Power Seller, SUPPO?

People, it is well documented, make mistakes. You might turn left from the right lane or drink a little to much and end up late to work the next day. I’ve dropped supper on the floor, let my license expire, said things I didn’t mean, and once, as a guest in the home of an Orthodox Jew, put a milk dish in the meat dishwasher (there were two dishwashers, I didn’t think to ask, and after a deliciously cheesy snack picked the wrong one -- it was a very big deal to my friend). Mistakes happen.

When our battalion supply officer, the SUPPO, was recently caught selling cases of the battalion’s tents on EBay it was not the result of a mistake. It was because the Lieutenant made a series of calculated if selfish decisions.

I’ve never cared for the man -- he’s always put me off a bit -- and I’m not alone. It’s safe to say that he’s nobody’s favorite. He might even hold the title of Least Liked Person in the battalion. And that was before he went to mast (a non-judicial form of punishment unique, in this country, to the military). Now, as a group, we all feel justified in our dislike because we know he’s earned it; it feels good.

I have a fantasy that the next time I pass him in the hall I’ll turn his way, tilt my head down, my eyes up, and ask in a low breathy voice,

“Power seller, SUPPO?”

Platform

Like a dirty name, Liberal is an accusation thrown at me from time to time despite my self-imposed silence in all political discussions that unfold at work. I censor myself because I don’t want others to get the mistaken impression that I’m judging them. But when I am pressed, I politely and shamelessly state that I vote mostly Democrat. I’m careful that my words and inflections are easy because tone is the best way to communicate that what I’m saying is not a secret, nor does it make me defiant, or any less patriotic than the Republicans who serve by my side. At this point, after outing myself as a Democrat, I usually go on to say that I believe in democracy more than any one man or woman and that if everyone votes, and my guy looses, so be it. Who am I to say that I know better than everyone else? I have no supernatural hold on the truth or the future. And then, if I’m feeling a little feisty, I casually add that the two party system is a real problem because what’s a girl to do if she’s fiscally conservative and socially liberal? My statement is an allusion to the fact that I, like most of America (so I assume from conversations with friends, family, and coworkers), don’t feel that there is a party that reflects an overwhelming majority of my beliefs.

I don’t harbor illusions that anyone who makes it this far down the screen will care, but because these pages are for me, it seems that a platform is in order, and will follow in forthcoming posts.

Dasha

Four Weeks and Counting

I can’t find my copy of the contract. My husband said he filed it but I must not know where to look (he’s away for the summer), which is frustrating because I’d like to copy it verbatim to this page or at least to reread it for something related to peace of mind. The signed papers promise a few things including: she’s healthy, I’ll be reimbursed $50 for any or all ACK titles (agility, obedience, but not CGC), and that she won’t have hip dysplasia for the first two years of her life.

Dasha is 12 weeks old and in the 3 weeks I’ve had her I’ve noticed a little limping, a little leg shake, and when she runs hard an altered gait. I’ll be surprised if she’s not severely dysplastic. But because she’s so young radiographs will have to wait another month during which we’ll continue twice-a-week puppy classes, shots, walks, training, baths, socialization, and snuggle sessions. She’ll try to drink my red wine every chance she gets and I’ll dress up her kibble with vegetables, herbs, meat, and broth pretending that it will make her feel loved and content. We’ll spend afternoons at the Coffee Bean and grab a few lunches at a sidewalk cafe. I’ll worry about leaving her alone while I’m at work and try to compensate at lunch and in the evenings with new toys and creative play. And then I’ll buy an appropriately sized airline crate, a one-way ticket, and fly her back to the breeder in Washington because I can’t justify $4,500 worth of surgery on a puppy. My husband agrees but isn’t here to take her out at 3 am or pick the burrs out of her coat. He doesn’t stuff a clicker in one pocket and a baggie of treats in the other every time he leaves the house. He’s not attached and so I imagine that as he’s buying and installing a Cisco router system for a man in Wyoming he doesn’t have knots in his shoulders or feel like he’s going to vomit.

I hope the next month passes quickly.

Fun With Photo Booth

Anxious

Anxiety and I have a tricky relationship, mostly because I don’t believe in it. I know logic and reason, properly applied, should pacify emotion and ideally quash it -- yet anxiety easily and consistently manages to hijack my body.

I am forced to acknowledge it with, at the least, mild respect and pleasant manners.