's it.
At 1030 JP and I headed down to the metro station to meet one of the Colonels we work with (the one who is rarely there). We paced up and down the station looking for him only to realize that the train we needed to catch operates from the platform below us. I'll tell you what, though, we were digging using our SmarTrip cards (I refer to mine as my Smart Rip because the way they tried to combine the words just doesn't make a proper compound word)... they're so easy to use: just make the card kiss the top of the turnstile, and whammo! you're through. It makes me feel so in the know.
When we got down to the lower platform, there isn't a soul down there. We figure the Colonel must have just gotten on the train, so we hop on the next one. I swear, oftentimes we give these O-6s way too much credit -- oh, you'll see. We get on the train and as we are standing there, I start laughing to myself -- not out loud really, just that little sniffing, snickering shiteatingrin thing I tend to do when a thought occurs to me that just cracks me up. The thought hasn't fully morphed into slap my thigh territory yet, however. JP looks from side to side and then kind of insecurely asks me, "What?"
"Well, I am getting a little sick of hearing the same lady's voice on all of these trains: 'Stand back, doors closing. Stand back, doors closing!.' I would really like to hear maybe a different voice for each line... maybe a person from a different part of the country, you know, using a different accent, a regional patois. The red line lady could be a Souther Belle: 'Stand back, y'all, don't get snapped in the doors!' Maybe a surfer for the blue line: 'Dude, Look out, man, doors are closin'.' The green line: 'Waach the caah dawrs...' in a Bahston accent -- you get the idea."
"Yeah, that would be funny. What I would also like is for there to be a little noise of disappointment when someone misses the train," JP offers.
"Whaa-whaa," (like on a game show), I add, "--or 'Sucks to be You!' So we go on like this, senselessly babbling about how much more fun it would be to ride the metro. I mean, would it really cost a whole lot more? Why not make it like Disneyland?
Anyway, we get to our stop, look around for the lost Colonel and then find the building we are supposed to go to and wait in the lobby for the Colonel. And wait and wait and wait and wait-- Oh, there he is, coming up out of the metro station, the dude in the flight suit (DON'T get me STARTED on that bit of misetiquitte that is practiced here in our Nation's Capitol!). We flag him down, sign in, listen to his lame and mumbled excuses for his tardiness and take the elevator up to where we are supposed to attend this conference.
The conference was incidentally very interesting. It was about the numerous works of Arab literature and films that portray themes that are contrary to the violent extremism that dominates and hampers Arabian culture in the region. The presentation and ensuing discussion leaves me feeling so hopeful, warm and philanthropic inside... yet also so helpless when I consider the sheer enormity of the task... what it will take to put these works in a position/venue where they could have a noticeable impact. They're out there, though. I just feel like these works are so many seedlings on a barren mountainside where we dream of having a forest someday...
So, that was a nice break. JP and I went back to the office after that and discussed the merits of bringing a lunch. I hadn't brought a lunch that day, so I acted like I was content to mack down on my protein bar while he ate his juicy Turkey sandwich. While I was doing that, I wrote up a little synopsis of the talk we just heard for the other Colonel -- the one we work for. He was rushing about about something and babbled something about having to go to a meeting and that he would be back for the 1330 meeting we all had (news to me), but also had to pick some up some people (who were running the meeting) and he might not make it back in time for that, they were coming from the metro, so maybe one of us could go meet them if he wasn't back by ten of, did we think that was something we could do?
"Sure, yes, Sir!" I said to be helpful.
"What do they look like?" JP asked.
"Oh, I don't know. There are two of them --in a group of two, two people coming up from the metro. He used to be in the CIA," the Colonel very distractedly tried to explain.
"Oh, that will be easy," I offered, "I'll just ask everybody coming up from the metro to strip and the one that doesn't have a tattoo will be the guy!"
[Chrip chirp] That didn't go over well. Oh well.
"We'll figure it out, Sir." JP said, and the Colonel walked away. "Seriously," he looked at me, "how does he think we can find these people? 'Oh there are two of them,'" he mocked. Good point.
"How about we hold up a sign, like a limo driver in an airport?" I offered again, hoping this joke would go over better than the first.
