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!)

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.

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!