On my Twitter feed, someone posted this link to active.com (a website I've never heard of, but it's ablaze in giant side banner ads for Powerade... the official sports drink of Coca-Cola) about ways to run smarter. I was intrigued by the link, so I clicked and what I found was just vague (see also: terrible) advice for runners.
My guess is that anyone who travels over to active.com isn't the most active person on the planet. They're likely people trying to get or stay active. So I was a little pissed that this site would put out such out-of-touch running advice for people who don't know better. That said, I'm going to do YOU (yes you) a service and list of my Nine Smarter Ways to Run Smarter.
No bullshit.
Road Running:
1. The site's first rule is for runners to "hit the sidewalk." This is a good and bad idea, depending on your geography. If you live in say, New York City or along a highway, then yes, running on the sidewalk is probably your best if only option. But then again, this is also a problem because sidewalks in major cities tend to be cluttered with everything from overflowing trash bins, hot dog vendors, and PEOPLE, homeless or otherwise. Sidewalks are used for exactly that, walking along the side of a road. So unless you're an artful dodger and have super sturdy ACLs, stay clear of the pedestrian walk way. If you live in a city, find a park that's nearby and walk to it as a warm up. If you live along a highway, maybe take up trail running or drive to a local high school track. Running on sidewalks is just as dangerous as running in the road.
2. That said, if you live in a suburban or less built up area, running on the road is perfectly fine. Just stick to the sides, usually well within the painted breakdown area. And run against traffic so that you can see on-coming cars and be able to make the necessary actions to avoid becoming an oversized dead squirrel in day-glo yellow.
3. Avoid running during peak traffic hours. Less cars is good. Usually between 8am and 11am is the best time, as most people who work are at their place of employment by then, and it's before the noon lunch break. In the afternoons, usually between 2pm and 4pm are ideal. If you like to run at night (you're braver than I), anytime after 6 or 7 will probably be ok. Just understand that it's night, and not a lot of people will be watching for a runner on the sides of the road.
Track Running:
4. If you're running on a local high school or college track, just be aware of the rules and times posted. The article mentions how some tracks have alternating directions of travel based on the day (this is to minimize track wear and tear) so just adhere. If there's a practice going on for the home athletes, come back later. As a former high school track kid, I disliked the group of old ladies who just showed up at 3pm twice a week to walk around the outside edges of the track. Just don't do it.
5. Don't run on the inside lanes. They take the most abuse on any day and are a bitch to fix. The track is measured by the inside lanes, so think of it like this: If you run the middle to outside lanes, you're adding a little extra distance to your work outs, which has two benefits: one, you can either quit earlier, being that you made your predetermined distance, or you can get maybe an extra mile or two in the same amount of laps you'd normally run.
Trail Running:
6. I don't have much experience with running trails, but I seem to know more than the active.com article. In the article, they suggest following the established direction of the path marked at the trail head. Don't bother, because half of the people you encounter running on the path will be coming from the opposite way, making this bit of advice as moot. Just don't do anything crazy, like run off of the trail and damage the nearby vegetation. It's boorish and makes you look like a dick.
7. The article also suggests waiting 30 seconds to pass someone if the trail is too narrow. Are you really going to count half a minute in your head before you politely ask to pass? Ok, and while you're at it, what's it like to get spit on everyday? The reality is, if the trail is too narrow, just wait for it to open up to make your move. It's trail running, you're supposed to be enjoying the outdoors. If you're in a rush, stick to short road running loops in your neighborhood.
8. If you're in a head-on situation with another runner, and the path is too narrow for both of you, just come to a walk and let the other person squeeze by. They'll probably do the same. Remember, the idea of trail running isn't to go out and run six miles as fast as you can, it's to enjoy the trail and the surrounding area. If you come to a walk a few times to let people go, so what?
9. Last but not least, if you run with a dog the article suggests keeping him or her close by on a tight leash. This sounds like a terrible time. If you think the trails are going to be packed (weekends, summer time, etc) just leave Fido at home. Mid-day, mid-week trail running will see less people, and allow for letting puppy-wups off the leash, which is more enjoyable for everyone, as long as your dog is trained in running and not a total spaz like ours is.
So these are my "smarter" tips for running, but this is really just the tip of the iceberg. If you want more in-depth training tips, consult an expert you may know personally, or buy a book. Websites are hit-or-miss.
And I'm always available to answer your running-related questions.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
MEPS
So finally, after all this waiting, some progress.
I woke up this morning in what I remember was once a rather nice Double Tree hotel in Portland (it's now called something else... a "Clarion" which I believe might be a word from the Latin root "Clarito" which roughly translates into "low thread count sheets.") sharing a room with an 18 year old behemoth prone to tantrums.
MEPS, or the Military Entrance Processing Station, is to the military as is the TSA is to your upcoming holiday travel plans: before you can get to where you want to go, someone needs to grope you.
But in all seriousness, it's just another hoop one has to jump through. If you're not familiar with how the military (as a whole) processes its people, the day at MEPS works like this:
The night before you get put up in a hotel near the processing station (usually an office in a downtown area... mine is over a CVS on Congress St in Portland, ME) as so you're ready to go early in the morning for this whole shin-dig to start. At the hotel there's not a whole lot to do other than sit around and watch tv and talk on your cell phone. Knowing this, I brought with me the current issue of "Runner's World" magazine, my iPad and comfy warm up pants. Leaching off of the hotel's free wifi, I was able to watch a few episodes of whatever I happened to have saved to my Netflix queue via my iPad.
Sometimes you split the room with another ... MEP-ee? I guess? I was fortunate enough that the first two times I went to MEPS, I had a room to myself. I found this phenomenal considering the bulk of people I would find going thru MEPS the next day. This time around, I wasn't so lucky.
After arriving around 630, I had the room to myself. I kicked back, changed into comfy clothes, tore apart the bed and took a shit with the bathroom door open, like a man does when he's staying in a hotel room alone for a night. I told myself not to get my hopes up on having the room to myself, and I gave myself until 8pm as a deadline to be prepared for anything or anyone showing up.
At 8 on the dot, I hear my door click open. Damnit.
In walks this hulk of a boy, throwing his shit down on his bed, bitching to me (at least I think it was to me) about how long it took to take his ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery... a fancy bunch of words that equate to "what jobs you're qualified for in the military" test). He then realizes he's not alone, as I'm looking up at him from over the top of my iPad.
"Oh hey, I'm ____" he says. I don't remember his name. It was rather pedestrian, I recall. "Tim" or something.
I stand up off the bed and shake his hand. "Jack," I say. He had a good grip and looked me square in the eye. Not many 18 year olds do that anymore. Also, get off my lawn.
He leaves shortly there after to find food, after missing the complimentary chow downstairs (if I recall, you get the choice between a burger and fries or a plate of pasta and bread... I opted to stop at a Wendy's for a less-than-satisfying grilled chicken sandwich and baked potato). I go back to watching tv shows and the Bruins game on NESN at the same time. A few hours later, we call it a night.
The next morning's wake up was at 445, but I missed it because I was in the shower, because I was up at 430. I didn't sleep much, because Tim snores and the sheets I was laying on were akin to burlap. I put on a fresh shave, brushed my fangs and we rolled out together to get some hot breakfast that's provided to the guys going into MEPS that morning.
The spread's not bad. Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, fruit salad, cottage cheese, coffee, tea, juices, water ... and it's good. It's not soggy, like some "hot breakfast buffets" you'll encounter in the world. What the best part was, I got to actually ENJOY breakfast this morning. The last time I went thru MEPS, I was incredibly close to being "overweight" at 196 lbs. I didn't dare eat anything, as I had been on a "water diet" the weekend before heading in that time around. This time, I weighed in at a trim 167lbs, on a full stomach (21 lbs under my Max Allowable).
Yeah, I had two plate-loads of food.
From there, we pile onto a cold-as-hell school bus and head downtown five minutes away to the MEPS office. This morning there was only five of us MEP-ing, which was shocking by itself. I ate breakfast with my roommate, and two other 18 year olds, fresh out of high school, going into the Marines. One of which maybe weighed 120 lbs with a full kit.
"Do you guys know what you want to do in the Marines?" I ask over breakfast. The first of the two (not the flyweight) answers with that confidence one only can appreciate from someone who's just gotten out of high school.
"I just want to be a trigger-puller," he says. I nod, then glance at his friend.
"And you?"
He nods, a little bashful, mouth stuffed with pancake and homefries at the same time - he's probably still enjoying his childhood metabolism - "me too," he muffles.
I'm then subjected to a round table of questions on what they can expect from MEPS, as it's discovered that this isn't my first time thru. I tell them what I know, and what to expect. I say that because there's so few of us, we're probably going to shoot right thru.
"I was told to expect to be there all day," one says.
"You can expect that, since we're dealing mostly with civilian contractors," I explain. "But it should be pretty painless and quick. When I went thru, there were at least 30 guys just in my group alone...."
So back to the bus.... it's freezing out... according to the clock on the bank we pass by it's 9 degrees out. Right before we got on the bus, I passed the fifth member of our group who instead of breakfast opted for the last-ditch cigarette. He's dumpy, oddly shaped. I go to pass judgment, but then remind myself that, aside from the cig, that's probably a lot like what I looked like on my first go.
I bite my tongue.
When we arrive, there's a young man in street clothes holding the door for us into the building, thanking us for our service. It's unclear if he's actually affiliated with MEPS or if he's just a local and especially patriotic drug dealer. We walk down a hallway and I come face to face with something I wasn't expecting at all:
There's a huge crowd of uniformed service members staring back at we five. Granted, there's usually a recruiter or two hanging out to make sure their recruit makes it to MEPS that morning, but not two dozen.
I dusted off my Parade Rest and came to a halt in front of the contractor with his hands full of paperwork.
We're given instructions at this point about how to conduct ourselves while in the MEPS center (no chewing gum, no loud swearing, no putting feet on furniture, no diddling cell phones - I would get caught doing this, leading to an awkward confrontation between me and a civilian, more on that later), our bags are searched for weps and contraband. We're ... rather.... they're given nametags with serial numbers and branches of service printed on them, and we're led up a few flights of stairs, with this mob of service members behind us.
We're given a brief tour and sent to our respective branch of service offices to pick up paperwork. Because I'm prior service and essentially "walking on" to this processing, I get my name tag here. I'll be referred to as the 'walk on' for the rest of the morning.
By now it's about 630 and we've reconvened for a briefing in a little classroom. Death By Powerpoint ensues, which is just one big scary campfire tale about the dangers of FRAUDULENT ENLISTMENT. Essentially, if you lie on your paperwork (for instance, mark down "I've never done drugs" and pop pos for pot or whatever....) you can get nailed for fraudulent enlistment and possibly go to prison for two years, plus other zany things, like docked pay, etc. All this is presented to us by a rather handsome Army captain.
We then fill out oodles of paperwork, all set to a tedius "please follow along" pace. I mark down everything I'm supposed to and we're all whisked away to various parts of the medical lab, for vision, hearing, urinalysis and blood tests. Once that's done, we have a little sit down with a doctor who just talks to you about every day shit. It's a thinly veiled psych exam. As long as you don't come across as... I dunno, exceedingly nervous, crazy... you're sent on your way.
Now comes the part everyone's heard of and only half believe. All the men are brought into a little room in the back and told to get "buck naked."
Just kidding, we keep our skivs on.
We're weighed and measured and then asked to do a series of silly movements to test our range of motion and to check for any abnormalities, particularly in our feet and spine. If I was worried about any stage of this whole circus, it was this. My left knee has been bothering me as of late (likely from the marathon), and I was worried that I'd be forced to move it in a way to give away that fact. Nothing like that happened, and all went well.
Next, the same doctor we sat with earlier takes us out back to a room separately. Here's the physical aspect of MEPS. Tattoos and scars are documented, groins are grabbed and squeezed, abs are pushed on and buttholes are looked at.
... If you at all believe in the whole Buddhist teaching of Karma... how terrible/great was your last life, where you spend mostly all of this one looking up young men's asses? .... depending on who you are, you know?
I place that part of the exam with just a little more indignity than being forced to take off my belt and shoes before shuffling thru a metal detector at the airport.
Afterwards you dress, sign a few documents and you're on your way. We wrapped by 830... the doctor looking up my butt said that this was a new record.
