Thursday, September 30, 2004

Maybe I am the devil

Ok so today I realized I just might be the devil, but I was determined not to be a liar (See Linda Blair Blog). I mean I really couldn’t help it….anyone in my position could have done it…I couldn’t help it, I was weak and back sliding…I had to do it. Ok so we have a refrigerator in the kitchen in the office here. It has been my nemesis, testing me, taunting me time and again with its contents. Being that it’s the middle east, our units no longer come stocked with the standard vending machines selling fat pills and sugar fixes. (You know I read somewhere that someone going through caffeine withdrawls exhibits the same brain wave patterns as a cocaine fiend jonesing) So now I am unable to pop in a couple of quarters and sit hunched over my twinkie growling viciously at anyone who interferes with my feeding. I do drink a lot of water which we have in abundance here, but it never quite as tasty as a soda, particularly one marked with the name of someone who pisses you off. Actually I don’t drink anything that other people put their names on more out of karma than courtesy. I remember back once upon a time when I lived in the United States and I had my own refrigerator and an odd little Guatemalan roommate (you know who you are!), I started having to put my name on the juice in the refrigerator and hiding the cereal because this little guy ate about 10 bowls of cereal a day and did keg stands on the juice. I would open the refrigerator to get a cup of juice (that I had bought maybe the day before) and it would be missing in action before I even got a glass. So in honor of all the times I went dejectedly from my refrigerator to throttle the person who ate/drank the last of whatever I had been looking forward to eating all day, I suffered silently and longingly at the tasty treats my coworkers had unmistakeably labeled their own. After an excruciatingly painful first 2 hours, I was desperate for some psuedo-caffeine. I circled the refrigerator like a scavenging hyena on the plains, eyeing my prey; a can of diet coke labeled “Big H”. It whispered to me from the kitchen to my desk “Drink me, DRINK ME!”. I would like to tell you I walked away, that I was able to preserve some of my rapidly deteriorating dignity and integrity but I did not. With beady bloodshot eyes glistening I pounced and squirreled myself away into a corner and furtively drank my pilfered item. I then destroyed the evidence like the devious little criminal I was. Now the plan was, I would go to midnight chow and replace the coke before I was discovered and punished with red hot fire pokers. Of course this would be the day there was a post wide shortage of diet cokes much like the Great Orange Gatorade drought of the month prior. I paced the floors mapping out a strategy. I could wait it out and hope it would not be discovered before I could obtain another coke. I could feign knowledge and let it become a great American mystery like the caped crapper of the battalion leaving floaters in the commanders toilet. In the end my conscience got the best of me so I decided bribery and groveling was the best approach. I went up to “Big H” bearing gifts of starbursts and tootsie pops and promises of eternal servitude. I guess the idea of a hot blond in bondage worked for him. I was forgiven and given rights to all future soda’s residing in said refrigerator. Sometimes life is good here…

Tuesday, September 28, 2004

Life Goes On

So I have been finding it increasingly difficult to muster any motivation to do ANYTHING whatsoever. I mean I am getting a really really bad case of senior-itis. I can't seem to motivate myself to do anything but check my bank account, my email and do the mandatory reports. I know I really need to do something cuz I still have enough time to be discovered and made useful. I walked into the DFAC today and one of the workers said something to me and I smiled really big (the I don’t understand you, but I’m going to smile and pretend I do anyway smile). Well he looked at me expectantly (damn, it was a question…) so then I had to ask him again and I finally was able to understand he was asking about my well-being since I had fallen into that hole outside. Oh great, so now they have super duper bat vision or else someone put an announcement out over the cafeteria “Dumb blond (in serious need of some root touch ups) fell into one of the holes outside, yeah you know, sandwich guys girlfriend…” I mean it was pitch black outside. Perfect. I am now on a first name basis with sandwich man (I think his name is Masha…so much for bob) and he has introduced me to his boss, we’ve moved into that point in our relationship I suppose where its only natural I should meet his boss…I suppose next it will be the rest of his wives; I’m kind of nervous-hehe just kidding. So I went to try and do the impossible…get the PSB (personnel support Battalion) to stop the allotment going to my car. My first attempt I have to assume went to a good cause, maybe they ran out of toilet paper and my request was on the top of the stack. I guess PSB does some furtive shitting too. So anywho I go in, armed with the TL (tracking log) showing that I did indeed submit this once before so they will get off their dead asses and maybe I don’t know actually accomplish it. When I was enlisted I used to be in the administration field, I don’t really remember these rules that seemed to have been adopted:

1.Always lose the paperwork the first time around, it creates less work and if its really important to them they will come back and submit it again
2.Always move extremely slow when helping people, it ensures you don’t actually get too much accomplished and if you piss them off enough maybe they will hate you enough to never come back
3.Always sit at your desk typing furiously ignoring anyone who comes to the help desk, eventually they will realize they are not important enough to be helped and go away.

I heard the other day that the military is going to switch to civilians to run the personnel side of the house. I’m not really sure which I’m more afraid of; some PFC with 3 inch long acrylic claws and an “I get paid no matter how shitty my attitude/performance is” attitude, or a large overweight civilian with an “I have no idea what its like to be you, and I don’t care because I will also get paid no matter whether all your checks bounce and mortgage gets paid” attitude. It’s kind of frightening really. Why couldn’t I have a sandwich man in the PSB, now that would be a useful hookup. My friend read my blog and told me I have issues with people. I told him to shut up and mind his own business….and still life goes on…

Monday, September 27, 2004

Foiled again!