""Hey! That's a great idea! We'll just make a sign that says [insert name here]. I like it!" Score! Slightly proud of ourselves, we pondered it for another couple of seconds and then sat down at our respective computers and forgot all about it until the Colonel came whirlwinding back through our cubicle farm at 5 minutes 'till 1330. Shoot, where had the time gone!
We went into the conference room and waited for the rest of the folks for the meeting to arrive.
Blah blah blah insert meeting contents here -- the contents actually were fascinating to me, so unlike anything I have dealt with before, but I cannot disclose them in such an open forum as this I am afraid. Suffice it to say that your government is doing some pretty cool and innovative things to counter threats and keep you all safe!
The next morning when I got in, JP and I planned our day around an 1100-1300 Videoteleconference we had to attend for the Colonel. That too was very interesting, funny even at times to see how many people we at the Polygon throw at meetings and how little the other Combatant Commanders seem to give a damn. --just my impression, just my impression.
Later on when I got back to the office I had a little heart to heart with Big Tony. He was all there was really there to talk to and also I figured he would give me an outsider's unbiased view. "So, Tony, tell me if I am off the mark here, okay?"
"Okay," he says as he turns around in his chair to face me, folding his hands like he is going to do the 'here is the church' trick.
"Since nobody has really been able to really explain it to me, I have been trying to figure out just what my job is here." He's still listening. "So, we go to these meetings and conferences and take notes, come back write some shit up for the Colonel; then we surf the Classified and Unclas web and look for people, movements and websites of interest, do a little research and at the end of the week we summarize what we've done and where we've been in a one page document which we feed to the General so she can talk to the higher ups about it and maybe do something about our musings."
"Yeah, that's pretty much it."
"But to WHAT END? I mean I am just used to having a mission to work towards... inspections... targets... something. Everything here is just so vast and nebulous!"
"Yeah, pretty much," Tony nods.
"Oh. Okay. Thanks, Tony."
"No problem."
I go back to my desk, somewhat satisfied about something...
08 September 2008
As the Polygon Turns: The Line of Duty (Episode 5)
08 SEP
Friday afternoon Face and the Colonel decided that the best way to employ me this week would be for me to go to a working group in the NMCC. Face and #1 are in Tampa this week at SOUTHCOM, so I was going to go and sit in with this other new guy JP (an Army dude). This was all decided upon after we had parted ways with JP, however, so the latter wasn't exactly in the know. You may not think that this fact was important because we 2 are independent people, and although we are both FNGs, we are not lemmings. But, hello? Remember, my badge doesn't have all of the necessary codes and stripes on it yet, so I just can't go bopping about wherever I please. Funny that on Friday JP was joking that they should affix a leash to me like you see on so many todlders these days. "Why doesn't somebody put a frickin' leash on him!?" (Dr. Evil's voice)
Anyway, so JP wasn't expecting that he would have company Monday. I enquired of Face where to meet up with JP on Monday, should I meet him in the office, at what time?
"If I were JP, I would not come in until 1230, and meet up with you guys outside teh access to the NMCC." Okay great. So I asked him how to get there, and he said, "you know that escalator ouside our office? Take it down to the basement and wander around and ask someone for directions." Hmmm. Okay. Great directions. Thanks, Dude.
So, based on these hugely reliable pieces of information spoken by a man who'd had a couple of beers on a Friday afternoon, I made my plans for this morning (look, I wasn't really thinking, as Mike Birbiglia would say: "I am in the future too!") I planned on taking the 0925 bus from my house (I know, rough life), arriving at the Polygon at 1016, going to the PAC, swimming for an hour, showering and changing for the next 30 minutes, snacking for the duration after that until about 12 minutes till 1230... You get the idea.
At 0917, I left my house to go to my bus stop. Russ was washing windows outside, so I said goodbye to him, having already executed the more ceremonial kiss goodbye 20 minutes earlier. When I said goodbye to him, the Mexicans across the street loading the neighboor's extra junk said "hello" to me. So that was a little awkward, but I said "Hello" back anyway. After that pleasant little exchange, I proceeded to wait at my bus stop from 0918 to 0946. Crazy! How can a bus be this late? Every time a piece of public transportation is late, I recall a quote from an anonymous Italian during Mussolinni's reign when asked what he thought of the Italian Facist dictator: "Well, the trains are always on time." --only he said it in Italian. Hmmm.