Oh, all those service members I was talking about earlier? They're all training to be recruiters. I should've mentioned that. That's why they were all standing around and watching us. That was a bit unsettling.
Also, what else is new is that MEPS is using biometrics to track everything now. Not just fingerprints either... retinal scans, facial recognition software, the whole bit. Every station I went to I had to stand in front of a camera and put my index finger on a little pad. At one point, I had to do it just to cross the hall from one exam room to another.
"This is bluddy ridiculous," I wanted to tell the kindly, motherly contractor on the opposite side of the camera, checking to make sure I was 100% meat popsicle. But I held back, after being scolded by a fat prick about being on my cell phone.
....they were very unclear about that... the cell phone thing. One person told us we could use them where ever we wanted, as long as we weren't talking on them (there was a designated area to talk on phones, which was called "outside" apparently) and other instructions received said we could only use cell phones in the designated area (see last side note). So when I was confronted about updating my Twitter feed... I thought the contractor was asking for my phone... as if to confiscate it... which I wasn't about to let him do.... but he kept motioning for something I was holding, but wasn't saying words... so... I kept reluctantly trying to give him my phone.... but he wouldn't take it... eventually he got the words "medical record" out of his fat face, and I understood that he wanted to hold my medrec while I went back to my bag to put my phone away. Gotcha.
So from here, according to my recruiter Sgt. Steve, I should be "good to go" for the next board, which they're projecting to be in January.
More details to follow, I'm sure. When, I don't know.
I woke up this morning in what I remember was once a rather nice Double Tree hotel in Portland (it's now called something else... a "Clarion" which I believe might be a word from the Latin root "Clarito" which roughly translates into "low thread count sheets.") sharing a room with an 18 year old behemoth prone to tantrums.
MEPS, or the Military Entrance Processing Station, is to the military as is the TSA is to your upcoming holiday travel plans: before you can get to where you want to go, someone needs to grope you.
But in all seriousness, it's just another hoop one has to jump through. If you're not familiar with how the military (as a whole) processes its people, the day at MEPS works like this:
The night before you get put up in a hotel near the processing station (usually an office in a downtown area... mine is over a CVS on Congress St in Portland, ME) as so you're ready to go early in the morning for this whole shin-dig to start. At the hotel there's not a whole lot to do other than sit around and watch tv and talk on your cell phone. Knowing this, I brought with me the current issue of "Runner's World" magazine, my iPad and comfy warm up pants. Leaching off of the hotel's free wifi, I was able to watch a few episodes of whatever I happened to have saved to my Netflix queue via my iPad.
Sometimes you split the room with another ... MEP-ee? I guess? I was fortunate enough that the first two times I went to MEPS, I had a room to myself. I found this phenomenal considering the bulk of people I would find going thru MEPS the next day. This time around, I wasn't so lucky.
After arriving around 630, I had the room to myself. I kicked back, changed into comfy clothes, tore apart the bed and took a shit with the bathroom door open, like a man does when he's staying in a hotel room alone for a night. I told myself not to get my hopes up on having the room to myself, and I gave myself until 8pm as a deadline to be prepared for anything or anyone showing up.
At 8 on the dot, I hear my door click open. Damnit.
In walks this hulk of a boy, throwing his shit down on his bed, bitching to me (at least I think it was to me) about how long it took to take his ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery... a fancy bunch of words that equate to "what jobs you're qualified for in the military" test). He then realizes he's not alone, as I'm looking up at him from over the top of my iPad.
"Oh hey, I'm ____" he says. I don't remember his name. It was rather pedestrian, I recall. "Tim" or something.
I stand up off the bed and shake his hand. "Jack," I say. He had a good grip and looked me square in the eye. Not many 18 year olds do that anymore. Also, get off my lawn.
He leaves shortly there after to find food, after missing the complimentary chow downstairs (if I recall, you get the choice between a burger and fries or a plate of pasta and bread... I opted to stop at a Wendy's for a less-than-satisfying grilled chicken sandwich and baked potato). I go back to watching tv shows and the Bruins game on NESN at the same time. A few hours later, we call it a night.
The next morning's wake up was at 445, but I missed it because I was in the shower, because I was up at 430. I didn't sleep much, because Tim snores and the sheets I was laying on were akin to burlap. I put on a fresh shave, brushed my fangs and we rolled out together to get some hot breakfast that's provided to the guys going into MEPS that morning.
The spread's not bad. Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, fruit salad, cottage cheese, coffee, tea, juices, water ... and it's good. It's not soggy, like some "hot breakfast buffets" you'll encounter in the world. What the best part was, I got to actually ENJOY breakfast this morning. The last time I went thru MEPS, I was incredibly close to being "overweight" at 196 lbs. I didn't dare eat anything, as I had been on a "water diet" the weekend before heading in that time around. This time, I weighed in at a trim 167lbs, on a full stomach (21 lbs under my Max Allowable).
Yeah, I had two plate-loads of food.
From there, we pile onto a cold-as-hell school bus and head downtown five minutes away to the MEPS office. This morning there was only five of us MEP-ing, which was shocking by itself. I ate breakfast with my roommate, and two other 18 year olds, fresh out of high school, going into the Marines. One of which maybe weighed 120 lbs with a full kit.
"Do you guys know what you want to do in the Marines?" I ask over breakfast. The first of the two (not the flyweight) answers with that confidence one only can appreciate from someone who's just gotten out of high school.
"I just want to be a trigger-puller," he says. I nod, then glance at his friend.
"And you?"
He nods, a little bashful, mouth stuffed with pancake and homefries at the same time - he's probably still enjoying his childhood metabolism - "me too," he muffles.
I'm then subjected to a round table of questions on what they can expect from MEPS, as it's discovered that this isn't my first time thru. I tell them what I know, and what to expect. I say that because there's so few of us, we're probably going to shoot right thru.
"I was told to expect to be there all day," one says.
"You can expect that, since we're dealing mostly with civilian contractors," I explain. "But it should be pretty painless and quick. When I went thru, there were at least 30 guys just in my group alone...."
So back to the bus.... it's freezing out... according to the clock on the bank we pass by it's 9 degrees out. Right before we got on the bus, I passed the fifth member of our group who instead of breakfast opted for the last-ditch cigarette. He's dumpy, oddly shaped. I go to pass judgment, but then remind myself that, aside from the cig, that's probably a lot like what I looked like on my first go.
I bite my tongue.
When we arrive, there's a young man in street clothes holding the door for us into the building, thanking us for our service. It's unclear if he's actually affiliated with MEPS or if he's just a local and especially patriotic drug dealer. We walk down a hallway and I come face to face with something I wasn't expecting at all:
There's a huge crowd of uniformed service members staring back at we five. Granted, there's usually a recruiter or two hanging out to make sure their recruit makes it to MEPS that morning, but not two dozen.
I dusted off my Parade Rest and came to a halt in front of the contractor with his hands full of paperwork.
We're given instructions at this point about how to conduct ourselves while in the MEPS center (no chewing gum, no loud swearing, no putting feet on furniture, no diddling cell phones - I would get caught doing this, leading to an awkward confrontation between me and a civilian, more on that later), our bags are searched for weps and contraband. We're ... rather.... they're given nametags with serial numbers and branches of service printed on them, and we're led up a few flights of stairs, with this mob of service members behind us.
We're given a brief tour and sent to our respective branch of service offices to pick up paperwork. Because I'm prior service and essentially "walking on" to this processing, I get my name tag here. I'll be referred to as the 'walk on' for the rest of the morning.
By now it's about 630 and we've reconvened for a briefing in a little classroom. Death By Powerpoint ensues, which is just one big scary campfire tale about the dangers of FRAUDULENT ENLISTMENT. Essentially, if you lie on your paperwork (for instance, mark down "I've never done drugs" and pop pos for pot or whatever....) you can get nailed for fraudulent enlistment and possibly go to prison for two years, plus other zany things, like docked pay, etc. All this is presented to us by a rather handsome Army captain.
We then fill out oodles of paperwork, all set to a tedius "please follow along" pace. I mark down everything I'm supposed to and we're all whisked away to various parts of the medical lab, for vision, hearing, urinalysis and blood tests. Once that's done, we have a little sit down with a doctor who just talks to you about every day shit. It's a thinly veiled psych exam. As long as you don't come across as... I dunno, exceedingly nervous, crazy... you're sent on your way.
Now comes the part everyone's heard of and only half believe. All the men are brought into a little room in the back and told to get "buck naked."
Just kidding, we keep our skivs on.
We're weighed and measured and then asked to do a series of silly movements to test our range of motion and to check for any abnormalities, particularly in our feet and spine. If I was worried about any stage of this whole circus, it was this. My left knee has been bothering me as of late (likely from the marathon), and I was worried that I'd be forced to move it in a way to give away that fact. Nothing like that happened, and all went well.
Next, the same doctor we sat with earlier takes us out back to a room separately. Here's the physical aspect of MEPS. Tattoos and scars are documented, groins are grabbed and squeezed, abs are pushed on and buttholes are looked at.
... If you at all believe in the whole Buddhist teaching of Karma... how terrible/great was your last life, where you spend mostly all of this one looking up young men's asses? .... depending on who you are, you know?
I place that part of the exam with just a little more indignity than being forced to take off my belt and shoes before shuffling thru a metal detector at the airport.
Afterwards you dress, sign a few documents and you're on your way. We wrapped by 830... the doctor looking up my butt said that this was a new record.
Oh, all those service members I was talking about earlier? They're all training to be recruiters. I should've mentioned that. That's why they were all standing around and watching us. That was a bit unsettling.
Also, what else is new is that MEPS is using biometrics to track everything now. Not just fingerprints either... retinal scans, facial recognition software, the whole bit. Every station I went to I had to stand in front of a camera and put my index finger on a little pad. At one point, I had to do it just to cross the hall from one exam room to another.
"This is bluddy ridiculous," I wanted to tell the kindly, motherly contractor on the opposite side of the camera, checking to make sure I was 100% meat popsicle. But I held back, after being scolded by a fat prick about being on my cell phone.
....they were very unclear about that... the cell phone thing. One person told us we could use them where ever we wanted, as long as we weren't talking on them (there was a designated area to talk on phones, which was called "outside" apparently) and other instructions received said we could only use cell phones in the designated area (see last side note). So when I was confronted about updating my Twitter feed... I thought the contractor was asking for my phone... as if to confiscate it... which I wasn't about to let him do.... but he kept motioning for something I was holding, but wasn't saying words... so... I kept reluctantly trying to give him my phone.... but he wouldn't take it... eventually he got the words "medical record" out of his fat face, and I understood that he wanted to hold my medrec while I went back to my bag to put my phone away. Gotcha.
So from here, according to my recruiter Sgt. Steve, I should be "good to go" for the next board, which they're projecting to be in January.
More details to follow, I'm sure. When, I don't know.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Some Simple Rules for the Gym
I'm sorry that I (we) haven't posted in a while. There simply hasn't been anything to write about. I'm still in a holding pattern. The last contact I had with my recruiter, Sgt. Steve, was Monday, when he told me that MEPS was finally (almost) done with my package and I should be expecting to get word for a Phys. soon, possibly by the end of the week. Since, I haven't heard anything. And as a long holiday break comes down the line here, I'm sure things are going to slow up tenfold.
But in lieu of that, I'm writing this as I'm just coming back from the local gym. So this post will be about the gym.
I hate our gym, let me start with that. It's not a gym in the conventional sense, it's more like a community center. It's part retirement home, day care, sports rehab center, and high school kid hang out. There's probably only a handful of people that take their time at this gym seriously, aside from my wife and I.
The following is from a paper I recently wrote for a class I'm taking in Ancient World History, about the Greek Aesthetic:
Real talk.
So the following is a list of complaints I have with my gym. Yes, this is bitching. Yes, this is filler. But you know what? You're already here, so fucking read it.
-First, the following will be prohibited from the locker room: discussions of religion, politics, or economics, especially if those partaking in the conversation have no clue what they're talking about, only regurgitating what they heard on Fox News. Also prohibited: unattended children, eye contact amongst men, and loud cell phone conversations.
-If your high school uses the gym for some sort of athletic purpose (for instance, your swim team uses the pool) this is cool. Just please be respectful of the other patrons. It is a public gym after all. Please don't run around like a goddamn fool.