Ok so one time, at band camp, there was this hole and I like fell in it….I don’t know what it is lately, but I seem to have all the grace of a hippo on acid. I used to tell people that I could walk down the street and ahead of me there would be some perfect long legged lanky chick walking in stiletto’s hair blowing in the breeze like she was in a playboy shoot. I would be walking on the same street, same breeze, and my hair would be trying to strangle me and I’d be falling off my shoes. Falling off your shoes you ask? Yes I have discovered that it is very possible and altogether too frequent activity for me, falling off my shoes. It happens when one is wearing platform shoes with no anchoring straps on the heels to make sure your feet “stay the course”. The same way you can sort of fall of a curb when not paying attention, you can fall off your shoes which is far more embarrassing and slightly more painful considering the rest of your feet are still in the shoe confused as to what’s the hold up. Ok so the hole right? Well I had just finished another beautiful sandwich by yours truly, my sandwich man, and made my way out with my dinner companions off to do great and wonderful things for the military (maybe paint my nails or do some shopping at Forever21 online). The sad and completely inexcusable part of it all was I knew the hole was there. For some reason they are erecting (hehe…I said erect) a bunch of useless crap all over post here. I have already mentioned the speedbumps, but there are also bus stops (at locations no one ever stops at), gazeebo’s (in case you want to picnic out in the 5 zillion degree weather next to the stagnant mosquito breeding death lake) and fences as far as the eye can see. I mean we have to duel with the flies outside for control of the port o potties because they won’t fix the crappy piping systems here. Need a fence and by golly you got it, need to take a crap your sh*t out of luck (literally). I attribute the increase in fencing to too many men in the military. It’s that mentality “If you fence it, they won’t come”. Typical commanding male will seek to fence anything and everything he can whether or not he can use it matters not, he fences it in case one day he might use it. It’s like the modern more civilized way to pee on one’s tree. Anywho, so they are fencing around the DFAC now. I guess it’s a tad bit too much to expect for them to mark the 3 feet by 2 feet trap doors that now surround the DFAC, I mean that would make entirely too much sense. So I was walking, minding my own business when one of these holes jumped up and bit me. It was like when the coyote chases the road runner off the edge of a cliff and looks at you holds up a sign that says “help” and then you see the rest of his body plummet while his head give you one last “why me” look. So there I stood almost waist deep in this hole, which would have been fine except that I guess I had that damsel in distress thing going on and every sandwich guy in the DFAC rushed to my rescue, clamoring around as if extracting me from this hole was a mission on par with capturing osama bin laden. The called in the reserves and soon I had a bunch of little Pakistani men circling me looking very serious and shining flashlights. I was starting to wonder if they were gonna bring in a crane to hoist me out. The crowd began to grow and inevitably feeling like baby Jessica I got it over with and said “yes that’s right, look at the LT who fell in a hole, yep that’s me”. See my problem is I always get hurt just enough to SUCK, but never quite enough to be beneficial (such as getting out of work, or going back to the rear). I have never even broken a bone, although I did sprain my pinkie once…it was excruciating. I also got one stitch in my big toe….I gotta quit drinking milk.

Saturday, September 25, 2004

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

I have found that as the deployment goes on people start to get nasty just because they can. I spent a good part of an hour of my sleep time the other day to craftily cover the window in my room with magazine pages to block out the 3 thousand watt sun that beats down upon my weary body every morning. So I come in the following morning to see my roommate has ripped all my work off of the half of the window on her side. Ok, can you say B*tch? First of all, we have an overhead light and lamps in our little hole so it being dark shouldn’t be an issue. Next, we don’t ever open the windows, oh I don’t know because maybe it’s the Middle East and 5 zillion degree’s outside so it’s not likely we’ll be hoping for a breeze anytime soon. Lastly, our window faces another trailer 2 feet away so I have my doubts as to whether it could be the aesthetically pleasing view. I am quite sure she did it just to piss me off, like how she flips on the light when she knows I’m asleep and plays the T.V. at full volume. Once when I was 12, my parents pissed me off, so I rubbed my moms toothbrush on a bar of soap and took my Dads watch for a swim in the toilet. I find myself longing to put itching powder in her panties and superglue her shower shoes together (naturally I get more inventive and annoying with age). It’s not a pretty feeling, I’m a strong believer in Karma so I try and counter the negative with a positive. Whenever I have a nasty thought about someone I work with (like how my old boss kind of looks like a cross between howdy doody and Mr. Rogers) I try and come up with a positive thought (such as his impeccable hygiene). Most of the time I just can’t help it. You can only sit through so many meetings where the main focus is the curtains for the commander’s office or the new furniture hijacked and being held for ransom (WTF? Give me all your money or the swivel chair gets it?) before you want to stab someone with your mechanical pencil. Another thing about deployment are the rumors. The amount of action I’m getting over here is LITERALLY unbelievable. I have even been sighted in some lesbian action in a shower stall in the barracks. Now why I would sneak all the way to the barracks for some chick on chick action in a nasty communal bathroom as opposed to the privacy of my trailer remains a mystery to me, but it makes even a vice-free person such as myself want to reach for a cigarette when I listen to what I have been doing unbeknownst to myself (maybe I sleepwalk? And sleepshower…?). It’s like being a celebrity and having 200 little national enquirer paparazzi watching you, except your not rich, your not dating Enrique Iglesias, and your living in a trailer in the desert instead of a mansion in Beverly hills, no wonder they make shit up, the truth would just be depressing.

I’d like to give a shout out to all my biatches out there who wish they were getting as much action as those nosy little weasels out there are chattering about…