I went back to the house and got Russ to bring me to work. I was in the pool by 1030 flat. Sparing you the boring details, suffice it to say that I naturally kept my aforementioned schedule to the T, got some pretty darn good directions to the NMCC and was pacing outside post #8 entrance to the National Military Command Center (Oh, that is what that stands for!) by 3 minutes 'till 1230. And there I waited... until 1255. Absolutely ludicrous! Just as all hope of seeing JP drained from my little heart, I overheard someone telling someone else that there are many posts leading to the NMCC. Crappers, I'll bet that all this time I have been waiting outside the wrong one.
Dejected and ashamed of my repeated failure to be at my appointed places of duty, I went up to the office that I can't get into or work in unattended, and I called big Tony to let me in. He did. I signed in. He countersigned. Then I went to the Colonel's office to apologize for being such a dumb-ass. He gracefully accepted my apology: "Well, you know, stuff happens." Spoken like an Army Ranger. I went back to the front of the office and wrote a note to JP, explaining the situation and telling him to call me later so we could sort out tomorrow. Then I went back to Tony's corner of the office so he could keep me company and I could check my email. One of the first emails that I opened up was marked "High Priority" (don't you love it when the people who send you emails think they get to determine your priorities?). It was from a Navy chief who worked in the J1. Ah, the J1, the glorious J1, the mothership of all administration offices! PSC Perez had sent this email at 0745 telling me that I had a "MANDATORY MILITARY APPOINTMENT," that I was to report between the hours of 0900-1100 and that my appointment should take approximately 1 hour. I was further instructed that I had to bring my Military ID and that the particulars would be made clear to me when I showed up. Holy crap! I missed another appointment! And this one sounded like a BIG one! It was like a Mission Impossible appointment! "...the particulars will be made clear to me when I show up..." And I MISSED IT. Man, I am in for it now! Instead of voicing my patent dread, I said to Tony, "can you believe the nerve of the J1? They send me an EMAIL AT 0745 telling me that I have a MANDATORY MILITARY APPOINTMENT at 0900. And they just expect me to woop, drop everything and cater to their little meeting. Hmmph. The nerve."
"Well, you had better stop missing these meetings and stuff or you are going to get nowhere with your clearance, Missy." Okay, I don't think he actually said "Missy," but that is what I deserved to have said to me.
"Yeah, right." So at this point it was 1310, and I figured, hell I already missed this thing by 4 hours, what is another 30 minutes. Take that with your high priority mandatory military appointment Chief Perez!
Bored with my email by 1348, I bid Tony adieu, signed out and headed down to the J1 main admin office. I considered hitting the head on the way, but considered that it would give me something to do after I apologized to these people before the 1500 All-Hands J5 call with the new Director.
I found the office and waited at the helpdesk at the front and am waited on by YN1, PSC Perez's minion. Forthwith, I launched into expressing my abject apology for missing my appointment, telling him that I was at a conference this morning (which wasn't really the truth, but it was pretty believable, eh?) and just returned to my desk at 1330. He had a strange expression on his face, midway between horror and a sneeze.
"Well, I think they close at 1400. I don't know if you could get up there in time."
"To the meeting?"
"Yes, I am not sure you can make it."
"Wasn't it between 0900 and 1000?"
"Well, yes, but..."
"I don't get it... I mean I can still get up there by 1400 if you need me to."
"Well, it's not really an appointment............. it's urinalysis."
"Ohhhhhhhhh!" Well, why didn't he say so? Mandatory Military Appointment... that is one way of putting it. How do I keep from laughing? "Look, I feel bad. I can still make it up there. Just tell me where to go."
"No, don't worry about it, ma'am. We can just reschedule you." Huh!? That's not really how the program works. He must have sensed that I was questioning his integrity, and I felt bad for implying that I was when he was really just trying to hook me up.
"Just tell me where it is, I can make it in time," I assured him. I am a trooper, I can pee on command, don't you worry YN1, I won't let you down! # 2 will come through with just the # 1 they are looking for! (cue the national anthem, please)
He gave me directions and I headed out and went up 4 escalators and over to the 9th corridor A ring. Pretty quiet up here... above it all... counting the numbers on the doors... ah, here it is! Air Force! I should have known they have masterminded this whole operation: Operation Do Your Duty. Two Air Force Sargeants were giving me their very best June Cleaver smiles as I marched into the office.
