It's been a while since I've had anything blog worthy to share, but this is a story too rich to keep to myself. This is a true story ... it really happened. And the names and locations have not been changed to protect the innocent.
I talked to my friend Tab today. She lives in the little town of Hermitage, Arkansas, population 750. Hermitage is waaaaaaaay down in Southern Arkansas, out in the country.
Tab has a dear friend who is a home healthcare nurse. She cares for many different kinds of people from different walks of life. One of the people she cares for is a young man with Down's Syndrome who's living on his own. She checks in on him during the week, but on the weekends, this young man is on his own.
Well, he called the nurse on Saturday, a bit upset. He told her that she needed to come out there. He said he had a "troll" in his closet. He even repeated it ... "there is a troll in my closet."
Now, seeing as they live out in the country, she figured that a mouse - or even a squirrel - had gotten in and was rustlin' around in the closet, makin' noise and that it had scared him. She told him she'd be there on Monday and not to worry about it - it would be okay.
Well ... he called back this morning, more frantic than yesterday, and told her that there was still a "troll" in his closet and that she needed to get right out there. So the nurse and her husband loaded into the car and took a ride out to his home, positive they'd be able to chase away whatever had scared him, calm his fears and be on their way.
When they arrived, they realized how wrong they were. They arrived to find the young man in his home, with all of his furniture piled up against the closet door and his sitting up against it. As they got closer, they heard hollering and yelling from inside the closet and realized there was someone in there.
It turns out that the young man with Down's Syndrome had never seen a little person before. The day prior was a day of ministering for some visiting Jehovah's Witnesses. The one who chose to visit this house happened to be a little person Jehovah's Witness. The young man, confused as to what he was seeing, tackled the little person off the porch, carried him into the house and locked him in the closet - sure that he had a troll in his home.
The nurse and her husband moved the furniture and freed the little person, who then called in the local Sherriff, wanting to press charges. But every time the young man saw the little person, he would get terrified all over again and freak out, and they'd have to take him away again. And every time the little person saw this, he would get upset again, because he had ... well, because he'd been tackled off someone's porch and locked in their closet in a little town in Southern Arkansas for more than 12 hours, all the while being yelled at for being a troll.
I'm not sure who I feel sorrier for right now, to be honest. And I'm pretty sure that I'm a bad, bad person for laughing almost uncontrollably as I pictured this entire scene play out in my head. Can you imagine the poor horrified look on the nurse’s face when she realized it wasn’t just a rat in the closet? Can you imagine what must have been going through the head of the local Sherriff (who I imagine to look like Sherriff Rosco Coltrane from the original Dukes of Hazard!)?
I had two thoughts, almost simultaneously. 1) Who knew being a Jehovah's Witness was a dangerous job? And 2) Only in Arkansas ... only in Arkansas!
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The joys of parenting ... Colin (A pretty poopy tale)
Have I mentioned I want to write a book? I intend to title it "Vodka, Valium and Parenting with Duct Tape: My Stories from the Front..." The only thing that really qualifies me to write such a book is that I'm the mother of, well, as MY mother put it, two children I deserve.
I've heard God doesn't give you more than you can handle. It seems He has an immense amount of faith in my patience, then. At least when He gave me these children, He also bestowed upon me the wickedly morbid sense of humor necessary to go with them.
Last night, I walked into my house after work, looked around and was amazed at the amount of destruction one 14 year old boy can wreak in one normal day. A little frustrated and a little resigned, I decided it was time to clean. Not straighten, but clean. That kind of cleaning usually reserved for Saturdays - just prior to a visit from your in-laws.
I am in my boys' bathroom, scrubbing it from top to bottom. I have the music on, the fan going and the door shut. I'm on my hands and knees, taking a Magic Eraser to the floor, when Colin knocks. As not to get whacked in the booty with the door, I shout "Do NOT come in!" and he doesn't say a word.
I finish the floor, wash my hands and walk out to find my 9 year old on the couch, talking on the phone. He says "Mom - it's for you ... I think it's your work or something." I automatically look at the caller ID and see two things that cause my heart to sink a little. The first is that Colin has been on the phone for 5 minutes and 18 seconds. The second is the number is listed as the Little Rock Air Force Base Command Post.
A little Air Force 101 -- the command post provides command, control, communications and information support to a wing or base. They're our eyes and ears in a way. So when there is information to pass on, they're the ones who pass it. As I am the "on call PA" this week, they were passing said information to me.
A typical conversation with a command post controller lasts no more than two minutes. That two minutes is generous and accounts for such situations as: one party on the line has a poor grasp of the English language, there is a bad connection or there is just an inordinate amount of information to pass. To see that Colin had held them on the line for more than five minutes gave me palpitations.
I took the phone and heard what I thought was an emotional controller pass me information I barely understood. I feared the poor guy was crying (and it's possible he was) and we were off the line in less than 30 seconds. I wasn't even entirely sure what he was trying to articulate.
So I turned to Colin and said "Hmmmm ... what did you say on the phone?"
His answer may very well be the reason the controller was in tears. His earnest little face looked up at me and out of his mouth came:
"Well, I knocked and you said don't come in. I thought maybe it was a sales guy but then he said it was about work. I told him you were in the bathroom and I didn't know how long you'd be. I said I thought maybe you were pooping, because you didn't let me come in and you were in there a long time..."
Followed by:
"So I told him, sometimes it takes a long time to poop. Like when I have to go - and I let him know I sometimes call it 'dropping bombs' - sometimes it's fast and you're out like that, and sometimes you have to stay in there and really think about it. So I told him maybe you were thinking about it."
And:
"But I told him I heard you washing your hands - which is a good mom - and that I thought you were done but I didn't hear you flush. He was laughing a lot at me mom. I think he thought it was funny that maybe you didn't flush...."
I can't promise many things in life, but I can guarantee you two things at this very instant. One - all command post conversations are recorded. Therefore, the controller and Colin were not the only two people to have heard it. I am fairly certain it has been replayed many, many times since it occurred. And my other guarantee? From now on, any time someone doesn't answer a command post call on the first two rings, it will just be assumed that they, too, are pooping.
Does anyone want to start the wager on just how long it might be before I have a new nickname around my wing? I think the safe money is that my name has actually now become a euphemism for a bodily function.
Ahhhhh.... 58 days until I can legally change my name!
Mom - what did I ever do to deserve THIS?
I've heard God doesn't give you more than you can handle. It seems He has an immense amount of faith in my patience, then. At least when He gave me these children, He also bestowed upon me the wickedly morbid sense of humor necessary to go with them.
Last night, I walked into my house after work, looked around and was amazed at the amount of destruction one 14 year old boy can wreak in one normal day. A little frustrated and a little resigned, I decided it was time to clean. Not straighten, but clean. That kind of cleaning usually reserved for Saturdays - just prior to a visit from your in-laws.
I am in my boys' bathroom, scrubbing it from top to bottom. I have the music on, the fan going and the door shut. I'm on my hands and knees, taking a Magic Eraser to the floor, when Colin knocks. As not to get whacked in the booty with the door, I shout "Do NOT come in!" and he doesn't say a word.
I finish the floor, wash my hands and walk out to find my 9 year old on the couch, talking on the phone. He says "Mom - it's for you ... I think it's your work or something." I automatically look at the caller ID and see two things that cause my heart to sink a little. The first is that Colin has been on the phone for 5 minutes and 18 seconds. The second is the number is listed as the Little Rock Air Force Base Command Post.
A little Air Force 101 -- the command post provides command, control, communications and information support to a wing or base. They're our eyes and ears in a way. So when there is information to pass on, they're the ones who pass it. As I am the "on call PA" this week, they were passing said information to me.
A typical conversation with a command post controller lasts no more than two minutes. That two minutes is generous and accounts for such situations as: one party on the line has a poor grasp of the English language, there is a bad connection or there is just an inordinate amount of information to pass. To see that Colin had held them on the line for more than five minutes gave me palpitations.
I took the phone and heard what I thought was an emotional controller pass me information I barely understood. I feared the poor guy was crying (and it's possible he was) and we were off the line in less than 30 seconds. I wasn't even entirely sure what he was trying to articulate.
So I turned to Colin and said "Hmmmm ... what did you say on the phone?"
His answer may very well be the reason the controller was in tears. His earnest little face looked up at me and out of his mouth came:
"Well, I knocked and you said don't come in. I thought maybe it was a sales guy but then he said it was about work. I told him you were in the bathroom and I didn't know how long you'd be. I said I thought maybe you were pooping, because you didn't let me come in and you were in there a long time..."
Followed by:
"So I told him, sometimes it takes a long time to poop. Like when I have to go - and I let him know I sometimes call it 'dropping bombs' - sometimes it's fast and you're out like that, and sometimes you have to stay in there and really think about it. So I told him maybe you were thinking about it."
And:
"But I told him I heard you washing your hands - which is a good mom - and that I thought you were done but I didn't hear you flush. He was laughing a lot at me mom. I think he thought it was funny that maybe you didn't flush...."
I can't promise many things in life, but I can guarantee you two things at this very instant. One - all command post conversations are recorded. Therefore, the controller and Colin were not the only two people to have heard it. I am fairly certain it has been replayed many, many times since it occurred. And my other guarantee? From now on, any time someone doesn't answer a command post call on the first two rings, it will just be assumed that they, too, are pooping.
Does anyone want to start the wager on just how long it might be before I have a new nickname around my wing? I think the safe money is that my name has actually now become a euphemism for a bodily function.
Ahhhhh.... 58 days until I can legally change my name!
Mom - what did I ever do to deserve THIS?
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Stimulate the economy - buy Girl Scout Cookies!
It's that time of year again! Visit your local mall, Wal*Mart or Department of Motor Vehicles and you'll see them. They come in all shapes and sizes - those little darlings in the brown skirts and green sashes hocking their wares. They're the Girl Scouts of America and they have cookies! Once a year, for a few remarkable weeks, they will even bring their delicious treats right to your front door!
You're thinking, "Me? Girl Scout Cookies? I can't...I'm on a diet!" But hush! I was behind you in the McDonald's drive-thru not but three days ago and you weren't worried about your diet then! Or, you're thinking "$3.50 for a box of cookies? That's just too steep!" But Octomom can afford a new set of pink and white nails every two weeks and SHE has 14 children under the age of seven. Wait, wait, I forgot. Octomom is straight slap-ass crazy, so she might not be the best example, but still! $3.50 for a box of cookies is a STEAL considering that not even a year ago, you were paying upward of $4 PER GALLON for gas and still making those twice-weekly jaunts across town to get to...none other than McDonald's (I know, I was there, remember?)
When you think about it, the timing might not be remarkable, but it is certainly fortuitous. I don't believe it's sheer coincidence that annual Girl Scout Cookie sales coincide with federal tax returns. Uncle Sugar drops a few Benjamins into your BofA account and you're set to buy at least two beautiful green boxes of the Thin Mints.
Since we're on the topic of Thin Mints, I must add that they are, in a way, an investment in your future. Toss a sleeve in the door of the freezer and they'll keep right on through summer. Then, when you're haggard from a long day of work and need just a little something cool and minty to take the edge off, you can open the door and they'll be there to greet you. Your brain will scream "Get in my belly!" and the next thing you know, you'll be standing there with the freezer door ajar, cold blast of air hitting you in the face, crumbs down your shirt and nothing but a cellophane sheath as evidence to the dozen little chocolatey discs you just housed when no one was looking! But the great news about Thin Mints? As long as they're consumed while standing up, only half the calories stick. An added bonus? If you eat them by nothing but the dim light illuminating from under the stove hood, the calories don't count at all!