Thursday, September 23, 2004

BIOTCH: The conclusion

Ok, I had another topic in mind, but I figured I should finish the rest of this mind-numbing trilogy. So I figured out at that point that for some unknown reason this woman hates my guts (which later on I figured out there’s no discrimination, that she hates everyone else as well). There were no major blowouts between the two of us just her sending EVERY piece of paper I forwarded up back with some nasty little sticky note attached correcting my font, paper-size, or some annoying reference to 25-50 or whatever. Like anyone really gives a crap about that stuff anyway. I made little post-it airplanes out of them and threw them at her imaginary head. So I thought she was evil before we deployed, that was nothing. The day we moved into the barracks where we were to stay, my friend DS2 and I were skipping around with joy at having walls and a floor that wasn’t mud and best of all: Indoor plumbing baby! Naturally the building wasn’t without its faults: showers flooded, air conditioners leaked and a bunch of sweaty men in the next room, but we thought it was peachy (did I mention indoor plumbing?). I grabbed a corner bunk and damned if she didn’t park her snively little behind right across from me. DS2 and I were conversing next to my bunk one day when we got into a conversation with her (totally DS2’s doing, I certainly wouldn’t have stirred the beast in its natural habitat). She started ranting about how this place (the barracks) “is a hell-hole, a F-ing hell-hole”. As I stood listening to her rave with my head canted slightly I began to draw imaginary horns on her, a goatee and a little pointy tail. (I think I may have attention deficit disorder). I missed most of the conversation doing this but did come back to reality long enough to hear DS2 try to diffuse her anger by reminding her of those in theatre who had it worse (or was it all the starving children in Africa?) Ah anyway, there’s nothing more annoying when your pissed off about something than someone trying to make you feel better about it by telling you how crappy they, or someone else, has it. I saw where she was going, took a look at CPT Crazy’s face and started drawing again. It was later in the month that things got ugly. Now I suspect the fact that the only air conditioner that leaked happened to be over her bed didn’t help. I like to think it was Karma, because the big puddle stopped just a foot from pretty much every one else’s bunk around hers. She splashed down to find all the underwear she had hand washed and hung on her bunk (in full view) floating around her feet. So the rest of the week she was evil as ever and I suspect freeballing it too. Well once a week I got my soldiers together for what I called “S1 family fun night” for bonding. Well this week’s event was 007 (so they could oogle hale berry) and we watched it in my area. The lights went off when there was still 10 minutes of action packed breast slinging so I turned the T.V. all the way down so the soldiers could finish their oogleriffic movie and waited. Apparently she has the sprint pin drop hearing because she stomped over imagining she could hear the T.V. (I actually I suspect she heard us talking). She loomed over my poor soldiers and hissed “LT Blondie, WHAT (emphasis on this word) have I told you about headphones after lights out?” Ok, this was one of those devil on the left shoulder angel on the right shoulder moments. Due to the fact she was being such a whore about the whole thing, showing out in front of my soldiers and talking to me like I was a toddler (but mostly cuz her billy idol hair just pissed me off) I lost this battle rather quickly and put a finger to my lip and said very innocently “Gee ma’am I can’t recall, what DID you tell me?”(blink blink). She snarled back “Headphones after lights out are not an option!” She stood there glaring and I stood there indifferent (insert awkward silence and squirming soldiers here). She snapped “That means now!” I said “Oh k” (indifferent with a hint of constipated look here). She then swiveled her head and said “Don’t get an attitude with me”, and much to my everlasting shame (yet secret glee) with beady eyes glistening I snapped back “Well don’t be such a f-ing b*tch then”. I thought her eyeballs were gonna explode. She hesitated and then said “I wouldn’t have to be a b*tch if you would follow the rules” and stomped off to her cave. Of course I later went out and explained to my soldiers how inappropriate my response had been and some crap about giving people more respect and dignity then they give you or some cheesy do as I say not as I do, shame on me speech. I wasn’t quite sure it had the desired effect however because one of the privates said “Ma’am you are so cool!” I mean absolutely she deserved it being the evil billy idol wench she was, but I didn’t want one of my soldiers to get the idea that its ok to do that even if they’re right, because the consequences will always be worse for them. Ah well I never claimed to be perfect.

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

BIOTCH Part II

I am a victim of random thoughts so to make this more user friendly I will put my internal thoughts or actions in parenthesis and/or italic etc...

Ok so now we’ve established the trend that would plague my existence for the rest of my (fervent prayer) short military career. I managed to go almost 2 years more with only minor verbal altercations and as* chewings. Well then I met the ex-wife of Satan (the one even he calls "that crazy biatch"). She inhabited the life-form of a snobby west point graduate I like to call CPT Crazy. My first run in with this woman was when I was but a bright eyed and busy tailed young S1. We have duty rosters to send in and my boss told me to send the round downrange (tell higher headquarters) that we were not going to pull that duty anymore due to the pending deployment. Approximately a half hour after I sent the email to her I get a call up on the tele:

“LT Blondie (no greeting) how many times do I have to tell you before you get it through your head that I don’t deal with this duty” (ummm….well considering that this is the first time I have ever said crap to you about it, I’m gonna guess once you big fat heifer)
(me) “Well ma’am I send the numbers for this duty to YOU every month”
(Satan) “That’s all I deal with, I have nothing to do with the roster, that’s S3”
(me) “Ok, well I’m not sure about all that, but I really find the way you are talking to me very rude”
(Satan) “Well I find you incomprehensible” (WTF?)
(me) “ok ma’am you know what, why don’t you just take the information I sent you as FYI”
(Satan) “Well then you need to put FYI in your emails”
(me) “Fine ma’am you know what, I will put FYI on every email I send you” (click)

Now this incident was right after she had undergone a radical hair cut and color that left her looking suspiciously like billy idol, so I’m guessing maybe the peroxide had leaked a little too far in her scalp causing a rare disorder called bitchus maximus. It still goes untreated today. So as you can see from above I was the consummate professional and she was still the raging b*tch. Well as I said in a previous post, sometimes the only thing certain people understand is that one special finger (or in this case phrase) that say’s it all? Well for her it was….story to be continued.

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Say it to my face BIOTCH!