I signed in and forfeited my ID card. There was a small glass bowl of "Fun Size" candy next to the sign in clipboard. Krackels, Snickers, Hershey's and Shockers...? What was with this candy. The selection was kind of gross. Shaking my head to rid myself from a bad dejavu, I took a seat.
"If you had been randomly selected 5 days in a row to collect a $1,000.00 check you would not complain that the process is not random." Or so said the sign directly across from me. This place was all geared to helping you prepare for your big test: the air temperature was slightly chillier than the rest of the building, the chairs were a little stiff and upright, and the piece du resistance was the little zen fountain that tinkled -- I mean trickled -- at just the right harmonic.
"Commander Stone, are you ready?" Hell, yeah, I was born ready!
"Yes."
"Verify this information, please..." Sure, be happy to.
"Okay, yes, looks good. Everything is correct." I took my bottle and the intermediate receptacle to the bathroom that the gentlemen presented to me with such grace and a sweep of the arm. One of the SGTs followed me -- the woman. Once in the bathroom she explained to me the virtues of the random tall plastic box in the corner of the room versus the sink edge as far as a perfectly level surface goes.
"You'd hate for something to spill."
"Yes, I would," I reply, thinking how much it would suck if my prized urine hit the deck and I had to rehydrate all over again so I could muster up enough to answer the call of duty.
"There was an accident in here earlier--" she started to say. No way! Gross! "...someone spilled bleach, that is why it smells like this in here." What??!! Bleach?? That is not an accident. As far as bathrooms go, that is the absolute opposite of an accident. That is a solution (no pun intended, seriously)! Weeeee-ired Woman!
So, I rinsed my hands, did my thing with the bottles and remarked that the Navy doesn't have such technology in their intermediate receptacles -- the "technology" being the tamper seal. Then comes the small talk... the infamous urinalysis small talk that the performer and the observer have to awkwardly engage in while the performer gets up the gumption to, well, perform.
I sit, take my bottle, position it and wait...
"Stagefright??!!" She says to me. Did she just say that to me? She just violated what I have always viewed as the first rule of female urinalysis observing: don't call out the performer! Notice I said female urinalysis observing. The dudes, they do it differently - or so I have heard. I remember the guys I worked with at the NROTC unti when we had to observe the midshipmen. "Ready for some Meat Gazing, Jerry??" Sharkey would say. Then they would walk by the quivering midshipmen, asking Sandford if he was going to find it in him to produce by 1500. A buddy of mine on my last ship, when it was his chance to perform, he took the performing literally and would ask his observer if he (the observer) wanted to hold his wanker while he peed. Talk about taking the offensive!
Anyway, so, she called me out on it and I sheepishly asked her if she could turn the faucet on for a trickle... maybe if she wasn't looking straight down between my legs... maybe if... if only that little zen fountain were in here!
Don't worry. I am a trooper. Once I heard that faucet and daydreamt of Niagra Falls, it wasn't long until the golden shower was going and I had it all sealed up, zipped up, buttoned up, and on my way back to the deck to verify, initial, and head out the door. I should have known that the Air Force was Marshaling this effort. Maybe tomorrow won't be fraught with such trauma.
Friday afternoon Face and the Colonel decided that the best way to employ me this week would be for me to go to a working group in the NMCC. Face and #1 are in Tampa this week at SOUTHCOM, so I was going to go and sit in with this other new guy JP (an Army dude). This was all decided upon after we had parted ways with JP, however, so the latter wasn't exactly in the know. You may not think that this fact was important because we 2 are independent people, and although we are both FNGs, we are not lemmings. But, hello? Remember, my badge doesn't have all of the necessary codes and stripes on it yet, so I just can't go bopping about wherever I please. Funny that on Friday JP was joking that they should affix a leash to me like you see on so many todlders these days. "Why doesn't somebody put a frickin' leash on him!?" (Dr. Evil's voice)
Anyway, so JP wasn't expecting that he would have company Monday. I enquired of Face where to meet up with JP on Monday, should I meet him in the office, at what time?
"If I were JP, I would not come in until 1230, and meet up with you guys outside teh access to the NMCC." Okay great. So I asked him how to get there, and he said, "you know that escalator ouside our office? Take it down to the basement and wander around and ask someone for directions." Hmmm. Okay. Great directions. Thanks, Dude.