-If you're an elderly person and you're spending an hour slowly pedaling a stationary bike and someone else changes the tv channel on you, and it's not the tv set directly in front of you, and you complain, be prepared to get kicked in the stomach. It's a gym, not your living room.
-I'm not your grandson. My wife does not remind you of your wife when you were first married. Even if she does, I don't care. Don't tell me.
-Pee in the pool, I'll track you down, break into your house in the middle of the night, and pee on your pillow. While you're sleeping on it. Test me.
-And AS IF! I don't know you peed in the pool! "Suddenly" there's a warm cloud of murky water in my lane and you JUST came from there!? Please.
-If someone's wearing ear buds it means they're not open to conversation. Please adhere to this. Second to this, DO NOT attempt to get a stranger's attention by touching them in anyway. If I have my back to you, and I bend down to pick up my water bottle, and you're an old, overweight, effeminate bear of a man, DO NOT caress my back and then ask me questions about my workout gear.
-Don't stare at other patrons. It's rude and I'm not gay. Sorry.
-PLEASE wipe down the equipment after you're done using it. I don't care if you did ONE rep, just wipe it down. It takes two seconds. I see more people using the equipment, getting up and walking away. If everyone wipes down the equipment when they're done using it, I don't have to wipe everything down BEFORE I start using it, as well as after. Help me out here.
-Ask yourself this: If you're not going to take working out seriously, why are you in the gym in the first place? There are plenty of other hang outs around here: bars, clubs, other people's houses. You and your Affliction t-shirt wearing, meathead friends who lounge around on all the benches and equipment, hogging all the space while you have yelling matches amongst yourselves and whomever you're on the phone with, need to cut it the fuck out, and go someplace else. Or I will drop a 45lb plate weight on your faces. Collectively.
Thank you, that is all.
But in lieu of that, I'm writing this as I'm just coming back from the local gym. So this post will be about the gym.
I hate our gym, let me start with that. It's not a gym in the conventional sense, it's more like a community center. It's part retirement home, day care, sports rehab center, and high school kid hang out. There's probably only a handful of people that take their time at this gym seriously, aside from my wife and I.
The following is from a paper I recently wrote for a class I'm taking in Ancient World History, about the Greek Aesthetic:
The Greeks not only believed in perfect art and development of the mind, but of the body as well. From them, we get Gymnasium, or as we call it today, simply “the gym,” which is technically an open area where athletes and scholars would gather to train themselves, usually in the nude. This was called “gymnos,” and was designed not only as a tribute to the beauty of the human body, but as sign of respect to the gods.
The athletes in particular would train for a collection of competitive sports, held in the city-state Olympia, called “The Olympics.” ... Only the very best athletes were invited to attend and compete in events such as boxing, running races and tests of strength, hunting and warfare prowess. One such game involved a hundred meter sprint in full battle armor.
By today’s standards, we no longer hold on to this athletic ideal. We run races in air-weight shoes, flimsy track shorts and jerseys. We no longer throw a javelin made of wood and bronze, but a carbon-fiber stick. Our athletes suck down protein-infused energy drinks and rig themselves up with GPS-tracking heart rate monitors just to jog around the neighborhood. The people of 2010 are soft, in comparison.
They do not go to a gym to appease anyone but themselves, and maybe their (potential) mate. A gym today is a loud, cramped, disgusting series of rooms populated with blaring television sets, cushioned benches and sweating housewives. So unfit is today’s gymnasium, a Roman wouldn’t dare be caught vomiting in it.
The athletes in particular would train for a collection of competitive sports, held in the city-state Olympia, called “The Olympics.” ... Only the very best athletes were invited to attend and compete in events such as boxing, running races and tests of strength, hunting and warfare prowess. One such game involved a hundred meter sprint in full battle armor.
By today’s standards, we no longer hold on to this athletic ideal. We run races in air-weight shoes, flimsy track shorts and jerseys. We no longer throw a javelin made of wood and bronze, but a carbon-fiber stick. Our athletes suck down protein-infused energy drinks and rig themselves up with GPS-tracking heart rate monitors just to jog around the neighborhood. The people of 2010 are soft, in comparison.
They do not go to a gym to appease anyone but themselves, and maybe their (potential) mate. A gym today is a loud, cramped, disgusting series of rooms populated with blaring television sets, cushioned benches and sweating housewives. So unfit is today’s gymnasium, a Roman wouldn’t dare be caught vomiting in it.
Real talk.
So the following is a list of complaints I have with my gym. Yes, this is bitching. Yes, this is filler. But you know what? You're already here, so fucking read it.
-First, the following will be prohibited from the locker room: discussions of religion, politics, or economics, especially if those partaking in the conversation have no clue what they're talking about, only regurgitating what they heard on Fox News. Also prohibited: unattended children, eye contact amongst men, and loud cell phone conversations.
-If your high school uses the gym for some sort of athletic purpose (for instance, your swim team uses the pool) this is cool. Just please be respectful of the other patrons. It is a public gym after all. Please don't run around like a goddamn fool.
-If you're an elderly person and you're spending an hour slowly pedaling a stationary bike and someone else changes the tv channel on you, and it's not the tv set directly in front of you, and you complain, be prepared to get kicked in the stomach. It's a gym, not your living room.
-I'm not your grandson. My wife does not remind you of your wife when you were first married. Even if she does, I don't care. Don't tell me.
-Pee in the pool, I'll track you down, break into your house in the middle of the night, and pee on your pillow. While you're sleeping on it. Test me.
-And AS IF! I don't know you peed in the pool! "Suddenly" there's a warm cloud of murky water in my lane and you JUST came from there!? Please.
-If someone's wearing ear buds it means they're not open to conversation. Please adhere to this. Second to this, DO NOT attempt to get a stranger's attention by touching them in anyway. If I have my back to you, and I bend down to pick up my water bottle, and you're an old, overweight, effeminate bear of a man, DO NOT caress my back and then ask me questions about my workout gear.
-Don't stare at other patrons. It's rude and I'm not gay. Sorry.
-PLEASE wipe down the equipment after you're done using it. I don't care if you did ONE rep, just wipe it down. It takes two seconds. I see more people using the equipment, getting up and walking away. If everyone wipes down the equipment when they're done using it, I don't have to wipe everything down BEFORE I start using it, as well as after. Help me out here.
-Ask yourself this: If you're not going to take working out seriously, why are you in the gym in the first place? There are plenty of other hang outs around here: bars, clubs, other people's houses. You and your Affliction t-shirt wearing, meathead friends who lounge around on all the benches and equipment, hogging all the space while you have yelling matches amongst yourselves and whomever you're on the phone with, need to cut it the fuck out, and go someplace else. Or I will drop a 45lb plate weight on your faces. Collectively.
Thank you, that is all.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Holding Pattern
Just wanted to write, quickly, that we're still in a holding pattern. Spoke with my OCS recruiter yesterday (or the day before?) and he's resubmitting my packet (again) now that the six month hold has been lifted due to my PRK surgery back in May.
Because of the holiday this Thursday (also, Happy Birthday USMC!) we probably won't hear back from anyone til next week. This has become normal.
More details to follow, hopefully, soon.
Because of the holiday this Thursday (also, Happy Birthday USMC!) we probably won't hear back from anyone til next week. This has become normal.
More details to follow, hopefully, soon.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Thank you.
To the responding Coast Guard and EMS units. This man was a father to me growing up. He is missed more than words can say.
PROVINCETOWN – A man onboard a 31-foot boat between Provincetown and Hull died Thursday afternoon after an apparent heart attack.
PROVINCETOWN – A man onboard a 31-foot boat between Provincetown and Hull died Thursday afternoon after an apparent heart attack.
The vessel Dixie II called U.S. Coast Guard Sector Southeastern New England at about 3:30 p.m., said Coast Guard Petty Officer James Rhodes. The boat was about 14 miles off Point Allerton in Hull, he said.
A Coast Guard vessel launched from Provincetown and a helicopter training in the area also responded to the boat, Rhodes said.
The Coast Guard helicopter arrived on the scene at 3:41 p.m. and took the man to Air Station Cape Cod at the Massachusetts Military Reservation, Rhodes said. The helicopter arrived at the air station at 4:36 p.m., he said.
Due to weather the man was then transferred to a local rescue vehicle and taken to Falmouth Hospital where he was pronounced dead, Rhodes said.
The Coast Guard does not generally release the identity of medical patients that they transport, Rhodes said.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Race Day
As the last drops of blood were still running in rivets down the shafts of broken spears, a lone messenger took off down a dirt path towards Athens, Greece. The year is 486 BCE, and his lungs carry an important message.
Twenty-six-sum-odd miles later, the messenger, broken, torn, shattered from the run, falls at the Athenian gate, gasping for air. A soldier manning his post bends on his knee and cups the back of the messenger's head.
"What word does thou speak, messenger?" The guard asks. The messenger's eyes roll in his skull, he gulps air, his legs burn as if set to fire. He takes one last gulp and utters:
"Victory," and then dies.
This is a somewhat fictionalized account of the ending of the historic Battle of Marathon during the first Persian invasion of Hellenic Greece. The word of victory was carried by a lone, fleet-footed messenger from the battlefield back to the capitol. And the people rejoiced in the remembrance of this event, by stupidly running a similarly destructive course that killed a man, themselves.
I am now one of those many.
The inspiration to run the Cape Cod Marathon this past weekend came from the training slump I found myself in shortly after competing in the Hyannis Sprint Triathlon earlier in the summer. I had trained for about a year leading up to that particular tri, and during that year of training I was highly motivated (to the point where Jill would often complain that I was neglecting her).
But I was in a fitness fever. So imagine how depressing my workouts were AFTER the race? I had nothing to work towards now. I had competed successfully and earned a decent time and place in the race. Now I was going to the gym and just putzing around. It was boring.
So when I saw that the CCM was taking entrances, I batted the idea around in my head for about a month. I didn't know (at the time) what our schedules were going to be like, with my efforts to get into OCS. Would we still even be on Cape for the marathon (it was on Oct 31st)? With a seventy-dollar entry fee, I didn't want to waste the cash.
But soon, with set back after set back with this whole OCS process, I was confident I'd be able to run the race.
Serious training started about six weeks out from the race. I was doing Long Distance Runs (LDRs) on Mondays, and tapering my runs down to 50% of whatever the LDR for that week was. My first week, my LDR was about 8 miles of continuous running, which was taking me about an hour to complete. I'd take a day off and do more running on Wednesday and Thursday, Friday would be my SDR (S for "Short"). I'd rest all weekend, and get back at it on Monday, increasing my time and distances.
Two weeks out from the race, I decided to try for the full marathon distance of 26.2 miles. The course took me through three towns on Cape, and a little over 3 and a half hours of (somewhat continuous) running.
Meanwhile, my feet and legs were paying the price for my ambitions.
I've lost three toe nails, was forced to "bleed" both my big toenails just to save them, plus my left knee is sore from the road impact. I also went through two pairs of running shoes, a pair of Nike racing flats that lasted about 100 miles, and a pair of Brooks Ravannas that I had to give up on because one foot is slightly longer than the other, and was paying a pretty hefty price for the workouts.
There would be days I wouldn't be able to sit down and get up, because my hamstrings would be shot.
While all of this was going on, I was still in the gym three to four days a week, with hour long weight training sessions.
Race day finally arrived, coincidentally on my birthday. At 29 years old, I was running my first marathon. Even I thought this was crazy.
A friend of ours came up from New Orleans. She's big into the Ironman Triathlon series and plans on doing her first "Half Ironman" next summer. Her and Jill took to the sidelines while I stuffed GU gels and little packets of lube into the tiny pockets on my running jersey.
With bib number attached, sunglasses firmly on face, I waded into the teeming crowd of runners on Main St in Falmouth, right by the village's green. All around me people were popping up and down, warming up their legs, checking their digital watches to time themselves, jabbering in that nervous energetic way we all do when our adrenaline starts to spike out.
I was relatively calm in this sea of athletes, and just stood, shifting my weight from foot to foot, shaking out my arms. Also, since it was Halloween as well, plenty of people decided to get into the spirit of the holiday and dress up. Around me was the occasional ghoul, or devil, or slutty bumblebee.
The race coordinator started the countdown a minute out. A member of the local clergy said a prayer, and at exactly 830 on the nearby digital bank clock, a loud canon blasted off, and the race was officially underway.