Ok, now this is gonna sound bad…but its really not that bad…later on I learned I had this problem with anger (famous words of Reece witherspoon in Freeway). Sometimes I wonder if I have a problem communicating effectively. I think it started when I was a wee 2LT just fresh out of OBC and full of worthless ideals and crap. Well there was a Captain in this aviation unit that I was in that just had it out for me, I mean for some crazy reason (my big fat mouth) he just didn’t seem to care for me (hated my guts). He got particularly nasty at one point when I sent a mass email out to all CDR’s asking them to give me names of who could participate in an exercise I had to jump through my as* and coordinate well outside the 6 week preparation requirement and request time. They insisted I had to plan this training and ran my little newbie as* ragged planning it and groveling to another unit to provide support. But then when I requested the names of those who would attend I suddenly got the deer in the headlight look. Wait a minute, we wanted you to plan this (right in the middle of gunnery) but we didn’t know we had to actually send soldiers to it. (insert extremely constipated look here) Wow, I know I’m a young LT and I don’t know anything, but to conduct a training exercise don’t you need to actually oh I don’t know train people? So I sent an email outlining my requirements and told the commanders I needed to know what they CAN provide not what they couldn’t and I bolded the word “can”. Although no one else seemed to find my request disrespectful, CPT Spanky (name has been changed in this story to better suit the individual) got his heiny hairs all twisted and decided he was going to professionally develop me. He let me know that I should watch how I was addressing senior officers (guess he missed the Gentlemen at the beginning and the Very Respectfully at the end) and (this is the best part) that if I was going to go as far as to bold my lettering, I should have the courage to come down and say it in person. Now I could overlook the fact that he was being a snotty little douchebag and pulling rank in the situation, but the redneck in me did kinda balk on the whole say it to my face thing. I mean seriously. So naturally I did what all wittle wieutenants do when de’re wittle feewings get hurt…called my girlfriend to talk some massive shit and confer on how to best handle (give him the discreet f*ck you) his little love note. In the end I wrote him apologizing for offending him and all the way at the bottom almost as an afterthought… “I hope it’s noted the courage it does take to be the only chemical lieutenant in an all aviation unit with one gold bar”. I wasn’t in the office when he read it unfortunately but since I was good friends with one of his warrant officers I hear it went something like the scene in Who Framed Roger Rabbit when he Roger takes a shot of liquor. I later did the strut of pride all the way to my boss’ office to sign what I suspected would not be my last counseling statement…to be continued

Monday, September 20, 2004

Blah!

Oh well I guess they’re on to me, my days of furtive crapping are over. Thank you Lost Lo for the words of encouragement. Last night was particularly excruciating due to the fact that all the little minions of the shop had the night off for an event taking place the next morning. This left just me and another guy on shift that much like myself just doesn’t give a shit. Naturally we worked out a sleep schedule, and I danced around in anticipation at the thought of that black leather couch in the CSM’s office. Now I wasn’t quite brave enough to squat in the BN CDR’s office due to some illogical fear that he would for some reason come back in the middle of the night to avenge his toilet bowl from the Great Caped Crapper, or some other dumb reason and find me sprawled out and drooling on his new office furniture. Now the CSM on the other hand, I had no fear whatsoever about this man growing a sudden interest in work and gracing us with his presence. I found what I imagined was the key and danced over to his door and found a cipher lock. WTF? Ok this dude does nothing but play solitaire (as do we all, to be fair) all day in his freakin’ office, what the hell does he need a punch code lock for? To make sure some great wind didn’t sweep in and disturb the dust collecting on his inbox? I once attempted to see how many days straight I could play solitaire uninterrupted by work, I still have yet to beat this man’s score. (hours later…) So there was an incident today, and thankfully no one got seriously hurt, due to this fact, I am not feeling very funny so this will be all for today’s post.

Saturday, September 18, 2004

The Turdburgler

Alas tonight I cannot claim full credit for my literary snack. This is an email published by personnel in another section pertaining to the use of the BN Commanders toilet facility.

BN Personnel, It has been brought to my attention that someone in the BN TOC is utilizing the BN CDR's latrine to relieve themselves of solid human waste. No one wants to point fingers, and that is just the Army way. I know the BN CDR is tired of it, and the Executive Assistant is tired of cleaning up after whomever the culprit is. They has also been misuse of the trash receptacle in the BN CDR's latrine. There has been sightings of toilet paper with skid marks (reference beginning of email) in the trash.

* In short, feces does not mix with the current indoor sewage situation.

* All, please utilize the porta-jons in front of the building. Night shift - flash lights have been provided for your safety.

It's ashamed that this is what it has amounted to ... the BN CDR now has to place a padlock onto his latrine's entrance.

(ok back to me)
Sightings huh? Perhaps some alien life forms are trying to send us encrypted messages in the form of complex doo doo skid mark patterns on toilet tissue. I ‘m thinking of contacting the FBI with this theory, the executive assistant here might be on to something. Unidentified Fecee’d objects (UFO)’s are pretty common around post here, mere coincidence, or something more…you decide. Also what is “just the Army way” relieving oneself in the BN CDR’s latrine, or pointing fingers? Ok, if there was ever ANY doubt in anyone’s mind of just how little these f*u
kers have to do out here…If I were the BN CDR’s executive assistant (personal secretary) I would be more disturbed about why I am cleaning up a bathroom that no one is supposed to use BUT the BN CDR. I no longer feel ashamed to admit on numerous occasions when the bus came to a stop in front of the battalion doors 45 minutes early to the start of my shift I looked at the doors and told the driver “you know what, just keep going”. I mean I can ride the bus around once more and try to preserve some of my sanity or I can go inside and read emails like the above on the latest American Doo Doo Inquest. I suggest a rewrite of the above email:

“Listen up F*ckers, whoever is crapping in the BN CDR’s toilet and I’m not naming names cough nightshift cough, needs to cut it out. The BN secretary refuses to clean up any doo doo that doesn’t belong to her boss. Your cloggin the pipes, so use those smelly ass port o johns reserved for scum such as yourselves.”