So, based on these hugely reliable pieces of information spoken by a man who'd had a couple of beers on a Friday afternoon, I made my plans for this morning (look, I wasn't really thinking, as Mike Birbiglia would say: "I am in the future too!") I planned on taking the 0925 bus from my house (I know, rough life), arriving at the Polygon at 1016, going to the PAC, swimming for an hour, showering and changing for the next 30 minutes, snacking for the duration after that until about 12 minutes till 1230... You get the idea.
At 0917, I left my house to go to my bus stop. Russ was washing windows outside, so I said goodbye to him, having already executed the more ceremonial kiss goodbye 20 minutes earlier. When I said goodbye to him, the Mexicans across the street loading the neighboor's extra junk said "hello" to me. So that was a little awkward, but I said "Hello" back anyway. After that pleasant little exchange, I proceeded to wait at my bus stop from 0918 to 0946. Crazy! How can a bus be this late? Every time a piece of public transportation is late, I recall a quote from an anonymous Italian during Mussolinni's reign when asked what he thought of the Italian Facist dictator: "Well, the trains are always on time." --only he said it in Italian. Hmmm.
I went back to the house and got Russ to bring me to work. I was in the pool by 1030 flat. Sparing you the boring details, suffice it to say that I naturally kept my aforementioned schedule to the T, got some pretty darn good directions to the NMCC and was pacing outside post #8 entrance to the National Military Command Center (Oh, that is what that stands for!) by 3 minutes 'till 1230. And there I waited... until 1255. Absolutely ludicrous! Just as all hope of seeing JP drained from my little heart, I overheard someone telling someone else that there are many posts leading to the NMCC. Crappers, I'll bet that all this time I have been waiting outside the wrong one.
Dejected and ashamed of my repeated failure to be at my appointed places of duty, I went up to the office that I can't get into or work in unattended, and I called big Tony to let me in. He did. I signed in. He countersigned. Then I went to the Colonel's office to apologize for being such a dumb-ass. He gracefully accepted my apology: "Well, you know, stuff happens." Spoken like an Army Ranger. I went back to the front of the office and wrote a note to JP, explaining the situation and telling him to call me later so we could sort out tomorrow. Then I went back to Tony's corner of the office so he could keep me company and I could check my email. One of the first emails that I opened up was marked "High Priority" (don't you love it when the people who send you emails think they get to determine your priorities?). It was from a Navy chief who worked in the J1. Ah, the J1, the glorious J1, the mothership of all administration offices! PSC Perez had sent this email at 0745 telling me that I had a "MANDATORY MILITARY APPOINTMENT," that I was to report between the hours of 0900-1100 and that my appointment should take approximately 1 hour. I was further instructed that I had to bring my Military ID and that the particulars would be made clear to me when I showed up. Holy crap! I missed another appointment! And this one sounded like a BIG one! It was like a Mission Impossible appointment! "...the particulars will be made clear to me when I show up..." And I MISSED IT. Man, I am in for it now! Instead of voicing my patent dread, I said to Tony, "can you believe the nerve of the J1? They send me an EMAIL AT 0745 telling me that I have a MANDATORY MILITARY APPOINTMENT at 0900. And they just expect me to woop, drop everything and cater to their little meeting. Hmmph. The nerve."
"Well, you had better stop missing these meetings and stuff or you are going to get nowhere with your clearance, Missy." Okay, I don't think he actually said "Missy," but that is what I deserved to have said to me.
"Yeah, right." So at this point it was 1310, and I figured, hell I already missed this thing by 4 hours, what is another 30 minutes. Take that with your high priority mandatory military appointment Chief Perez!
Bored with my email by 1348, I bid Tony adieu, signed out and headed down to the J1 main admin office. I considered hitting the head on the way, but considered that it would give me something to do after I apologized to these people before the 1500 All-Hands J5 call with the new Director.
I found the office and waited at the helpdesk at the front and am waited on by YN1, PSC Perez's minion. Forthwith, I launched into expressing my abject apology for missing my appointment, telling him that I was at a conference this morning (which wasn't really the truth, but it was pretty believable, eh?) and just returned to my desk at 1330. He had a strange expression on his face, midway between horror and a sneeze.
"Well, I think they close at 1400. I don't know if you could get up there in time."
"To the meeting?"
"Yes, I am not sure you can make it."
