It's Not Easy Wearing Green

1.0

2009-08-23T15:08:00.000-07:00

My high school health teacher was a dead ringer for Big Bird. She was over six feet tall with hips and a waddle and had a nose that looked like a beak. I don't remember her name but I do remember that she took a page from the Jocelyn Elders book and proselytized that the safest sex we could have was masturbation. I believed her, but I didn't masturbate. I didn't know how. (It would be years before I used my grandma's birthday money to treat my pearly whites and my sexual disposition to a Sonicare.) The first time I fucked my high school boyfriend, on a red and green plaid couch with embroidered natural horns--seriously, we fucked on top of Christmas while his parents were at the symphony--he was on top of me, thrusting like any and every kid who doesn't know what the hell he's doing and he was doing a little more damage than usual because he was both unknowing and well endowed so he was ramming himself into my cervix with a velocity that made me want to throw him onto the floor and scream: What the fuck is your problem? This is AWFUL! But instead I clenched all my muscles so I didn't pee on both him and Christmas. I held my hand to the burner; I refused to pull it away. He stopped, thank God. Respite is lovely when the task at hand is truly miserable. He asked,

"Are you close?"

"Close to what?"

"Orgasm."

"Oh... yea... I'm close."

Which was the truth if, by close, I meant about 25 years away.

To be fair to the story, the word boyfriend is a bit of a stretch. We attended one concert and one movie. I didn't have the courage to ask him to the Sadie Hawkins dance and he had a girlfriend. Think Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club. Just like the health teacher I don't remember her name, but I'll never forget that he was willing to acknowledge her, with her odd habits and eccentricities, in public. This girl ate the the peel of the pomegranate, but not the seeds. She was worthy and I was not.

This is all relevant because it fucked me up. We accept the love that we think we deserve and after the Christmas couch and pomegranate peel salad, I didn't think I deserved very much.

Truth is Stranger

2009-08-23T14:30:00.000-07:00

I don't imagine a soul faithfully reads these words, so this post, a post to make an announcement, is a little silly because anyone who chances upon this place won't know the history, and I'm not entirely sure but I'm pretty sure that if we don't know history... well... that makes history irrelevant.

Today marks the day I switch to fiction. It's not going to be good. This is baby, baby, first fledgling attempts at fiction. The kind of stuff middle schoolers write. The stuff that embarrasses because it revels the underdeveloped and unknowing parts of the grey mush upstairs.

I am most connected to myself when I write, but am afraid to write about myself. I've never taken a class in fiction or poetry. Seriously, this stuff is going to suck. But that's the point of a pacifier, isn't it? It gives you something to suck.

Girl Crush

2009-08-21T21:01:00.000-07:00

All of my friends--the ones that I give a shit about as they relate to me and themselves and life--have one thing in common. Each of them has the ability to peak my curiosity. They say things I haven't heard or thought of before. They have wit (and with wit comes charm). They make me laugh from the deepest most buried part of my guts and I never want to let them down. They make my life richer.

One of those friends lives in Alaska and he shares my bed.

A second also lives in the 49th state but he has a life and a wife and a major construction project that needs a roof before winter and winter comes early here so we are destined to be the casualist of friends but the closest of work kindreds.

That's not to say I only have one or two friends here. I have several. I get invites. To parties. Parties where cool people with hip glasses and haircuts and high end jeans hang out. But I never want to go and I almost always cancel and I'm afraid that makes me a raging thankless cunt.

(Spellcheck flags cunt and twat and puntang but doesn't flag dick or cock or johnson--there's a thesis in there somewhere that connects genetalial slang to gender and entomology.)

The whole point of this post was supposed to be that I have one female friend in Alaska and she is unflappably nice and kind and giving and lovely but she bores me so I let her down and feel like shit because of it. There's not one thing wrong with her except that both she and her conversation are boring.

I get by. I don't think she'll dump me. I loan her clothes and gear and we hike and run together. She makes me smile. But she never makes me think. So I cancel plans because hours with her means hours away from myself.

I'm a total cunt.

Why is it so hard to find wickedly smart women? And if it's not--where the hell do I find them?

Comfort

2009-06-26T20:05:00.000-07:00

I'm alone and it's time for a little company. I'd like to talk to someone besides my dog about anything that's mildly interesting. I'd like a friend who is smarter, funnier, and prettier than me.

In the Navy you're always part of a group. You can't escape it. Your clothes and the way you wear your hair remind you. Even when you're away you remember. On vacation, shopping at a mall, you realize that you're carrying your bags, purse, and soda with your left arm while the right is fee--you do it so you can salute officers that aren't there. At restaurants you're appalled when someone places a hat on a table. You wrinkle your nose when the buttons on a man's shirt don't align perfectly with his belt buckle and his fly. You do all of those things because you were taught by the Navy. And it's the nose wrinkle, the shudder when you spot a headless hat on the table, and your aching left forearm that all make you feel like part of a group even when you're alone.

Out of the Navy I don't have those visceral reactions and am rarely reminded of something bigger than myself. Without forced discipline to put me in my place, I'm left unchecked.

Living among throngs of people is protection. Anonymity is armor. Art is comfort.

That Bitch Has a Great Haircut.

2009-06-21T20:31:00.000-07:00

Hiking up Mt. Significant: Summer Solstice, 2009.

Dog Clip by Jessica

Running Low on Raisins

2009-06-16T21:03:00.000-07:00

I have a mouse.

My mouse is one in a series, which I'm pretty sure means I have mice, but I will wait to officially draw that conclusion until it is so obvious that even my denial and delusion won't protect me. For now I'm ignoring them (him). The mice will soon grow bored with my routine so to differentiate their days they will throw a party and crank the tunes; they might bake a cake, and even order a stripper. Some time will pass--just enough so they develop an edge and get sassy. With a swagger they'll distill gin, host a poetry slam, and cultivate psychedelic mushrooms. Only then will I admit they're a problem.

Mark handles the mouse trap: baits with raisins, checks, and empties the $1 contraption on a regular basis. And as this happens he insists the rodent situation is not a problem; a problem is seven mice in one night. We catch only one mouse every few days (about a dozen and a half short of a problem). I believe Mark's assessment because physics dictates it: It is the path of least resistance. Now Mark is gone for what he calls two weeks, but what the calender clearly insists is three, and the least of my worries is fixing the toilet water valve before my mom shows up for the 4th of July. Now I have to figure out how to muster the courage to check the mouse trap and then throw away the carcass. Death is a little gross--even unwanted mouse death.

Actually, I think death is probably exciting. It's decay that's gross.

This makes me think of myself and then of teaching.

The Gambler

2009-05-26T22:37:00.000-07:00

A friend was telling me about a relative of hers who had worked himself into an uncomfortable situation and was now seeking treatment for a gambling addiction. She told me that through his rehabilitation she had learned that gamblers aren't addicted to winning. What they're addicted to is the feeling of almost loosing it all and then somehow squeaking by. The thrill they seek doesn't come from success, but from managing against all probable odds not to fail.

As she was telling me this story I immediately recognized myself. That same gasp of heart-rate altering fear is what makes me procrastinate. And in the two years since making the connection between myself and an addictive personality I've become much better at time management, although still put things off from time to time (for instance... tonight) just for the excitement of it.

I have a friend who suffers from the same malady of supreme procrastination. I told him the first paragraph of this story and he immediately recognized himself and even made the connection that it's a dysfunctional way to work--that it compromises the project and that the guys who work for him don't get anything out of it other than stress and frustration.

Barnes & Noble carries books about procrastination. I first noticed them about a decade ago but have always put off reading them. However, had I read one or two ten years back I might be that much further ahead of the game. My friend at work is a reader. It's possible he's walked by them on the shelf, too.

It's a subcategory of books that could use some clever marketing.

BC

2009-05-26T08:05:00.000-07:00

BC accepted my friend request.

Mentor, I hope you're ready for me--I might be a bit of a challenge.

Mr. Cellophane

2009-05-25T17:53:00.000-07:00

Glee is Heathers for thirty-somethings and is my new favorite confection.

Fox got it right with their new musical satire and after watching the pilot twice on Hulu, I'm thinking that September is much too long for Fair and Balanced to expect me to wait to see episode two. It's a tease and teasing isn't fair. We all know that. And it would only be balanced if I teased Fox first; and even if I did, I'm pretty sure Fox didn't hear me so it can't possibly count.

It's Memorial Day and I'm home with the dog. Saturday morning there was a cow moose and two spring calves in the yard. Yesterday on a hike, Dasha and a black bear shared a small stream; they were both thirsty. Today I finished sewing a pair of cammi pants into a tote.

Like the Marc Jacobs wearing kid who auditions with Mr. Cellophane on Glee, I'm feeling a little invisible. Alaska makes me feel invisible.

Chicago was a competition. The Navy was a competition. Either by conforming and striving, or by eschewing the standard set of rules, competitions make it easy to stand out.

In Alaska most women are content to dress like, and maintain the same physique as, men. Coworkers don't seem to care how much I achieve. And while it's not a marker of geography but of age, I'm old enough that my mother has stopped waiting for me to turn into something.

It's suddenly, and for the first time, OK to be average.

That's not OK with me. I want to live a Jane Austin novel where choosing the unexpected has fantastic potential. And the sticking point is that I don't have anyone here to talk to about it. I don't have a Flaco to encourage chasing the well-suited-to-me arcane. And I don't have a Master Chief to encourage the well-suited-to-me obvious and frequently traveled path.

Time is the indulgence of the thirty-something and childless and with my indulgence I'm stewing. Probably not the best choice. (But for what it's worth, today I've also started a lawn of clover, planted ferns, rearrange the rock gardens, washed the winter down jackets, and stitched a tote out of old pants.) If I was all aflutter with three kids I wouldn't write this, wouldn't have the time to write this, and wouldn't have the time to think it.

So where does that leave me? With the need to find a motivator. I've always been good with external motivators, but in their absence, now is the time to harvest from within.

Before

2009-05-25T15:05:00.001-07:00

After

2009-05-25T15:04:00.001-07:00

Oh, Bianchi

2009-05-21T19:57:00.000-07:00

I'm here to pick up the Bianchi.

That's right. The hottie. Let me get the ticket.

-----------------------------

He was talking about my bike: a celeste Italian job with a Brooks saddle and handle grips. But all afternoon I've been pretending that he was talking about me.

Fight, Fight, Fight!

2009-05-20T20:15:00.000-07:00

I fought with my only friend at work. I didn't even know we were fighting until he raised his voice and walked out. I'm dense like that. My spirited (some might say opinionated and self-righteous) conversation often reads as an antagonistic brawl. I feel a little guilty. I would have backed down if I knew we were fighting, but it's probably just as well because in this particular case I know I was right. So it's a good lesson. I shouldn't save my opinionated and self-righteous comments for only those who agree; that's weak and selfish.

I inadvertently suggested (insisted) that my friend was insubordinate. And he is. So it is what it is. I'll apologize tomorrow and it will go like this,

"I feel like we fought last night. I don't want to fight. I feel like shit. I just think that once the board of directors makes a decision (he's on the board) weather or not we're into it, it's our job to promote it."

I wasn't wrong tonight. He was. My proof is that he didn't stay longer to fight back; all of my real friends are obstinate when the occasion calls for it.

------------------------------

BC hasn't accepted my friend request but she hasn't ignored it either. I've already decided that if she doesn't accept, sometime this fall when I'm not churning out proposals, I'm going to go to the bank's corporate offices and try to schedule a lunch.

BFF

2009-05-19T20:19:00.000-07:00

I've been wanting for a mentor who can set me straight, put me in my place, and boss me around in an authoritative way. I like being told what to do, thrive on being told what to do, find it erotic to be told what to do, if the person doing the telling is motivated by ethics, altruism, and legacy.

I have professional questions to ask but no one to answer them.

Enter BC.

She spoke at a luncheon I attended today and she's the mentor I want: She's the mentor of my dreams. I can imagine us meeting for quarterly lunches--she's interested in me, wants to know more, offers advice, and expects that I follow it and produce results. She inspires and I, in my own youthful way, inspire her.

So I friend requested her on Facebook and am waiting for the answer. But here's the thing: she only has seven friends. I think most dogs on Dogbook have more than seven friends (I would never subject Dasha to the public scrutiny; it's my job to protect her and keep her whole).