You have the chance to improve the sales skills of little street peddlers everywhere, put money back in your local economy AND (gentlemen, this is for you) the opportunity to save your marriage by placing a Samoa in your mouth rather than the foot you would usually place there.
Girl Scout Cookies are a win-win, really. I suggest you head out tomorrow and snap up a few boxes before it's too late. Please - I implore you! I'll be honest - this blog is a blatant attempt to assuage my guilt over the disgusting amount of cookies that MIGHT have made their way past my lips and down my gullet in the past few weeks. However, there's no need to actually discuss THAT. We'll just readdress the fact that in today's failing economy, it's your civic responsibility as good, decent Americans to place your hard earned wages back into American ingenuity.
So buy the cookies already, dang it. The future of our nation is depending on it!
You're thinking, "Me? Girl Scout Cookies? I can't...I'm on a diet!" But hush! I was behind you in the McDonald's drive-thru not but three days ago and you weren't worried about your diet then! Or, you're thinking "$3.50 for a box of cookies? That's just too steep!" But Octomom can afford a new set of pink and white nails every two weeks and SHE has 14 children under the age of seven. Wait, wait, I forgot. Octomom is straight slap-ass crazy, so she might not be the best example, but still! $3.50 for a box of cookies is a STEAL considering that not even a year ago, you were paying upward of $4 PER GALLON for gas and still making those twice-weekly jaunts across town to get to...none other than McDonald's (I know, I was there, remember?)
When you think about it, the timing might not be remarkable, but it is certainly fortuitous. I don't believe it's sheer coincidence that annual Girl Scout Cookie sales coincide with federal tax returns. Uncle Sugar drops a few Benjamins into your BofA account and you're set to buy at least two beautiful green boxes of the Thin Mints.
Since we're on the topic of Thin Mints, I must add that they are, in a way, an investment in your future. Toss a sleeve in the door of the freezer and they'll keep right on through summer. Then, when you're haggard from a long day of work and need just a little something cool and minty to take the edge off, you can open the door and they'll be there to greet you. Your brain will scream "Get in my belly!" and the next thing you know, you'll be standing there with the freezer door ajar, cold blast of air hitting you in the face, crumbs down your shirt and nothing but a cellophane sheath as evidence to the dozen little chocolatey discs you just housed when no one was looking! But the great news about Thin Mints? As long as they're consumed while standing up, only half the calories stick. An added bonus? If you eat them by nothing but the dim light illuminating from under the stove hood, the calories don't count at all!
You have the chance to improve the sales skills of little street peddlers everywhere, put money back in your local economy AND (gentlemen, this is for you) the opportunity to save your marriage by placing a Samoa in your mouth rather than the foot you would usually place there.
Girl Scout Cookies are a win-win, really. I suggest you head out tomorrow and snap up a few boxes before it's too late. Please - I implore you! I'll be honest - this blog is a blatant attempt to assuage my guilt over the disgusting amount of cookies that MIGHT have made their way past my lips and down my gullet in the past few weeks. However, there's no need to actually discuss THAT. We'll just readdress the fact that in today's failing economy, it's your civic responsibility as good, decent Americans to place your hard earned wages back into American ingenuity.
So buy the cookies already, dang it. The future of our nation is depending on it!
Monday, March 2, 2009
I got sucked in...and spit right back out!
You need not be a reality television watcher to read what follows. It might actually behoove you to be disgusted with "reality" shows. Just don't say you don't watch. A recent article posted by MSNBC claims that four out of five Americans believe there is "too much reality TV" on. This is fascinating, seeing as a separate study says four out of five people tune in to some form of reality TV - from Jon and Kate Plus 8 to Survivor to Rock of Love Bus 3 - each week. And while I'd like to believe that you're all very special people, the odds are slim that each of you is that 1/5 of the population!
I am a self-proclaimed reality television whore. I will tune in to just about any show that features some form of competition, drama and upset - hence my addiction to the Scripps National Spelling Bee!
I wasn't "in" to the Bachelor. I haven't tuned in since Krista and Ryan rode off into the sunset. I didn't feel as if I was missing much. Then, at the (very subtle) urgings of Jennifer Christman and good friend Amy Schlesing, I found myself on my couch, Ben & Jerry's in one hand (still in the cardboard it came in), a large serving spoon in the other, catching up on the life of "Jason" and the veritable smorgasbord of beauties paraded out for him to sample in season 13.
Sample he did. Jason bored me, yet I kept on watching - for two weeks. And then promptly forgot about it all...until tonight. I came in just in time for "...After The Rose," the show which follows the last Bachelor "rose ceremony." This is where Jason is supposed to parade his bride-to-be out on stage and share his joy with all who care to see it.
But this is where it all goes wrong. I won't bore you with the details - here are the Cliff Notes: Jason dumps Molly and proposes to Melissa. Then, in the blink of any eye, Jason comes to the set, dumps Melissa and asks Molly for a second chance.
My first clue that this entire show was contrived was the lack of audience. Tickets for this "live" show should have been on sale MONTHS ago. No plot twist in the world should have kept the crowd out. But alas, no adoring fans to share the love. Next was Melissa's attitude as she clomped on stage. She, according to producers, had no idea this was coming. She thought all was well. Yet she showed up with hostility. Jason dumps her, she returns the ring and off she goes without a fight - conveniently all between commercial interruptions.
Now this is where the show completely jumped the shark (thank you Amy) and I knew I'd been had!
Next in is Molly. She comes in as gleeful as can be. The back story is that she and Jason haven't spoken in the months since he "dumped" her on national TV in order to propose to Melissa. For all intents and purposes, she should have been bitter. Really. Let's be honest - hell really hath no fury like a woman scorned. A woman scorned in front of 20 million fans should be plotting arson much in the way Lisa "Left-Eye" Lopes torched then-boyfriend Andre Rison’s home. But not this little nugget. She all but skipped on that stage.
Jason didn't ask for her hand in marriage. Instead, he tells her the news of his seconds-old breakup with Melissa, she feigns surprise and THEN - he asks her out for coffee! "I know I broke your heart and embarrassed you in front of millions of people you'll never meet, but I dumped the woman to whom I professed my love. Would you like to hit up Starbucks?"
This is the problem with America. It seems Molly never received her copy of "He's NOT That In To You." She said she "dreamed of this night" for months. And now, through the creative scripting of "reality" television, her wish has come true.
How are we to explain to future generations of girls that fairy tales DON'T come true when ABC carefully crafts a show that "proves" otherwise? "Yes honey, I know the man you 'love' left you for another woman, but don't you worry your pretty little head. He'll come right back once he sees that you were SOOOOOOOOOO much better than her all along."
If you want REALity television, toss a helmet cam on me and let's go. Better yet, wire my house and watch as I try day after day to ensure my boys don't burn the structure down when I'm not looking. I have every element you could possibly want - I'm broke, I'm a single mom, I go to war, I go to school, and occasionally, I even go to church. My kids are Catholic, my sister's Jewish. My parents live in an RV full-time. My grandparents live in a trailer park (albeit it, a double wide in an adult-living community). Hey, I even own a bulldog! I have humor (watch me drive!), cliffhangers (how close can I push the electric bill before paying it this month?), intrigue (I can scheme with the best of them), drama (watch my ex-husband and I plan a birthday party for our 8 year old some time). And again, you might get a chance to see my boys burn the house down when I'm not looking!
I may be late to this party, but today is the day I final realized the only "real" thing about reality television is the people who watch. And we REALLY need to get lives!
I am a self-proclaimed reality television whore. I will tune in to just about any show that features some form of competition, drama and upset - hence my addiction to the Scripps National Spelling Bee!
I wasn't "in" to the Bachelor. I haven't tuned in since Krista and Ryan rode off into the sunset. I didn't feel as if I was missing much. Then, at the (very subtle) urgings of Jennifer Christman and good friend Amy Schlesing, I found myself on my couch, Ben & Jerry's in one hand (still in the cardboard it came in), a large serving spoon in the other, catching up on the life of "Jason" and the veritable smorgasbord of beauties paraded out for him to sample in season 13.
Sample he did. Jason bored me, yet I kept on watching - for two weeks. And then promptly forgot about it all...until tonight. I came in just in time for "...After The Rose," the show which follows the last Bachelor "rose ceremony." This is where Jason is supposed to parade his bride-to-be out on stage and share his joy with all who care to see it.
But this is where it all goes wrong. I won't bore you with the details - here are the Cliff Notes: Jason dumps Molly and proposes to Melissa. Then, in the blink of any eye, Jason comes to the set, dumps Melissa and asks Molly for a second chance.
My first clue that this entire show was contrived was the lack of audience. Tickets for this "live" show should have been on sale MONTHS ago. No plot twist in the world should have kept the crowd out. But alas, no adoring fans to share the love. Next was Melissa's attitude as she clomped on stage. She, according to producers, had no idea this was coming. She thought all was well. Yet she showed up with hostility. Jason dumps her, she returns the ring and off she goes without a fight - conveniently all between commercial interruptions.
Now this is where the show completely jumped the shark (thank you Amy) and I knew I'd been had!
Next in is Molly. She comes in as gleeful as can be. The back story is that she and Jason haven't spoken in the months since he "dumped" her on national TV in order to propose to Melissa. For all intents and purposes, she should have been bitter. Really. Let's be honest - hell really hath no fury like a woman scorned. A woman scorned in front of 20 million fans should be plotting arson much in the way Lisa "Left-Eye" Lopes torched then-boyfriend Andre Rison’s home. But not this little nugget. She all but skipped on that stage.
Jason didn't ask for her hand in marriage. Instead, he tells her the news of his seconds-old breakup with Melissa, she feigns surprise and THEN - he asks her out for coffee! "I know I broke your heart and embarrassed you in front of millions of people you'll never meet, but I dumped the woman to whom I professed my love. Would you like to hit up Starbucks?"
This is the problem with America. It seems Molly never received her copy of "He's NOT That In To You." She said she "dreamed of this night" for months. And now, through the creative scripting of "reality" television, her wish has come true.
How are we to explain to future generations of girls that fairy tales DON'T come true when ABC carefully crafts a show that "proves" otherwise? "Yes honey, I know the man you 'love' left you for another woman, but don't you worry your pretty little head. He'll come right back once he sees that you were SOOOOOOOOOO much better than her all along."
If you want REALity television, toss a helmet cam on me and let's go. Better yet, wire my house and watch as I try day after day to ensure my boys don't burn the structure down when I'm not looking. I have every element you could possibly want - I'm broke, I'm a single mom, I go to war, I go to school, and occasionally, I even go to church. My kids are Catholic, my sister's Jewish. My parents live in an RV full-time. My grandparents live in a trailer park (albeit it, a double wide in an adult-living community). Hey, I even own a bulldog! I have humor (watch me drive!), cliffhangers (how close can I push the electric bill before paying it this month?), intrigue (I can scheme with the best of them), drama (watch my ex-husband and I plan a birthday party for our 8 year old some time). And again, you might get a chance to see my boys burn the house down when I'm not looking!