Thursday, September 16, 2004

The Bus Drivers

Ok the buses right? So now here I am in my undisclosed location and since its 1 gazillion degrees farenheit here, the bus has become a welcome mode of transportation. There’s no more interesting place to hear gossip than the bus on a military post. It’s full of people from private on up that love to hear themselves talk. Every night is open mike night. I’ve learned recently that certain individuals from an unnamed airborne unit like to get drunk and have contests to see who’s feet they can piss on underneath the shower stall. They regale me, the only female on the bus, with these lovely stories, leaving me to wonder if there’s anything men will not try to do with certain parts of their body. The bus drivers are, like the DFAC and Laundry workers are also foreign. Now I’m assuming that since the speed limit signs are in English, that could be why until the speedbumps were installed I clung to the arm rest as the deathmobile did 65 down the road marked 15mph. Either that or they are trying to save wear and tear on the tires by making sure only 2 of them touch the surface of the road at any one time. Now because of the speedbumps they can only drive like drunk gremlins hunched gleefully over the wheel beady eyes glistening, for 30 second intervals and my death grip exercise has a new Mantra “Relax for 10, contract for 30, relax for 10, contract….” It’s like a roller coaster ride at Disney world except with uh maybe one of the three blind mice driving. I have something I like to call the “Clinch Factor” this is the medical term for when one’s butt cheeks hug each other for dear life….definitely applicable here.

Ps some definitions from past readings:
DFAC-Dining Facility (term VERY loosely applied)
WTF-What the F*ck (says it all….doesn’t it?)
Barracks-basically a big military dorm house only much less sanitary and not as much fun
S3-the pit of eternal stench (see movie starring David Bowie: Labrynth) also department where I work

Wednesday, September 15, 2004

Top Five Ways to Annoy your Hoochmate on deployment

This is for all of you out there who live with someone who aggravates the living crap out of you. These are some actual successful methods employed in the theatre of operations.

Turn the AC up to a nice nipple pointy sub zero degree temperature and put on 10 layers of clothing, or turn the heat on to an ass crack sweating temperature and sleep completely naked in full view.
Invite a “Special friend” over and whisper loudly “Don’t worry she doesn’t care”
Get one of those water machines that plays the sound of trickling water all night long. (Sure to make anyone with a weak bladder go nuts)
Set your alarm for 5am, and hit the snooze every five minutes until 630
Borrow a pair of electric hair clippers from a friend and right after lights out, turn it on low and let the faint buzzing sound bring her to her own conclusions.

Ok, so I got to work tonight and I thought I was gonna die I was so tired. I did come home to a sweaty little man screwing around with my air conditioner, but managed to fall asleep shortly after he and his odor had dissipated from my room. So there’s really no reason why I should have been so tired tonight, but the discreet drool on my desk session wasn’t cutting it. So then my 1030 showed up, this is my personal trainer a little man I like to call the Black Ninja. Now usually B.N. escorts me while I attempt to push my rapidly expanding chair ass (a phrase I must credit to my friend Spunky) around post in my attempt at PT. His main purpose has become to be my speed bump detection system. He runs ahead of me perches atop the bump in question and calls out “To reach your goal grasshopper you must rise above the obstacle”. Ok really he just calls out “speedbump” but our connections is spiritual, and me and my big fat behind have become enlightened pupils. I also bought weight lifting gloves, not to actually lift weights of course (because that would be entirely more effort than I wish to put forth), but as to preserve what remaining skin I have in case I munch it again or try to open 30,000 degree heated metal vehicle door. Ok focus blondie, I had a point. So anyway I was tired. So when B.N. showed up I was in no condition (too lazy) to exercise. So instead I gave into what I have been trying to avoid for over a month now, taking a nap. I went to dinner (to his trailer) and ate (drooled all over his pillow) for about an hour. I scurried to the DFAC and got food for the soldiers and made it back in an hour and a half. I always keep my dinners/workouts/Vietcong tunnel sleeping sessions down to an hour and a half. I don’t know why, there’s no regulation that says thou shalt dineth over a half and one hour, but I have found since becoming an officer you are baptized into this innate sense of what is acceptable and what is not, such as;

1. Sprawl out on the ground and sleep at the range after finishing firing your weapon: officer a-no-no. Walk around with your arms crossed wearing a constipated frown as you observe your surroundings: officer a-go-go.
2. Tell each commander at the Wednesday meeting “F*ck you, you and oh yes especially you!”: officer a-no-no. Telling each commander at the Wednesday meeting “Gentlemen, I’ll have to respectfully disagree with you”: Officer a-go-go.
3. Saying “No shit? What a little hooker!” to the latest barracks gossip your soldiers are dishing out too loud for you to ignore: officer a-no-no. “SPC Tellmemore, that’s hardly appropriate talk for the workplace”: officer a-go-go.

Of course some take to this baptism better than others. It’s not hard to be professional it just freaking sucks. Sometimes the only thing some people understand is that one special finger that says it all. Unfortunately many of the people I find I want to most use it on are those that can send me home as Ms. Blondie instead of LT Blondie. Ah well.

Sunday, September 12, 2004

The Sandwich Man

Ok you know how on those episodes of seinfield they have the soup Nazi? Well over here we have his good twin the guy I like to refer to as the sandwich man. He’s like the playboy of the culinary world. True he is slightly pudgy in a well-fed lawyer business-y type way, but he struts it like the Leonardo Dicaprio of the Pakistani world. As I mentioned they brought in outside workers to cook our food. Now if you’ve ever been to subway then you know they have the line of workers and the sandwich is passed from individual to individual as it is built until it arrives at the cash register. Well it’s the same at the sandwich bar…except when I visit. The sandwich man…let’s call him Bob, follows me down the entire table. At first the workers would stare at him kind of confused like before he would say something in “Bobeeze” and they would look at me then jump out of his way. My guess is it was something like “stand back boys this one’s mine”. Now there’s no need for that, they see me coming and suddenly there’s stock to be filled and other workers to converse with leaving me all alone helpless and vulnerable, in need of a sandwich that only Bob can provide. It’s kind of like when guys go out in packs lurking, find the right number of girls (or sometimes settle for less and the out man is left hanging) and they each kind of claim one. So now I’m finding the journey through the sandwich line takes a little bit longer each time. He pro-longs the experience by asking me after each vegetable if that is good, or do I want more? Am I sure? Really sure? The sandwich is to my satisfaction? It’s a perfectly complete sandwich? I smile and bat my eyes first and foremost because you never want piss off anyone who has unsupervised alone time with the contents of what you will be consuming. Next, who am I to pass up a good hookup? You don’t tell the bouncer at your favorite club that you don’t want to be ushered to the front of the line when your wearing 3-inch platforms and a teeny slip dress in the dead of winter. Finally when he cannot prolong it any longer he hands me the sandwich declaring “A beautiful sandwich for a beautiful lady”…and it is.