BC is in her fifties and that could explain the lack of friends because while I really don't know, I imagine that Facebook isn't so popular with the over 45 crowd. But it could be that she really only wants to be Facebook friends with real life friends and then I'm screwed because I'm not about to show up where she works and ask her out to lunch. That's a little too foreword even for me and I can be pretty in-your-face about certain things.

I believe we need to meet life's possibilities halfway. We need to make a bit of an effort and then assess what potential opportunities sit in front of us. When I joined the Navy I felt like I was meeting life halfway. I was saying, "Hey life, I'm willing to give you a chance and not settle for the mundane so why don't you show me what you have to offer." And in return I have found a lovely little niche. But I want it to be lovelier. And what would make it lovelier is if I was so good at my job that I was irreplaceable.

I think we get married because we want to be irreplaceable to one person in the world besides our mother. I want to be a phenom at my job so I can be irreplaceable to just a few more. I'm greedy like that. So what.

2009-05-17T21:37:00.001-07:00

Front Bottom

2009-05-17T19:37:00.000-07:00

I went to Walmart to buy a bag of organic oranges and a dog toy. They were out of the toy and the oranges didn't look so good, so I snagged a bag of clementines and a flavored water and headed to the checkout.

There was a girl in front of me in line; she was maybe 20 but maybe 18. A bit of a butter face, she bleached her hair blond, wore short cutoff shorts and a gauzy fitted top; she had a fantastic tan. And her legs--I'm still dreaming of those legs--they were long and lean and beautiful.

She bought picnic items.

To my left there was a middle aged woman who was probably younger than she looked. She was very heavy. She had a front bottom. Here hair was mousy brown and she wore the sort of clothes you have to wear when you have a front bottom: Knit. Through the thin pale blue pants you could see her (amply proportioned) panty line and deep crevices of cellulite.

I wondered if a man loved her.

And then I wondered if she used to look like Gams in front of me. It seemed possible. It is possible. A woman can be a cheerleader in high school and sport a front bottom as a member of the PTA.

Facebook, more than any fashion magazine or Angelina Jolie movie, makes me scrutinize the way I look. I get anxious at the thought of someone from high school looking at my photo and thinking, "She really let herself go." And so I bleach my teeth, dye my hair, paint my toenails, and do ab exercises on the ball. My fear of judgement has a singular manifestation: I keep myself up. Empathy isn't part of the gig. As I pluck my eyebrows I wonder why my high school crush got (very, very) fat.

At this point, if anyone other that me is reading my words, that person inevitably thinks I'm a major fuckwad. And I probably am. But my point is this: appearances matter. If they didn't the woman to the left of me at Walmart would have been a woman, not a front bottom in thin knit pants.

I take care of myself for more than Facebook. I spend time and money on my appearance because I take pride in myself. Just like I used to starch and press my cammies because it was a reflection of my commitment to Navy standards, I now fill prescriptions for Retin-A and push back my cuticles because it is a reflection of my commitment to both corporate culture and my own personal standards.

So where's the rub? Why the fuck does any of this matter? Because I want to know why some people gain ten pounds and then loose it before buying bigger pants and other people buy bigger and bigger and bigger pants for the rest of their lives. What is the difference between those two people? They are equal. Neither one is more important or valuable. But they are drastically different in a way that is visually obvious.

Beauty is a cruel trick. It is bestowed haphazardly and without logic--the least deserving are often the most obviously endowed. Money is a similar thing. Some earn it, but many rich folks happen into it. And as if it is an oath they take to secure security, they buy a garish approximation to beauty that serves as a reasonable substitute as far as public scrutiny is concerned.

In May of 2010 I get to go to Camp David to attend the retirement ceremony of a favorite Master Chief. I'm stoked. Not everyone gets to see Camp David and the Master Chief really was a favorite. The thought of not being attractive at that event paralyzes me. And it's not some weird latent paternalistic crush.* It's the audience; I'm afraid of being deemed less than I was while I was in the service. And I know the only method for making that judgement will be an intangible combination of my weight, dress, and general appearance.

I want to win whatever game my life is and I don't know how, but I do know my appearance is part of the equation.

---------------------------------------

*The English language is painfully lacking a word that means, "A crush on an older man that a woman wants to materialize into something that will fix the wounds her father inflicted."

Of course, that word might just be, "crush".

2009-05-17T00:05:00.000-07:00

Armed Forces Day

2009-05-16T22:47:00.000-07:00

I've never, before today, heard of Armed Forces Day. But it exists and it's today.

When I was in the Navy, and nearing the end, there was a chorus of people chanting that I would miss it: I would miss the Navy, miss the camaraderie when it was gone. I believed them because I know better than to believe that I know better. I trusted the collective prediction.

Today the dog and I went on a hike and drove to the feed store to smell people and fertilizer and vegetable starts. I watched the new Star Treck movie. I had the oil changed and walked to the greenhouse to price blueberry plants while I waited. I weeded the garden. I put off doing a load of laundry.

There's nothing special about today. Tomorrow the dog and I will go on another hike. I'll scissor her coat and giver her a bath. I'll mix up some two part epoxy and have my way with the trim on the house. I'll clean the bathroom and get around to laundry. I'll water the garden and rake up the out-of-sight patch of lawn I've been ignoring the past few weeks. I'll pick up photos at Target.

And that's just the point: My life is now my own.

I miss parts of the Navy. I miss PT. I didn't realize that I liked calling cadence and running in step. Now I hike and ski and Zumba at the gym, but it isn't the same. I miss half day Fridays for obvious reasons. And I miss diversity.

I wonder if I'm deficient because I don't miss the camaraderie. I wonder if I lack an ability to commune that comes easily to others. Here, in Anchorage, I have one friend at work and it seems to be enough. He used to be in the service which may or may not be surprising. He was with Red Horse; they're like the Seabees, but different, and I don't really know how. I don't think I ever had more than one friend at a time in the Navy. I never had a group. At times I was utterly alone.

A few days ago I found out that the Post 9/11 GI Bill kicks the Montgomery GI Bill's ass. It kicks it hard and I'll get tens of thousands of dollars out of the deal. Let's be clear: I paid into the GI bill and I served my country for six years. Like millions of veterans before me I earned the GI Bill benefit. But the new, more lucrative GI Bill, somehow feels like welfare. Like I'm taking from the government, which is the same as taking from the taxpayers, which is the same as taking from my neighbors. I feel guilt and I feel it because I don't think my service--the way I experienced my time in the Navy--was outside what should normally be expected from any one person at any given time. But the benefits: The benefits are astounding. When I imagine using my benefits I imagine myself as a coward who hid behind the brave but is flaunting the spoils of war.

I'm not special. I'm normal. The government wants to give me things that normal people don't get.

I am a fake.

So who is real? What does a person have to loose to earn legitimacy? Something. They have to loose something. But all I've done is gain. I've gained experience, perspective, work ethic, fierce loyalty, and a deep love for my country. I'm whole and sane and happy. My life is better because I spent six years in the Navy.

Happy Armed Forces Day.

2009-02-10T10:11:00.000-08:00

nine o'clock am

mountains glow from a low sun

spring will be here soon

Not The Devil's Playground

2009-01-18T12:26:00.000-08:00

Still waiting for my camera cradle to come in the mail but wanting to come closer to my goal of photo organization I've spent the morning uploading photos from the past few years to Shutterfly. I ordered a few prints after Christmas and they looked great--like the kind of prints you want your grandkids to find in a shoe box some day and wonder about the person you used to be before you were old and slow and boring and maybe even dead. My shoe box of prints fantasy pulled me away from wanting to organize a professionally printed book and pushed me towards printing my photos and organizing them in a proper photo album. A traditional album. Not a scrapbook with swirly metallic lettering, rubber stamp art, and layers of patterned paper but a large solid book, preferably a dark color of linen, with photos in groups, a few notes to revive my memory in decades to come (Christmas 2008: John--that sort of thing) and tissue between the pages to protect the photos.

A friend at work put together a collection of photos as a Christmas gift for her boyfriend. He recently adopted a Jack Russell/Australian Shepard mix puppy that has turned him into the emotional equivalent of an eight-year-old girl with her first kitten. It's very sweet and my friend loves to tell stories about his new giddy, concerned, and protective nature because after six years of dating she's learning new things about him that she didn't think were there. But her photos. They're adorable because the pup is adorable and because she has a fair knack for taking photos. But she printed them on her photo printer and they look like it--like a home brew. The quality of the Jack Russell pictures is what makes it worthwhile for me to spend hours uploading.

Filtering through the photos I realized that I have quite a few of things I've made and I like looking at them. They remind me of the planning and the process and the satisfaction of completion.

A small collection of things I've made:

Cowboy Magic

2009-01-15T18:32:00.001-08:00

I splurged on an Oster A5 and told myself that I was going to learn how to clip her. I'm getting better, but in her current state... well... let's just say the AKC wouldn't approve.

This weekend, after I brush and scisor her coat, is bath time. I want her to look like a showdog before we watch Westminster.

Warming

2009-01-14T16:24:00.000-08:00

It was 35 degrees, the roads were coated with a thick layer of ice, schools and the base and major roads were closed, buses weren't running, and failing power substations left portions of the city without streetlights. But I didn't know about any of it when I walked down the stairs this morning. Mark and the dog were waiting for me so we could drive me to the bus stop and they could continue on to dog daycare. Her wagging tail was thumping on the wall and he stood uncharacteristically with his arms crossed,

Do you know what we both forgot?

I thought about it but couldn't come up with anything. I said as much. He answered,

Our anniversary.

And so it was--the day after our wedding anniversary and he was the first to notice that we'd missed it.

Funny Face

2009-01-11T22:08:00.000-08:00

I Love Old Trucks

2009-01-11T13:52:00.000-08:00

When I write on a piece of paper, usually deep inside a fat spiral bound notebook, the pen and my brain work together; they take over and the part of me responsible for ordinary thoughts sits back to observe. I rarely know what's going to come from the exercise, which most of the time is the point, and when I get to the end of the paragraph or the page I've usually worked something out. The something is almost always inconsequential, trivial, and useless. But that doesn't matter, because the point isn't to produce the profound but to clear my brain so there's room for day-to-day thoughts and decisions to move around without obstacles. But I'm not able to write like that at a keyboard. I need a topic, and sometimes before I start I even try to figure out the point, which makes for the worst writing ever because when I know the beginning and the end the stuff in the middle comes out as trite and sophomoric. (I might be thinking too much of myself--I might only be capable of trite and sophomoric and the stuff that I don't like is even dreckier than I think.)

-------------------------------------------------------

For the past few weeks the weather here has been stupid cold, but the temperature is rising, and today it's a balmy zero degrees. I think tomorrow it's supposed to get up to 10. Last night I headed out to Target and after about a mile got a flat, and was forced to change it on the side of the highway, in the dark, at -10 degrees. I didn't have my cell phone but I'm not sure who I would have called. A call for help would have been a call asking someone to do something that I can do for myself--and I'd like to think that I'm not that woman. Since the age of sixteen when I got my first flat tire I've been a big fan of the manual because it never steers me wrong, and last night with it as my guide I had the spare off the back, the lug-nuts loosened, and the jack under the car when I took a break to warm up inside. To pass the time I read the manual out loud. There was a tap on my window. I looked up. A man was standing next to the car and his closeness startled me. He wanted to help. He was driving an old pick-up and was young, without hat or gloves, and was wearing an embroidered Budweiser jacket--similar to a high school letter jacket it had leather sleeves, a wool body, and snaps up the front. It didn't look warm. He removed the tire while I jacked up the car. It doesn't sound like much, but we were both in jeans kneeling in a foot of snow and he was using metal tools with bare hands. It was an act of kindness and I was glad for his company.

Bonjour

2009-01-05T18:20:00.000-08:00

My nickname at home was Madame Jambon. I earned it. I ate the shit out of that ham. I ate it on yeasty rolls for breakfast and lunch and I ate it straight from the fridge for snacks. It was salty and sweet and porky. It was bliss. I should have photographed it, not that I had a hard time making my quota of ten photos for the week, but because a love like that wants to be documented.

I took a reasonable number of photos over the break but I left my camera cradle at my mom’s house, so now I have to wait—have to stave off gratification—before I can download and organize and print. My camera might as well be flipping me the bird. The whole point of a digital camera is instant gratification but I’m waiting.