I may be late to this party, but today is the day I final realized the only "real" thing about reality television is the people who watch. And we REALLY need to get lives!
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
I need a doctor. Can you recommend someone to remove my freak magnet?
This blog may not be for the squeamish or the weak. No, it won't involve gore or actual violence. No one died in the making of this blog. But it can be said that anyone who has been stalked, has a fear of being stalked or knows someone who's met someone creepy may find their skin crawling by the end.
Here's the scene. It's a sunny Saturday in central Arkansas. I'm planning to pay homage to the mild weather by grilling steaks and enjoying fresh vegetables. I head out to the Kroger, a chain grocery story popular in the mid-south, dressed in a long-sleeved Diesel t-shirt, some Lucky jeans and my trusty flip-flops.
I'm in the produce section when a man I peg as 40ish strolls by with his cart. He gives me the upstairs/downstairs and then stops, backs up a step, leers at me and says "This is my favorite time of year - when toes come out of hibernation. I love seeing pretty feet on a pretty lady."
Inside, I can feel myself cringe. However, my father taught me young the art of graciously accepting a compliment. So I make the tragic mistake of smiling and saying nothing more than "thank you." The "gentleman" (we'll use that term loosely) walks away. About two minutes later, as I'm perusing the selection of fresh fruit, he returns.
Before I can utter a single word, he says "I'm sorry if I offended you a minute ago. It's just that I have a foot fetish. I really love feet and yours are nice."
Without waiting for me to respond and barely taking a breath himself, he plows forward, saying "I don't know if you're in to toe rings, but I know this woman in Greenbrier. She makes fitted toe rings, custom to you. But the thing about a fitted toe ring? The only way to get them off is to suck them off...."
And THEN........... "I'd be more than happy to suck your toes for you...."
EXCUSE ME? What? You have GOT to be kidding me. Did you REALLY just offer to SUCK MY TOES????
I had to turn away to keep from dry heaving onto the strawberries. I could barely hold my composure long enough to say "I'm sorry, I'm not interested." I wanted to punch him in the throat with a pomegranate but we've discussed my belief that I'm too pretty for prison, so I restrained myself.
He gives me a bit of a huff and leaves. I'm so flustered right now that I can't really continue shopping. Produce is the first section in Kroger and I don't really have it in me to carry on. I grab a few various sundry items and head for the self checkout, desperate to just get out of the store. I'm hopeful I have a full hot water tank at home because I feel the overwhelming urge to take a shower akin to the one in the movie "Crying Game."
I am partway through scanning my items when I realize that he's back! He stalks up to me and loudly says "You know, if you don't want people to proposition you, you really shouldn't dress up to come to the Kroger!"
First, isn't "proposition" a word usually reserved for johns being featured on Cops during prostitution ring busts? And more importantly, where on God's green earth does jeans and flip-flops constitute as dressing up????
I actually asked the poor kid working the check out lanes to push my basket to my car - and I only had two bags of food!
So I ask you - can anyone recommend a good M.D.? It seems that my freak magnet is back and stronger than ever. I'm seeking a way to have it removed!
Here's the scene. It's a sunny Saturday in central Arkansas. I'm planning to pay homage to the mild weather by grilling steaks and enjoying fresh vegetables. I head out to the Kroger, a chain grocery story popular in the mid-south, dressed in a long-sleeved Diesel t-shirt, some Lucky jeans and my trusty flip-flops.
I'm in the produce section when a man I peg as 40ish strolls by with his cart. He gives me the upstairs/downstairs and then stops, backs up a step, leers at me and says "This is my favorite time of year - when toes come out of hibernation. I love seeing pretty feet on a pretty lady."
Inside, I can feel myself cringe. However, my father taught me young the art of graciously accepting a compliment. So I make the tragic mistake of smiling and saying nothing more than "thank you." The "gentleman" (we'll use that term loosely) walks away. About two minutes later, as I'm perusing the selection of fresh fruit, he returns.
Before I can utter a single word, he says "I'm sorry if I offended you a minute ago. It's just that I have a foot fetish. I really love feet and yours are nice."
Without waiting for me to respond and barely taking a breath himself, he plows forward, saying "I don't know if you're in to toe rings, but I know this woman in Greenbrier. She makes fitted toe rings, custom to you. But the thing about a fitted toe ring? The only way to get them off is to suck them off...."
And THEN........... "I'd be more than happy to suck your toes for you...."
EXCUSE ME? What? You have GOT to be kidding me. Did you REALLY just offer to SUCK MY TOES????
I had to turn away to keep from dry heaving onto the strawberries. I could barely hold my composure long enough to say "I'm sorry, I'm not interested." I wanted to punch him in the throat with a pomegranate but we've discussed my belief that I'm too pretty for prison, so I restrained myself.
He gives me a bit of a huff and leaves. I'm so flustered right now that I can't really continue shopping. Produce is the first section in Kroger and I don't really have it in me to carry on. I grab a few various sundry items and head for the self checkout, desperate to just get out of the store. I'm hopeful I have a full hot water tank at home because I feel the overwhelming urge to take a shower akin to the one in the movie "Crying Game."
I am partway through scanning my items when I realize that he's back! He stalks up to me and loudly says "You know, if you don't want people to proposition you, you really shouldn't dress up to come to the Kroger!"
First, isn't "proposition" a word usually reserved for johns being featured on Cops during prostitution ring busts? And more importantly, where on God's green earth does jeans and flip-flops constitute as dressing up????
I actually asked the poor kid working the check out lanes to push my basket to my car - and I only had two bags of food!
So I ask you - can anyone recommend a good M.D.? It seems that my freak magnet is back and stronger than ever. I'm seeking a way to have it removed!
Saturday, January 31, 2009
I can't hate Jennifer Christman
I'll admit it. I'm one of those people who tends to mock, or at the very least, despise that which I can not have. I should hate Jennifer Christman; I really should. But I can't.
Most of you outside of central Arkansas don't know Jennifer. She's the extremely effervescent, award-winning columnist for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. I envy her job in a way that is actually rare for me. It's almost as if the employment Gods looked into the box of life marked "Top 5 Traits for Kati's Dream Job," plucked them right out and papier-mached them into a craft in which Jennifer can now get paid.
First, she's an entertainment reporter. Until now, the phrase "entertainment reporter," evoked images of Siskel and or Ebert in my mind. While I don't have access to any current data, I'm fairly sure it's quite safe to say those two pasty, sweating, balding "entertainment reporters" have never, ever inspired envy. As an entertainment reporter, Jennifer gets paid (legal income which she can report on her 1040) to watch reality TV. I watch reality television on an almost nightly basis and have strong, strong opinions on what I see. Yet no one listens to those opinions, much less pays me to hear them! What's better...if she doesn't like a show - if that show annoys her as much as the rest of us - she can stop watching and announce that she's over it. I'm a quitter - we all know that. To be able to quit something without quilt or fear of reprisal? That is just a little bit of living the dream right there!
On Thursday mornings, because she's not busy enough, she pops on over to B98.5 FM and contributes to a morning spot. It's 6 a.m. on a weekday - the morning after American Idol - and she's on my drivetime radio, as articulate and perky as can be. You've all heard me say more than once howI would relish a reoccurring spot on morning radio. I just know my limits; I know that at 6 am. on Thursday I'm not on the radio because I sound almost akin to Marge Simpson's sisters after a bad night and one too many Pall Mall nonfilters.
When Jennifer isn't getting paid to write and talk about the insipid little brain-trusts on Rock of Love, she's earning cash to eat! Oh yes...she also does restaurant reviews. So she earns a daily wage to write and then has an expense budget to try out new cuisine and it's called work! I pay money to eat on a daily basis. At the end of the day, that food is negative equity. I didn't get paid to eat and had to spend my own money. And I had to do it on my own time. But Jennifer? Oh, she's allowed to announce in her weekly staff meeting that she'll be out for a few hours on any given Tuesday because there is a new tapas house cum Chinese bistro specializing in vegan fare opening in the River Market and she wants to tell the world about it.
Just like all Billy Mays' commercials, where it just seems to good to be true - WAIT, THERE'S MORE! Was anyone besides me horribly unaware that "bar reviews" are considered a valid form of employment? Oh yes. It's true. Ms. Christman has proven there is a market for being a drink guinea pig if you will. Not sure if you'll enjoy the new Angkor Stout out of Cambodia? Thinking about trying Scotland's new Belhaven's Best? Jennifer can tell you all about it. She can detail the color, taste, aroma and "mouth feel" and let you know if you're wasting your time before you drop that $7 a pint. It's just another service she offers. Or rather, just another service she gets paid for.
She's made me see that there is a way to earn your living dissecting the motives of a neurotic 27-year-old on the Bachelor while taste-testing nachos and housing new drinks. And did I mention that she's gorgeous, to boot? If you're going to have the perfect job and a great disposition, isn't it only fair that you should be physically flawed? I thought this was how the universe kept balance. Great job and look like Donald Trump or at the least Steve Jobs. Or, have great hair, delicate features and a winning smile but be forced to toil away 50 hours a week in the Department of Motor Vehicles.
By virtue of my personality, I should vehemently dislike Ms Christman. Instead, I will offer up a robust round of applause and my thanks for proving that there is, indeed, hope for my dreams yet. Jennifer, a tip of the hat to you!
Most of you outside of central Arkansas don't know Jennifer. She's the extremely effervescent, award-winning columnist for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. I envy her job in a way that is actually rare for me. It's almost as if the employment Gods looked into the box of life marked "Top 5 Traits for Kati's Dream Job," plucked them right out and papier-mached them into a craft in which Jennifer can now get paid.
First, she's an entertainment reporter. Until now, the phrase "entertainment reporter," evoked images of Siskel and or Ebert in my mind. While I don't have access to any current data, I'm fairly sure it's quite safe to say those two pasty, sweating, balding "entertainment reporters" have never, ever inspired envy. As an entertainment reporter, Jennifer gets paid (legal income which she can report on her 1040) to watch reality TV. I watch reality television on an almost nightly basis and have strong, strong opinions on what I see. Yet no one listens to those opinions, much less pays me to hear them! What's better...if she doesn't like a show - if that show annoys her as much as the rest of us - she can stop watching and announce that she's over it. I'm a quitter - we all know that. To be able to quit something without quilt or fear of reprisal? That is just a little bit of living the dream right there!
On Thursday mornings, because she's not busy enough, she pops on over to B98.5 FM and contributes to a morning spot. It's 6 a.m. on a weekday - the morning after American Idol - and she's on my drivetime radio, as articulate and perky as can be. You've all heard me say more than once howI would relish a reoccurring spot on morning radio. I just know my limits; I know that at 6 am. on Thursday I'm not on the radio because I sound almost akin to Marge Simpson's sisters after a bad night and one too many Pall Mall nonfilters.
When Jennifer isn't getting paid to write and talk about the insipid little brain-trusts on Rock of Love, she's earning cash to eat! Oh yes...she also does restaurant reviews. So she earns a daily wage to write and then has an expense budget to try out new cuisine and it's called work! I pay money to eat on a daily basis. At the end of the day, that food is negative equity. I didn't get paid to eat and had to spend my own money. And I had to do it on my own time. But Jennifer? Oh, she's allowed to announce in her weekly staff meeting that she'll be out for a few hours on any given Tuesday because there is a new tapas house cum Chinese bistro specializing in vegan fare opening in the River Market and she wants to tell the world about it.