Unlike most of the track events I've competed in from high school, there was no mad trample of people, or even a sprint out of the gate. This giant wave of human flesh kind of just shuffled forward out of the gate. As things spread out a little, our pace increased, and soon before long I was running down Main Street to the cheers of well wishers and onlookers.
The first half of the race was a cake walk; all level and flat, paved, a few downhills but nothing serious. But almost instantly I found the people who bit off more than they could chew. Relay runners (the marathon hosts a relay that's run concurrent to the race itself) were dropping left and right, the victims of charging out of the gate at too fast a pace.
When I got to the first pace marker, a digital clock on a tripod on the side of the road, at mile 1, I saw I was running at 7:31 mile pace. I knew if I was going to finish, I would have to pump my brakes a little.
By mile 5, I saw a woman ahead of me peel off down an alley way. As I approached and ran by, she was squatting, mere feet from the road, peeing against a wall.
Have some class, please.
The race course is notorious for it's hilly second half. I knew this going into it, but didn't fully understand what running essentially 15 miles of hills would be like. The first hills hit around the 1o.5 mile mark, and I took water from a water station attendant and started my charge. I figured the bigger hills would be spread out, maybe one a mile. I was wrong.
Literally, the entire 15 or so miles that would take me to the end of the race, was 99% hill. Big, winding hills, where you couldn't see the crest from the bottom. You'd be pushing up the incline, cornering expecting to see the top where it would level out, and you'd be greeted with another sharp incline. A few "goddamnits" were uttered by myself and other runners nearby me.
For about four miles, towards the end as we came around the crest at Nobska Lighthouse, I ran alongside a 54 year old man. He was hurting but determined. As we ran I asked him how many marathons he's ever run. He said this was his first.
Holy shit.
At mile 22, I left him behind and picked up my pace. The course was starting to level out, and according to my watch, I was at the 3 hour mark. If I wanted to beat my previous time when I ran the 26.2 "just for kicks" I had to pick it up.
I buckled down, pushed; with no iPod to listen to, I had only my raggedly breath and footfalls to keep me company. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, I kept telling myself.
Relay teams were running past me at considerable clips, yelling encouragement as they did so. I was resentful of their fresh legs and attitudes. Where were they at mile 14 when I was running over camel humps that led to a 110ft incline over a half mile?
I hit the 26 mile mark and felt a wave of euphoria. Adrenaline re-surged into my brain as the sounds of the crowd waiting at the finish line became louder. Cowbells were ringing in excitement, people cheering, red faced from the cold. All I could see was gaping black mouths.
As I rounded the last corner to get to the finish (where the race actually started, the course is a giant loop) I remember thinking: don't be a damn hero, just finish. I was thinking of pushing it hard to the end, sprinting it out. But I didn't want to collapse and be hauled off in the back of the ambulance with a stupid plastic mask over my mouth and nose.
I crossed the line at 3 hours, 28 minutes and 54 seconds, with a pace of 7:59 per mile. Those are unofficial times, however.
Overall, I placed 117th out of over 1200 competitors, finishing 62nd in my age division, which held over 250 other runners. I was also the third Cape Codder to cross the line, the first coming in about half an hour before me.
Will I do another one? Yes. I take an unbelievable sense of pride in being one of the many, but at the same time, one of the few, who has competed in a marathon. And according to rumor, my pace time is good enough for the Boston Marathon in April. So depending on where we are by then, I'd like to run that one as well.
If Jill lets me.
Twenty-six-sum-odd miles later, the messenger, broken, torn, shattered from the run, falls at the Athenian gate, gasping for air. A soldier manning his post bends on his knee and cups the back of the messenger's head.
"What word does thou speak, messenger?" The guard asks. The messenger's eyes roll in his skull, he gulps air, his legs burn as if set to fire. He takes one last gulp and utters:
"Victory," and then dies.
This is a somewhat fictionalized account of the ending of the historic Battle of Marathon during the first Persian invasion of Hellenic Greece. The word of victory was carried by a lone, fleet-footed messenger from the battlefield back to the capitol. And the people rejoiced in the remembrance of this event, by stupidly running a similarly destructive course that killed a man, themselves.
I am now one of those many.
The inspiration to run the Cape Cod Marathon this past weekend came from the training slump I found myself in shortly after competing in the Hyannis Sprint Triathlon earlier in the summer. I had trained for about a year leading up to that particular tri, and during that year of training I was highly motivated (to the point where Jill would often complain that I was neglecting her).
But I was in a fitness fever. So imagine how depressing my workouts were AFTER the race? I had nothing to work towards now. I had competed successfully and earned a decent time and place in the race. Now I was going to the gym and just putzing around. It was boring.
So when I saw that the CCM was taking entrances, I batted the idea around in my head for about a month. I didn't know (at the time) what our schedules were going to be like, with my efforts to get into OCS. Would we still even be on Cape for the marathon (it was on Oct 31st)? With a seventy-dollar entry fee, I didn't want to waste the cash.
But soon, with set back after set back with this whole OCS process, I was confident I'd be able to run the race.
Serious training started about six weeks out from the race. I was doing Long Distance Runs (LDRs) on Mondays, and tapering my runs down to 50% of whatever the LDR for that week was. My first week, my LDR was about 8 miles of continuous running, which was taking me about an hour to complete. I'd take a day off and do more running on Wednesday and Thursday, Friday would be my SDR (S for "Short"). I'd rest all weekend, and get back at it on Monday, increasing my time and distances.
Two weeks out from the race, I decided to try for the full marathon distance of 26.2 miles. The course took me through three towns on Cape, and a little over 3 and a half hours of (somewhat continuous) running.
Meanwhile, my feet and legs were paying the price for my ambitions.
I've lost three toe nails, was forced to "bleed" both my big toenails just to save them, plus my left knee is sore from the road impact. I also went through two pairs of running shoes, a pair of Nike racing flats that lasted about 100 miles, and a pair of Brooks Ravannas that I had to give up on because one foot is slightly longer than the other, and was paying a pretty hefty price for the workouts.
There would be days I wouldn't be able to sit down and get up, because my hamstrings would be shot.
While all of this was going on, I was still in the gym three to four days a week, with hour long weight training sessions.
Race day finally arrived, coincidentally on my birthday. At 29 years old, I was running my first marathon. Even I thought this was crazy.
A friend of ours came up from New Orleans. She's big into the Ironman Triathlon series and plans on doing her first "Half Ironman" next summer. Her and Jill took to the sidelines while I stuffed GU gels and little packets of lube into the tiny pockets on my running jersey.
With bib number attached, sunglasses firmly on face, I waded into the teeming crowd of runners on Main St in Falmouth, right by the village's green. All around me people were popping up and down, warming up their legs, checking their digital watches to time themselves, jabbering in that nervous energetic way we all do when our adrenaline starts to spike out.
I was relatively calm in this sea of athletes, and just stood, shifting my weight from foot to foot, shaking out my arms. Also, since it was Halloween as well, plenty of people decided to get into the spirit of the holiday and dress up. Around me was the occasional ghoul, or devil, or slutty bumblebee.
The race coordinator started the countdown a minute out. A member of the local clergy said a prayer, and at exactly 830 on the nearby digital bank clock, a loud canon blasted off, and the race was officially underway.
Unlike most of the track events I've competed in from high school, there was no mad trample of people, or even a sprint out of the gate. This giant wave of human flesh kind of just shuffled forward out of the gate. As things spread out a little, our pace increased, and soon before long I was running down Main Street to the cheers of well wishers and onlookers.
The first half of the race was a cake walk; all level and flat, paved, a few downhills but nothing serious. But almost instantly I found the people who bit off more than they could chew. Relay runners (the marathon hosts a relay that's run concurrent to the race itself) were dropping left and right, the victims of charging out of the gate at too fast a pace.
When I got to the first pace marker, a digital clock on a tripod on the side of the road, at mile 1, I saw I was running at 7:31 mile pace. I knew if I was going to finish, I would have to pump my brakes a little.
By mile 5, I saw a woman ahead of me peel off down an alley way. As I approached and ran by, she was squatting, mere feet from the road, peeing against a wall.
Have some class, please.
The race course is notorious for it's hilly second half. I knew this going into it, but didn't fully understand what running essentially 15 miles of hills would be like. The first hills hit around the 1o.5 mile mark, and I took water from a water station attendant and started my charge. I figured the bigger hills would be spread out, maybe one a mile. I was wrong.
Literally, the entire 15 or so miles that would take me to the end of the race, was 99% hill. Big, winding hills, where you couldn't see the crest from the bottom. You'd be pushing up the incline, cornering expecting to see the top where it would level out, and you'd be greeted with another sharp incline. A few "goddamnits" were uttered by myself and other runners nearby me.
For about four miles, towards the end as we came around the crest at Nobska Lighthouse, I ran alongside a 54 year old man. He was hurting but determined. As we ran I asked him how many marathons he's ever run. He said this was his first.
Holy shit.
At mile 22, I left him behind and picked up my pace. The course was starting to level out, and according to my watch, I was at the 3 hour mark. If I wanted to beat my previous time when I ran the 26.2 "just for kicks" I had to pick it up.
I buckled down, pushed; with no iPod to listen to, I had only my raggedly breath and footfalls to keep me company. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, I kept telling myself.
Relay teams were running past me at considerable clips, yelling encouragement as they did so. I was resentful of their fresh legs and attitudes. Where were they at mile 14 when I was running over camel humps that led to a 110ft incline over a half mile?
I hit the 26 mile mark and felt a wave of euphoria. Adrenaline re-surged into my brain as the sounds of the crowd waiting at the finish line became louder. Cowbells were ringing in excitement, people cheering, red faced from the cold. All I could see was gaping black mouths.
As I rounded the last corner to get to the finish (where the race actually started, the course is a giant loop) I remember thinking: don't be a damn hero, just finish. I was thinking of pushing it hard to the end, sprinting it out. But I didn't want to collapse and be hauled off in the back of the ambulance with a stupid plastic mask over my mouth and nose.
I crossed the line at 3 hours, 28 minutes and 54 seconds, with a pace of 7:59 per mile. Those are unofficial times, however.
Overall, I placed 117th out of over 1200 competitors, finishing 62nd in my age division, which held over 250 other runners. I was also the third Cape Codder to cross the line, the first coming in about half an hour before me.
Will I do another one? Yes. I take an unbelievable sense of pride in being one of the many, but at the same time, one of the few, who has competed in a marathon. And according to rumor, my pace time is good enough for the Boston Marathon in April. So depending on where we are by then, I'd like to run that one as well.
If Jill lets me.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Good news comes to those who...
Who spend the day on the phone and do as their told. Earlier this week I received notification that my case with Abbott Labs (they sell (manufacture??) Humira) was reviewing my PAP (patient assistance program, not the Papanicolaou test) and they would make their decision by today, Friday. Through the PAP I essentially get free meds, since I don't make enough to pay out of pocket. I'm not sure if there is a co-pay though. I should find that would come to think of it.....
So, I called this morning at 9 am, and I was told I would have a decision by noon.
And so, I called at noon, and I was told I would have a decision by the end of the business day.
And then, I called at 4:30 and I was told to call back by 8afuckingclock and THEN I would have a decision.
I finally got my decision at like 6:45, and yes I was approved. I am getting a 3 month supply delivered to the house on Thursday. I think a three month supply is pennies away from 10k. Needless to day, I'm pretty thrilled.
So, I called this morning at 9 am, and I was told I would have a decision by noon.
And so, I called at noon, and I was told I would have a decision by the end of the business day.
And then, I called at 4:30 and I was told to call back by 8afuckingclock and THEN I would have a decision.
I finally got my decision at like 6:45, and yes I was approved. I am getting a 3 month supply delivered to the house on Thursday. I think a three month supply is pennies away from 10k. Needless to day, I'm pretty thrilled.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Really?
I just got a 131.80 bill for health insurance. Wait, no, technically it's not a bill because I'm not even enrolled yet. So I guess I just cut this company a check just to make a decision on weather or not I'm eligible.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
And "boom" goes the dynamite
Poor Jack. This brilliant idea of his ("Lets leave the safety and support of the CG for the Great Unknown!" What the Hell kind of wife supports that crazy ass shit?) has turned into a bit of a nightmare. So! Here is a list of things that make being a civilian pretty damn awesome.