"Wasn't it between 0900 and 1000?"
"Well, yes, but..."
"I don't get it... I mean I can still get up there by 1400 if you need me to."
"Well, it's not really an appointment............. it's urinalysis."
"Ohhhhhhhhh!" Well, why didn't he say so? Mandatory Military Appointment... that is one way of putting it. How do I keep from laughing? "Look, I feel bad. I can still make it up there. Just tell me where to go."
"No, don't worry about it, ma'am. We can just reschedule you." Huh!? That's not really how the program works. He must have sensed that I was questioning his integrity, and I felt bad for implying that I was when he was really just trying to hook me up.
"Just tell me where it is, I can make it in time," I assured him. I am a trooper, I can pee on command, don't you worry YN1, I won't let you down! # 2 will come through with just the # 1 they are looking for! (cue the national anthem, please)
He gave me directions and I headed out and went up 4 escalators and over to the 9th corridor A ring. Pretty quiet up here... above it all... counting the numbers on the doors... ah, here it is! Air Force! I should have known they have masterminded this whole operation: Operation Do Your Duty. Two Air Force Sargeants were giving me their very best June Cleaver smiles as I marched into the office.
I signed in and forfeited my ID card. There was a small glass bowl of "Fun Size" candy next to the sign in clipboard. Krackels, Snickers, Hershey's and Shockers...? What was with this candy. The selection was kind of gross. Shaking my head to rid myself from a bad dejavu, I took a seat.
"If you had been randomly selected 5 days in a row to collect a $1,000.00 check you would not complain that the process is not random." Or so said the sign directly across from me. This place was all geared to helping you prepare for your big test: the air temperature was slightly chillier than the rest of the building, the chairs were a little stiff and upright, and the piece du resistance was the little zen fountain that tinkled -- I mean trickled -- at just the right harmonic.
"Commander Stone, are you ready?" Hell, yeah, I was born ready!
"Yes."
"Verify this information, please..." Sure, be happy to.
"Okay, yes, looks good. Everything is correct." I took my bottle and the intermediate receptacle to the bathroom that the gentlemen presented to me with such grace and a sweep of the arm. One of the SGTs followed me -- the woman. Once in the bathroom she explained to me the virtues of the random tall plastic box in the corner of the room versus the sink edge as far as a perfectly level surface goes.
"You'd hate for something to spill."
"Yes, I would," I reply, thinking how much it would suck if my prized urine hit the deck and I had to rehydrate all over again so I could muster up enough to answer the call of duty.
"There was an accident in here earlier--" she started to say. No way! Gross! "...someone spilled bleach, that is why it smells like this in here." What??!! Bleach?? That is not an accident. As far as bathrooms go, that is the absolute opposite of an accident. That is a solution (no pun intended, seriously)! Weeeee-ired Woman!
So, I rinsed my hands, did my thing with the bottles and remarked that the Navy doesn't have such technology in their intermediate receptacles -- the "technology" being the tamper seal. Then comes the small talk... the infamous urinalysis small talk that the performer and the observer have to awkwardly engage in while the performer gets up the gumption to, well, perform.
I sit, take my bottle, position it and wait...
"Stagefright??!!" She says to me. Did she just say that to me? She just violated what I have always viewed as the first rule of female urinalysis observing: don't call out the performer! Notice I said female urinalysis observing. The dudes, they do it differently - or so I have heard. I remember the guys I worked with at the NROTC unti when we had to observe the midshipmen. "Ready for some Meat Gazing, Jerry??" Sharkey would say. Then they would walk by the quivering midshipmen, asking Sandford if he was going to find it in him to produce by 1500. A buddy of mine on my last ship, when it was his chance to perform, he took the performing literally and would ask his observer if he (the observer) wanted to hold his wanker while he peed. Talk about taking the offensive!
Anyway, so, she called me out on it and I sheepishly asked her if she could turn the faucet on for a trickle... maybe if she wasn't looking straight down between my legs... maybe if... if only that little zen fountain were in here!
Don't worry. I am a trooper. Once I heard that faucet and daydreamt of Niagra Falls, it wasn't long until the golden shower was going and I had it all sealed up, zipped up, buttoned up, and on my way back to the deck to verify, initial, and head out the door. I should have known that the Air Force was Marshaling this effort. Maybe tomorrow won't be fraught with such trauma.
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