Ham as a carry-on got me a lot of attention. It was wrapped in red foil and then in black netting. The netting was fashioned into a handle eliminating the need for a tote so I carried it out in the open. It was Christmas; I had a ham; it didn’t seem weird to me. As it went through the x-ray the security guy stopped the belt and stared at it for a while before shouting out loud: It’s a ham! I wanted to say something sassy—wanted to match his tone and to up the ante with some wit—but I kept my comments to myself because it seemed the civil thing to do (Christmas spirit and all) and because those guys at security can do anything they want to you and I know better than to pick on a giant. As I was getting on the plane a man from Texas, with an embroidered longhorn on his baseball hat, said, “You got a pretty good deal on that ham!” I smiled in return and soon we were talking big oil, big money, and where to buy the best meat. He did most of the talking but I enjoyed the conversation because he reminded me of my father-in-law. When I got off the plane a man turned to me and said in a low voice, “Nice ham.” I told him thank you. He made me smile. And at my destination, the Minneapolis airport, a women several paces behind me shouted, “You still have your ham! I saw you in the Anchorage airport!” She must have thought I was going to eat it in-flight.

The dog managed just fine. But I can tell she’s glad to be home where she belongs.

Happy New Year

2008-12-20T23:16:00.000-08:00

New Year Resolutions:

Take 10 photos every week
Make photo book at the end of the year
Floss at least six times each week

I'm flying home in a few days, with a ten pound ham in my carry-on, to see my mom and brother and wretched sister-in-law. We'll board Dasha for the first time. I have a box sitting in the dining room that's full of portioned kibble in baggies labeled with her name--one baggie for each day plus an extra just-in-case, a bag of dried beef tendon labeled with her name and feeding instructions (1-2 per day), and I think I'll add a baggie of peanuts with the instruction: Small Treats for Good Behavior or Any Occasion You Can Think Up. Per a suggestion from a woman who works at Dasha's daycare she's off wheat and her poop is much more respectable.

The ham was a gift from work. They gave us turkeys at Thanksgiving--really nice birds: natural, fresh, and from a boutique meat purveyor. But I never cooked mine. Two weeks after the holiday it went in the trash and froze before trash day (Monday). It was too big, I didn't have a pan, and we don't eat much meat at the house so I was without an external motivator to push me to the place where I wanted to roast 16 pounds of meat. We ate Tofurkey for Thanksgiving. I poached a chicken once. Mark was out of town and I wanted curried chicken salad. I wanted it bad. It was delicious but made me realize just how much mayonnaise is in chicken salad. I loved the salad, but I've never eaten it since.

The ham is spiral cut and my Grandma will go ape-shit for it. I'm glad it won't go to waste.

I'm back on Retin-A. My insurance doesn't cover it because I'm over 25. Six weeks ago I declined the $103 price tag, but decided to splurge with Christmas money from my in-laws. In all honesty it's a money laundering scheme--I bought the drug with Christmas money but I'll get reimbursed from my pre-tax medical savings plan (one of the benefits at work) and I'll put that check into the bank where it will disappear into the ether: food, mortgage, and kibble. It's a nice way to feel like I treated myself to a gift without the guilt of spending money on myself instead of the group.

Mark took me out for Sushi tonight. I should have taken pictures of him eating my food in a vintage wool military coat and ear flap hat.

Girl, you'll be a woman soon.

2007-11-03T18:46:00.003-07:00

There is much to document but little motivation. So instead of dedicating a part of each day to notate thoughts and emotions I knit, imbibe, and imagine.

I really should write because I'm in a new place and might not be back here any time soon. In two weeks I'll leave the Navy. These days are a balance on the cusp of familiar and uncertain and the singular thing that strikes me is how lovely it feels to accomplish a goal that was six years coming; the euphoria is an uncommon bout of quiet confidence and pride. My transition is meaningful, more so than any composed graduation, because I have direction, aim, and what feels like an unlimited store of fuel. I am not afraid and I welcome the self manipulation that's required to securely seat myself in the unfamiliar. And while I'm sure I'll look back in a few years and laugh at my naïvety, right now I feel like I know who I am.

---------------------------------------

Because Dasha brings me so much joy I'm posting current photos. She was fixed two days ago and is recovering beautifully.

A Dead Pig and Winning Lip Gloss

2007-10-27T12:19:00.000-07:00

Cured pork fat is the best fat; it’s silken, sexual, and never disappoints. In Chicago, when I served mid-morning meals to socialites and hipsters at Toast, I would breakfast on fistfuls of prosciutto and a can of Coke. The combination was a drug that made me feel mischievous, wanted, and alive.

A few moments ago I finished a lunch of crumpets topped with cream cheese, pumpkin butter, and my old friend prosciutto. I washed it down with a lovely glass of Alsatian Gewurtz and am feeling something akin to my early morning Toast buzz. I am so lucky; I have a new job and new life looming nearby and in a few weeks I’ll be free to do or be anything I want. Nothing could get me down this afternoon. Really. Not even my current predicament with tonight's Navy Ball. Under normal circumstances the following would launch me into an anxiety attack: I’ve lost my ticket and don’t know what uniform to wear. But this afternoon I’m all smiles. Physics unquestionably dictates that I choose the path of least resistance and usually that would mean ducking out of the pomp, but I’m going to the ball with the command Master Chief (among a handful of others) and am certain my absence would be noted and broadcast next week to the Senior Chief who gave me the free ticket. Besides, I bought a new Estee Lauder lip gloss and eye liner for the occasion. I need to debut my fall look.

As it happens, my glassy wine colored gloss is much better suited to dinner dress blues than dinner dress whites, so cross your fingers for me. I’m about to have the quarterdeck call the Officer of the Deck (OOD) to find out what to wear.

Photos to follow, assuming I talk my way in the door at the Marriott.

Jobbie Job Job (+ new glasses and raven t)

2007-10-14T18:28:00.000-07:00

The Estee Lauder lady at the Navy Exchange (NEX) sold me a beautiful refillable compact of translucent powder that I'm going to send to my mom -- just because. Before I bought it I asked the saleswoman how much is was:

"Twenty-seven dollars."

"But the card in the display case says $45 -$95."

"Oh, that's the price on the outside."

I never realized that the inside price is about half for Estee Lauder cosmetics. And if I had, I would have been a committed Estee Lauder girl years ago. My plan is to go back tomorrow during lunch and ask if they have any plans to sell that lovely Erin Lauder gardenia perfume that I've been coveting for months. Maybe my mom and I will get lucky.

Add half-price Estee Lauder to the list of things I'm going to miss when I hit Anchorage.

My contract is coming to a close and people have started to ask me, in what some days feels like a Mahler chorus, "What are you going to do when you get out?" Tomorrow will be the first day I tell them nonchalantly, "I have a job that starts December 3rd." That's all I'll say, as if I was never nervous so there's no need to elaborate and gush with excitement. But really I'm gushing with excitement and dyeing to elaborate: I do have a job! A job I'm really excited about! The offer letter comes tomorrow and assuming that it's a written confirmation of the salary and benefits we agreed to on the phone Wednesday night, I have everything in the world to look foreword to. My new position is with an engineering firm in Anchorage that, unbeknownst to me when I applied, has the Navy contract for the United States. The Anchorage office handles the West Coast and the Maine office handles the East Coast. In fact, the owner of the firm, who interviewed me on the phone, will be just a few hours south on the 101 in San Clemente next week. It's also worth noting that his son will be a music performance major at college next fall and that I was a music performance major at DePaul in Chicago (as was noted on my resume).

I've always been very lucky; I'm glad that doesn't seem to be changing.

Someone is going to looooooooove Anchorage.

2007-10-06T15:23:00.001-07:00

Buddy

2007-10-04T13:57:00.000-07:00

I was inspired by a comment to post a photo of Dasha with her close buddy, Buddy. That's his name. And he wrestles with her for hours every day even though he's middle aged. (She's five months old in these photos.)

My six-month-old puppy in mud and a schnauzer clip.

2007-09-30T18:46:00.000-07:00

Snapshots

2007-09-08T19:01:00.000-07:00

Sitting cross legged in front of the TV at preschool I watched Reagan take the presidential oath in 1980. I remember that he was on instead of Sesame Street and that my parents thought he was an awful choice even though my preschool teaches were besotted. My dad was in his bomb shelter planning phase and my mom was pregnant with my brother. I remember it as a series of snapshots, all of them yellowed and grainy, wedged in a box since the day they were taken.

This morning most of the estimated 7,000 people at Santa Barbara City College were taking snapshots of Barack Obama and I wished I would have thought to bring my camera. The morning was memorable; several times his speech gave me goose bumps. I don’t know how to recount what he said because hours later much of it is already a blur. But I do know that I liked him, liked his ideas on campaign financing, and felt he was capable of leading our country. There was a moment when he mentioned closing Guantanamo Bay and I turned to one of the women who was with me and said in my hushed satirical voice, “Seriously? I just finished shooting in the golf course there. That was a lot of work!” Immediately, four guys in matching flip flops and Cal Tech Biodiesel t-shirts spun on their heels and glared at me. It was funny but I didn’t laugh -- that golf course really was a lot of work. At the end of Obama’s speech the biodiesel contingent checked back in with me to see if I was cheering like everyone else or if I was truly a renegade heckler. I wanted to tell them, “I’ve already voted for him. He’s a senator because of people like me. You should thank me.” But of course I didn’t. I just ignored them.

I am the Proletariat

2007-09-07T20:59:00.000-07:00

Sitting at my laptop I’m surrounded by several pairs of knitting needles, yarn, buttons, ribbon, beer, dark chocolate with hazelnuts, and a pair of oft-worn silicone bra inserts; it’s a fair collage of my current state. I bought the inserts for an especially horrid bridesmaid dress, that even with modest alteration I couldn’t fill out, and at the prompting of friends have made them a regular part of my civilian persona. I’ll wear them tomorrow when I make the drive to Santa Barbara to meet my Senator from Illinois. He’s having a rally. I’ve voted for him a couple of times, bought his book but never read it, and am excited to see him in the flesh even though I’m not convinced he should be my president. My traveling companions are two of the most unlikely women I could think of -- one is a disaffected misanthrope who, now that she is out of the Navy, works in the tool rental room at Home Depot where she’s having problems because the men who work there think her mouth is a little too foul. And then there’s her partner in crime -- a loud, alcoholic, and sexually promiscuous woman who wears full makeup, including a heavy helping of bronzer, to work every day. Unlike a casting call, full makeup is suspect in a construction battalion. But they’re both excited to go, and that excites me, because I deeply wish that more people were involved in the political process.

My husband has no faith in the proletariat, a view he shares with most of our founding fathers, men who were astonishing minds, and so I curb my reservation when he rattles off his diatribe on inequality (to be fair, he calls it realism). He wishes only the intelligentsia were allowed to vote and waxes poetic for a philosopher king. I suspect that owning a pair of oft-worn silicone bra inserts might exclude a woman from the intelligentsia. It’s just a hunch.

Because I believe that being human makes us equal, and because I know that drawing an honest line around bra inserts, or anything else, is impossible, I want every eligible person in this country to vote.

Tomorrow should be fun: good weather, great city, a young and handsome presidential candidate, and the company of two naturally busty women who have never voted.

And the Winner Was

2007-09-05T18:24:00.000-07:00

Before I left, I had no clue. Now I’m back and it’s nothing more than a hot, dry, dirty dream.

Neither of my crush candidates panned out. Advocate was an ass hole; every one of us was hot, exhausted, and uncomfortable and he refused to buck up. And Gentleman turned out to be a bit of a wimp, which is excusable, but not when when married with muddled thought and confused priorities. For a brief moment I thought Dry Wit might get my attention, but we only crossed paths once, at it wasn’t enough to cement him in my psyche. A day later Refreshingly Different started turning in work to me, and I liked him almost as much as his robust Excel skills, but something was lacking. And then there was Makes Me Laugh No Matter What. He kept me smiling when I was in the throws of doubt and frustration. I was so thankful that I tried to make him my crush because it seemed an appropriate reward. It worked but only for a day or two; for whatever reason he didn’t have staying power. In the end the man who captured my subtle affection was Powerful And Quietly Observant. He’s the new Alfa Company master chief and he spent most of his time sitting on a box and listening. When something suspect came to my desk I would seek eye contact with him and he always met my gaze and would cue me with subtle body language. His presence was reassuring. He is balanced and innately understands the true severity of a situation. Those are rare gifts. I respect him.