Just like all Billy Mays' commercials, where it just seems to good to be true - WAIT, THERE'S MORE! Was anyone besides me horribly unaware that "bar reviews" are considered a valid form of employment? Oh yes. It's true. Ms. Christman has proven there is a market for being a drink guinea pig if you will. Not sure if you'll enjoy the new Angkor Stout out of Cambodia? Thinking about trying Scotland's new Belhaven's Best? Jennifer can tell you all about it. She can detail the color, taste, aroma and "mouth feel" and let you know if you're wasting your time before you drop that $7 a pint. It's just another service she offers. Or rather, just another service she gets paid for.
She's made me see that there is a way to earn your living dissecting the motives of a neurotic 27-year-old on the Bachelor while taste-testing nachos and housing new drinks. And did I mention that she's gorgeous, to boot? If you're going to have the perfect job and a great disposition, isn't it only fair that you should be physically flawed? I thought this was how the universe kept balance. Great job and look like Donald Trump or at the least Steve Jobs. Or, have great hair, delicate features and a winning smile but be forced to toil away 50 hours a week in the Department of Motor Vehicles.
By virtue of my personality, I should vehemently dislike Ms Christman. Instead, I will offer up a robust round of applause and my thanks for proving that there is, indeed, hope for my dreams yet. Jennifer, a tip of the hat to you!
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Well I'll Be (it's fair food, y'all!)
It is simply amazing to me that I've spent 34 years on this planet and have never been introduced to the wonders of Fair Food! I blame this mostly on a combination of my California upbringing and the refusal of Midwesterners to share these secrets with me. I won't call these finds delicious, but I will admit they have left me in awe.
I took the boys to the 2008 Arkansas State Fair today. I bypassed the Tilt-O-Whirl completely and opted instead for the Tour de Hurl. I scoured the fairgrounds for foods not normally found in nature. I was supposed to visit California next month, but after today's samplings I think my state may revoke my citizenship and turn me away at the airport. Wait, never mind. It's California. They can't keep anyone out. What was I thinking?
I tasted fried Oreos today. They taste exactly like you'd expect. I can't say it was entirely unpleasant. It was just...a deep fried Oreo! They take the tasty sandwich cookie and dunk it in a goo the resembles corn dog batter. Then, the coated cookie gets tossed in the fryer, drained and dusted with powdered sugar. The cookie gets soggy, the filling melts and the dough gets crispy. Through it all, grease drips out and the smell of obesity hangs in the air. It's all a bit odd and off puttin' yet, at the same time, it's a bit decadent.
Here is a look at some of the foods I saw yet didn't try. Let's start with deep fried cheesecake. It's not the first time I've seen it. I've just never seen it outside of a Sonic, or north of the Mason Dixon line. There were four people in line and not one of them was taller than 5' 8" or thinner than 280 so I walked on. I figured it was a bit of foreshadowing.
I'd like to introduce you to "Pig Lickers." I have always said everything is better with cheese,
bacon or butter. Leave it to the good ol' boys at the Arkansas fair to prove me wrong! I give to you deep fried, chocolate covered bacon on a stick. Covered in sprinkles. Sold in sets of three. Come on now! That's too far! If you want to fry pickles, be my guest. Dunk a Twinkie? I won't stop you. But you can't take two of the pure JOYS in life, combine them and then ruin it completely! I'm not even sure that's legal. I can't, for the life of me, figure out the need for the sprinkles, either. That's just overkill! The bacon should already be crispy, so you don't need the added crunch. And if you're tossing 'em on there just to make things festive, you've missed the point. You can't church up cocoa-covered swine!
Lastly, I present to you the winner of the 2008 "Kati W
as Speechless Because of You" award winner. The trophy goes to....the HOT BEEF SUNDAE! Look to the right - there it is, in full color for your enjoyment. I got proof! I don't mean to be crass, but I think "Hot Beef Sundae" should have a "Ron Jeremy Productions" label on it. But alas, it's rated PG.
A "Hot Beef Sundae" is a slab of meat, topped with a scoop of mashed potatoes, covered in gravy and then topped with shredded cheese. It looks just like a hot fudge sundae, but it's really just Sunday dinner in a bowl. It seems harmless once you spell it out, yet I was still repulsed. As soon as you take a main course and slap a desert name on it, I'm out. Willy Wonka tried it once with his three-course meal gum and poor Violet Beauregarde is still in a juicing room somewhere! That is just documented proof that dinner is dinner and desert is desert. They are both great in their own way. There is no need to combine the two. But still, the line for THIS fabulous fair find was at least three times as long as the line for deep fried cheesecake!
I'm going to lace up my Nikes now and get in two miles before the sun sets. While it's true I only tried to Oreo, just writing about everything else has left me feeling bloated and a bit rounded in the rear. I'm going to hit the track just to fend off the deep fried nightmares sure to plague me tonight otherwise!
To be fair though, I am looking forward to the 2009 offerings. I can't wait to see what they'll think of next!
I took the boys to the 2008 Arkansas State Fair today. I bypassed the Tilt-O-Whirl completely and opted instead for the Tour de Hurl. I scoured the fairgrounds for foods not normally found in nature. I was supposed to visit California next month, but after today's samplings I think my state may revoke my citizenship and turn me away at the airport. Wait, never mind. It's California. They can't keep anyone out. What was I thinking?
I tasted fried Oreos today. They taste exactly like you'd expect. I can't say it was entirely unpleasant. It was just...a deep fried Oreo! They take the tasty sandwich cookie and dunk it in a goo the resembles corn dog batter. Then, the coated cookie gets tossed in the fryer, drained and dusted with powdered sugar. The cookie gets soggy, the filling melts and the dough gets crispy. Through it all, grease drips out and the smell of obesity hangs in the air. It's all a bit odd and off puttin' yet, at the same time, it's a bit decadent.
Here is a look at some of the foods I saw yet didn't try. Let's start with deep fried cheesecake. It's not the first time I've seen it. I've just never seen it outside of a Sonic, or north of the Mason Dixon line. There were four people in line and not one of them was taller than 5' 8" or thinner than 280 so I walked on. I figured it was a bit of foreshadowing.
I'd like to introduce you to "Pig Lickers." I have always said everything is better with cheese,
bacon or butter. Leave it to the good ol' boys at the Arkansas fair to prove me wrong! I give to you deep fried, chocolate covered bacon on a stick. Covered in sprinkles. Sold in sets of three. Come on now! That's too far! If you want to fry pickles, be my guest. Dunk a Twinkie? I won't stop you. But you can't take two of the pure JOYS in life, combine them and then ruin it completely! I'm not even sure that's legal. I can't, for the life of me, figure out the need for the sprinkles, either. That's just overkill! The bacon should already be crispy, so you don't need the added crunch. And if you're tossing 'em on there just to make things festive, you've missed the point. You can't church up cocoa-covered swine!Lastly, I present to you the winner of the 2008 "Kati W
as Speechless Because of You" award winner. The trophy goes to....the HOT BEEF SUNDAE! Look to the right - there it is, in full color for your enjoyment. I got proof! I don't mean to be crass, but I think "Hot Beef Sundae" should have a "Ron Jeremy Productions" label on it. But alas, it's rated PG.A "Hot Beef Sundae" is a slab of meat, topped with a scoop of mashed potatoes, covered in gravy and then topped with shredded cheese. It looks just like a hot fudge sundae, but it's really just Sunday dinner in a bowl. It seems harmless once you spell it out, yet I was still repulsed. As soon as you take a main course and slap a desert name on it, I'm out. Willy Wonka tried it once with his three-course meal gum and poor Violet Beauregarde is still in a juicing room somewhere! That is just documented proof that dinner is dinner and desert is desert. They are both great in their own way. There is no need to combine the two. But still, the line for THIS fabulous fair find was at least three times as long as the line for deep fried cheesecake!
I'm going to lace up my Nikes now and get in two miles before the sun sets. While it's true I only tried to Oreo, just writing about everything else has left me feeling bloated and a bit rounded in the rear. I'm going to hit the track just to fend off the deep fried nightmares sure to plague me tonight otherwise!
To be fair though, I am looking forward to the 2009 offerings. I can't wait to see what they'll think of next!
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
What the duece happened to television???
I was not gone THAT long. Two hundred days. That is is. Seven months. NOT THAT MUCH SHOULD HAVE CHANGED IN SEVEN MONTHS.
But then I turned on the television (which, from here forward, will no longer be refereed to as T.V., because "T.V." is a nickname and nicknames are for friends. It seems the television is no longer a friends of mine....)
Turning on the television depresses me. It's not the news about the global economic meltdown that has me down. It's not even the news about the housing market, unemployment and gas prices that make me sad. I can even tolerate all of the election news.
But someone, for the love of all that is right, please explain to me what in God's name Cloris Leachman is doing Dancing with the Stars? We'll ignore the obvious syntax errors there and ask the obvious...WHO is the "star" in that equation? Her Wiki has her listed as being 82 years old! Who thought THIS was a good idea? Misty May ruptured her Achilles tendon but should we NOT be more worried about Leachman's hip? I saw a clip of her dancing and I have to say, I've seen more excitement in AARP ads. I was scared. That was not dancing. This is a show that can make retired NFL linebackers look graceful and light on their feet. Yet Leachman's version of the "jig" was more reminescient of a long hallway shuffle in an orthopedic recovery ward.
That's not it though. There is more. Today, I am mindlessly flipping channels when I see a commercial I honestly believed was a mock ad. Imagine my abject horror when I realized that they were serious! Have you seen it? Let me set the scene.
A 16 year old girl who looks like she was recently rescued from a polygamous sect living on a Texas ranch says "You've played the Legend of Zelda games and have been haunted by the intoxicating music. Now you, too, can be transported to another world with your very own ocarina. Available at stlocarina.com. Learn to play just like Link in no time..."
Qwhhhhhhhhhat? Huh? Come again? I had to rewind that one twice just to ensure I hadn't fallen asleep on my couch and started dreaming. I was certain there was a low-grade gas leak in the house and I was having mild hallucinations. So I visited the site. Alas - you, too, CAN own your ocarina starting at the low, low introductory price of $79.99 plus s/h. Take a look. I can promise you it resembles a hand-crafted Father's Day gift presented by a second grader, just after they graduated from making clay hand-prints.
Lastly, and this might be the one that pushed me right over the edge, was the Interstate Batteries commercial I saw this weekend. Um....it's about God's love. (www.interstatebattery.com/godslove) Sure, who doesn't want more of God's love? Well, expect those people who don't believe in God, of course. Since when does it make sense to take an animated commercial for CAR BATTERIES and mix in a little religion? Have you seen it? I won't argue the message. I just do not understand how the two go together in any form of commercial advertising...aired during a football game...on a major television network! I have looked for God many places (like at the bottom of the Nile) but never did I think to look under the hood of a '67 Chevy.