1. Sleeping in. You don't do this. But I do. It's awesome. You should try it sometime.
2. Long hair and beards. See my last post. Jack is trying to grow a foxtail beard like his Dad, Charlie. (Think Dumbledore, but with a morbid sense of humor)
3. Being able to work out/run 6 days a week. Wait, you did that when you were in the CG. Never mind.
4. Alcohol. You can now drink on a Tuesday and totally wreck your Wednesday by being a cranky hungover asshole. Again, you should try it with me sometime. It's a jovial time.
5. All the XBox you can play.
6. Two words. The mids.
I'll add to this list as I keep getting ideas. But for now, enjoy being a civilian and the fact that the only person you have to take orders from, is me.
1. Sleeping in. You don't do this. But I do. It's awesome. You should try it sometime.
2. Long hair and beards. See my last post. Jack is trying to grow a foxtail beard like his Dad, Charlie. (Think Dumbledore, but with a morbid sense of humor)
3. Being able to work out/run 6 days a week. Wait, you did that when you were in the CG. Never mind.
4. Alcohol. You can now drink on a Tuesday and totally wreck your Wednesday by being a cranky hungover asshole. Again, you should try it with me sometime. It's a jovial time.
5. All the XBox you can play.
6. Two words. The mids.
I'll add to this list as I keep getting ideas. But for now, enjoy being a civilian and the fact that the only person you have to take orders from, is me.
Friday, October 15, 2010
This is Turning into a Cruel Joke
Another set back. I'm starting to think that instead of living my normal life, some where, some how, I tripped, fell, and landed in the Twilight Zone.
I got an email today from my recruiter, Ssgt. Steve. Steve wrote to tell me that according to our friends over at MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station - where a candidate for military service goes to ensure he or she is in the best health possible to do their respective jobs) have rejected me again, this time because it's has yet to be 6 full months since I had my eye surgery back in May.
The soonest they'd see me: Nov 6th. That's five days after the next OCS board.
Un-fucking-believable.
I had PRK (think LASIK, just a slightly different procedure) down at Bethesda Medical Center last spring. Literally, two days later, I was out sight-seeing around DC. A few days after that, it was "Ops Normal" back at work with my unit in the Coast Guard. I have had nothing but exceptional results from the procedure, no set backs. I am literally the picture of perfect health. I'd understand if I had (god forbid) rods or some implant in my body someplace, but I'm really A-1, ready to go.
The following is from an email that Ssgt Steve sent me after I inquired if there was anything I could do, such as get a doctor's note from my optometrist:
I got an email today from my recruiter, Ssgt. Steve. Steve wrote to tell me that according to our friends over at MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station - where a candidate for military service goes to ensure he or she is in the best health possible to do their respective jobs) have rejected me again, this time because it's has yet to be 6 full months since I had my eye surgery back in May.
The soonest they'd see me: Nov 6th. That's five days after the next OCS board.
Un-fucking-believable.
I had PRK (think LASIK, just a slightly different procedure) down at Bethesda Medical Center last spring. Literally, two days later, I was out sight-seeing around DC. A few days after that, it was "Ops Normal" back at work with my unit in the Coast Guard. I have had nothing but exceptional results from the procedure, no set backs. I am literally the picture of perfect health. I'd understand if I had (god forbid) rods or some implant in my body someplace, but I'm really A-1, ready to go.
The following is from an email that Ssgt Steve sent me after I inquired if there was anything I could do, such as get a doctor's note from my optometrist:
"To be blunt man, there is nothing we can do to expedite the process.
These are ignorant MEPS rules. We spent time on the phone arguing with
MEPS that you were on active duty for months after the procedure but
didn't want to hear any of it. Again, I apologize for yet another
hic-up, but I will make you an Army Office before I leave here boss!!"
These are ignorant MEPS rules. We spent time on the phone arguing with
MEPS that you were on active duty for months after the procedure but
didn't want to hear any of it. Again, I apologize for yet another
hic-up, but I will make you an Army Office before I leave here boss!!"
He's really got my back. We emailed a few more times back and forth and he says that the next OCS board date will be in the end of Nov, early Dec-time frame. But still, this is starting to become ridiculous. I mean .... what more can I do? I can only sit by and wait... keep eating noting but protein, keep doing nothing but going to class and working out.
Like Sisyphus, I can only keep pushing this rock.
Like Sisyphus, I can only keep pushing this rock.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
An Avalanche of Information
When it rains, it pours, as the old saying goes.
Where we last left off, I was still waiting on a form to come back from the Coast Guard's Washington DC headquarters to say that I was no longer "technically"a member, so that I could go forward with my Army OCS plans. This paperwork seemed to be the chicken bone caught in the throat of Mama Cass's Process.
I hadn't heard anything coming into the holiday weekend, and knowing that government employees tend to do nothing leading up to a long weekend, I decided that I had to call in a favor.
I sent a message to my old XO, a guy whom my admiration knows no heights. And I don't say that because he checks in on this blog every now and then, but for the simple fact that he's a helluva guy. He "gets it." He's extremely proficient at what he does and he can be counted on. He's never let me down, not once in three or so years I've known him.
He's a fucking rock.
In short, I humble myself and ask if he can, to paraphrase, go up this guy's ass with a flashlight and see if he can find where my paperwork went. Less than an hour later, he's telling me he's on the case.
Again, not expecting much since it's a holiday weekend. I try to put the anxious, claustrophobic feeling that my board date is slowly encroaching upon us someplace else mentally. Jill and I go get a nice hike in on Saturday, have a terrible lunch out on Sunday, buy a tv on Monday.
By Tuesday at noon, I still hadn't heard anything. I was getting antsy. I snagged lunch and kept checking the email on my phone, waiting for something, anything, resigning to the fact that it'd be another day of waiting for me.
Just as I was pulling into my local community college to go to my next class, my phone buzzed.
"Hello?" I said with some extra spit in my mouth that made me sound weird.
"Hello!" Came the excited voice of my former XO. Suddenly I was swept over with a sense of relief. Like when you're waiting for what feels like forever for someone to come and pick you up, and you see their familiar car pulling into the parking lot.
"Were you sleeping in the middle of the work day?" He asks as a joke, referencing my strangled voice. I explain that I was just wrapping up lunch. We chit-chat for a few minutes, catching up a little, since we haven't spoken in about a month. He then gets down to the meat and potatoes:
"I just called down to HQ, and I spoke with the guy handling your paperwork," he starts. "It's at it's highest level, and we're just waiting for it to come back down to this guy, so he can send it out to everyone involved. He knows who you are; he's pretty much on the ball," which was also a relief. I would've been upset if my name was brought up, and this guy doing my paperwork had no clue who I was, or needed a memory jogger.
So at least my paperwork was being processed. I gave it til the end of the week, mentally.
We said our goodbyes, and I couldn't have thanked him enough. I went to class feeling a little better. I sent Jill a text, giving her an update. She was equally pleased.
About forty minutes later, my pocket was aflutter of activity. Unfortunately, I was in class.
I can't stand the kids who have to diddle their phones in class, it's rude and disrespectful to the professor that's in front of everyone giving a lecture. If you're going to spend 75 minutes on your phone, why did you sign up for classes in the first place? So as a rule, I never play with my phone during class. I'll answer emails, texts and return phone calls in that ten minute gap of time while I'm walking from classroom to classroom.
But given the news I had already gotten, this phone call I was receiving could be very important. As my phone buzzed in my pocket, I slowly reached in and pulled it out just enough to see the screen. It was my recruiter.
Just prior to his phone call, I had received the tell-tale buzz of an email. Oh shit, the ball was rolling.
At the same time, my journalism professor, who is a great guy with over 30 years of journalism experience, was going off on some ridiculous tangent not really related to the course material. He's known for these blustery, long-winded speeches and stories about his personal experiences in the news room, or as a reporter covering a beat. At the moment, he was giving instructions on how to format a story for printing on a Windows-based word processor.
I couldn't be any less interested.
I sucked it up, slowly slipped out of the back of the room and went to my phone. I checked the email first. The Petty Officer down in DC had sent everyone on my team the completed form I needed. The vmail from my recruiter said as much. I called him back immediately.
"Jack!" He started. "Did you get my email?"
Admittedly I hadn't yet, but almost as if on queue, my phone chimed briefly in my ear; an email had arrived. He went on to explain the process from here:
With my OCS packet 100% complete, it goes back to MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Service) for another "read" where they look everything over. Sgt. Steve "guaranteed" my packet was good to go and we should hear, maybe even by the end of the week, that I can go in for a physical. Once I get that physical out of the way, I can then sit for my board on Nov 1.
When it rains, it pours.
Where we last left off, I was still waiting on a form to come back from the Coast Guard's Washington DC headquarters to say that I was no longer "technically"a member, so that I could go forward with my Army OCS plans. This paperwork seemed to be the chicken bone caught in the throat of Mama Cass's Process.
I hadn't heard anything coming into the holiday weekend, and knowing that government employees tend to do nothing leading up to a long weekend, I decided that I had to call in a favor.
I sent a message to my old XO, a guy whom my admiration knows no heights. And I don't say that because he checks in on this blog every now and then, but for the simple fact that he's a helluva guy. He "gets it." He's extremely proficient at what he does and he can be counted on. He's never let me down, not once in three or so years I've known him.
He's a fucking rock.
In short, I humble myself and ask if he can, to paraphrase, go up this guy's ass with a flashlight and see if he can find where my paperwork went. Less than an hour later, he's telling me he's on the case.
Again, not expecting much since it's a holiday weekend. I try to put the anxious, claustrophobic feeling that my board date is slowly encroaching upon us someplace else mentally. Jill and I go get a nice hike in on Saturday, have a terrible lunch out on Sunday, buy a tv on Monday.
By Tuesday at noon, I still hadn't heard anything. I was getting antsy. I snagged lunch and kept checking the email on my phone, waiting for something, anything, resigning to the fact that it'd be another day of waiting for me.
Just as I was pulling into my local community college to go to my next class, my phone buzzed.
"Hello?" I said with some extra spit in my mouth that made me sound weird.
"Hello!" Came the excited voice of my former XO. Suddenly I was swept over with a sense of relief. Like when you're waiting for what feels like forever for someone to come and pick you up, and you see their familiar car pulling into the parking lot.
"Were you sleeping in the middle of the work day?" He asks as a joke, referencing my strangled voice. I explain that I was just wrapping up lunch. We chit-chat for a few minutes, catching up a little, since we haven't spoken in about a month. He then gets down to the meat and potatoes:
"I just called down to HQ, and I spoke with the guy handling your paperwork," he starts. "It's at it's highest level, and we're just waiting for it to come back down to this guy, so he can send it out to everyone involved. He knows who you are; he's pretty much on the ball," which was also a relief. I would've been upset if my name was brought up, and this guy doing my paperwork had no clue who I was, or needed a memory jogger.
So at least my paperwork was being processed. I gave it til the end of the week, mentally.
We said our goodbyes, and I couldn't have thanked him enough. I went to class feeling a little better. I sent Jill a text, giving her an update. She was equally pleased.
About forty minutes later, my pocket was aflutter of activity. Unfortunately, I was in class.
I can't stand the kids who have to diddle their phones in class, it's rude and disrespectful to the professor that's in front of everyone giving a lecture. If you're going to spend 75 minutes on your phone, why did you sign up for classes in the first place? So as a rule, I never play with my phone during class. I'll answer emails, texts and return phone calls in that ten minute gap of time while I'm walking from classroom to classroom.
But given the news I had already gotten, this phone call I was receiving could be very important. As my phone buzzed in my pocket, I slowly reached in and pulled it out just enough to see the screen. It was my recruiter.
Just prior to his phone call, I had received the tell-tale buzz of an email. Oh shit, the ball was rolling.
At the same time, my journalism professor, who is a great guy with over 30 years of journalism experience, was going off on some ridiculous tangent not really related to the course material. He's known for these blustery, long-winded speeches and stories about his personal experiences in the news room, or as a reporter covering a beat. At the moment, he was giving instructions on how to format a story for printing on a Windows-based word processor.
I couldn't be any less interested.
I sucked it up, slowly slipped out of the back of the room and went to my phone. I checked the email first. The Petty Officer down in DC had sent everyone on my team the completed form I needed. The vmail from my recruiter said as much. I called him back immediately.
"Jack!" He started. "Did you get my email?"