Crushed

2007-08-16T18:36:00.000-07:00

I leave for FEX in the morning and all my gear is packed. I will board the bus at 3:30 am and when I disembark the air will be hot and heavy with dust; soon after my nostrils will be uncomfortably dry and my skin will be covered in a layer of dirt. I will be tasked with physical labor and will not shower for days. Sleep will be scarce. Men will yell around me, across me, and probably at me. And so to survive my Bag of Tricks must include a thought-set that will consistently distract and refocus me on something other than reality.

Enter the FEX crush.

Last FEX’s crush, a short squinty Lieutenant, took me by surprise. I was whisked away in a trailer for a few hours while I plotted and drew a new runway to replace one that had been notionally blown away. During that unusually quiet and almost peaceful time he sat across from me. He looked like hell: he hadn’t slept in more than 36 hours, was fueled by cheap coffee and crackers, and was justifiably frustrated with our evolution. But he was pleasant, easy, and often smiling nonetheless. He won me over.

A FEX crush is a crush of necessity and in that way establishes itself as something to be embraced. There is no shame or conflict. Indeed, it could be broadcast to the world if only the announcement wouldn’t be highly unprofessional.

This FEX my crush is a toss-up:

In one hand is a tall, highly unattractive but charismatic senior chief who is a strong advocate of a friend of mine. Advocates are rare because the action is seldom rewarded. It is an altruistic pursuit; it never earns points on an exam or improves a formal evaluation. I find it attractive. And another thing I find attractive, in the interest of full disclosure, is that I think this senior chief has a small crush on me.

In the other hand is a chief with salt and pepper hair, distinguished crows feet, and piercing eye contact. He is always calm, rational, and thoughtful. He never raises his voice or makes inappropriate remarks. He is a gentleman. Gentlemen are even more rare than advocates.

May the best man capture my temporary affection.

On the phone with my mom this evening:

2007-08-12T21:56:00.000-07:00

Mom: I decided to have the sidewalk and driveway redone. And at first I thought... do I want to exclude companies that don’t have websites? But then I realized that everyone does so I did a web search and requested quotes on-line.

Me: You are from the future.

Mom: I know! And one guy just called me and said, “It’ll be $8,000.” I mean that’s it. That’s all he said. And then this other guy e-mailed me a unbelievably detailed quote that listed a 6” pad and 3/4” epoxy coated rebar and he gave me about a dozen references in the neighborhood.

Me: That’s the guy you want. A few hundred bucks in the short run is better than a new driveway in the long run.

Mom: I know.

Me: Just to give you a head’s up, after he places it, you want to keep your concrete moist for the first seven days; you can water it with the hose. The temptation is to think that you want it to dry out but you’re actually waiting for it to cure, not to dry. So water is good -- as much as possible for the first week.

Mom: That makes sense. So... where did you hear the scoop on concrete?

pause

Me: Well, I’ve been to concrete design school.

Mom: That’s right, you built a road in Alaska.

She really doesn’t listen, which is fine, because really... how many people that you talk to actually listen? But somehow I expect more of her because she’s my mother. I’ve told her about school before. And when I was in Alaska I talked about the project every Sunday when I called home but never mentioned concrete because we didn’t place any. Someday I’m going to internalize that she’s a person. She’s no different than anyone else. So she’s my mom. So what? It doesn’t mean that every breath I take is inherently interesting or even that what I do matters. What it means is that she puts up with me and expects me to put up with her.

And I do.

For the CO's Suggestion Box

2007-08-12T21:29:00.000-07:00

Commander,

I would like to suggest mandatory training in the Microsoft Office Suite with a focus on Excel and Power Point.

The productivity of the battalion would grow markedly if, as a part of our regular homeport training or perhaps as a part of leadership training, we had a week long course on the Microsoft Office Suite. While most personnel are able to guess and check their way though Word, Excel, and Power Point few are proficient. A working understanding of tables, formulas, and filters would make task completion faster and easier for both the creator of documents and the receiver.

Very respectfully,

EA2

Excel

2007-08-02T18:51:00.000-07:00

I have noticed in the past, and was reminded again today, that some folks have absurd Microsoft Excel habits.

That's all I'm saying.

I don't need any flack.

2007-08-02T18:50:00.000-07:00

I walked to work today wearing my flack jacket stuffed with steel plates. My gas mask was in its bag, slung low across my waist and I carried my kevlar helmet (I hate it and put it on at the last possible minuet). By the time I walked the 3/4 of a mile to work, I was very glad that I’m getting out.

Sassy

2007-07-28T09:17:00.000-07:00

At the exchange yesterday afternoon I noticed a woman in her sixties, small, Asian, hunched over, and with salt and pepper hair. She had a body typical of a woman her age and was walking with small child-like steps. Her shoes were thick-soled and orthopedic, her pants polyester and pleated, and her black t-shirt was several sizes too big. It had white lettering across the chest, so I read it:

REMEMBER MY NAME BECAUSE YOU'LL BE SCREAMING IT LATER

I hope...

2007-07-19T20:42:00.000-07:00

Today, during a moment of clarity and ownership, I took it upon myself to make sure I was assigned to a new duty section. I am now the Assistant Duty Section Leader of Duty Section Five.

I hope, for his sake and mine, that the wife of my new duty section leader is a secure and self-assured woman.

But more than that, I hope she never calls me. Ever.

e-mail from a friend at a new command

2007-07-13T08:36:00.000-07:00

Jessica,

Ah, the memories of battalion. I always felt that the engineering division was the most ridiculous branch. The hardest part of being in the Navy is often pretending to be busy when you're really not. The problem is that there are two types of people: the ones who truly are busy because they have horrible time-management skills and actually take three times longer than necessary to do the job and the ones who do the job and then have to pretend that they are stressed out so nobody creates stupid, mindless busywork for them. I hear rumors of a third group that is legitimately busy, but I swear to you that I haven't seen anyone who falls in that category.

And HAH! You think you know government waste? You don't know government waste! This command purchased hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of repair parts for equipment that we don't even have. Did we turn it in for a refund? No, of course not. It was all stored in a 20 ft connex box for two years until I cracked it open a couple of months ago to see what the hell it was and then had no option but to throw everything away because it was all useless! When I first got here I was angry about the gross negligence, but now that the value of items that I have trashed has well exceeded $1M (and counting) I'm pretty much numb. After all, that doesn't even come close to the value of stuff that we've MISPLACED.

I guess that $12 BILLION a month has to go towards something...

The Time Has Come

2007-07-08T17:17:00.000-07:00

I want out, now.

I have nothing to do. Or more honestly, and for the sake accuracy, I have about 3 hours of work a week, which under my analysis is dangerously close to nothing, and produces the same mental distress as nothing. Severe boredom isn’t good for kids, for dogs, or for me. Is there any other situation where I would be doing nothing day after day, getting paid for it, and yet it would be illegal to quit? Taxpayers, also known as my neighbors and relatives, month after month are paying me well over $3,000 to do nothing. And yet, the battalion runs out of photocopy paper at the end of every fiscal year.

Jolene

2007-07-05T20:37:00.000-07:00

I suppose, even though I never bothered to imagine the phone call, it was bound to happen some time during my six year enlistment. Luckily it happened this afternoon shortly after my last wisdom tooth was pulled and I was I high on Vicodin.

But let me backtrack:

A necessary discomfort of the Navy is standing duty. Duty differs markedly by pay grade, and because of this I am the assistant leader of Duty Section 9. The duty section leader I work for, a builder so skinny that in adolescence he must have had knees bigger than his thighs, tests my patience. We were in Cuba together. He lived across the hall and spent his nights listening to Jimmy Buffet or practicing his guitar, drinking Bud Light, and smoking on the balcony. He’s as nice a guy as I’ve met but his skin is ruddy, his lower lip protrudes to a laughable degree, he has a tough time with eye contact, and he’s not very smart. He was fired from his position on the bridge project, due to several severe and surprising errors, and relegated to the tool room so that no one would have to deal with him. He has an unattractive and overweight wife who he seems to adore and a beautiful baby girl, Annabelle, who always wears a cowgirl hat he bought her at Gymboree.

This evening this man’s wife called me and accused me of having an affair with her husband. Now, God bless this woman, because she must think her husband is attractive enough to seduce a warm blooded women in the service. I wanted to explain to her that I work with 650 swinging dicks and if I was going to have sex with one of them her husband would hover at the bottom of my list. And it’s not just because of his awkward appearance or lack of social skills; it’s mostly because he’s dumb (and, of course, because I’m happily married but in my drug-addled brain that really seemed beside the point). Instead of spewing my venom I assured her that nothing was going on, that we never spent time together, and that the handful of text messages that fueled her suspicion were strictly work related.

“You should scroll through his phone and read the text messages. Really, there’s nothing there. We don’t run together, go to the gym together, or drive around together.” (Why is love is so well exercised in my brain?)

“I don’t want to read them. I want to know why my husband won’t introduce me to his friends.”

“You know, I don’t go to command functions. So the reason you haven’t met me has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me.”

“I don’t go to command functions either! WE DON’T LIVE THERE!”

“You know what, I didn’t even know that.”

“Well, and now I just found out your husband isn’t around either. That’s great.”

“No, he’s not here. But I have a puppy and my entire life revolves around her. I take her to class twice a week, spend time with friends who have dogs so she can play. And I have good girlfriends and I spend time with them.”

And the phone went dead.

Is my puppy talk really that boring?

On Monday, when I return to work (tomorrow is off), I’m going to calmly approach him in the smoke pit and submissively suggest he might want to think about weather or not his wife is suffering from post partum depression. It seems a proper resolution with this man I work for.

I've Seen the Future and it Will Be

2007-06-24T08:44:00.000-07:00

My husband, who has recently announced that he will probably not return to California and that I should meet up with him when I get out of the Navy, has made amends for his absence by designing some lovely calling cards and stationery for me. The spiral behind my name is a Cornu Spiral; it's especially well suited to roads and railways because a vehicle traveling at a constant speed will have a constant change of rotational exceleration. I'm smitten'. I'll use my logo for resumes, cover letters, and anything else that requires my name. It's hard to tell, but the color is a rich brown. I love it. I pick up my new calling cards at Kinko's on Monday. The end is near and I'm getting very excited.

Terminal Leave

2007-06-24T08:31:00.000-07:00

I've just looked at the calendar and fastidiously counted backwards from February 11, 2008. It seems that if I don't take any leave this summer I will be out of the Navy the day before Thanksgiving.

Typing about the end puts a huge smile on my face.

Puppy Love

2007-06-23T20:08:00.000-07:00

My puppy, who at 3 1/2 months weighs 40 pounds, happens to adore blackberries soaked in Prosecco.

(I only gave her one, I swear.)

English In the Workplace

2007-06-21T19:34:00.000-07:00

Lieutenant Kim, as his name suggests, is Asian. If I made a stab at his country of origin I’m sure I would be so far off as to frustrate the entire continent of Asia so I haven’t bothered, even at a very personal or secret level, to assign him a region. It’s a big continent and I don’t know much about the facial features associated with various parts of it. But I do know, from his accent, that English is not his first language. I also know that he is new to the battalion and has handled the discomfort of transition in one of my least favorite ways -- he’s trying to speak like, act like, and in all ways be like the enlisted community. It doesn’t feel natural or sincere and so he comes off as insecure and affected.

Our annual three week field exercise, FEX, is a very big deal. It involves over 600 personnel, lots money, and its purpose is to prove to some big military guy in the sky that we’ve not only been training, but that we’ve retained that training and understand how to apply it in a contingency situation. No one wants to blow it, so we practice. Practice happens a few times in homeport, each time lasts one day, and is called CPX. We had a CPX this week.

For the upcoming FEX I’ve been assigned to the MOCC which means I’ll be working with a super butch bull-dikey Equipment Operator. Together, operating on scandalously minimal sleep and unappetizing food, the two of us will record, communicate, and account for all convoys to include transportation of troops, fuel runs, and anything else that requires personnel to travel in vehicles.

This past CPX Butch and I were done with our work before noon and had nothing to do for the rest of the afternoon. She vanished and I sat around in the tent with our equipment and talked trash with my roommate from Cuba (we have a mutual friend whose ex-girlfriend tested positive during the last command drug sweep). By 1400 we were ready to go home and started asking around about the scheduled end of the exercise, always called EndEX.