This is really enough to make a sane person put down the remote and pick up a book. However, I can read while watching television so I'm covered in that regard. I thought about giving up my regular programing after the events of this week, but if I were to do that, I would miss the bliss that is House, the comedic horror of Family Guy and the education experience of E!'s 101 Biggest Celebrity Opps! and who really wants to miss out on THAT?
But then I turned on the television (which, from here forward, will no longer be refereed to as T.V., because "T.V." is a nickname and nicknames are for friends. It seems the television is no longer a friends of mine....)
Turning on the television depresses me. It's not the news about the global economic meltdown that has me down. It's not even the news about the housing market, unemployment and gas prices that make me sad. I can even tolerate all of the election news.
But someone, for the love of all that is right, please explain to me what in God's name Cloris Leachman is doing Dancing with the Stars? We'll ignore the obvious syntax errors there and ask the obvious...WHO is the "star" in that equation? Her Wiki has her listed as being 82 years old! Who thought THIS was a good idea? Misty May ruptured her Achilles tendon but should we NOT be more worried about Leachman's hip? I saw a clip of her dancing and I have to say, I've seen more excitement in AARP ads. I was scared. That was not dancing. This is a show that can make retired NFL linebackers look graceful and light on their feet. Yet Leachman's version of the "jig" was more reminescient of a long hallway shuffle in an orthopedic recovery ward.
That's not it though. There is more. Today, I am mindlessly flipping channels when I see a commercial I honestly believed was a mock ad. Imagine my abject horror when I realized that they were serious! Have you seen it? Let me set the scene.
A 16 year old girl who looks like she was recently rescued from a polygamous sect living on a Texas ranch says "You've played the Legend of Zelda games and have been haunted by the intoxicating music. Now you, too, can be transported to another world with your very own ocarina. Available at stlocarina.com. Learn to play just like Link in no time..."
Qwhhhhhhhhhat? Huh? Come again? I had to rewind that one twice just to ensure I hadn't fallen asleep on my couch and started dreaming. I was certain there was a low-grade gas leak in the house and I was having mild hallucinations. So I visited the site. Alas - you, too, CAN own your ocarina starting at the low, low introductory price of $79.99 plus s/h. Take a look. I can promise you it resembles a hand-crafted Father's Day gift presented by a second grader, just after they graduated from making clay hand-prints.
Lastly, and this might be the one that pushed me right over the edge, was the Interstate Batteries commercial I saw this weekend. Um....it's about God's love. (www.interstatebattery.com/godslove) Sure, who doesn't want more of God's love? Well, expect those people who don't believe in God, of course. Since when does it make sense to take an animated commercial for CAR BATTERIES and mix in a little religion? Have you seen it? I won't argue the message. I just do not understand how the two go together in any form of commercial advertising...aired during a football game...on a major television network! I have looked for God many places (like at the bottom of the Nile) but never did I think to look under the hood of a '67 Chevy.
This is really enough to make a sane person put down the remote and pick up a book. However, I can read while watching television so I'm covered in that regard. I thought about giving up my regular programing after the events of this week, but if I were to do that, I would miss the bliss that is House, the comedic horror of Family Guy and the education experience of E!'s 101 Biggest Celebrity Opps! and who really wants to miss out on THAT?
Friday, August 22, 2008
Fast Roping
The Bravo 2-18 JCSAR "Stupid Human Trick of the Day" for Aug. 19th? It was a little game called fast roping. I thought about writing a long and witty description of what fast roping entails, but I decided that sometimes, video proof is just so much better! So if you'd like, you can visit: http://s123.photobucket.com/albums/o289/iamkati/?action=view¤t=080819-F-0986R-001FastRopeClip.flv to watch the video. 
So, look at the photos on your left. This is what it looks like when it's done right. (I'm pretty sure the second photo is of Ray Mackey, using great form.) Hand on the rope, feet on the rope, body in almost an "L" shape to help slow you down. This is what it looks like. Sure, you can get by with the form in the photo above (holding on for dear life and once again making deals with God....) because either way, just like on the Nile, what goes up MUST come down. But Ray's form is so much better because he has some modicum of control. To his credit though, he also has more upperbody strength than I do. Okay, Cory is 13 and HE has more upperbody strength than I do. But that really isn't the point. Ray's just good at this crap. However, not every fast roping experience works out quite like that. There are times when you might slip, or not make full contact with the rope.
Their goal is to "fast rope" (read - FALL WHILE HOLDING A ROPE) from 90 to 100 feet above ground level before too long. Hmmm...Really? Why? Did NO ONE here see Black Hawk Down? Just curious. I know it was just a movie and all but come on people. When does it stop?!?
Now, we talked about my fears (or perceived lack there of) back when I decided to do battle with the River Nile. That was the day I realized that while I think I'm fearless, I'm really not. I do have fears. I'm not afraid of heights. But I AM afraid of falling. So I think anytime I'm going to dangle above the ground I should be harnessed, tethered and secured. And I'd like someone roughly the size of Warren Sapp to sit on me just for good measure.
But fast roping doesn't afford one those luxuries. Instead, you sit in the "hell hole" of the CH-53 while grasping a rope roughly the diameter of a salad plate while willing your feet to gain traction on said rope. Then you go out of the bird. And by go, I mean you fall toward the earth from a hovering helicopter. Keep in mind though...Helicopters aren't stationary when they hover. There tends to be some...um...shall we say...movement. In all directions. Up and down. Left and right. Forward. Sometimes in a circle. You can't actually determine how close to the ground you are because it varies with each second. Doesn't this sound like FUN?
So, look at the photos on your left. This is what it looks like when it's done right. (I'm pretty sure the second photo is of Ray Mackey, using great form.) Hand on the rope, feet on the rope, body in almost an "L" shape to help slow you down. This is what it looks like. Sure, you can get by with the form in the photo above (holding on for dear life and once again making deals with God....) because either way, just like on the Nile, what goes up MUST come down. But Ray's form is so much better because he has some modicum of control. To his credit though, he also has more upperbody strength than I do. Okay, Cory is 13 and HE has more upperbody strength than I do. But that really isn't the point. Ray's just good at this crap. However, not every fast roping experience works out quite like that. There are times when you might slip, or not make full contact with the rope.
Evidence? Well, look to the right. That is Duff - my favorite little Soldi
er. Duff is the one I want to adopt and claim on my taxes. He's just so young and...clueless. Having Duff is like having a puppy - fun and playful and adorable yet not always apt to break something. But you can't get mad at him - he's a puppy; he doesn't know better! So look at Duff's form. Duff's feet never actually made contact with the rope on the way down, so he's flying down that rope, legs akimbo, and although I couldn't HEAR him, I'm pretty sure he too was making deals with God.
That's it for this week's installment of "Kati Plays with the Army..." For the entire Channel 4 news team, I'm Veronica Corningstone. Thanks for stopping by, San Diego.
P.S. - In TOTALLY unrelated news (ha, all kinds of puns intended), I did my first AFN news piece last week. It was a 90 second "Daily News Update" and was the first time I officially got to say the words "For the Combined Joint Task Force - Horn of Africa, this is Air Force Tech. Sgt. Katherine Garcia." I'll send out the link as soon as it airs. I'm sure it's just more proof that print journalism was my calling and that I have no future in television. But it will at least give you something to entertain yourselves with while I languish in the sweltering heat of Earth's armpit, contemplating all of the wrong turns I must have made in life to end up HERE! But until next time...keep the cards and letters coming.
Friday, August 8, 2008
I eloped..........(okay, not really)
We've all heard stories of people who've been dating for years that just wake up one day and decided to get married, right? Maybe they're IN Vegas already. Maybe they juant off to the courthouse and get 'er done. No fanfare, no pomp or pretense. They just slip away to tie the knot and come back with a story to tell.
Lake Assal is the hottest place on Earth (really) and has the saltiest body of water anywhere (really). It looks pretty...it smells like death. So while it's 138 in Djibouti, it's going to be a good 20 degrees hotter at the lake. For those of you who've ever heard the phrase "Anything over 110 and you don't feel it..." I'd like to call shenanigans! You feel every single solitary increase in temperature. It's just that it gets too hot to care. You're no longer able to muster the strength to whine about it, for fear that if you open your mouth your tongue will catch on fire and you'll die a slow, hot, thirsty death. 
Up until the very second I raised my right hand, I was pretty sure I didn't want to do this again. I have had hesitations every day for the past two years. I am tired of being away from home. I am tired of moving. But the second I stood tall, looked Lt. Richards in the eye and stated my name I knew -without a doubt - that I was doing the best thing possible for myself, my family and our future.
Well....on Aug. 7th I made a life-altering vow that is, in some ways, akin to eloping. The Air Force and I have been in a "relationship" for more than 14 years. We've had our ups and downs. I have almost walked away more than once. At times, ours has not been a match made in heaven. My time in blue started almost on a whim and there have been almost as many low points as there have been highs. But I came on this deployment with the realization that I was nearing the end of my contact. I was free to walk away once I got home and never look back - no harm, no foul. And I won't lie - in the past five months, that has been a tempting proposition. But 14 years into a 20 year stint is a big investment. To walk away now would be an incredibly difficult decision and one that would likely have ramifications for many, many years to come.
I had been dragging my feet about raising my right hand one last time. We had been mulling it over since late June, thinking of ways to make this last one count. If you know you'll never do something again, you might as well make sure you're doing it the way you want. But, knowing I had some time to make it happen, I figured I would get to it when I got to it....
And then it happened. Sam (who has been described as the "big sexy bla
ck man" who's a magician with a Nikon) and I were going flying with a few of my very favorite guys from Bravo 2-18...You remember them? They're the (HOOAH) grenade tossing, 50-cal shooting, hook things up to a helicopter friends I've made out here. The thought was that a small group of us would board the CH-53 for some helicopter aerial refueling and then a flight over Lake Assal.
ck man" who's a magician with a Nikon) and I were going flying with a few of my very favorite guys from Bravo 2-18...You remember them? They're the (HOOAH) grenade tossing, 50-cal shooting, hook things up to a helicopter friends I've made out here. The thought was that a small group of us would board the CH-53 for some helicopter aerial refueling and then a flight over Lake Assal. HAR is when our helicopter flies close enough to the ass-end of a C-130 that I could probably play a decent game of patty-cake with anyone on their plane while they extend a basket and hose for fuel. We then fly into position so we can attach the basket to our probe and they pass us gas - at 6,000 feet in the air. Hmmmmm...sounds SO good in theory. In reality, it's like sitting in a dilapidated Tilt-o-Whirl at your local county fair without a lap belt and no assurance that the ride won't break apart at any second and send you plummeting to your death. A C-130’s propellers spin on the vertical; a helicopter’s spin on the horizontal. That means there are two different aircraft beating the air into submission while trying to mate in the air. This lends itself to something THEY call turbulence. I just like to call it a chance to revisit any meal I might have eaten in this fiscal year. But we all know I'm not fond of flying so I need not describe this process any further.
