I'll Never Learn

I love to talk. It’s the truth. I love it and I do it all the time, even when I’m alone. I pace the apartment and talk to myself, I walk to work and talk to myself, even on my way home from buying groceries I talk to myself. And I put myself in the best mood ever.

I’m also happy to talk to anyone who will listen and sometimes it gets me in trouble. Like right now. I was working late Monday after I got back from the range and I was exasperated: with my lame busy-work job, with the admin department, and with one yeoman in particular who seems a little in love with placing blame in all the wrong places (I’m all for blame but make it air-tight and do it with some finesse). So I complained to the Senior Chief who struck up a conversation with me after-hours Monday evening. It really was innocent. And it was the biggest mistake ever. He’s just off a DUI that was a total embarrassment and he’s trying to re-establish his reputation so he decided my bitching was a call to arms. And it just so happens he was stationed with my least favorite yeoman in Washington, hates him with a vengeance, and is out for blood. Like a custom suit my complaints were perfectly tailored to him. How was this girl to know?

While I’ve been safely distracted by the range he’s been running at the mouth for two days and now everyone is involved. I’d list everyone who is actively participating in this fiasco but it would be get me off-topic. It’s lots of people with lots of rank and today a chief, who I like, came into my office and said, “So I hear you’re stirring the pot.” He took both of his arms and made a motion like he was stirring a huge caldron with something thick and toxic simmering inside. I’m not stirring the pot. I don’t have any problems. I could care less if a cocky yeoman who out-ranks me raised his voice and was rude to me. I can promise you that rank rarely affects me and that I perform well in an argument under pressure. This was no exception. I don’t care who makes it to class next week. That’s the crux of the issue: one group thinks they should be excused from a trip to the range and another, much larger, group of people think that first group are a bunch of manipulative, sneaky, complainers who feel a sense on entitlement.

So that’s where I stand. I opened my mouth with a small amount of trust and was burned. I’m going to stick to talking to myself. I’m much happier that way.

Expert

I’ve been out at the range this week shooting the M9 pistol and today my qualifying score put me in the Expert category. Because of my accomplishment I get to put a little metal E on my pistol qualification ribbon and I think I get a medal, too. I’m really a little bit proud of myself. My score is something no one can take away. It’s completely mine. Forever.

Last Friday I took my PT test and had my fastest run ever by 12 seconds.

It’s been a good week.

He Blew My Cover

My dad isn’t into talking to me. We’ve spoken exactly twice since he was diagnosed with cancer a few months ago. The first time was an accident; he answered the phone and promptly handed it off to my brother. My mother forced the second conversation on us; I’m sure she thought it was for our own good. She is, after all, a mother. He rattled off a list of medications, told me that he’s maintained his weight since he started chemo and radiation, and handed the phone back to my mother.

As a child I won state piano competitions, earned excellent grades, and followed all the rules and as an adult I am generous and self-sufficient. But over the past few years I have somehow ended up the black sheep of the family. My absence has been a seductive opportunity for my family to judge me. I surfed my way to a web site the other day that sold white t-shirts printed with the shape of a sheep in black. I almost bought one. It would be fitting, like a personal brand for my life.

My dad refuses to have a proper conversation with me but is happy to send regular e-mails to my husband. I think he might feel some sort of invalid connection. In these e-mails my husband made mention of my impending trip to the desert. It was innocent enough. We talk about it all the time. But I specifically told him that I wasn’t going to tell my family until I was absolutely sure, that I would make that call when the orders were cut. Well, my mother is in a tizzy and will be visiting me next week. I’ve tried to calm her, and if I had to guess I’d say that I’ve been at least moderately successful, but every time I think I have a grasp on the home situation my brother phones in with a mom-report of bizarre behavior and outbursts. I’m sure my brother is accommodating her this very moment, probably covering for my persistent absence. He performs with aplomb.

I’m naturally very private because I don’t like to deal with emotions in others that surface as a result of my choices and circumstances. I don’t like heart-to-hearts. They’re not for me, or at least for me with people I don’t know so well. There is one exception: heart-to-hearts are perfectly acceptable, even welcome, with the people in my life with whom I actively engage in love. These are people who I feel I can reasonably expect to gladly, and without judgment, take on a portion of my thought process.

These paragraphs brought to you by Black Sheep Enterprises.