Right around 1430 Lieutenant Kim walked into the tent and I asked him, “EndEX Sir?” He looked at me with a blank stare and then at my roommate. She said, “EndEX Sir. EndEX?” He shot us another quizzical look and then said in his thick and sometimes undecipherable accent, “What are you talking about?” And I answered, “EndEX Sir. Are you here to tell us that it’s EndEX?” Suddenly the subject changed, I can’t remember to what, but the Lieutenant was very interested in the new topic because he’s intent on being one of the troops, and I thought I was off the hook with the whole EndEX thing. But I was wrong because when the conversation came to a lull he asked, “Now, what were you talking about?” I answered, “We wanted to know if you came in to tell us the exercise was over. The end of the exercise. EndEX.” Lieutenant Kim looked me in the eye and said, with his accent and a stern tone, “You need to learn how to speak English.” And then he walked off.

I noted the irony, and the proof that Lieutenant Kim wasn’t sincerely interested in speaking or acting like the enlisted community (although, for the record, the word EndEX is universal among the ranks), and then promptly forgot about the exchange.

But this afternoon, gossiping with two women in engineering about who was pregnant and who lost her baby, I learned that the Lieutenant’s comment during CPX is the talk of battalion.

He deserves it.

TAP Class

2007-06-13T18:10:00.000-07:00

Good advice is often like a tuna noodle casserole your nosey neighbor drops off after someone in the family dies: you don’t want to take it and least of all eat it, but after you finally pop it in the oven and dish it up, it’s just what you needed.

Because I’ve committed to leaving the service I’m in a class this week learning skills to help me navigate the outside world. The class predictably has a title and an acronym -- Transition Assistance Program (TAP) -- and in it we’re learning about resumes, interviews, and VA benefits. As a part of the program a Navy Reserve recruiter comes to the class and pitches his wares. I think I’m [gasp!] sold. I could ramble on about benefits and guaranties and the fact that I can quit at any time (I need to look that one up for myself) but what I’d type wouldn’t be interesting or compelling and so I won’t bother. But I will say that someone once suggested the reserves to me, I thought he was crazy and didn’t know me or my situation very well, but I’ve come to realize that he was giving me appropriate and sound advice.

Power Seller, SUPPO?

2007-05-30T15:57:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-28T12:20:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-27T11:06:00.000-07:00

Four Weeks and Counting

2007-05-27T10:17:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-27T09:51:00.000-07:00

Anxious

2007-05-27T09:36:00.000-07:00

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.

I'm Home

2007-03-07T11:34:00.000-08:00

What to write? Where to start? Every day I am again aware that I’ve missed documenting parts of my life, especially the transition of the past few weeks, that belong on these pages for no other reason that I’m here and I’m real and this page is mine.

While I was away working in Alaska for six months my husband was at home stewing, and I really can’t blame him because his actions seem rational when examined from a distance, and to cope he waded through my journals for the second time. I believe that physics is almost always right and was especially in this case because his action had a reaction, weather or not it is opposite and equal I really can’t say, but I was catapulted to a place where I no longer felt safe writing in notebooks or the laptop. I understood nothing in the house was mine and wanted a place to set my thoughts that was out of reach from the man I’m bound to by law. At first I felt very safe with my writing squirreled away in the blog but I’m a worrier and have a naturally guilty conscience. So when I became bored with editorialized documentation and craved a shift towards writing with open honesty and truth about how I felt and thought and experienced Cuba, I became afraid that he would track down my thoughts through keystroke frequencies and internet histories: I stopped writing. After several months it felt better to write nothing than to write around the crux of the matter.

Enough time has passed that the degree that I miss writing has affected my well being. No amount of knitting or cooking or coffee with friends seems to fix it. And while my execution is amateurish at best, and my experiences less than compelling, I need to jot something down in order to feel connected with the world around me. I process my life through words written much more efficiently than words spoken.

The focus of my ramblings will probably shift away from the title and description of the blog but I don’t feel a need to change the layout because the Navy is still a large part of my life and as such colors my interpretations. In music school I was taught that every composer, no matter how innovative, is influenced by famous artists like Beethoven and Mozart because it is impossible to create music without the impression of those great symphonies and operas on the brain; they are a part of the collective subconscious. The same is true for me and the military. I’ve been a Seabee for five years and if I like it or if I don't the print is on my brain.

I’ve become very confused lately about how to digest the words my husband puts forth. His claim is that he has little desire to participate in commerce and that he would like nothing more than to shut himself in a cabin with stacks of books but he’s pretty sure I don’t want to join him. “You’re right,” is what I said and it was the truth. And despite a pre-marriage agreement to two babies he is happy to flaunt that he doesn’t understand children or wanting them. He performs when he says, “All that runs through my head is 'breeders', just that word. I don’t know why anyone would want that.”

I hear Rosalind’s whispers, “Sell while you can, you are not for all markets.” As beauty and fertility fade, so does appeal. The lines around my eyes are slight, but deepen every year, and they make me wonder who will want me if my husband decides that he doesn’t.

Snow Day

2006-11-14T07:32:00.000-08:00

An argument in the backgroud was impassioned:

EO2: Anytime you want something to do with the vehicles you want us to do it.

BU1: It's not like we sit around in the office all day doing nothing. I don't have the time! We don't have the time!

As BU1 spit out that last line I was in front of a small audience unfolding a snowflake I intricately cut from used office paper. So, I mean, I guess that wasn't nothing. But it might come close.

The Dirty French

2006-10-27T06:12:00.000-07:00

My husband is tucked away in Wyoming with access to a computer and he sends me e-mail frequently. All of his messages are signed with a digital signature and each time I try to open one of them at work I read the following error:

The digital signature on this message is invalid because the message contents were altered after the message was signed.

I have it on good authority that he is not altering his messages after they are signed.
I clicked around a little in my Outlook only to discover that I am not authorized to attach a digital signature to my outgoing mail, nor do I have the authority to encrypt my outgoing e-mail. National security takes the fun out of everything.

Quel suprise.
Which reminds me... We have a cappuccino machine in the galley that produces a warm frothy beverage that in no way resembles cappuccino. The brew is available in three flavors: mocha, Irish cream, or Freedom Vanilla - the words printed atop a waving American flag.

I used to own a copy Top Gun on VHS and when I was a kid I would pop it in, fast foreword to the steamy love scene, and get warm between the thighs. Do you think Tom Cruise and Kelly Magillis were freedom kissing?

I don't. It's nowhere near dirty enough to be any fun.

A Question of Loyalty

2006-10-24T14:01:00.000-07:00

An individual wants me to keep a secret.

Another individual foresaw the secret occurrence and asked me to tell him when it happened, even though others would want me to keep my mouth shut.

In the moment the decision was stressful.

This morning the answer was obvious; keeping secrets on a construction site is rarely a good idea. This instance was not a rare one.

I Voted Today!

2006-10-23T16:51:00.000-07:00

My mom isn't always the best at getting my absentee ballot in the mail. I understand, she has other things to do like teach history to sixth graders and correct all their papers. And my mom is forgetfull so time has a tendency to slip away from her. And really, if I'm honest with myself, my vote doesn't count for much. But I still like to cast it.

I'm happy to report that she came through this year (maybe it's because her hottie student teacher has been correcting the papers) and I mailed my ballot to Chicago a few moments ago. It put me in an awesome mood.

If anyone reads this, please vote on November 7th.

There's Always One but This Time Two

2006-10-20T14:34:00.000-07:00

In every group I've been a part of in the Navy there is usually one guy who doesn't like to shower, one who's a slut, there's an athletic guy and a funny guy, and usually there's a smart guy. But invariably, there is always one cocky, self-obsessed guy who decides he's going to hit on me.

In homeport, a week or two before we left, I had a prime suspect: a loud and narcissistic EO1 who was slated for the position of AOIC. On the morning we deployed one of the other EAs in my shop, one who deployed with me two summers ago, pulled me aside and said, "I predict that guy's going to hit on you." My reply was, "I predict you're right."

In the weeks after we landed on the island other people noticed his interest in me, too. I put on my feistiest personality whenever he was around, didn't give him an inch, and he was frustrated. Then he was angry, and then he tried to humiliate we with inappropriate jokes as I drove him around in a pick up. Time has passed and he's in the angry indifferent phase which, for him, involves several passive-aggressive comments tossed in my direction every day (I'm cool with aggressive because it's a license to fight back, and I have no problem with passive because it's easy to ignore, but passive-aggressive pisses me off and I think he knows it).

Time for round two.

On the way out to the project in the mornings the bridge crew sits in the back of a truck, or more recently in a van, listening to music, reading books, and passing around pornographic magazines. One of the SW3s sometimes passes me his head phones and plays me some music. Recently the music has been very sexually suggestive. He asks me how I like it. I shrug my shoulders because I'm not sure of what else I should do.

Last Thursday he asked me,

"What do you say after your roommate goes and does her Mexi-freaky thing down the hall I come over with a movie and we'll cuddle. I'll have you asleep in minutes. I promise. Right around 2145? What do you say."

I say,

"I don't think it's a good idea."

The next morning, minutes after we arrived at the job site he pulled me aside:

"Hey, Jess, check this out. These van rides are really getting to me."

He pointed to his crotch to show me an erection bulging from under his camouflaged uniform pants. I walked away.

Protecting myself if exhausting; I'm mentally tired. And today I'm wet too because we spent the afternoon working in a downpour. I'm in the mood for a break, for an outside influence, for something to pull me away from here. The deployment is 40% finished but it is too soon for time passed on this island to be a comfort.

I Wanted to Welcome Him

2006-10-18T13:53:00.000-07:00

When a person walks into our spaces the first noticeable feature is a group of five military head shots each in its own brown wooden frame. The photos are of the Battalion CO, Battalion XO, Battalion Command Master Chief, the Det OIC, and the Det AOIC. It's my job to maintain the photographs.

I wanted to welcome the new Lieutenant warmly and sincerely and the best way I could think to do it was to contact a Yeoman friend of mine with main body and have her e-mail the LT's head shot. The day he arrived from Andros I pasted his photo in its proper place and moved Mad Dog down in rank to the position he will fill for the rest of his Cuban days. It felt scandalous, insubordinate, but most of all it felt good. I was smiling every step of the way.

Today, D+2, I walked to the front of spaces where LT and Mad Dog were looking at the photos. Three of five brass labels were missing from the frames (adhered with unsticky tape they fall frequently).

MD: Who moved the photos!? Who did it?!
calls on radio: Job Sup, do you know who moved the photos?!

JS: in a tone that communicates frustration... What? No, chief. I have no idea.

MD: LT, who took your photo here?

LT: No one's taken my photo this week.

EA2: I had the photo e-mailed from Arifjahn and I put it up. But I didn't touch the CO's picture or the Master Chief's. Did you check under the couch for the labels?

MD: We checked.

LT: walks to couch... Here's one of them.

MD: to me... OK. Never mind. We got it. We got it. You can leave.

I walked back to my desk and ten minutes later Mad Dog came back to talk to me.

MD: Next time you don't move my photo till I tell you to.

EA2: pause... There's not going to be a next time.

Mad Dog walked away.

EA2: in an elevated tone so that he could hear... I was just doing my job.

Sometimes I can't help myself.

It is a Comfort to the Miserable to Have Comrades in Misfortune, but it is a Poor Comfort After All

2006-10-18T10:21:00.000-07:00

Christopher Marlow must have been dealing with someone like Mad Dog when he said that.

The new Lieutenant is very quiet and very professional. In fact, his behavior is so appropriate that no one has bothered to give him a nick name.

He used to be an EA, just like me.

Up until this week the soundtrack of the office was yelling, screaming even, from the other side of spaces. Mad Dog would squawk, "BU1!!!" and BU1 was required to come running. Or, "UT2!!!!" and the same response was expected. Sometimes he would come to one of our offices, ferociously snap and point like he was sending a dog to his kennel, and shout in close range, "In my office, NOW!" (I decided the first week we were here that I don't come when called in that manner and so even though he would yell my name from time to time I didn't leave my desk. Without fail, Mad Dog would meander into my office with a calm-for-him demeanor in the space of a few minutes.) With the Lieutenant on board there is no yelling - proof that Mad Dog knew the behavior was unacceptable.

Life is better and the future looks bright.

Who Knew Steel Was Flexible?