Lake Assal is the hottest place on Earth (really) and has the saltiest body of water anywhere (really). It looks pretty...it smells like death. So while it's 138 in Djibouti, it's going to be a good 20 degrees hotter at the lake. For those of you who've ever heard the phrase "Anything over 110 and you don't feel it..." I'd like to call shenanigans! You feel every single solitary increase in temperature. It's just that it gets too hot to care. You're no longer able to muster the strength to whine about it, for fear that if you open your mouth your tongue will catch on fire and you'll die a slow, hot, thirsty death. Soooooooo anyway.... I get an e-mail at like 1 in the afternoon from Lt. Richards that says "Hey Kati, wanna reup TODAY?" Huh? What? Me? Kati who? And then I realized it couldn't be more perfect. It would be JUST what I wanted. I, an Air Force NCO, would be on a U.S. Marine Corp helicopter, being reenlisted by an Army officer while flying over the Gulf of Aden - in a "combat zone." It really doesn't get more "joint force" than that! So, Sgt. Drew Miller procured a flag. Sam had his camera. And we had our kick ass platoon sergeant, SFC Joe Taylor, and my favorite (sarcastic) squad leader, SSG Ray Mackey, on hand to hold the flag. 1st Lt. Richards was there to administer the oath. Nothing extra. No BS. No strap hangers. No hurt feelings because someone was or wasn't invited. Just us, a helicopter and a sunset.
Up until the very second I raised my right hand, I was pretty sure I didn't want to do this again. I have had hesitations every day for the past two years. I am tired of being away from home. I am tired of moving. But the second I stood tall, looked Lt. Richards in the eye and stated my name I knew -without a doubt - that I was doing the best thing possible for myself, my family and our future. 
As far as WOW moments go, for me this was right up there. Yes, I have done some really cool things in my life, but the pure feeling of pride and the incredible sense of belonging were amazing. I was blessed to have some very good people with me to share that moment. I wasn't with my family, but I was with people who've made every effort to make me a part of theirs! 
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Because I can't leave well enough alone...
Today, I'd like to start by polling the audience. By a show of hands, who knows that I just can't leave well enough alone? Very good! I try. I really do. But there are just so many targets of opportunity in my day-to-day dealings that sometimes, my cup runneth over and I feel the need to act.
Case in point? The black flag! A refresher for my military friends; a primer for my civilian readers. The military has never been an organization fond of "free thinking" on the part of its urchins. To be honest, they like to inform of us everything. I'm fairly certain this "information" comes only from committees formed for the sole purpose of holding meetings to establish the need for meetings where they then hold a meeting to discuss the results of the meeting.
When it comes to the ambient temperature, we're not trusted to simply "feel" whether it's warm or not. Someone, somewhere (surely with the help of a committee and contracted scientists who held studies) decided we needed a "system" in place to let us know just how hot it is. I know, I know... My techie friends like to take a more direct route and actually open a door or window and decide for themselves what it feels like outdoors. There is also the camp that likes to get crazy and switch over to the Weather Channel to decide how hot the day will be.
But not the military. The military has settled on FLAGS as the best means to announce the temperature. Before you scoot over to http://www.m-w.com/ to look up the word "flag" and any alternate meanings, let me stop you. By flag, I clearly mean a usually rectangular piece of fabric of distinctive design that is used as a symbol, as a signaling device or as a decoration.
Our flags are much like a color chart for five year olds. Green means good. The weather is nice, you're free to wreak havoc outdoors. Yellow means use caution; it's getting warmer. Red means it's rather hot and you should think before spending a prolonged amount of time in the sun. Then there's black. The black flag means (and this is a loose definition) good lawd it's hot out here. Get indoors. You have no business being out here. Stand in one place too long and you just might burst in to flames.
The problem with this system, for me at least, is that we are in "black flag" here by 8 a.m. - consistently. So as I walk to work in the morning, I see that 3' by 5' piece of nylon mocking me from its place atop the flag pole. It's right there on Main Street for all to see. It would proudly snap in the wind here, but there is NO wind and therefore it hangs there limply, like my spirits each morning when I see it. We're in a place where the LOW (as in l-o-w) was 102 the other day. That's not low - not in golf, not in age, and certainly NOT in tempature.
Now, by 2 p.m., when the mercury has climbed past Africa Hot and is working its way steadily toward 100 and stupid, a black flag just doesn't do justice. The flag has now been on the mast for more than 6 hours of the day. Birds have fallen from the sky simply because it's too hot to fly any farther. But there's the flag - taunting me.
So I decided we needed something that signifies how hot it really is here. E
nter the Jolly Roger. And yes, ladies and gentlemen, that is me in the photo. I walked proudly down Main Street at 2:30 in the afternoon, lowered the understated and offensive plain black flag and replaced it with something I deemed much more fitting for the temperatures of mid-July in Djibouti.
Wait, wait... Before you think "Kati, won't you get in TROUBLE for this?" let me tell you. I did my research. It's not vandalism - I didn't actually willfully or maliciously destroy or deface public or private property. It's not theft - I returned the original flag to its rightful owner immediately. And it's not malicious - no one was harmed in the raising of the new flag. I even went so far as to research the regulations regarding the "flags" and read that it must be "black in color and made of nylon or cloth and be at least 3' by 5' in nature." No where did it specify that it must be "unadorned."
WILL I get in trouble for this? Possibly. I'm sure there is someone, somewhere on this camp who will not see the humor in this exercise. I may be accused of "making a mockery" of the flag system (valid) and I might be accused of being "insubordinate" (guilty) but I can tell you this... No one, in my entire life, has ever yelled louder than my father, and a little verbal dressing down never hurt anyone.
I promise you this: should I get reprimanded for my little stunt, I will certainly post the transcripts right here for all to see. And if it comes in the form of a written counseling, I will be sure to ask that they detail my actions. And then I will frame it and hang it for all to see.
Start collecting bail money please. There is a pool being conducting right now "aboard" Camp Lemonier and the smart money has me incarcerated before I actually get on a plane out of here. I don't think it's EVER smart to bet against Kati, but we'll see!
Until next time!
Case in point? The black flag! A refresher for my military friends; a primer for my civilian readers. The military has never been an organization fond of "free thinking" on the part of its urchins. To be honest, they like to inform of us everything. I'm fairly certain this "information" comes only from committees formed for the sole purpose of holding meetings to establish the need for meetings where they then hold a meeting to discuss the results of the meeting.
When it comes to the ambient temperature, we're not trusted to simply "feel" whether it's warm or not. Someone, somewhere (surely with the help of a committee and contracted scientists who held studies) decided we needed a "system" in place to let us know just how hot it is. I know, I know... My techie friends like to take a more direct route and actually open a door or window and decide for themselves what it feels like outdoors. There is also the camp that likes to get crazy and switch over to the Weather Channel to decide how hot the day will be.
But not the military. The military has settled on FLAGS as the best means to announce the temperature. Before you scoot over to http://www.m-w.com/ to look up the word "flag" and any alternate meanings, let me stop you. By flag, I clearly mean a usually rectangular piece of fabric of distinctive design that is used as a symbol, as a signaling device or as a decoration.
Our flags are much like a color chart for five year olds. Green means good. The weather is nice, you're free to wreak havoc outdoors. Yellow means use caution; it's getting warmer. Red means it's rather hot and you should think before spending a prolonged amount of time in the sun. Then there's black. The black flag means (and this is a loose definition) good lawd it's hot out here. Get indoors. You have no business being out here. Stand in one place too long and you just might burst in to flames.
The problem with this system, for me at least, is that we are in "black flag" here by 8 a.m. - consistently. So as I walk to work in the morning, I see that 3' by 5' piece of nylon mocking me from its place atop the flag pole. It's right there on Main Street for all to see. It would proudly snap in the wind here, but there is NO wind and therefore it hangs there limply, like my spirits each morning when I see it. We're in a place where the LOW (as in l-o-w) was 102 the other day. That's not low - not in golf, not in age, and certainly NOT in tempature.
Now, by 2 p.m., when the mercury has climbed past Africa Hot and is working its way steadily toward 100 and stupid, a black flag just doesn't do justice. The flag has now been on the mast for more than 6 hours of the day. Birds have fallen from the sky simply because it's too hot to fly any farther. But there's the flag - taunting me.
So I decided we needed something that signifies how hot it really is here. E
nter the Jolly Roger. And yes, ladies and gentlemen, that is me in the photo. I walked proudly down Main Street at 2:30 in the afternoon, lowered the understated and offensive plain black flag and replaced it with something I deemed much more fitting for the temperatures of mid-July in Djibouti.Wait, wait... Before you think "Kati, won't you get in TROUBLE for this?" let me tell you. I did my research. It's not vandalism - I didn't actually willfully or maliciously destroy or deface public or private property. It's not theft - I returned the original flag to its rightful owner immediately. And it's not malicious - no one was harmed in the raising of the new flag. I even went so far as to research the regulations regarding the "flags" and read that it must be "black in color and made of nylon or cloth and be at least 3' by 5' in nature." No where did it specify that it must be "unadorned."
WILL I get in trouble for this? Possibly. I'm sure there is someone, somewhere on this camp who will not see the humor in this exercise. I may be accused of "making a mockery" of the flag system (valid) and I might be accused of being "insubordinate" (guilty) but I can tell you this... No one, in my entire life, has ever yelled louder than my father, and a little verbal dressing down never hurt anyone.
I promise you this: should I get reprimanded for my little stunt, I will certainly post the transcripts right here for all to see. And if it comes in the form of a written counseling, I will be sure to ask that they detail my actions. And then I will frame it and hang it for all to see.
Start collecting bail money please. There is a pool being conducting right now "aboard" Camp Lemonier and the smart money has me incarcerated before I actually get on a plane out of here. I don't think it's EVER smart to bet against Kati, but we'll see!
Until next time!
(Look at the random guy taking a pic of my flag as he walked by. HE thought it was funny!)
Monday, July 14, 2008
Am I crazy?
That's me on the far left of the photo, hook in hand, waiting for the CH-53 to drop low enough that we can attach to it.
(Before I start, let me mention that the LOW day before yesterday was 102. So maybe it's the heat getting to me...)
I think I'm crazy. It's official. Remember my "friends" from the Army's 2-18 FAR? The ones that left me in the middle of the Djiboutian desert in the middle of the night as "training"? The same ones who taught me to throw live grenades? Well... here we go again.
Bravo Platoon Sergeant - "Hey Kati...wanna come to sling loads with us?" (Grunt, hooah, grunt)
I think I'm crazy. It's official. Remember my "friends" from the Army's 2-18 FAR? The ones that left me in the middle of the Djiboutian desert in the middle of the night as "training"? The same ones who taught me to throw live grenades? Well... here we go again.
Bravo Platoon Sergeant - "Hey Kati...wanna come to sling loads with us?" (Grunt, hooah, grunt)
Kati - Sure, sounds GREAT... (Type, type, enter...Kati frantically looks up the definition of "sling load" on Google. God bless Google, right?)
So I'll save you the search on the world wide web and explain to you what I had no clue about... Here's how it works. You fly on a CH-53. Just so you know, the CH-53 is 88 and a half feet long. It can carry a crew of up to 55 (although that's a bit much and 37 is more standard). It's an inch shy of 25 feet tall. The rotor has a 72 foot diameter. And it weighs 33,500 pounds. So it's not small.
They fly you out to an "airfield" (in Djibouti that's a fancy word for some hard ground in the middle of NOWHERE!) in the desert and you get left (hmmmm...it's becoming a trend with these guys).
