Nothing in Particular

Ok so I broke down and did it….I bought a “Whose your Baghdaddy” T-shirt. There was something delightfully white-trash about it and I was weak. I went into the PX and it was one of those days where you need to buy something no matter how useless or ridiculous it is, so this t-shirt won out at 7$. I think you have to be a woman to truly understand this need to purchase, overriding all reason. So later I went to latin night and it was all I thought it was going to be, sans the alcohol and Enrique Iglesias. However, dirty pervert dancing man(DPDM) was there. This is an old guy from Puerto Rico who never misses the opportunity to twirl me across the dance floor as he stares into my eyes and tells me conspiratorially that although there are many lovely girls present, I am still his favorite girl. This might have been flattering in some creepy woody allen sort of way if he hadn’t used the same line on my friend DS2 as well. DPDM is one of those men you kind of watch dance in sick fascination the same sort of way you watch hippo’s trying to mate on the discovery channel, you just can’t seem to look away. There’s something to be said about a man who dances that boldly; but since he hits on women with such vigor, it kinda blew that theory out of the water…He’s offered to help me with my Salsa, and I’m thinking to myself he probably wants to help me shake more than my shimmy. He accidentally elbowed me on the dance floor at one point and I chuckled as the thought crossed my mind as to whether that could be termed child abuse. Ok so he’s not that old, but I was probably still in diapers when he graduated from high school so…On the whole old thing, there’s another thing about the military that has been bothering me for quite some time. It’s the whole military medical structure. I find it slightly disturbing that my initial screening at the TMC is invariably some happy little male specialist (E4, enlisted). I mean, it almost borders on sadistic to have to sit across from some male nurse you don’t know, outrank and discuss with him the date of your last period and how long you have had scary unknown itchy rash symptoms. When I was a wee Lieutenant just freshly commissioned, I spent the summer in the woods running the tactical operations center for the summer camp for soon to be wee Lieutenants. At some point along the way I managed to get a patch of poison ivy on the back of my thigh/behind that was inching its way alarmingly towards my nether regions. Naturally this was a concern for me (insert random image of aunts crazy poodle dragging its butt along the carpet floor, tongue hanging out) so I went to see the medic on site which was of course another happy little male specialist. Not convinced that my case warranted a trip to the hospital in the rear he fidgeted like a little girl unsure of how to verify the seriousness of the situation. With fear of sometime soon giving in to my inner poodle, I chose the shock and awe tactic. I dropped my pants and bent over so he could connect the dots. So the problem out here is that on multiple occasions I found myself running into these TMC specialists in the chow hall, the laundry facility etc. Nothing says Hallmark moment like sharing a dinner table with the guy who wrote the prescription to clear up your (insert unsexy disgusting problem here). I mean people who treat your embarrassing afflictions are supposed to be old geezers well out of the “do-able” age bracket, preferably with 20/40 eyesight and some well placed cataracts, not ricky martin and the rest of menudo pre-puberty.