Admittedly I hadn't yet, but almost as if on queue, my phone chimed briefly in my ear; an email had arrived. He went on to explain the process from here:
With my OCS packet 100% complete, it goes back to MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Service) for another "read" where they look everything over. Sgt. Steve "guaranteed" my packet was good to go and we should hear, maybe even by the end of the week, that I can go in for a physical. Once I get that physical out of the way, I can then sit for my board on Nov 1.
When it rains, it pours.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
I hear "Dog Days" at least twice a day on both my commutes to and from work and while at work. Very much over the song, but I like her voice, and style. And her hair makes me less conscious about my crazy mop of curls. I need an iTunes gift card....
No interesting news in our world. Hope ya'll are well. My dog needs a freaking bath.
No interesting news in our world. Hope ya'll are well. My dog needs a freaking bath.
All I Wanted was Some Cream of Wheat
In an effort to not make this blog so damn depressing with my whining that things aren't moving fast enough (or so I've been told) maybe this little anecdote will lighten the mood:
Last week, maybe it was a Wednesday, Jill and I were at the local supermarket doing our bi-weekly shopping.
I tend to do this shopping on my own, as a rule. I know where just about everything we need is, and like some sort of surgical special ops team, I'm in, out, mission complete in usually under an hour. But with Jill in tow, things were going to move slightly slower.
Every aisle I went down, Jill would be dawdling behind me, diddling her phone. At one point I lost her completely.
It was then, in the cereal aisle, that I came across this little immigrant woman, no taller than maybe the desk I'm writing on, staring intently at all the choices of hot cereal the store had to offer.
She would pick up a box, examine it through her large, bug-like eyeglasses, then decide it wasn't the right one, and set it back on the shelf. She did this for maybe five evolutions, picking up different styles and brands of hot cereal and oatmeal, not settling on one in particular.
She was also standing with her cart directly blocking the display of Cream of Wheat.
So there I stood, behind her, but not so behind her that I was in her blind spot, leaning on my shopping cart, trying to be patient. Not another soul around for aisles.
In most situations like these, I'd have no problem being like "excuse me, Ms. I'm going to just reach around here and ..... yeeeah, thanks...." and walk away undeterred.
But based off of smell alone, this woman struck me as maybe being a gypsy. And we all know gypsies can cast curses. No thank you.
By now, Jill's finally caught up to me. She looks at me, then at the tiny maybe-gypsy-woman and back to me.
"What's going on?" She asks loud enough for it to be heard conversationally.
"I'm just looking for the Cream of Wheat" I tell her in a way to indicate that I'm more or less waiting for this woman to move out of the way. In any normal situation, the woman would realize she was blocking the product I was waiting for, turn and smile, and gently push her cart out of the way.
This gypsy simply turned and smiled. So Jill and I both stood and waited.
After about another minute goes by and I'm just of the mind set to be like "fuck it, I don't need Cream of Wheat this badly," and I start to push my cart away. The gypsy speaks.
"I'm looking vor this particular brand of oatmeal..." she says with a heavy former Eastern Bloc accent that I put somewhere between Croatian and Belorussian. Something made me stop dead in my tracks and stand for a second. I don't know if it was her voice or what, but I was frozen in place.
Bluddy gypsy curse....
"It vas veddy good..." she says in a comically evil sorta way, "but I cannot vind it, again," she pulls down a small box of some all-organic product. "I think this vas the fun..." she trails off. Her ancient gnarled fingers wrapped around the box, holding it up for my inspection.
At the same time I could see Old Mr. Shaw... the name I have always associated with the friendly faced black guy on the box of Cream of Wheat, smiling up at me. "C'mon Missa Jack, bring good ol' Missa Shaw homeswitcha!" He said in a probably racist voice in my head. But this other foreign product was being pushed into my hands by the same witch that likely poisoned Snow White.
....And if memory serves me correctly, wasn't that witch Snow White's mom? ....That's fucked up.
Anyway, as if in a trance, I hear myself saying "sure, I'll try this out," and taking the box from her. I turn, walking out of the aisle, pushing my cart ahead of me. I'm 100% aware of the weird look I'm getting from Jill, when I freeze in my tracks again.
"Vait, sir... sir" the gypsy calls me from the opposite end of a deep well. "That is not the right fun...." I turn on my heals and walk back to her and exchange boxes. Now I'm walking away with a different box of hot cereal that I don't want.
A few days later I finally try the stuff out. It's horrible. The brand is called "Raw" and it tastes as if the Cinnamon Fairy just took a hatred-filled vengeful dump in your mouth while you're sleeping off a bad drunk. I only had two spoonfuls of the stuff; the first was to try it, and I retched. The second, was to make sure the first spoonful was truly as bad as I thought. It was.
Last week, maybe it was a Wednesday, Jill and I were at the local supermarket doing our bi-weekly shopping.
I tend to do this shopping on my own, as a rule. I know where just about everything we need is, and like some sort of surgical special ops team, I'm in, out, mission complete in usually under an hour. But with Jill in tow, things were going to move slightly slower.
Every aisle I went down, Jill would be dawdling behind me, diddling her phone. At one point I lost her completely.
It was then, in the cereal aisle, that I came across this little immigrant woman, no taller than maybe the desk I'm writing on, staring intently at all the choices of hot cereal the store had to offer.
She would pick up a box, examine it through her large, bug-like eyeglasses, then decide it wasn't the right one, and set it back on the shelf. She did this for maybe five evolutions, picking up different styles and brands of hot cereal and oatmeal, not settling on one in particular.
She was also standing with her cart directly blocking the display of Cream of Wheat.
So there I stood, behind her, but not so behind her that I was in her blind spot, leaning on my shopping cart, trying to be patient. Not another soul around for aisles.
In most situations like these, I'd have no problem being like "excuse me, Ms. I'm going to just reach around here and ..... yeeeah, thanks...." and walk away undeterred.
But based off of smell alone, this woman struck me as maybe being a gypsy. And we all know gypsies can cast curses. No thank you.
By now, Jill's finally caught up to me. She looks at me, then at the tiny maybe-gypsy-woman and back to me.
"What's going on?" She asks loud enough for it to be heard conversationally.
"I'm just looking for the Cream of Wheat" I tell her in a way to indicate that I'm more or less waiting for this woman to move out of the way. In any normal situation, the woman would realize she was blocking the product I was waiting for, turn and smile, and gently push her cart out of the way.
This gypsy simply turned and smiled. So Jill and I both stood and waited.
After about another minute goes by and I'm just of the mind set to be like "fuck it, I don't need Cream of Wheat this badly," and I start to push my cart away. The gypsy speaks.
"I'm looking vor this particular brand of oatmeal..." she says with a heavy former Eastern Bloc accent that I put somewhere between Croatian and Belorussian. Something made me stop dead in my tracks and stand for a second. I don't know if it was her voice or what, but I was frozen in place.
Bluddy gypsy curse....
"It vas veddy good..." she says in a comically evil sorta way, "but I cannot vind it, again," she pulls down a small box of some all-organic product. "I think this vas the fun..." she trails off. Her ancient gnarled fingers wrapped around the box, holding it up for my inspection.
At the same time I could see Old Mr. Shaw... the name I have always associated with the friendly faced black guy on the box of Cream of Wheat, smiling up at me. "C'mon Missa Jack, bring good ol' Missa Shaw homeswitcha!" He said in a probably racist voice in my head. But this other foreign product was being pushed into my hands by the same witch that likely poisoned Snow White.
....And if memory serves me correctly, wasn't that witch Snow White's mom? ....That's fucked up.
Anyway, as if in a trance, I hear myself saying "sure, I'll try this out," and taking the box from her. I turn, walking out of the aisle, pushing my cart ahead of me. I'm 100% aware of the weird look I'm getting from Jill, when I freeze in my tracks again.
"Vait, sir... sir" the gypsy calls me from the opposite end of a deep well. "That is not the right fun...." I turn on my heals and walk back to her and exchange boxes. Now I'm walking away with a different box of hot cereal that I don't want.
A few days later I finally try the stuff out. It's horrible. The brand is called "Raw" and it tastes as if the Cinnamon Fairy just took a hatred-filled vengeful dump in your mouth while you're sleeping off a bad drunk. I only had two spoonfuls of the stuff; the first was to try it, and I retched. The second, was to make sure the first spoonful was truly as bad as I thought. It was.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
The Email Game
So I get this email yesterday:
"Hi SN Jack, this is PO So-and-S0, and if you could, please send me a copy of your filled out paperwork, I'll be happy to process your separation from the Inactive Ready Reserve as soon as possible!"
At the time I was at REI, about as far away as possible from my computer but I was overjoyed as it seemed I had found a competent person to FINALLY handle this annoying bit of after-thought paperwork for me.
But then it struck me: this wasn't the same petty officer I had originally sent the form to in the first place.
What the hell?
Then I recalled that I had left about a dozen voicemails to ambiguous-at-best mailboxes, pleading my case to automatons that may or may not serve the desired person. This guy, days way after the fact (long enough at least for me to forget about it, sorta) WAS JUST getting back to me now.
I cursed under my breath.
Standing in the middle of a parking lot, with a new pair of running shoes in my hand, I started thumbing through my phone looking for the original email I had sent off to the OTHER guy who said he'd be handling my case. I final find it, after going back a week, and send off a quick email from the phone:
"PO So-and-So, I believe I sent that completed documentation to PO What's-His-Name, please check with him that he still has it, if not, I'll be happy to send you the documentation as soon as I get home,"
About twenty minutes later I get a little chirp from my phone, a new email has arrived. I check and see that this second petty officer has now CCd me in a forward of the same message I just sent him, re: the ORIGINAL petty officer.
If this is confusing you, welcome to my world.
I take it that instead of just typing out a new, two line email, this second petty officer simply forwarded our conversation to the original petty officer to see what he had to say on the subject. Given that it seems to take these guys a week to check their fucking email, as soon as I got home, I send out another email.
"PO So-and-So,
In the spirit of expediency, here's the requested documentation, along with my USAREC recruiter's email [he was CCd as well] if you have any questions, please don't hesitate to contact us,"
In the end, what we have here is overlapping paperwork and two petty officers who may or may not be working on the same thing and not even know it. I have this dense, lead-like feeling in the pit of my stomach that these two have no idea what's going on and will likely delay things further.
It's a classic case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing, almost. In my mind's eye I can see these two actually sharing office space, hating each others guts, and some sort of personal feud causing my paperwork to get stuffed behind a copier due to lack of communication.
I give it til Thursday before I start making calls.
"Hi SN Jack, this is PO So-and-S0, and if you could, please send me a copy of your filled out paperwork, I'll be happy to process your separation from the Inactive Ready Reserve as soon as possible!"
At the time I was at REI, about as far away as possible from my computer but I was overjoyed as it seemed I had found a competent person to FINALLY handle this annoying bit of after-thought paperwork for me.
But then it struck me: this wasn't the same petty officer I had originally sent the form to in the first place.
What the hell?
Then I recalled that I had left about a dozen voicemails to ambiguous-at-best mailboxes, pleading my case to automatons that may or may not serve the desired person. This guy, days way after the fact (long enough at least for me to forget about it, sorta) WAS JUST getting back to me now.
I cursed under my breath.
Standing in the middle of a parking lot, with a new pair of running shoes in my hand, I started thumbing through my phone looking for the original email I had sent off to the OTHER guy who said he'd be handling my case. I final find it, after going back a week, and send off a quick email from the phone:
"PO So-and-So, I believe I sent that completed documentation to PO What's-His-Name, please check with him that he still has it, if not, I'll be happy to send you the documentation as soon as I get home,"
About twenty minutes later I get a little chirp from my phone, a new email has arrived. I check and see that this second petty officer has now CCd me in a forward of the same message I just sent him, re: the ORIGINAL petty officer.
If this is confusing you, welcome to my world.
I take it that instead of just typing out a new, two line email, this second petty officer simply forwarded our conversation to the original petty officer to see what he had to say on the subject. Given that it seems to take these guys a week to check their fucking email, as soon as I got home, I send out another email.
"PO So-and-So,
In the spirit of expediency, here's the requested documentation, along with my USAREC recruiter's email [he was CCd as well] if you have any questions, please don't hesitate to contact us,"
In the end, what we have here is overlapping paperwork and two petty officers who may or may not be working on the same thing and not even know it. I have this dense, lead-like feeling in the pit of my stomach that these two have no idea what's going on and will likely delay things further.