There, parked in the middle of the "airfield", is a humvee. This is what you're going to "sling load." You take some pretty churched up ropes and some chains and hook them to the humvee. Then (and this is the part even the Web fails to mention) the helicopter comes over you and hovers. And by "over you" I mean that while this Winnebago with wings is beating the air into submission, you can reach up and slap the belly. It's not like you're standing under the Channel 7 Eyewitness News 'Copter, right? No, it's more like Good Morning Vietnam has landed on your head.
Oh, and just so you know, slapping the belly isn't a wise move. Rumor has it (and I certainly wasn't going to try to disprove THIS theory) that as the helo hovers, it builds up static. So if you touch it before someone grounds it, it will send 75,000 volts through you. Doesn't seem like a fun party trick to me so I decided to avoid that part.
Well anyway, while you're under the helicopter, it's pretty calm. But as it comes in, it's pushing down 194 knots of rotor wash (that's like 220 mph winds for normal people) so you're getting blown around. To combat this, every "hooker" (yes, today I was a hooker - let's just choose to pass that one up please...) has a bracer. A "bracer" is someone who hunkers down, grabs your waist with both arms and braces you to the ground using your weight and theirs. The goal is to combine weights to obtain more than 350 pounds (not too difficult, considering we're all wearing 35 pounds of combat gear and these are grown men). The intent is that you don't want to get tossed around the desert like Raggedy Andy (or in my case, Raggedy Ann).
So there is a "front" man and his bracer, the ground guy and his bracer and the "leg" man (moi) and my bracer. Plus there's a spotter and a safety guy under there. All in all, we're throwing a little party under a machine that God never intended to fly. The intention is that the helicopter will come in, hover, you'll "ground" it and then the hookers (yes, yes, I'm a hooker) will attach their chains to giant hooks extending from the bird. Then you need to get out of there ASAP so they can take off without smacking you with the humvee as they lift it off the ground.
So here's how you get out...You run - backward - as fast as you can. And once you get to the point where the wind is too strong, you drop down to your knees. Then, you pull your feet up, push off with your hands and SLIDE backward on your kneepads as far back as you can, as fast as you can. Really...that's how it works. So now, close your eyes and picture ME, in a helmet and goggles, 35 pounds of body armor and gear, dressed in knee pads, getting tossed around by rotor wash and sliding backward on the hardpack. No, really, try hard. Come on... You can do it! Not so much? It's okay - I wouldn't have believed it either.
As we were under the helo for the first iteration, I looked up and realized that I had the WHEEL of a helicopter swaying at shoulder level and 15 some odd tons of steel bouncing inches from my dome. It was right then that I thought "Maybe this is it... Maybe this is the time I actually went too far and got in over my head..." But as quickly as I had the thought, it was over with, the hook was there, I was connecting the clevise to the hook and getting the heck out of dodge.
Once you're out of the way, the 53 takes off, humvee dangling beneath, flies around the desert and then comes back. It drops the humvee back to earth, shakes off the ropes and flies away. Then we get to reset the ropes and chains and get in position for it to come back and pick up the vehicle again. This, my friends, is sling load training.
Tomorrow, we'll talk about Kati and the joys of spy rigging, but really, I will only have so many "GI Kati" experiences in my life - I want to be able to milk them just a little.
So I'll save you the search on the world wide web and explain to you what I had no clue about... Here's how it works. You fly on a CH-53. Just so you know, the CH-53 is 88 and a half feet long. It can carry a crew of up to 55 (although that's a bit much and 37 is more standard). It's an inch shy of 25 feet tall. The rotor has a 72 foot diameter. And it weighs 33,500 pounds. So it's not small.
They fly you out to an "airfield" (in Djibouti that's a fancy word for some hard ground in the middle of NOWHERE!) in the desert and you get left (hmmmm...it's becoming a trend with these guys).
There, parked in the middle of the "airfield", is a humvee. This is what you're going to "sling load." You take some pretty churched up ropes and some chains and hook them to the humvee. Then (and this is the part even the Web fails to mention) the helicopter comes over you and hovers. And by "over you" I mean that while this Winnebago with wings is beating the air into submission, you can reach up and slap the belly. It's not like you're standing under the Channel 7 Eyewitness News 'Copter, right? No, it's more like Good Morning Vietnam has landed on your head.
Oh, and just so you know, slapping the belly isn't a wise move. Rumor has it (and I certainly wasn't going to try to disprove THIS theory) that as the helo hovers, it builds up static. So if you touch it before someone grounds it, it will send 75,000 volts through you. Doesn't seem like a fun party trick to me so I decided to avoid that part.
Well anyway, while you're under the helicopter, it's pretty calm. But as it comes in, it's pushing down 194 knots of rotor wash (that's like 220 mph winds for normal people) so you're getting blown around. To combat this, every "hooker" (yes, today I was a hooker - let's just choose to pass that one up please...) has a bracer. A "bracer" is someone who hunkers down, grabs your waist with both arms and braces you to the ground using your weight and theirs. The goal is to combine weights to obtain more than 350 pounds (not too difficult, considering we're all wearing 35 pounds of combat gear and these are grown men). The intent is that you don't want to get tossed around the desert like Raggedy Andy (or in my case, Raggedy Ann).
So there is a "front" man and his bracer, the ground guy and his bracer and the "leg" man (moi) and my bracer. Plus there's a spotter and a safety guy under there. All in all, we're throwing a little party under a machine that God never intended to fly. The intention is that the helicopter will come in, hover, you'll "ground" it and then the hookers (yes, yes, I'm a hooker) will attach their chains to giant hooks extending from the bird. Then you need to get out of there ASAP so they can take off without smacking you with the humvee as they lift it off the ground.
So here's how you get out...You run - backward - as fast as you can. And once you get to the point where the wind is too strong, you drop down to your knees. Then, you pull your feet up, push off with your hands and SLIDE backward on your kneepads as far back as you can, as fast as you can. Really...that's how it works. So now, close your eyes and picture ME, in a helmet and goggles, 35 pounds of body armor and gear, dressed in knee pads, getting tossed around by rotor wash and sliding backward on the hardpack. No, really, try hard. Come on... You can do it! Not so much? It's okay - I wouldn't have believed it either.
As we were under the helo for the first iteration, I looked up and realized that I had the WHEEL of a helicopter swaying at shoulder level and 15 some odd tons of steel bouncing inches from my dome. It was right then that I thought "Maybe this is it... Maybe this is the time I actually went too far and got in over my head..." But as quickly as I had the thought, it was over with, the hook was there, I was connecting the clevise to the hook and getting the heck out of dodge.
Once you're out of the way, the 53 takes off, humvee dangling beneath, flies around the desert and then comes back. It drops the humvee back to earth, shakes off the ropes and flies away. Then we get to reset the ropes and chains and get in position for it to come back and pick up the vehicle again. This, my friends, is sling load training.
Tomorrow, we'll talk about Kati and the joys of spy rigging, but really, I will only have so many "GI Kati" experiences in my life - I want to be able to milk them just a little.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
I never thought I'd....
Hunter S. Thompson created a brand of journalism known as "Gonzo journalism." It's a style of journalism where reporters involve themselves in the action to a degree that they become the central figures of their own stories. I have never been a big fan of this style of writing - for my job at least. But I am a firm believer that if I want to write about something, I should at least experience it to some degree.
Now granted, you don't need to subject yourself to near death in a fiery building in order to describe it to your readers. They all know what "hot" feels like and can imagine, on their own, how miserable smoke inhalation may be. But in other cases, I think it's important to actually DO something before you tell anyone about it.
This is where the mission of 2-18 FAR's Combat Search and Rescue team comes in to play. This group of 30+ soldiers is deployed from Ft. Sill, Okla., to Djibouti for the better part of 15 months. And their mission, should it come down to it, is to pull Americans out of harm's way when things go wrong - terribly wrong.
I wanted to write a feature on these guys and what they train for. So I decided to join them on a few of their training missions. Little did I know that my version of "observer" was vastly different from theirs. They asked me to go with them on Sunday night to take part in a simulation (this is a KEY word - because to me, simulation means pretend; to them, it's a different beast all together). I met them on the flight line and geared up (flak vest, helmet, goggles, face protection, night vision goggles, and so on) and they start giving out assignments. The drill calls for four "injured personnel" to be recovered from an aircraft "accident" in the middle of the desert. And guess who one of the "victims" will be?
So I troop out to a running CH-53 helicopter with my three Army "friends" and off we go. We fly for 15 minutes and I realize it's getting awfully dark and I have no real idea where we are... And then we land - on what looks like the surface of the moon. There is nothing out there but lava rocks and powdery dirt. With the bird still running, we're sent out the back and told to start walking for about 100 meters and then lay down and act "injured" - and they take off.
So now I'm in the middle of a desert, in the dark, with three people I have known for a whopping 45 minutes. I think my dad might have warned me about this at some point in my adolescence, but it's all a little vague now. So we start walking - okay, they're "walking" and I'm half running to keep up. We walk for what to ME seems like a few miles but they assure me they have been counting and we're where we're supposed to be.
Out of nowhere I hear the sound of a helicopter coming over the mountain - and then I see gun fire! Yes, SEE. Because the 50 cal in the helo is shooting tracer rounds - about 25 meters from where we are.
I have one "IR" chem light on me. This is a glow stick (like the ones kids have on Halloween) that allows the guys in the air to see you on the ground through their night vision. At this point, I broke open several more, cracked them and starting sticking them anywhere I could find space - just to be SURE the boys in the air could see me.
After 20 minutes of laying down fire, with dust flying everywhere, 15 people came out of NOWHERE to rescue us. It was like a scene from a bad movie - guys in black carrying weapons advancing out of the smoke and dust. They did their "thing" to make sure we were who we said we were, picked us up (literally) and threw us back into a helicopter (the same one that dropped them off, but not the one that was still flying over shooting 50 caliber rounds uncomfortably close to where I was).
After what seemed like a LONG flight back to base, they said "hey, we're going to the range on Tuesday. Want to come blow things up with us?" I guess I was still shell shocked because before I knew it, my head was nodding "yes" even as my mind was screaming "YOU IDIOT - THEY TRIED TO KILL YOU ONCE.... GET AWAY...."
So Tuesday morning, at the crack of dawn (these boys like the dark I guess), I head out to the middle of the desert (yet again) with these guys. This time, we're going to throw grenades (by we, I mean me too, but I took photos so you can all see the proof - I really DO throw like a girl!), fire the AT-4 (the AT part stands for Anti Tank) and the 9mm.
Grenades make a MUCH bigger boom than I ever thought. And the whole John Wayne pull with your teeth and throw shtick? NOT SO MUCH!!! It's funny how your bravado tends to wane just a little when there is a threat of blowing yourself up!
The AT-4 has an amazing concussion...it jammed not one but two of my cameras (and these are GOOD cameras). But when they'd fired the 12th of 18 of these shoulder-mounted rockets, we had a dud. This means it fired but didn't go "boom." So now the nice (yet totally crazy) boys from EOD got to walk out to the middle of the desert, find this 84 caliber round of unexploded KABOOM and drop some C4 on it.
It was at about this point in the day that I realized the people I was writing about are straight crazy... All of them... and that just as I don't need to light myself on fire to image that it would hurt, I also don't need to follow the boys from CSAR around anymore to know that their job is SCARY!!!! So I will sit down in the next day or two and finish the feature on them. But I will complete it without anymore "hands on" experiences. Because I don't need to include myself in their story to the point that I become one of the central figures in some painful "training" accident!