2006-10-16T17:47:00.000-07:00

I had this idea for sinking the sheet piles to specifications; I would solve little triangles for each pile and as we placed them one by one I would meticulously measure the hypotenuse from my strong and faithful center line stake. My thinking was that if the hypotenuse was right, it must be in the right place. But I tried it today and there was a huge problem: My method requires a rigid structure (I thought steel was pretty strong), but under the stress of a misplaced several-ton pile driver (so not my fault) the piles warped like cheap Tupperware in the microwave, and suddenly the set of measurements my triangles were birthed from were no longer accurate. It was a disaster. So we sent the crane crew home, I regrouped and set some stakes, and hopefully tomorrow my efforts will bear less strange fruit.

The Times They are a Changin'

2006-10-11T05:02:00.000-07:00

The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is
Rapidly fadin'
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin'

-Bob Dylan

This Saturday, as I'm showering off the sweat of an early morning 5k run, Mad Dog will be replaced as OIC by the Lieutenant in charge of Det Andros in the Bahamas. I don't know how the Lieutenant racked up enough bad karma points that he was yanked from there to come here, (I severely hope it had to do with free will and wanton lust*), but even though I don't know him I'm glad he's coming to our small patch of Earth. Now Mad Dog won't be able to claim OIC of Det Cuba on his FitRep (annual evaluation for E-7 and above), which is a good thing, because he's miserable at his job. He's not going anywhere; he'll stay with us and act as AOIC. It's a job with little responsibility, visibility, or glamour. He'll move his things from the large office at the end of the hall to a much smaller office in the middle of things - the sort of place you pass on your way to important meetings and conversations. And what sweetens the deal (does it get any sweeter than this?) is that his new office houses the only working printer, which will make Mad Dog the de facto printer bitch of the Det. Just typing that makes me smile. Watching it happen next week is going to be even better.

I can't wait for Saturday.

*Title of a play I saw in Chicago several years ago.

Withering Away

2006-10-05T13:01:00.000-07:00

The Navy physical fitness test, which includes a weigh-in, comes twice a year and all personnel are aware of the consequences of failure. But the Navy is no different from the rest of the country and for many people weight is a constant battle. For those people the weigh-in is often enough to push them to, or sometimes over, the edge.

If a service member is overweight the Navy provides a Plan B and a body fat analysis is, very inaccurately, performed with a tape measure and a guess at the actual location of the waist. If the member is 22% or less body fat, they are deemed fit and able to keep their job. The theory is that the super-fit, because muscle weighs a good deal more than fat, would fail the weigh-in and so they are allowed to pass through the gate of the tape measure. In actuality the taping process is subjective, encourages a less than honest body fat analysis, and labels some considerably overweight people "within standards".

I do not believe that there is a strong correlation between weight and job performance. I am also not in the habit of failing my friends.

This morning was weigh-in, which means last night a handful of men were downing laxatives, guzzling a diuretic of choice, running in sauna suits, and smearing tubes of Preparation-H across their midsections and then sealing it to their skin with a roll of plastic wrap (it temporarily takes off inches).

CE2 and I administer the weigh-in. I record height and weight and I make sure to give the thicker guys an extra inch in height. After that CE2 tapes the failures taking two inches off the actual waist measurement and adding an inch to the neck measurement. This morning, with our subtle coaxing of height, waist, and neck measurements, we managed to pass everyone.

Now several of the less-than-svelte set are walking around like they're hot shit.

It makes me smile.

A Little Bit of Nudity

2006-10-05T05:28:00.000-07:00

Puss and I have a very relaxed relationship. The door to the bathroom is always open, so as not to disrupt the lines of communication, and we frequently walk around the room naked searching for things like misplaced bras and hair ties. We are so comfortable around each other that when she was concerned that something was wrong with the Missus she had me take a close look, and I did it unflinchingly (it was only an ingrown hair, nothing scandalous).

I've never thought much about the nudity: It seems normal.

Last night Puss's boyfriend, Dime a Dozen (he earned his name when I found out she told him half joking, but half not joking, "Where I'm from in California I can find a Mexican anywhere I look. You're easy to replace.), was in the room when she casually removed her pants because she wanted to hop in the shower. Before she had a chance to peel off anything else Dime a Dozen noticed her pantsless state and shot her a look of frustration and disbelief.

BF: What are you doing?

Puss: What?

EA2: We see each other naked all the time. Really, it's OK.

BF: What?!?!

Puss: Yea. We're naked all the time.

BF: Really?!?

EA2: Yea.

He lowered and shook his head as if to say, This is not an appropriate way to behave. But he didn't say it; he stayed shocked and silent. And as Puss washed away the day he started telling me stories about drunk sex with ugly women.

She knows how to pick 'em.

We're Famous

2006-10-04T14:06:00.000-07:00

I was bored so I Googled "Seabee". More than anything my inquiry was dorky, I know, but I decided to couch it as a healthy sign of personal acceptance. I found two things:

The Dad on Leave it to Beaver, Ward, was a Seabee. There's an episode where Beaver brings his friends home to look at his dad's war medals and it is revealed that he earned them as a Seabee in the South Pacific during WWII.

Unbeknownst to me, or any of my co-workers, there is a CD titled "Run to Cadence With the U.S. Navy Seabees". It's odd that no one has heard of it because I work with some pretty committed Seabee geeks who both listen to cadence for pleasure and own books, posters, and t-shirts stamped with the Seabee logo. Strangely, curiosity, fear, and reluctant pride commingled into an unknown emotion that caused me to order the CD, one of only two left at Amazon.com. It should arrive in about two weeks.

I never would have guessed.

On Sexual Discrimination In My Workplace

2006-09-29T14:00:00.000-07:00

I'm about to type a few paragraphs. And a few paragraphs, no matter how well-thought, are not enough space to explore the myriad nuances of sexual discrimination. However, sometimes a feeling just creeps up on you and it's worth jotting down even if it isn't fully evolved or functioning.

On the way to the project, riding in the back of the work truck, it's very common that some of the men to flip through pornographic magazines. I'm not talking about Maxim or Playboy. Those magazines are printed on thick, glossy pages and run on a big budget; they pretend to have a story to tell. The necessary money to run the magazines comes from revenues earned though advertisements for Puritanical things like deodorant, razors, and sneakers. The photo shoots are a little dirty but the overall feel, more or less, is squeaky clean. They are the magazines that inspire comments like, "People in Europe are so much more comfortable with nudity. I don't know why it can' t be like that here. Our country needs to relax." The magazines floating around the back of the pick-up (and through the window to the cab) are much different. They're low-budget, factoid-free, lots-of-pictures-with-bad-lighting, and overtly explicit magazines. You couldn't pay Gillette to run a Mach III Turbo ad in one of these publications and as a result the paper is matte and tears easily and the photo shoots are dingy. The magazines are passed back and forth quietly (almost everyone listens to MP3s) with a few slight hand gestures and raised eyebrows.

Even thought I'm not a fan of porn (I know she's not comfortable. Those shoes are not in, why is she wearing them? Grown women have pubic hair, why is looking like a pre-pubescent girl a turn on?). I can honestly write that the magazines don't bother me.

Today I was one of about 40 people who received an e-mail from the Senior Chief who runs training. Of the forty names listed at the top I was one of two women. The e-mail opened as follows:

Brothers,

I need your help on the monthly training attainment. Currently we receive different format of reports, some we can use, some we can not. Please do not send training rosters...

The greeting, "Brothers", bothered me. A lot.

It isn't logical that explicit and degrading photos of women aren't a problem but that a very innocent e-mail is (it's the second I've received from him that addresses me as a "Brother"). And I'm a big fan of logic so the counterintuitive nature of my feelings was nagging at me. I gave it some thought and what I realized was that for me it's a question of belonging. The magazines don't bother me because the reason the men page through them in the truck is that I'm part of the group: I am a member of the Bridge Crew and as such am thought of primarily as a unit (four steel workers, two builders, one surveyor...) and somewhere after that I become a woman. The e-mail bothers me because it reminds me that I'm not a member of Senior Chief's group. I am other and I know from experience that other is rarely trusted. Like everyone else who received the e-mail I organize and document training and I'd like to think I do it well. However, I don't belong and for Senior that won't change any time soon. At least that's the feeling I get.

I think Woody Allen might have missed the mark when he said, "I'd never join a club that would allow a person like me to be a member." I only want to be a member of a club that would be happy to have me around.

Because He Can

2006-09-27T06:20:00.000-07:00

It is natural that every time a person moves to a new position he searches for ways to make his mark; like a peacock fanning his feathers it's both an assertion of power and a proactive approach to the nagging concern of legacy. For the new Warrant Officer in training this means requiring all Training Petty Officers (that's me) to plan training days with an official Letter of Instruction (LOI) in SMEAC format. The added requirement was previously unnecessary, and is in my mind a waste of time, but the Warrant requires it because he can and because it serves as proof that he effectively controls his troops.

For the sake of documentation, and to illustrate the ridiculousness of the Warrant's request, I'm posting the LOI I am required to submit for each command training day (I'm e-mailing this in and I'm not sure how the formatting is going to come out on the other end). It is worth keeping in mind that our detachment is made up of 24 personnel who I work, eat, and live with every day. I have no problems verbally communicating expectations and schedules. It's also worth noting that I used Zulu time instead of local time because I think it's funny.

LETTER OF INSTRUCTION: UNIT TRAINING SATURDAY

1. SITUATION. NMCB FIVE will execute Detail level Training Saturday #2 on 30 September 2006.
2. MISSION. To train all hands of NMCB FIVE, DET CUBA on the following topics: Basic Nutrition, SCW First Aid, SCW Supply and Logistics, FY07 GMT Financial Management: Protecting Your Belongings With Insurance, Ergonomics, and DUI and Alcohol Awareness.

3. EXECUTION.

a. Commander’s Intent. My intent is to have all NMCB FIVE, DET CUBA personnel train each other in a classroom setting. The focus of the training session is to impart information that contributes to the personal and professional development of each Seabee and to contribute to the overall readiness of NMCB 5.

b. Concept of Operations. Training Saturday #2 will occur on 30 September 2006 during normal working hours in building 2155 classroom 1 in the Seabee Compound of Naval Station Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.

i. 30 0245Z September 2006 all personnel will muster on main grinder. Immediately following muster all hands will proceed to building 2155 training classroom #1.

ii. 30 0300Z September 2006 training will commence in the training classroom. First course of instruction shall be DUI and Alcohol Awareness.

iii.30 0400Z September 2006 there shall be a fifteen-minute break in training.
iv.30 0415Z September 2006 second course of instruction, Ergonomics, shall commence.
v. 30 0500Z September 2006 there shall be a fifteen-minute break in training.
vi.30 0515Z September 2006 third course of instruction, SCW First Aid, shall commence. Breaks can be granted as needed during instruction at the instructor’s discretion.

vii.30 0730Z September 2006 all personnel will be transported in government vehicles to Leeward Pont Galley for noon meal.

viii.30 0830Z September 2006 all personnel will return to classroom #1 and fourth course of instruction, Basic Nutrition, will commence.

ix.     30 0915Z September 2006 there shall be a fifteen-minute break in training.
x.      30 0930Z September 2006 fifth course of instruction, SCW Supply and Logistics, will commence.
xi.     30 1045Z September 2006 there shall be a fifteen-minute break in training.
xii.30 1100Z September 2006 sixth course of instruction, FY07 Personal Financial Management: Protecting Your   Belongings with Insurance, will commence.

xiii.30 1230Z September 2006 SCW tests will be administered to all prepared personnel.
xiv.30 1330Z September 2006 end of workday.

c. Tasks

i.      Detail Safety Officer will develop and deliver course of instruction for ergonomics.
ii.     Detail A3 will deliver instruction for FY07 Financial Management: Protecting Your Belongings With Insurance
iii.Detail ACFL will develop and deliver course of instruction for Basic Nutrition.
iv.Detail Supply Officer will deliver course of instruction for SCW Supply and Logistics.
v.      Detail Combat Lifesaver will deliver course of instruction for SCW First Aid.
vi.Detail DAPA will develop and deliver course of instruction for DUI and Alcohol Awareness.

4. ADMINISTRATION AND LOGISTICS.

a. NMCB FIVE, DET CUBA Training Petty Officer will choose instructors for each topic and provide training materials to include audiovisual equipment for Power Point presentations.

b. Noon meal will take place at the Leeward Point Galley at 11:30. Transportation will be provided by the command.

c.      Uniform for Training Saturday #2 will be CUU and hardhat.
d.      Training records and rosters will be maintained by the NMCB FIVE, DET CUBA Training Petty Officer.
e.      Personnel in a duty status will be responsible for the clean up of the training classroom.