It's a classic case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing, almost. In my mind's eye I can see these two actually sharing office space, hating each others guts, and some sort of personal feud causing my paperwork to get stuffed behind a copier due to lack of communication.
I give it til Thursday before I start making calls.
Monday, October 4, 2010
"No News" Does Not Always Equate to "Good News"
Last we left off, I was still in a holding pattern with some paperwork down at HQ in Washington DC.
I'm not very pleased to say we're still in that piss-ition.
I can't be antsy, because it's only Monday, and who knows what's gone on between... what was it, last Monday or Wednesday and now. "Two to Three" days to get some paperwork done usually translates into a week, if not more. I have to be patient.
But at the same time I can't help feeling that I'm being overlooked by some pencil pusher who couldn't care less about what happens in my universe. I'm constantly battling the temptation to send off emails or make phone calls in order to get an answer from someone, anyone.
I'm thankful that I have an amazing support network. Old CG COs and XPOs, family and friends who have an understanding of what's going on and want nothing but the best for Jill and I. I know for a solemn fact that I wouldn't be where I am now without these people, .... so if you're reading this, thank you. This has been a TEAM EFFORT all the way through.
So yes, back to the waiting game, biding my time while it seems to be slipping away.
I'm not very pleased to say we're still in that piss-ition.
I can't be antsy, because it's only Monday, and who knows what's gone on between... what was it, last Monday or Wednesday and now. "Two to Three" days to get some paperwork done usually translates into a week, if not more. I have to be patient.
But at the same time I can't help feeling that I'm being overlooked by some pencil pusher who couldn't care less about what happens in my universe. I'm constantly battling the temptation to send off emails or make phone calls in order to get an answer from someone, anyone.
I'm thankful that I have an amazing support network. Old CG COs and XPOs, family and friends who have an understanding of what's going on and want nothing but the best for Jill and I. I know for a solemn fact that I wouldn't be where I am now without these people, .... so if you're reading this, thank you. This has been a TEAM EFFORT all the way through.
So yes, back to the waiting game, biding my time while it seems to be slipping away.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Things I will never take for granted again
1. Charmin Ultra. Our apartment has a tender spetic system. Tough shit for my tender septic system.
2. Cable. Jack and I pitched the cable when he left the Coast Guard to save money. We (he) saves about $100 a month. But I miss my competitive cooking shows. And Animal Planet. And Family Guy. That's about it though.
3. Sleep. But that brings a whole new appreciation for wine!
4. Fiber. See aforementioned #1
5. A GPS that works. It took me 3.5 hours to get home today from work because my GPS decided to take a mental vacation and leave me high and dry during a torrential down pour at 4:30 in the afternoon. Fuck you Tom-Tom, fuck you, that was a long ass 3.5 hours.
-Jill.
2. Cable. Jack and I pitched the cable when he left the Coast Guard to save money. We (he) saves about $100 a month. But I miss my competitive cooking shows. And Animal Planet. And Family Guy. That's about it though.
3. Sleep. But that brings a whole new appreciation for wine!
4. Fiber. See aforementioned #1
5. A GPS that works. It took me 3.5 hours to get home today from work because my GPS decided to take a mental vacation and leave me high and dry during a torrential down pour at 4:30 in the afternoon. Fuck you Tom-Tom, fuck you, that was a long ass 3.5 hours.
-Jill.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Hiccups
Let me be frank with you about something: I'm cursed.
Well, rather, my family name is cursed. I'm not talking anything biblical, like if I walked into a room the walls start bleeding or as if I'm a Kennedy or something, but when it comes to important paperwork, I'm cursed.
And such is the latest case on this road we're traveling down.
I finished up some school reading this morning, and taking note of the weather (cool, breezy, foggy) I decided to pound out a Long Distance Run (LDR). Today was going to be 18 miles.
Also, I had a sneaking suspicion I'd be hearing from my OCS recruiter/case worker today.
So imagine my (lack of) surprise when at about two and a half miles in, my arm starts to buzz and jingle. I don't normally answer my phone while on runs, but like I said, I had a gut feeling to expect a call. I twist my arm so I can look down and see who's calling, and sure enough, it's him.
I trot to the side of the path, dig the phone out of it's little arm band holder-thingie and answer.
"Hello?" I pant.
"Jack?!" Comes the easy, friendly voice of my recruiter, Sgt. Steve (not even close to his real name). "You ok?"
"Yeah," I pause to gulp a little air. "Just out for a run."
"No shit, what's your milage?"
"Eighteen," I tell him.
Now it's his turn to pause. "Wait, what? You've run 18 miles this morning!"
"Well, not yet, I'm just getting warmed up right now."
"Oh ok... well, want me to call you back?"
I tell him no, he's got priority over my stride; he goes on to tell me about this latest hiccup with this whole process. Apparently, I'm still - technically - in the Coast Guard.
When you get out of the service, typically they put you on what's called Inactive Ready Reserve (IRR), which means that for up to four years in most cases, if shit really hits the fan with your prior organization, they can call you back up to report in. With the Coast Guard, an event would have to be like 9/11 and Pearl Harbor happening at the same time for this to be of a concern to anyone. So imagine my annoyance.
He tells me that I can't go forward in the process until this is taken care of, and there's nothing the Army can do from his end. This is all Coast Guard, he tells me.
I'm instructed to get a hold of whoever did my DD214 (discharge paperwork) and send them some forms (that were emailed to me by Ssgt. Steve), get them filled out and returned back to him, ASAP. Sounds easy enough, right?
But of course, it won't be.
I finish my run, get home and start making phone calls while the sweat still runs down my arms and smudges my notes. I call my old unit and get the phone number of the personnel who did up my 214. I call and leave a message with them, and follow it up with an email that I CC to my old CO and XO, so that when what's-her-name down in Personnel sees it, she'll see that my former command have been made aware of the situation as well, and she won't dillydally with anything.
Within about fifteen minutes of sending the email (enough time to take a shower) I get an email back from my old CO. In short it says:
"Jack.
Let me know if you run into any trouble with this. I got your back. -BMC"
And he does. He loves me.
I run a few errands and when I get back I have an email waiting for me from a Reservist Personnel person, stating that my old Sector (a "Sector" in the Coast Guard is like a mini-HQ) isn't in charge of my paperwork anymore, and he lists off a bunch of Washington DC numbers for me to call.
Awesome. I'd sooner get a root canal in 1885 than call down to HQ.
No emails this time, which sucks. I'm an emailer. I like having a written, concise record of what was said by all parties. It also makes for a good follow-up approach (see above.)
So I call the first number going to the highest ranking person on the list and get voicemail. Very briefly I explain who I am and what I need and rattle off all my contact info, twice, so they can write it down without having to replay the message.
Now we're back to the waiting game. More to follow soon, I'm sure.
Well, rather, my family name is cursed. I'm not talking anything biblical, like if I walked into a room the walls start bleeding or as if I'm a Kennedy or something, but when it comes to important paperwork, I'm cursed.
And such is the latest case on this road we're traveling down.
I finished up some school reading this morning, and taking note of the weather (cool, breezy, foggy) I decided to pound out a Long Distance Run (LDR). Today was going to be 18 miles.
Also, I had a sneaking suspicion I'd be hearing from my OCS recruiter/case worker today.
So imagine my (lack of) surprise when at about two and a half miles in, my arm starts to buzz and jingle. I don't normally answer my phone while on runs, but like I said, I had a gut feeling to expect a call. I twist my arm so I can look down and see who's calling, and sure enough, it's him.
I trot to the side of the path, dig the phone out of it's little arm band holder-thingie and answer.
"Hello?" I pant.
"Jack?!" Comes the easy, friendly voice of my recruiter, Sgt. Steve (not even close to his real name). "You ok?"
"Yeah," I pause to gulp a little air. "Just out for a run."
"No shit, what's your milage?"
"Eighteen," I tell him.
Now it's his turn to pause. "Wait, what? You've run 18 miles this morning!"
"Well, not yet, I'm just getting warmed up right now."
"Oh ok... well, want me to call you back?"
I tell him no, he's got priority over my stride; he goes on to tell me about this latest hiccup with this whole process. Apparently, I'm still - technically - in the Coast Guard.
When you get out of the service, typically they put you on what's called Inactive Ready Reserve (IRR), which means that for up to four years in most cases, if shit really hits the fan with your prior organization, they can call you back up to report in. With the Coast Guard, an event would have to be like 9/11 and Pearl Harbor happening at the same time for this to be of a concern to anyone. So imagine my annoyance.
He tells me that I can't go forward in the process until this is taken care of, and there's nothing the Army can do from his end. This is all Coast Guard, he tells me.
I'm instructed to get a hold of whoever did my DD214 (discharge paperwork) and send them some forms (that were emailed to me by Ssgt. Steve), get them filled out and returned back to him, ASAP. Sounds easy enough, right?
But of course, it won't be.
I finish my run, get home and start making phone calls while the sweat still runs down my arms and smudges my notes. I call my old unit and get the phone number of the personnel who did up my 214. I call and leave a message with them, and follow it up with an email that I CC to my old CO and XO, so that when what's-her-name down in Personnel sees it, she'll see that my former command have been made aware of the situation as well, and she won't dillydally with anything.
Within about fifteen minutes of sending the email (enough time to take a shower) I get an email back from my old CO. In short it says:
"Jack.
Let me know if you run into any trouble with this. I got your back. -BMC"
And he does. He loves me.
I run a few errands and when I get back I have an email waiting for me from a Reservist Personnel person, stating that my old Sector (a "Sector" in the Coast Guard is like a mini-HQ) isn't in charge of my paperwork anymore, and he lists off a bunch of Washington DC numbers for me to call.
Awesome. I'd sooner get a root canal in 1885 than call down to HQ.
No emails this time, which sucks. I'm an emailer. I like having a written, concise record of what was said by all parties. It also makes for a good follow-up approach (see above.)
So I call the first number going to the highest ranking person on the list and get voicemail. Very briefly I explain who I am and what I need and rattle off all my contact info, twice, so they can write it down without having to replay the message.
Now we're back to the waiting game. More to follow soon, I'm sure.
Friday, September 24, 2010
And then there was Jack. And then there was Jill.
"When God created Jack, he sat back for a moment, and contemplated what he had just done. See, God was feeling real vindictive over Reagan winning the election and wanted to punish mankind for electing a Republican. And so he inflicted Jack upon the world. Arrogant, an only son, Jack terrorized Northern New England with his short tubby legs for 4 years until those pesky Americans did it again, and so Jill was born....."
This was a small speech a friend gave at a dinner one night shortly after Jack and I became engaged. Said friend is also unmarried and still living in his mothers basement. Just sayin'. Anyway. A bit of background on the two of us. Jack and I have been together long enough to hate sleeping together on hot summer nights, but not long enough to realize a pre nup was a viable option prior to us saying our vows (Do over?)
Jack grew up about 3 hours away from me, but our childhoods were as different as lamb and peanut butter. I grew up in a very small rural town, Jack grew up in a town that had working stop lights (more than one!). I'm adopted, while Jack looks like both his parents. He's a Republican, I'm registered Green Party (does my party even exist anymore?) Etc, etc. Very different, but we work very well together. We fit well too, like Africa and South America, but that's for a different post, on a different blog.
We're using this blog as a way to keep friends and family (all 5 of you! Hi Evans & K!) up to date with our lives. Jack will be leaving soon (read about it below) so our relationship will be morphing into a different animal entirely. Hopefully something cute. Like a Loris. But, for the time being, for the next 4 months, it's just Jack, myself and our menagerie of obnoxious pets.
-Jill
Also, dear friends that know us in real life (Looking at you Evans) we are well aware of the fact our names are not "Jack" and "Jill". Please don't feel the need to point it out to us. We know our names are Matt and Jessica.
This was a small speech a friend gave at a dinner one night shortly after Jack and I became engaged. Said friend is also unmarried and still living in his mothers basement. Just sayin'. Anyway. A bit of background on the two of us. Jack and I have been together long enough to hate sleeping together on hot summer nights, but not long enough to realize a pre nup was a viable option prior to us saying our vows (Do over?)