Saturday, September 11, 2004

S3

The last post was dedicated to my good friend also rotting out here in the desert LT J.M.
S3 is the section responsible for training and schools, planning for major exercises etc. S1 is personnel/administration, S2 is intelligence, S4 is supply and S6 is communications.

Linda Blair is alive and well

Once upon a time (hehe just kidding) no but really this is actually an incident that happened about a week ago, but since I only started by BLOG about 3 days ago, and I really really want to bitch about this….here goes. Alright there’s this co-worker, let’s just say I’m senior to this co-worker. Apparently there’s been a long-standing rivalry between the day and night shifts that I wasn’t given a debrief on when I first entered in upon the scene, and since we’ve already established that I just don’t give a shit, I rarely ventured out of my hole in another staff section to pay attention. I mean it’s not like I really expected to be put in this job, in fact I told my bosses boss (another LTC…I seem to have a way with them) that I would (and I quote) “Rather shave my head bald and drag my face across the pavement (hmmm which coincidentally I guess I did….see my running mishap in the previous blog entitled A New Perspective) than work in the S3.” What I really wanted to say was I’d rather slit my wrists than work in that shop but I was afraid all that would get me was some pimply faced little body guard to escort my suicidal ass everywhere, it’s a coin toss when they take this shit seriously and I’m way past the point of murphy’s law…I got my own laws. I apparently didn’t get my message across so off to the S3 I go. Ok so it seems day shift hates night shift and night shift hates day shift. Day shift thinks they do all the work and night shift thinks…well we just don’t give a shit. As for me, well they all get on my F-ing nerves. So I get almost nightly nasty grams on the latest mortal font discrepancy, floor to sweep or as of time on a document we failed to change. On one hand I want to tell the guys at night to quit whining and sweep the damn floor, I don’t care if day shift took a big fat crap on it. Pick up the turds and drive on. To day shift I often dream of stapling those mortal documents to their foreheads, but military courtesy allows me to but suffer in silence wishing on them nasty paper cuts and server crashes instead. Ok so its not that bad but they do have a way of getting on your last nerve…last week case and point. Apparently we on night shift have a variety of problems to include taking out the trash. What I’ve come to realize is the problem is we don’t take out THEIR trash. There are only 3 of us on night shift. Say we each consume 3 beverages and 2 plates of food each per night. That’s 9 soda cans and 9 plates in a 35-gallon garbage can. Yet somehow each morning the can is mysteriously full. Now because after 1 year in the desert we have all regressed to about 3rd grade I finally gave into my impulse (no, not the stapling one…sigh). I approached this co-worker to see about getting this issue resolved. Really I just wanted to get across the point of if your gonna criticize others you better make sure your shit is straight. Well if I had known that I was going to be the lucky recipient of the encore to Linda Blaire’s exorcist role I would have brought popcorn and a box of raisenette’s. He flipped. Linda ain’t got nothing on this man except maybe the head spin, but then again he did his own interpretation of a 7 year old girl when he got in my face and yelled “Piss, piss, piss, piss, piss, piss, piss!” This was in response to me telling him that despite his convenient interpretation of the English language Piss would have gotten me a paddling from my mother just the same as the “F” word so piss WAS profanity and if he didn’t like me using the “F” word then….and so on. I mean shit he might as well have stuck out his tongue and went “Nya Nya nah Boo Boo”. There was also a point at which he yelled out “The devil is a liar, you are a liar!” Ok WTF is that supposed to mean? Basically the result was I went home with a headache and the image of a 6 foot 200 pound 37 year old man screaming piss piss piss piss piss piss piss. These are the moments that make life worth living for.

Friday, September 10, 2004

Off tonight

They let me out of my cage tonight. Hoooray! See you tomorrow.

Thursday, September 09, 2004

The Laundry Workers

Ok (I know I use it all the time but it’s better than once upon a time) so the Laundry right? Sometimes it doesn’t seem so bad to be over here I mean yeah I have to trek 200 feet to the bathroom in the middle of the night to pee but hey I don’t have to clean the bathroom. They have these little women who come in and clean it for us and we actually have people in the DFAC who cook our food as well. I started to wonder how I would do once I got back to civilization and had to actually use a stove and clean my own toilet bowl. I mean granted the food does give you monthly bouts of explosive diarrhea but the bright side is you don’t have to cook it or clean the bathroom up after it, what luxury! So another service they offer over here is Laundry. I wouldn’t exactly call it offer since there are no washing machines that pretty much is your only option. So you drop your laundry off and 3-4 days later the Laundry God willing, you come and pick it up. I guess there is a problem with dirty laundry theft. Now for anyone who has ever gone through the initial soldier training the military gives this is not an unfamiliar concept. It seems there are those people who will steal anything. Sweaty bra’s, stinky socks and yes…you guessed it, crusty underwear. For those of you out there saying, “my underwear is never crusty” I raise the bullshit flag and say: you can’t hide those LYIN’ eyes! So since apparently the threat level of underwear theft, much like our country’s terror threat, is high they have implemented an inventory system. So to ensure that no one STEALS your sweat soaked dirty crusty underwear you must do a mutual inventory with the laundry workers. (Insert constipated look here). Ok lets not be shy about this, there’s a reason underwear is UNDER your clothes. No one wants to see what colorful additions to your underwear your butt cheeks painted the last time you ate the DFAC jalapeno cheese gut grenade and didn’t quite make it to the port o potty…well no one except the Laundry workers. They on the contrary want to see and inventory every article in your laundry bag. You have to dump it all out and put it back in as their beady little eyes watch your every move. There are several strategies I have developed to accomplish this task. First always include a towel among the 20 articles you’re allotted per bag. You can use the towel to hide each shameful item until the last possible moment where you whip it out, rattle off the number and slam dunk it into the bag. If you have a particularly embarrassing article every once in a while you can get away with the “Stare and Stuff”. This requires a little bit of theatrical talent. You notice something in the distance, perhaps out the window that piques your interest. You stop in mid count and stare in fascination. Since all people are nosy by nature this will usually prompt the Laundry Nazi to follow your gaze to see what is so interesting. You seize this moment to whip the article out scream out your number and have it stuffed in before they can say jackrabbit. You will probably receive a suspicious beady-eyed glare for your pains but it’s the price to pay for privacy. I think actually the workers are a little lonely and maybe have Alzheimer’s. I apparently have the same last name as their boss so when I come in they all chirp my last name hello and take the opportunity for the 300th time to remind me that their boss is also named such and such. They also call out the last four of my social security number (which is used to ID the laundry bags) proudly by memory. I don’t know whether to find this flattering or frightening. Too bad it’s only in prison that having the favor of the laundry nazi comes in handy.