5. COMMAND AND SIGNAL.

a. N/A

A Coffee Dilemma

2006-09-26T07:27:00.000-07:00

Now that the lion's share of the surveying is complete the office is an unavoidable part of my life, which means it's time to nest. I need to make this space my own so I can be comfortable and calmly proficient. The first order of business was to carve out a place for myself in the engineering office; it's supposed to be my personal den of tidy organization (except for the messy drawer, which acts as a necessary balance to the order) but in my absence it was taken over by the savages. After a little work, it's mine again. Next was the coffee station, which I've decided is mine to manage by several rights:

no one else has taken ownership of it
I have hundreds of slammed brunch shifts under my belt and therefore have the most experience brewing coffee
I have the most developed palate (a combination of working in several Chicago restaurants and dating an affluent Berkeley foodie)

My self-appointed reign as coffee queen has not been met with overwhelming support.

Them: You make the coffee too strong.

Me: Then water it down.

Them: The coffee tastes burnt.

Me: The coffee isn't on a burner. It's not burnt. It tastes bitter. Try a little sugar.

Them: You don't need to use that many grounds.

Me: The package says two tablespoon per cup. I'm using half of that.

And they call themselves men? Big strong Seabees at that? They should be ashamed.

But they're not ashamed and they're persistent, too, so I have a new strategy: I brew the coffee my way and instead of telling everyone the coffee is ready I pour their first cups and water it down.

So far so good. I haven't had one complaint today.

Completely Unnecessary

2006-09-25T09:34:00.000-07:00

BU1: ...holds a bottle of water, shakes it in front of my face, and walks off... I'm about to do something that's going to piss you off.

EA2: ...following him down the hall... What?

BU1: I'm going to run more water through the old grounds in the coffee pot.

EA2: You're a miser!

BU1: laughs as he fills the reservoir with water

I mean really, of all the things not to waste. He's playing recklessly with my quality of life.

FYI

2006-09-25T07:13:00.000-07:00

An informal poll taken in the back of the crew truck revealed that each member of the bridge crew, if they had to pick, would choose a woman with a shapely ass over one with big tits (that includes the white zin swilling and show tune listening steel worker, but that should come as no surprise).

After all the guys had given sufficient thought to the matter and voiced their opinions I was strongly encouraged to be the last participant in the poll. And because the only big boobs I could think of on the fly were my sister-in-law's (they are so monstrous that I'm a little afraid to get in the same car with them) I agreed with the guys.

Is it Possible?

2006-09-25T05:45:00.000-07:00

Is it possible that the steel worker who lives next door to me, a man who I witnessed buying a bottle of white zinfandel and who listens to Shirley Temple recordings, could possibly be straight?

The Alchemy of Warm Milk

2006-09-22T03:41:00.000-07:00

In the best description I have ever read of getting dressed on a crisp morning*, my friend Christina inspired me to think about what I miss most and I'm very embarrassed to admit the first thing that came to mind.

Pumpkin Spice Lattés from Starbucks

If my narrative mimicked hers it would go something like this:

I take the cool walk from my car to the Starbucks storefront noticing a man, sitting out front with a pet bird on his shoulder, who wants to be noticed. I enter and take my place in line.

Well... um... It just doesn't have the same universal feel or classic undertones that punctuate Christina's writing.

I feel disconnected from my life and from myself on this odd island that is little more than a holding pen for people and a breeding ground for banana rats and iguanas. Here normal life literally stops for the many prisoners living in cells (we actually have two prisons here: the controversial and from-the-future high-tech facility for foreigners and a much smaller and more inviting military brig that is located a block away from the hospital) and figuratively stops for many of the thousands of personnel who live and work here for a short time.

After I landed in Guantanamo Bay drug dogs sniffed my bags, I was issued two identification cards with my photo, name, rank, parent command and a color code that indicates my security clearance, and then I waited at a picnic table on a slab of concrete for the rest of my co-workers. Sitting at the wood table, my second of the day (earlier we had a longish layover at a base in Atlanta and I sat at a picnic table on a slab of concrete there, too), as I watched small groups form, was the place where I realized that my social structure would have to be reinvented and that I would need to find new tools, as well as sharpen the old ones, to navigate my way through the next six months.

The day before my flight I was at home and buffered from the Navy by routine and comfort. Now I was in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba trying to figure out how I was going to build a bridge and at the same time play well with even the strongest personalities littering the concrete.

As of today one quarter of my time here has passed and I still intermittently struggle to figure out my place among these men. And now, because of Christina's post, I know that the pacifier I crave most is the alchemy of pumpkin spice and espresso flavored milk. It makes me feel at home: comfortable and buffered. I'm glad she asked about what I miss, because even thinking about the latté relaxes my brain.

In February I'll fly home, Pumpkin Spice season at Starbucks will be over, and I'll savor every drop of my second favorite seasonal drink, the Cinnamon Dolce Latté.

*I can't create a link on this e-mailed post but there is a link to Christina's blog, Driving a Stick Shift While Drinking Coffee, on the right side bar.

Against All Reason

2006-09-20T17:48:00.000-07:00

I blatantly acted against all reason and what I know to be true: I applied for a library card.

I have a real problem getting books back on time and it's not a new phenomenon. My first memory of getting in punishable trouble is hearing my mother yell my first and middle names from the base of the stairs. I sheepishly slid down each step on my rump, looking at my mother, and wondering how many stairs I would have to descend before she decided I was close enough to reprimand. She was holding a letter,

Jessica Michelle, why didn't you return your library books on time?! I asked you about this weeks ago! Go upstairs and get them! THIS IS NOT GOING TO HAPPEN AGAIN!

Little did she know that not only would it happen again and again and again but that I would later seal a book from my university library and use it to anonymously seduce a corduroy blazered professor.

On the phone last night I told my mom about my new library card and my new library book (an account of working as a prep cook for Mario Batali titled Heat) and reminisced about my age six mismanagement of fairy tales. She laughed and said,

The one I'll never forget is when I tried to use my library card for the first time after you moved to Chicago and the librarian looked up at me and said, You do know that you have a $47 overdue fine that will have to be paid before you can check out any books. I almost fainted.

I had forgotten that one. I guess it's the whole "History is written by the winners" thing.

I'm Falling in Love

2006-09-19T18:21:00.000-07:00

I am singing the praises of triangles. I love them. They do everything they're supposed to and, to date, have never let me down.

The piles, while difficult to place (the welding geek admited defeat) because they are in the middle of a flowing river and need to be hammered by a crane on a floating bardge, are ending up right where they're supposed to. It's a great feeling.

In high school I never believed my math teacher when she told me I was going to need SOH CAH TOA later in life. I was wrong. Maybe I should call her.

One Pile in the River

2006-09-18T16:53:00.000-07:00

Today is over and there is an I-beam peaking out of the middle of Guantanamo River. It looks straight and right and in every way like a properly placed pile. And the icing on the cake is that we started to sink the second pile and all the measurements between the two check out (the only hang-up is that one of the steel workers, a welding geek who proposed to a hooker in Thailand and refers to her as his "girlfriend overseas", wants to weld a jig onto the first pile to help place the others and I don't think it's a good idea but you can't tear the welding rods out of this guy's hands so tomorrow morning we'll see what he comes up with).

I like when things work out.

To Triangulation

2006-09-18T02:51:00.000-07:00

This is the day I've been scared and excited for since I landed on the island six weeks ago: Today we start to sink the center piles. I'll be directing traffic with two instruments. If the I-beams are in the wrong place in the river (I have an allowable error of 1/2") it's all my fault.

I've figured out how I'm going to position the beams, but I'm still unsure of how to check my work. It's a most necessary step.

I'll be going at it for the next two weeks so if anyone reads this, please wish me luck.

Books Still Get People in Trouble

2006-09-17T18:33:00.000-07:00

I'm reading this book, "The Omnivore's Dilemma",
that's about where our food comes from. I can't get
enought of it. (It's worth noting that I've had this
feeling about a book or two before and I know I'll be
sad when it's done, like I've lost an understanding
friend.) I love the book so much that it makes me want
my own animal farm... I'm serious... I want it bad...
(though I can admit it helps that running a farm seems
to mean that young, virile, strapping, and ravenous
farm hands will eat dinner at my table every night).

I just finished the part of the book about rotational
grazing and I've never, with the possible exception of
Capote's "In Cold Blood", been so genuinely mesmorized
by non-fiction. I wanted more.

I'm in the computer lab right now and about fifteen
minutes ago I typed in "eatwild.com" trying to
navigate my way to a site with lots of information on
grass-fed meat. The following error popped up:

GTMO MWR's Internet use policy restricts access to
this web page at this time.

Reason: The WebSense category "Advocacy Groups" is
filtered.

I was shocked... and angry... and then I started to
tear up. How did I get here, to this place where
reading about grass-fed beef is an act of subversion?

I read down the page and was able to follow a link
that promised me 60 minuites at the website in ten
minute increments. I clicked the link and made it to
eatwild.com hoping for radical livestock manifestos
that, in this restricted atmosphere, explained the
censorship. But there's nothing radical or crazy in
its pages. It's really about raising and buying
grass-fed beef, lamb, pork, and poultry.

As WebSense promised after ten minutes I was kicked
off eatwild.com and redirected to the WebSense
blocking message. Again I followed the link to go back
to the site and that's when I made my drastic move: I
clicked on "Shop for Eggs and Dairy" and was greeted
with another WebSense error: "You are not able to view
this page."

It makes me sad that I'm not supposed to associate
with groups of people who advocate their cause. My
dope-smoking parents raised me on Bob Dylan (among
others) and I have a need to educate myself and act.

I feel very alone.

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Dull and Numb

2006-09-15T13:53:00.000-07:00

There are certain parts of my job that I really enjoy and that makes me thankful because I know it's not something that everyone experiences.

There are other parts of my job that make my reflexes dull and my mind numb, like data entry. I can only transfer numbers from one Excel spreadsheet to another for so long before I start to go crazy. My brand of craziness requires that I drink a lot of water (tally for today: 124 ounces) so that I can punctuate my day with several bathroom breaks; they make work go by a little faster.

Today has been all Excel spreadsheets all day. I finally lost it, picked up a fat grease pencil, and in a calm but altered state drew hearts on the metal door frame spending an unreasonable amount of time trying to make the lobes perfectly even. So far no one has noticed my outsider art, which is lucky, because by tomorrow I think I'll be able to deny creating it in such a way as to make my accuser feel akward in his advance.

Success

2006-09-15T09:54:00.000-07:00

The mission was very low profile and on a need-to-know basis. Almost no one needed to know. The secret nature of the operation means success will never be appreciated by an audience but will be instead sweetly and secretly celebrated.

I ran a covert shopping operation and have Christmas cards and letter writing stationery coming my way.

pRECISION

2006-09-14T13:24:00.000-07:00

There are some people who, trained by the creative problem solving requirements for their job, do not understand the importance of precision. Builders can suffer from the affliction and so can mechanics because every day, due to poor funding, they are without the proper tools and materials or parts to do the required job. They have learned through years in the military that any way you can get the job done is a good way and are praised for their "Can Do" attitude (and blessed by the fact that after six months deployment is over and we never again see what we built or fixed so if it falls apart we don't feel the pang of failure). That lesson isn't a part of the surveyor's arsenal. We use numbers to do our job and they are perfect, precise and don't lie (except, of course, in the hands of creative statisticians) and that's why I like them.

So when a Navy mechanic is tasked with completing a HOB (Health of the Battalion) brief, and he thinks he is done, he decides to hand it off to the much lower ranking surveyor because he wants an eye for precision to look it over. The problem comes when that eye for precision finds many, many, many problems. Now, suddenly, the surveyor has to complete the HOB brief by tomorrow morning.

This surveyor isn't so happy.

The 70+ Club

2006-09-14T10:00:00.000-07:00

Because I was thinking about it I just took an on-line typing test. After you factor in my errors (I typed with 98% accuracy) I type at a speed of 72 words per minute.

I say anyone who types over 70 words per minute gets to shop for Christmas cards during working hours.

It's worth noting that in a normal office environment I wouldn't have this problem. I would eat lunch quickly and consider stationery in the left-over time. But this doesn't work because our lunch "hour" is the amount of time it takes us to eat. So even if I eat quickly there is no extra time for me to run web errands. And staying late doesn't work either because we carpool the few miles back to the barracks in government vehicles. If I stay I get left without a ride home and I miss supper because the galley closes shortly after we get off work.