Jack grew up about 3 hours away from me, but our childhoods were as different as lamb and peanut butter. I grew up in a very small rural town, Jack grew up in a town that had working stop lights (more than one!). I'm adopted, while Jack looks like both his parents. He's a Republican, I'm registered Green Party (does my party even exist anymore?) Etc, etc. Very different, but we work very well together. We fit well too, like Africa and South America, but that's for a different post, on a different blog.
We're using this blog as a way to keep friends and family (all 5 of you! Hi Evans & K!) up to date with our lives. Jack will be leaving soon (read about it below) so our relationship will be morphing into a different animal entirely. Hopefully something cute. Like a Loris. But, for the time being, for the next 4 months, it's just Jack, myself and our menagerie of obnoxious pets.
-Jill
Also, dear friends that know us in real life (Looking at you Evans) we are well aware of the fact our names are not "Jack" and "Jill". Please don't feel the need to point it out to us. We know our names are Matt and Jessica.
How We Got to ...Here.
If you're familiar with how the military as a whole works, you'll understand very truly the concept of "hurry up and wait." That's how this blog got it's name.
The overall concept is that you're rushing to get someplace, only to wait there once you've arrived. This is applicable to civilian life as well as life in the military. I can give you a bunch of personal examples, but instead let's start this whole thing off from where it would be most appropriate: the beginning.
For just about three years I was enlisted as an E3 in the United States Coast Guard. If you know nothing about how the military works (and if you're reading this, you're probably one of our friends, which means you DO in fact know how the military works) an E3 is relatively low in the pecking order. None so much truer than in the Guardians of Our Coasts.
Don't get me wrong: The Coast Guard is a wonderful organization and they do a hard job with little in the way of real-deal actual militaristic respect. In the hierarchy of the US Military, the Coast Guard ranks somewhere between National Park Rangers and NOAA.
I initially enlisted because I was bored, which I think is a reasonable enough excuse to sign your life up to be considered government property for a span of no less than four years (unless you find yourself in my case, and OptOut early... more on that later). I previously was a cop in a small town in the Northeast United States, have a Bachelor's degree from a pretty decent school... etc etc.
But like I said, I was bored. I had a falling out with my police department and I kinda bounced around for about a year until I was having lunch with a friend whom mentioned he was considering hitching up with the Coast Guard. Where I'm from, sadly, there's not much opportunity to grow career-wise, unless you're born into a thriving family business that's been established for a few generations. Just about everyone else shuffles off to the mills or to some sort of local government service (clerk gigs at the court house, say).
So hearing about this idea to join the Coast Guard was intriguing. But truth be told I had already been kicking around the idea of joining with the military anyway. I had seen a few other recruiters but had been scared off by the high pressure sales tactics they were employing at the time:
"I can get you guarenteed whatever job you want! I can get you an 80,000 dollar bonus! Sign up a friend and get an additional 20K!" That last one still sticks in my mind whenever I look at our bills.
So I joined the CG due to it's low pressure pitch. I shipped about a month after signing some papers and then found myself in a small unit of 20 guys and girls, rather isolated and miserable.
I ultimately left the CG because I wasn't satisfied with what I was doing. Advancement was tough, MOS schools were stacked with multiple-year-long waiting lists... I knew I could be doing more. Then, last February the CG was told to trim it's operational staff to save some budget room.
Little known fact: The United States Coast Guard operates on a budget that is literally a fraction of the size of one Pentagon-backed missile program. Given all the jobs and tasks the CG does, that's remarkable.
But yeah, they wanted to cut personnel and they floated this option that if you wanted to get out, you could. All you had to do was ask.
So I spoke it over with Jill, who was also tired of being where we were and where I was with the CG. She desperately wanted me to go be a Marine, whereas I wanted to be a military officer (not really branch specific), so it was a nice compromise. I started putting the wheels in motion.
The Marines said, without really saying it, that I was 'too old.' I'm going to be 29 in about a month, I run a 1330 2 mile, can do about a 100 push ups in a minute, and my stomach resembles what most men keep in their refrigerators, (a six-pack, dummy.) and I'm considered "too old" to be a Marine.
There's a funny aside here, actually.... when I met with the Marine OCS recruiter they had that stupid pull-up bar in their office. If you've ever been inside of a USMC recruiting office, they all have it. Marine Red, about 8 feet up off the deck. We got to talking about my age, and the PT requirements, and I mouthed off that I could do "at least" twenty-five pull ups, right here, right now.
The Marine recruiter blinked at me. I smiled.
So the jacket came off, sleeves rolled up. Now, normally I do about fifty of these in the gym, five sets of ten... crushing out 25 in one shot shouldn't be that big of a deal...
Only I was told that it had to be full extension, dead-hangs, with limited grip. I got 13. Lesson learned.
So I scrapped that plan, with the Marines. The next best bet (but not second best, mind you) was the US Army.
Remember when I said I had been scared off by their high-pressure sales tactics? Yeah, I was still going to face that.
I walked down to the local recruiting depot and asked if they recruited for OCS from that location. They said they did, only, this fat, pasty-faced fucking prick spent two hours trying to get me to enlist all over again. At one point he asked if I read the names of the dead when soldiers were killed over in Iraq and Afghanistan. I said "no, not really."
"But do you notice their ranks?"
"Yeah, they're all junior enlisted..." I say.
"Right! They're over there in the shit, man!"
"I don't see how this is helping your argument, Sgt..."
I was stupid enough to let this guy handle my case packet for about two weeks, after which time, (and numerous unreturned phone and email messages) I dumped him for another recruiting depot some 150 miles away. These guys have been pros.
So once the ball was rolling enough, I Opted Out of the CG with a lot of well wishes. I was pretty well liked by my unit and it showed. I got some really nice letters of recommendation from two of my COs from that unit.
But then we, Jill and I, found ourselves cast out of Eden as it were. No longer did we have the protection of being government employees, with all the health care coverage and monthly rent check.
Savings were purged, phone calls to the VA were made. I opted to sign up for classes at my local community college just to get a housing stipend from the Post 9/11 GI Bill. Jill still doesn't have health insurance coverage, and she needs it the most.
Here's to hoping, and this is what takes us to the present. This transitional period we find ourselves in, with all the uncertainties that come with it.
As of right now, I have an OCS Board date scheduled for Nov 1st. This is one day after not only my 29th birthday, but my first ever marathon. I like to think that I'll have 26.2 miles of running to think about what they're going to ask me on the board.
So this blog, .... this blog is a real-time chronicle of what Jill and I are going through, from the mundanities [sic] of our daily lives dealing with government bureaucracies and local institutes of higher learning, to the petty bullshit that I'm sure most of you, the reader, will identify with.
Oh, and I'll never, not once, apologize for the language in the posts. Sorry, but... I like to say F and S a lot. I serve my country, I'm forced to hurry up and wait. I can say shit and fuck if I want to.
The overall concept is that you're rushing to get someplace, only to wait there once you've arrived. This is applicable to civilian life as well as life in the military. I can give you a bunch of personal examples, but instead let's start this whole thing off from where it would be most appropriate: the beginning.
For just about three years I was enlisted as an E3 in the United States Coast Guard. If you know nothing about how the military works (and if you're reading this, you're probably one of our friends, which means you DO in fact know how the military works) an E3 is relatively low in the pecking order. None so much truer than in the Guardians of Our Coasts.
Don't get me wrong: The Coast Guard is a wonderful organization and they do a hard job with little in the way of real-deal actual militaristic respect. In the hierarchy of the US Military, the Coast Guard ranks somewhere between National Park Rangers and NOAA.
I initially enlisted because I was bored, which I think is a reasonable enough excuse to sign your life up to be considered government property for a span of no less than four years (unless you find yourself in my case, and OptOut early... more on that later). I previously was a cop in a small town in the Northeast United States, have a Bachelor's degree from a pretty decent school... etc etc.
But like I said, I was bored. I had a falling out with my police department and I kinda bounced around for about a year until I was having lunch with a friend whom mentioned he was considering hitching up with the Coast Guard. Where I'm from, sadly, there's not much opportunity to grow career-wise, unless you're born into a thriving family business that's been established for a few generations. Just about everyone else shuffles off to the mills or to some sort of local government service (clerk gigs at the court house, say).
So hearing about this idea to join the Coast Guard was intriguing. But truth be told I had already been kicking around the idea of joining with the military anyway. I had seen a few other recruiters but had been scared off by the high pressure sales tactics they were employing at the time:
"I can get you guarenteed whatever job you want! I can get you an 80,000 dollar bonus! Sign up a friend and get an additional 20K!" That last one still sticks in my mind whenever I look at our bills.
So I joined the CG due to it's low pressure pitch. I shipped about a month after signing some papers and then found myself in a small unit of 20 guys and girls, rather isolated and miserable.
I ultimately left the CG because I wasn't satisfied with what I was doing. Advancement was tough, MOS schools were stacked with multiple-year-long waiting lists... I knew I could be doing more. Then, last February the CG was told to trim it's operational staff to save some budget room.
Little known fact: The United States Coast Guard operates on a budget that is literally a fraction of the size of one Pentagon-backed missile program. Given all the jobs and tasks the CG does, that's remarkable.
But yeah, they wanted to cut personnel and they floated this option that if you wanted to get out, you could. All you had to do was ask.
So I spoke it over with Jill, who was also tired of being where we were and where I was with the CG. She desperately wanted me to go be a Marine, whereas I wanted to be a military officer (not really branch specific), so it was a nice compromise. I started putting the wheels in motion.
The Marines said, without really saying it, that I was 'too old.' I'm going to be 29 in about a month, I run a 1330 2 mile, can do about a 100 push ups in a minute, and my stomach resembles what most men keep in their refrigerators, (a six-pack, dummy.) and I'm considered "too old" to be a Marine.
There's a funny aside here, actually.... when I met with the Marine OCS recruiter they had that stupid pull-up bar in their office. If you've ever been inside of a USMC recruiting office, they all have it. Marine Red, about 8 feet up off the deck. We got to talking about my age, and the PT requirements, and I mouthed off that I could do "at least" twenty-five pull ups, right here, right now.
The Marine recruiter blinked at me. I smiled.
So the jacket came off, sleeves rolled up. Now, normally I do about fifty of these in the gym, five sets of ten... crushing out 25 in one shot shouldn't be that big of a deal...
Only I was told that it had to be full extension, dead-hangs, with limited grip. I got 13. Lesson learned.
So I scrapped that plan, with the Marines. The next best bet (but not second best, mind you) was the US Army.
Remember when I said I had been scared off by their high-pressure sales tactics? Yeah, I was still going to face that.
I walked down to the local recruiting depot and asked if they recruited for OCS from that location. They said they did, only, this fat, pasty-faced fucking prick spent two hours trying to get me to enlist all over again. At one point he asked if I read the names of the dead when soldiers were killed over in Iraq and Afghanistan. I said "no, not really."
"But do you notice their ranks?"
"Yeah, they're all junior enlisted..." I say.
"Right! They're over there in the shit, man!"
"I don't see how this is helping your argument, Sgt..."
I was stupid enough to let this guy handle my case packet for about two weeks, after which time, (and numerous unreturned phone and email messages) I dumped him for another recruiting depot some 150 miles away. These guys have been pros.
So once the ball was rolling enough, I Opted Out of the CG with a lot of well wishes. I was pretty well liked by my unit and it showed. I got some really nice letters of recommendation from two of my COs from that unit.
But then we, Jill and I, found ourselves cast out of Eden as it were. No longer did we have the protection of being government employees, with all the health care coverage and monthly rent check.
Savings were purged, phone calls to the VA were made. I opted to sign up for classes at my local community college just to get a housing stipend from the Post 9/11 GI Bill. Jill still doesn't have health insurance coverage, and she needs it the most.
Here's to hoping, and this is what takes us to the present. This transitional period we find ourselves in, with all the uncertainties that come with it.
As of right now, I have an OCS Board date scheduled for Nov 1st. This is one day after not only my 29th birthday, but my first ever marathon. I like to think that I'll have 26.2 miles of running to think about what they're going to ask me on the board.
So this blog, .... this blog is a real-time chronicle of what Jill and I are going through, from the mundanities [sic] of our daily lives dealing with government bureaucracies and local institutes of higher learning, to the petty bullshit that I'm sure most of you, the reader, will identify with.
Oh, and I'll never, not once, apologize for the language in the posts. Sorry, but... I like to say F and S a lot. I serve my country, I'm forced to hurry up and wait. I can say shit and fuck if I want to.
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