Wednesday, September 08, 2004

Freed Willy

For Mr. Moore-on

When I was in jr high Free Willy came out. Of course as jr high boys will do, they made fun of the movie by taking a running start and dive down and slide across the floor arms back towards their feet in what I suppose was a graceful interpretation of Freeing Willy (the whale). Of course I also watched these same guys eat cockroaches on a dare, slurp up someone's lugie for 5$ so it was not all that sophisticated. So in closing when I freed willy on my run, I did my interpretation of skidding myself across a somewhat less giving surface-the concrete. Hope that helps.

How am I?

Ok, so I was in the DFAC and I’m almost finished with my dinner and I’m studying this man known as CPT R, who at first seems pretty good looking but the more you look the surer you become that he’s gay despite the wedding ring. Everything about his mannerisms scream gay, but it could also be that he let the door slam in my face as he walked out in front of me once. So anyway he’s sitting with a bunch of other officers most I know by face and they all finish their chow and walk importantly past me. I am at this point studying my bean with bacon soup like it’s advanced calculus when suddenly I hear a female voice say “Hey how you doing LT?” I look up and it’s a LTC L. Now “How you doing” is a standard question senior captains and above always throw out that I never understood. There’s nothing that says I don’t give a shit like asking someone how they are doing as you breeze past them. There’s hardly enough time to say “Fine” or “Good” let alone how you’re really doing. Wouldn’t some of them get an earful if they actually waited around for a response.

“Well Maam, I hate my job so uh, nothing new there, I think I may have a yeast infection but I’m hoping if I ignore it, it’ll go away. I haven’t had sex in over a year so generally I’m kind of pissed off and horny.”

I mean I know no one really wants to hear all that, myself included, but the least they could do is not insult you with an inquiry about your well-being they obviously don’t give a rats ass about. Maybe I’m just feeling a little kinder and gentler like since I’m PMSing. I have always tried to make it a point never to do a drive by on a soldier unless I was prepared to stop and listen to how they really are. I usually give them my standard “howdy” or a “hey” with my 300 watt life is peachy prom queen smile. If they only knew. So I gave her my “fine” and threw in a “thank you” for her slight pause and returned to my soup, wondering why this woman talked to me. I don’t remember her, don’t think I’ve ever talked to her, (quick glance to the patch on my shoulder) nope she couldn’t have seen my patch. Was she just doing a random meet and greet the troopies? Who knows, maybe some bullshit female comraderie awakened in her and she wanted to reach out and bond. I was a blond, she was a blond; I was an officer, she was an officer; what more can two people have in common? Ok so maybe I’m reaching, but really I had nothing else to do.

A New Perspective

To bring this up to date I am going to make a few posts today:

A New Perspective

Ok so now I’ve been banished to night shift. Ok in all actuality I was banished to S3 first then to night shift. I guess now I’m free to ride my broomstick under the full moon. One of the first things I noticed was on night shift they don’t have shit to do. How does this differ from day shift one might wonder? Well you don’t have a bunch of officers up your tushie asking you for something that didn’t matter before you gave it to them and will continue to be useless long after they’ve nagged the living daylights out of you until you’ve produced it. Translation: a lot less bullshit. You can actually get a lot more done at night. The phone hardly rings and when it does your slightly annoyed that someone is interrupting your Arabic soap operas with work. I had almost forgotten (from my long lost days as the BN Chemo) that the S3 shop is the switchboard for stupid question central. If there is something that has absolutely nothing to do with us, we get the call. Ummm the AC went out in my trailer can you give me the number to Mr. Obscure emergency worker guy? You mean you don’t know the hours at the DFAC? Oh I thought I was calling 303RD Armor, well you don’t happen to know MAJ obscure field grade’s number over at 303rd Armor? Is the S1 in? And the list goes on…. As an officer I try to set the example and not sleep. I have somewhat succeeded in this. By succeeded I haven’t laid out on a PT mat in my cubicle for a mid evening kindergarten nap, or opened the CSM’s office and sprawled out on his black leather sofa. Much to my shame however, I have put my head down a few times to rest my eyes (yeah right) and woke up in a pool of drool (hey that rhymes). I expect next someone will tell me my legs and arms twitch like their dogs when they are dreaming of chasing cars. I wouldn’t be surprised. My vow, no more sleeping. It’s not entirely my fault I have narcolepsy. Honestly! I have found that since moving to night shift I have developed a little sleep problem….meaning I don’t (great, the kindergarten sleeper has started to snore in the cubicle next to me…the irony) I get home and its suddenly as if I’m on no doze. I’m studying biology and I read somewhere that night shift workers often have this problem due to internal brain cues that respond to light and crap telling you its time to be awake. Why do these types of quirky little bodily functions always turn out to be worthless? I mean wouldn’t it be nice if those brain cues had kicked in when I had oh….signed my military contract? Maybe they could have screamed at me “Run Blondie Run!” nope, instead my brain was thinking…. “get a boyfriend-cha cha. Lose ten pounds-cha cha.” I was doing the college girl cha cha and my useless brain was bumping right along to the beat. Ok so there are some benefits to being on night shift. The all important already mentioned bullshit factor. In addition its only 200 degrees at night. The draw back is getting up in the middle of the night (really the day) and walking the 200 yards to the bathroom. I brace myself every time I open the door as all 500 degrees rushes at me and it usually take about 45 seconds for things to come into focus (carolyann come into the light I am having poltergeist flashbacks). By now my useless brain cues are telling me its time to get up and I know it will be another 2 hours and suffocating myself under a pillow before I will get them to shut up….I really need to put foil over my windows. So anyway can’t sleep during the day = can’t stay awake during the night. Oh well things could be worse….I guess. The crew I work with is pretty laid back. Naturally I am supposed to be the adult supervision but somehow I am not quite sure I accomplish that task because frankly, I just don’t give a shit. I mean as long as they are here, not smoking crack and are doing the checks and reports I don’t care if they lay out on a PT mat and sleep, surf the internet or close the doors to their offices and play the music suspiciously loud. Don’t ask don’t tell. They accomplish the tasks that are given to them so who am I to try and make it my personal mission to make them earn their paycheck? So many of the officers here try to do that but I know their dirty little secret. I see them scramble to minimize the solitaire games and maximize some obscure army related document when I round their desks. Oh yes….I know. They haven’t got shit to do either, which is probably why they have so much time for the aforementioned nagging. Ok so here’s a great story. I went running, the first time in a week since my insomnia started and of course I got shin splints from my poor legs trying to push forward my big fat chair ass. So naturally I started dragging ass (no pun intended). Well our little camp here decided to put in these super duper speed bumps along the road at various useless locations. I bopped along and had almost made it back to the battalion when one of those speedbumps broke from the surface of the road and bitch slapped me. Naturally my 13-uh…125 pound frame was no match for 5 inches of concrete and I freed willy. My hand miraculously was the only thing that was injured besides my pride (my companion to his credit didn’t give way to snorting and guffaws until after he made sure I was alright). Of course blood starting pouring down my hand and arm. It was nasty. We were still a quarter-mile from the battalion and the blood was freaking me out. I had a PT shirt on I could stop the blood up with that but then I’d have to do laundry (translation haul my big butt to the KBR facilities prior to its closing during day light hours….how do we like our lieutenants? Extra crispy?). As if the walking wasn’t bad enough the laundry workers are a whole other ordeal I’ll get into later. So I decided the better alternative was to bleed to death. I can’t say I’ll regret it either tomorrow when I only have to venture out of my hole once to use the bathroom tomorrow. So I sit here contemplating why the internet had to break only on my computer and the days events and refuse to feel sorry for myself on a day that like 150 children were killed at a school in Russia.

Journal Open 8 Sep 2004

With absolutely nothing else to do but pick my nose and wait for the madness to end, I do this for you my friends. Spunky this is especially for you without whom cosmo would not be having such a fantastic year....For anyone else who cares I am in the military serving in an undisclosed location in the middle east.

A literary snack for you:

She shifts uncomfortably in the vehicle as a tiny drop of sweat makes its way down a part of her body she didnt even know COULD sweat. It's only 10am and already scorching. It's not only the heat that tells the temperature, in fact judging by the quarter sized blisters on her ass from the porta potty seats she had the poor judgement to sit on, it was probably about 107...she shifts again...make that 108. As the vehicle comes to a stop she pulls off her kevlar and and glances in the mirror at her sweaty matted hair. Wow, 3 inches of roots, 1/2 inch for every month in this place, add living in a trailer to that and she's almost come full circle back to her white trash roots, who says there isn't a little bit o kentuckey in evry' place ya'll go? She wiggles out of the vehicle trying to discretely disengage the four inches of granny panties up her ass. Thongs are against policy in the theater of operations, proof that a man is in charge because a woman would understand it all ends up the same place so it's 6 inches of underwear up your ass vs. two....Thongs should be government issued she decides. She gets halfway to the building before remembering the chock block and drip pan for the vehicle. Cursing silently she makes her way back across the parking lot to and climbs into the back to grab the items and places them carefully under the vehicle. Now she is in full compliance. Tatically backed into her parking space for a quick getaway should the enemy come storming the gates, as well as having the environmentally and safety conscious materials underneath so she won't drip oil on or have the vehicle roll over any of the enemy storming the gate. She walks into the building for formation...er the morning huddle that is, refreshed and ready to brief her boss and the other staff. It will give her excellent practice for the next two meetings she will brief the same information at. After the morning huddle the TOC comes to life as the staff digs in for the long 30 minutes before the next 2 hour meeting. She dances around the building trying to get her bladder to overlook the liter of water she just downed, by now it's 115 outside making it HEAT CAT 1 zillion in the porta potties. She discovered even "hovering" (a tactical position requiring many lunges to acquire muscles for) you could receive second degree burns from the heat emitting from the small plastic seat alone. Forget trying to use the hand sanitizer outside after 8am, its heated up to the temperature of boiling lava, but if you must have that assurance that 99% of the bacteria has been obliterated go ahead and take a squirt, skin is really overrated anyhow. Lunch is always a gamble. You can take the air conditioned bus which takes a half hour to reach the chow hall, or you can feel the fresh oven breeze of the great outdoors and get there in 10 minutes...that is if you can get the new up armored doors of your vehicle (incidentally heavy thick metal heated to 30000 degrees)open I guess the question you have to ask yourself is....are you feeling lucky punk? After the boiling seats, lava sanitizer and three failed attempts to get the door open anyway before it melted off her skin she opts for the bus....(to be continued)

This is dedicated to all the great Americans in the middle east giving the skin off their ass in hopes of a better Iraq.

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