Typing more than 70 words per minute should definitely get you something.

Proficiency

2006-09-14T08:21:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure how fast I can type, but I know it's pretty fast and pretty accurate, too. I can also type while I'm holding a conversation with someone in my office, but it usually makes that someone uncomfortable, so I don't do it unless I'm in the mood to flaunt my administrative prowess. The point is, I work a lot faster and am a better multi-tasker than other people in the office.

I am also a non-smoker. About every two hours most of the office exits the building, smokes and talks trash for ten to fifteen minutes, and then comes back to work. I don't partake in the ritual.

So, when I'm in the mood to shop on-line for yarn or Christmas cards (it's never too early) or bath products I see no reason that I shouldn't be allowed.

That's all I'm saying.

Dear Tyson

2006-09-14T07:49:00.000-07:00

Dear Tyson,

If you happen to read this I would like to tell you that you undercharge for your NKO General Military Training service. I, because I paid you, am the only person in the command who has completed the fiscal year 06 training topics. The end of the fiscal year is two weeks away, we are working six days a week, and no time is going to be allotted for on-line classes. I should have paid you at least double.

Anxiously awaiting my NKO-free Sunday,
EA2

Lessons Learned (LL)

2006-09-13T11:56:00.000-07:00

If a man harasses you and you report it, even quietly and at the lowest level, he will think you’re a rat and not to be trusted with information. You will find this out because he will be happy to tell anyone who will listen (he'll leave out the part about blatantly harassing you).

A man who is attracted to you will think the world of you and compliment your work performance when people are listening. That same man, when he finds out you aren’t attracted to him (and they always figure it out sooner or later), will tell the same people that you’re bad at your job and suffer from any number of other undesirable traits.

A man who is attracted to you, makes an overt pass at you, and believes that your are attracted to him even though you dismiss his advance, will always stick up for you publicly and privately. It’s because he thinks that if a woman can want a man as badly as she must want him and still say no, well...then... her moral fiber must be woven of exceptionally strong thread. Several months later he will hint around that he slept with you.

These men will never understand that other men tell you every word of what they say.

The Heart of the Matter

2006-09-13T05:53:00.000-07:00

I'm a sucker for a Graham Greene novel; they're full of religion, foreign wars, and personal conflict. The Heart of the Matter is all of those things peppered with rugged cocktails, dead cockroaches, and shady Algerians running a black market. The main protagonist is Scobie, a British man working in Africa during WWII. He's married and his wife, Louise, is justly unhappy: their only child, a daughter, is dead, Scobie was passed up for promotion, Louise doesn't fit in or like Sierra Leone, and is disconnected from people who share her obsessions of poetry and Catholicism. So she sails to South Africa, a place she thinks she will be happy, to wait three years for her husband to retire and join her.

After Louise leaves Scobie meets a young, beautiful widow and they have an affair. In time the young woman is just as unhappy and bitter as Louise before she left. It seems curious. And Scobie theorizes that this is what happens to women who spend time with him. Somehow, unintentionally, he trains women to feel old, angry, and combative. It's a depressing thought, but probably accurate. I think about it a lot and try to notice how my actions mold the people around me and also how my friends affect my personality.

My situation this deployment is similar to the last; I'm working primarily with one junior guy and we spend most of our time surveying together during the day. And just like last year my partner in crime isn't speedy with the math but I see him improving and it makes me feel good. I'm noticing other things too: he's usually in a good mood and cracks funny jokes, he's a hard worker, intensely loyal, and confides in me easily. It was the same last year and it makes me feel very lucky. But sometimes when I think about it in the context of that Graham Greene novel, I let myself think that maybe I bring out those characteristics in people. And that makes me feel like I'm both doing something right and that my time in the Navy has been worth the headaches. I don't think this education is found anywhere else.

Technical Difficulties

2006-09-13T05:05:00.000-07:00

It's a slow week at the project because the civilian crane crew is otherwise occupied. Personally, I think it's a high-level conspiracy to retard progress. The public works department told Mad Dog that we need to slow production and the captain of the base told him that there's no hurry: if the bridge takes another year it's no big deal (we have a goal of completion by February). Logic would say that's a good thing; we should be able to kick back and work a few less hours every week. But the battalion has a different vision, a competitive vision that pits our productivity against the productivity of all other Naval Mobile Construction Battalions, and the crew is stuck in the middle. I'm stuck in the office because it's legal to write me off as indirect labor and because I don't have a dump truck or bulldozer license so there's not much for me to do out there except guide the operators. And I'm really not in the mood to direct hot, dusty traffic.

So I'm in the office, with little to do because I'm a few days ahead with my administrative work, and wanted to take advantage of some quality writing time. I logged on, opened Microsoft Word, pecked for a few minutes, and hit save: nothing. I worked at it for a bit and I can't save anything. So I called the computer people and left a message. In the meantime I'm going to have to e-mail myself anything I want to commit to paper (or, more realistically, my hard drive).

The Training Death Trap

2006-09-11T10:29:00.000-07:00

I opened my e-mail to a chatty letter from the new S7/S2 (training and intelligence officer). I've only met him once. He's a little cookey and he seems to think he can butter me up to work in the training office during next homeport. I know it sounds benign, but the training office is the most spit-on and trampled-over office in battalion. I would sooner work in the tool room. This is what he sent (parenthetical comments are mine):

How is everything in GTMO? I hope you and the troops are taking advantage of your liberty to enjoy the diving and fishing. (We work six days a week, 12 hours a day, in the sun and diving classes are during the week. No, we don't get out much.) Without a doubt my best 3 years in the Navy were there. 1995-1998, I was an EA2 in the Engineering shop for FMED. A lot of changes to the base have occurred since then. (They built a $15 million prison.)

Thank you for your timely input. You must have some hard charging individuals, all six have taken the Officer/OIC/AOIC portion of the ORM. Was this personal initiative, or leadership driven? (Does it even seem possible that troops would take online classes on risk-assessment if someone didn't force them?)

Was Mary able to help with your PISTOL issues? Let me know if I need to do anything. (Most officers, without unseemly motives, are not in the habit of running e-mail errands for troops. There isn't enough time in the day.)

Noticed on your PRD that you are rotating early in 08? Are you planning to extend or rotate as scheduled. The reason I ask, we are looking to staff the next Homeport Training Department. Would you be interested? (I e-mailed him a polite "No".)

Have a great CB Day,
V/R, Warrant

(As a general rule, I'm annoyed with individuals who wish me a "great Seabee day".)

Dear Christina

2006-09-11T05:56:00.000-07:00

Dear Christina,

I'd like to remind you that all wars have casualties. Sometimes we loose our friends, but we need to keep in mind the greater good.

Having said that, the other day while I was at the project the skies opened and drenched my backpack that I carelessly laid in the bed of the pick-up. In that backpack was your copy of Lamb by Christopher Moore. It's still readable, but very obviously worse for wear. I dried it in my room and repaired it as best I could with packing tape and a lot of love.

If it eases the blow, you should know it's one of the funniest things I've ever read.

I offer my sincere condolences and love during this difficult time.

Retirement

2006-09-08T09:21:00.000-07:00

Today I was required to attend the retirement ceremony of a CE1 from the public works department. I don't know him very well, but Mad Dog wanted all of us to show support to a fellow Seabee, so I took an hour out of the day to watch the pomp and circumstance. It was nice to see a man receive thanks and appreciation for twenty years of work.

The CE1 is originally from Mississippi, is African American, and has a relaxed Southern drawl that I sometimes have a hard time understanding. The man he works for, a chief, is also black and from the deep south. It is obvious to anyone who watches them interact that they have a close bond and are more than just coworkers.

At the end of the ceremony CE1 was speaking and wanted to thank the Chief. He motioned to his supervisor, who was sitting on the stage, with his right hand and said, "I'd like to thank my war nigger". I couldn't believe it. I looked around to see if I heard what I thought I heard and then he said it again, "I just really want to thank my war nigger". My mind went crazy: In this room full of mostly black people is it OK to say that? Why is no one surprised? Why are there no gasps? When did this sort of thing become OK? It can't possibly be OK to say that in a semi-public ceremony! Why am I the only uncomfortable person in this room?

In my panicked silence I realized that I was the only uncomfortable person in the room because he was thanking the chief for being his coordinator. I figured it out because I read it on the back of the program.

Excel

2006-09-08T08:54:00.000-07:00

If, sometime today, anyone from Arifjahn e-mails me another Excel spread sheet to track whatever it is that's their little pet project I'm going to loose my composure. Enough is enough.

Puss Found Herself a New Pair of Boots

2006-09-05T14:34:00.000-07:00

My formerly engaged roommate, who I affectionately call Puss because she's the only other pussy on this detachment, handed back the ring five days ago to a very confused electrician. A few hours later, back in our room, there were a few tears and lots of hugs, but she's doing well. And as of last night she's doing especially well because she went out for the first time with a Marine First Sergent who digs her a lot. She keeps telling me that he's her 1st First Sergent. I keep telling her that he's a whole lot of rank for a very little girl. She always smiles with sparkeling eyes. She's smitten.

Forgery Seasoned With Off-Color Humor

2006-08-29T09:59:00.000-07:00

When a man is second in command he has both the title of AOIC and a significant amount of influence over me. He has the ability to shape my annual formal evaluation by his whim. If I behave he will assign me interesting work and if I don't care to feed his ego the tasks could be miserable. So when I drive him around in the cab of a pick-up, and he decides to fill the silence with crude jokes about women that don't make me laugh (Q: What do you say to a woman with two black eyes? A: Nothing, she obviously didn't listen the first two times. Q: How do you know if a woman has an orgasm? A: Who the fuck cares), I feel like I'm living on the inside of a low budget sexual harassment video.

I complained, at a very low level to avoid a big splash, through the appropriate channels and several hours later someone let him know that I didn't enjoy his behavior. I didn't use a mediator because I lacked the courage to confront him myself, but because I wanted a witness. If he persists in making my life uncomfortable I want someone to know that he has worked his mismagic before.

This morning the AOIC called me into his office, the same office where two weeks ago I refused his request to forge the XO's signature on official documents, to apologize. I told him that I take enough shit from men all over this base and I'm not going to take it from someone that I work for. He apologized again and he was sincere, but I know he's only sorry that he exercised poor judgment in telling me the jokes. He's not sorry that in his brain it's funny to think of a woman as subordinates incapable of shaping their own lives.

Ernesto

2006-08-29T05:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning, during the middle of a base lock-down due to hurricane Ernesto, Mad Dog made us all leave our rooms, pile into vans and pick-ups, and drive to the galley for breakfast. The galley was officially closed but provided a small meal for essential personnel.

I'm confident that it was not essential for us to get out of bed, brave a hurricane in ten-passenger vans, eat cold eggs, and return to the barracks so we could peel off our soaked uniforms and go back to bed until lunch.

Power to This Person

2006-08-29T05:49:00.000-07:00

Mad Dog lined us up in a row and demanded that when the Operations Officer (S3) and Operations Chief (S3C) show up today we're not supposed to tell them anything out of the ordinary about the project: we're not to discuss equipment issues and I'm not to talk about the structural problems we're having with the bridge. No one is allowed to mention the 20' x 30' brush fire one of the builders started using the rescue saw in a field of dry grass. After he addressed the Det Mad Dog pulled me aside and reminded me that I was included in his speech. I'm not to talk about the bridge to the battalion operations staff.

I don't take well to censorship.

The S3 and S3C are landing at 1:30 this afternoon and I can't imagine that the S3C, Senior R., will have a difficult time getting me to talk. Mad Dog's tyrannical behavior hasn't earned him my affection or loyalty.

To Avoid Confusion

2006-08-29T04:34:00.000-07:00

To clear things up a bit I wanted to let anyone know who may be reading this that I don't have regular access to a computer that will let me navigate to any Blogger web pages; I'm posting via e-mail. I can send in whatever I want from my Outlook but I can't view comments much more than once a week.

I Can't Stop Smiling

2006-08-24T11:02:00.000-07:00

I just opened a package from the knitsters and I can't stop smiling even though someone is waxing the floor and this office stinks so horrifically that I want to vomit.

Thank you all. Yarn and journals and kind notes are potent medicine for what ails me.