In all honesty though... If it does go wrong one day and someone has to come get me, I hope like hell it's the boys of the 2-18's Charlie battery. I have never met a group of people more dedicated to what they do or more willing to put it all on the line to make sure we all get home safely. So may hats off to them. They're better men than me!
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Stop the madness!
It is with glee, gratitude and gladness in my heart that I plead with you to STOP THE MADNESS! After today's mail call, the Triscuit Total (just the unopened boxes, not the ones we've already plowed through) stands at 12. There are officially 14 cans of Easy Cheese still waiting to be consumed. I have Goober in grape AND strawberry. And I have lost count of the vast number of Hostess products that have past through my hands (and lips!). There are cookies and candies, cakes and cards. There are lotions and potions and even an inflatable beach ball!
The contributions to SAIA have come from far and wide. Leigh in Italy tracked down Chewy Runts and endured looks of disdain from a Shoppette cashier (you work at the SHOPPETTE - are you REALLY in a position to look down on someone?) when she bought out their stock. Michelle, who is in the middle of a PCS move, bought out the commissary's pastry aisle just to have her "badass kids" (her words, not mine) eat the cache before she could mail it. She found a Conoco and a CVS and was able to pull it together, though!
I have gotten contributions from people I've never met - Cindy's Aunt Cindy in Pa., for example, made sure my diet NEVER gets back on track. Ian's wonderful girlfriend, Aubrey, has included a little something in each of her care packages that makes me smile. And there have been contributions FOR people you've never met (Cindy is stocked up on Swedish Fish for life - and she says thanks mom!) My parents sent (among other things) bacon cheese to add to the Tricuit goodness. Michele's mom (who has enough to worry about, as her own daughter is serving in Iraq right now) made sure I have what it takes to pamper myself (smell good lotions and pedicure stuff to last for months!). Scott's mom found a way to get homemade cookies here fresh and almost in one piece. Aaron sent Mother's Day cards and roasted garlic goodness with letters from my boys. Rick sent his own Mother's Day love in the form of more calories than I have a right to eat this year... And the list goes on. So, to all those I've mentioned (and those of you I haven't) - THANK YOU!!!!!
My entire office loves you and you have made sure I am smiling during each and every mail call (which are not many, but I ALWAYS have something to look forward to). But we're out of space (both in the office and in our pants!). I no longer need to walk to the chow hall for meals because I have enough packaged, processed, preserved foods to endure a large nuclear holocaust. I honestly laugh with each and every box that comes in. I feel more loved and thought about than I ever thought possible.
Many of you have told me I'm in your prayers. For that, thank you! Just knowing that helps me to sleep much better at night. Honestly!
We're halfway there! I'm five days away from hitting double digits. I am trying not to count days, so I'm counting more manageable milestones. Right now I have seven rotators, eight paydays and 16 Malaria Meds left until I can have REAL Mexican food (chips and salsa here I come!!!).
Thank you again for all your love and support. I really appreciate all you've done to make me smile day in and day out. Please keep the e-mails coming and I'll post new photos as soon as SOMETHING happens that is worth blogging about. And please keep me in your thoughts as I head to the gym to undo the damage of the past six weeks. And if you're looking to send love in the form of tangible gifts, I can always send you the link to my Vickie's wish list!
The contributions to SAIA have come from far and wide. Leigh in Italy tracked down Chewy Runts and endured looks of disdain from a Shoppette cashier (you work at the SHOPPETTE - are you REALLY in a position to look down on someone?) when she bought out their stock. Michelle, who is in the middle of a PCS move, bought out the commissary's pastry aisle just to have her "badass kids" (her words, not mine) eat the cache before she could mail it. She found a Conoco and a CVS and was able to pull it together, though!
I have gotten contributions from people I've never met - Cindy's Aunt Cindy in Pa., for example, made sure my diet NEVER gets back on track. Ian's wonderful girlfriend, Aubrey, has included a little something in each of her care packages that makes me smile. And there have been contributions FOR people you've never met (Cindy is stocked up on Swedish Fish for life - and she says thanks mom!) My parents sent (among other things) bacon cheese to add to the Tricuit goodness. Michele's mom (who has enough to worry about, as her own daughter is serving in Iraq right now) made sure I have what it takes to pamper myself (smell good lotions and pedicure stuff to last for months!). Scott's mom found a way to get homemade cookies here fresh and almost in one piece. Aaron sent Mother's Day cards and roasted garlic goodness with letters from my boys. Rick sent his own Mother's Day love in the form of more calories than I have a right to eat this year... And the list goes on. So, to all those I've mentioned (and those of you I haven't) - THANK YOU!!!!!
My entire office loves you and you have made sure I am smiling during each and every mail call (which are not many, but I ALWAYS have something to look forward to). But we're out of space (both in the office and in our pants!). I no longer need to walk to the chow hall for meals because I have enough packaged, processed, preserved foods to endure a large nuclear holocaust. I honestly laugh with each and every box that comes in. I feel more loved and thought about than I ever thought possible.
Many of you have told me I'm in your prayers. For that, thank you! Just knowing that helps me to sleep much better at night. Honestly!
We're halfway there! I'm five days away from hitting double digits. I am trying not to count days, so I'm counting more manageable milestones. Right now I have seven rotators, eight paydays and 16 Malaria Meds left until I can have REAL Mexican food (chips and salsa here I come!!!).
Thank you again for all your love and support. I really appreciate all you've done to make me smile day in and day out. Please keep the e-mails coming and I'll post new photos as soon as SOMETHING happens that is worth blogging about. And please keep me in your thoughts as I head to the gym to undo the damage of the past six weeks. And if you're looking to send love in the form of tangible gifts, I can always send you the link to my Vickie's wish list!
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Queens of da Nile
I can say with full conviction that white water rafting on the Nile is a once in lifetime experience. I mean this quite literally, because never…ever..again in my life will I do something that completely freakin’ stupid!
I have flow in a T-38, twice in an F-16 and once on Fat Albert during an airshow. I have jumped from an airplane at 12,500 feet with 250 pounds of big country strapped to my back. I watched a man I consider my friend eject from an airplane 8/10ths of a second before his Viper hit the ground. I have been on a KC-135 at 8,000 as we took AAA fire. And I have never been this terrified in my entire life. Never!
Two weeks ago, when we knew we were coming to Uganda, Cindy says “Hey, wanna raft on the Nile?” Sounds like a good idea to me – when will I ever get a chance like that again? We have to come out for military to military training. But we will arrive Friday night and our mission won’t start until Sunday. The Global War on Terrorism is funding our airfare and lodging which means we only have to pay the $125 to raft. So I jump all over it and off we go. We take a bus up to Jinga to the headquarters of the Adrift Company. They’re the largest rafting company on the White Nile and have been in business for 12 years. They start their tours about two kilometers from the source of the Nile. The one day tour offers 31 kilometers of rapids, with a stop for lunch halfway through. On the bus, on our way to Jinga, one of the guides tells us a little about the river. He named off rapids (Buogo, Big Brother, The Dead Dutchman, the Bad Thing) and talked about class sizes. I’m not a subscribing member of the International Rapids Rating Association (if such a thing exists) so when you tell me we’ll hit Class II through Class V rapids, I have no frame of reference. This means nothing to me. But it sounds fun, so why not? And once at the site, they told us we had two options. We could be on the “mild” team or the “wild” team. Cindy and I didn’t hesitate when we said “Oh oh… we want WILD!”
Now, this decision would hit me with full force later in the day when I realized two things. First, I fancy myself as being adrenaline junky. But “fancy” is the key word. Because I’m not. Hindsight is always 20/20 and I almost always realize after the fact that some things sound much better in theory. Shooting rapids on the Nile is defiantly one of those things. My second realization was one borne of common sense – and borne just a little too late. I realized that if we’re starting at the top of the river, there is really only one way down. Mild or Wild – those are just terms to make people feel better about themselves. The river is what it is and while I’m not physics major, I do know that what goes up, must come down.
Our boat was an interesting mix of people. Our tour guide was a local Ugandan named Tutu. Tutu is a straight up crazy bastard with a face that resembled one of Michael Vicks’ pit bulls – full of scars, broken teeth and a deranged look in his eyes. We had U.S. Navy Lt. Anthony Seifert (a rescue swimmer who earned his keep), Cindy (all 5’ 3” and a half and 105 pounds soaking wet), an Egyptian in his mid-20s who works for Oracle and isn’t all too comfortable swimming, and a group of four Brits. Toby and Ben are in their early 20s and seemed to be in good shape. The two little pop tarts they brought with them left something to be desired. Emily wouldn’t have actually put forth effort to paddle if her life depended on it and Harriet was even tinier than Cindy and prone to histrionics even before we cleared the first Class II rapid. It took every ounce of self control I had not to bounce her skinny butt overboard in the first 30 minutes. She never used her oar to row – only to gesture wildly while emphasizing points and inadvertently smacking Cindy in the face on several occasions. Lastly was a 54 year old adventure seeker from Alaska named Kathy.
There were five teams plus a safety boat and maybe a dozen rescue swimmers in kayaks in our group. Our team was the first on the river and the first to complete the necessary drills required before the boats can head down. The goal was to complete 16 kilometers and five Class III or higher rapids before we hit the island for lunch. This seemed easy… what did I know? I had never seen a rapid, so again, it meant nothing to me! We started off slowly; a few Class II drops to get our blood pumping and to practice our skills. Then we hit the first real challenge of the day and I learned quickly that I was well out of my element. As we approached the first of the large rapids we would encounter, Harriet starts her horror film soundtrack – screaming, screeching and basically raising my blood pressure and anxiety level before I even know what was coming. We hit a Class IV rapid and we flipped. Now, here’s what flipping entails: there are 10 people in a 10 man raft. Cindy and I are on the left side and our boat flipped left over right. This means that everyone on the left side came over us and then raft ended up on our heads. You’re still getting tossed around in the rinse and spin cycle of the Nile Maytag as this happens, making breathing impossible. There is no way to tell which way is up and now a slight sense of panic has permeated my disorientation. I’m scared and feel like I’ve been under for several minutes when in all reality it couldn’t have been more than 15 seconds. I popped back up, got slapped by another large wave, tumbled again and then spit out toward one of the safety kayaks. He was able to grab me and take me back to the (relative) safety of our raft.
Cindy didn’t fare as well on the first toss (I say first because there were more to follow and they only got progressively worse). Cindy got tossed but managed to surface fairly close to the boat, and even closer to Kathy. Kathy, in a panic, grabbed Cindy for support and drug her under several times. Kathy had Cindy outweighed by a good 50 pounds and had an extra 6 inches or so on her reach, meaning there was no way Cindy was going to be able to fight back. As Kathy was trying to climb Cindy to reach safety, Cindy showed her might by kicking off and swimming away. But the experience left her a little shaken.
Back in the boat, we had a little time to relax as we drifted toward what would become my unintended attempt at suicide. Big Brother was to be our last large rapid before lunch. Tutu warned us that we “might” get tossed and even took us through several drills. He told us that no matter what happened, we needed to hold on to the boat. He stressed several times that this was a dangerous section of the river and that it was imperative we not let go. When we’re talking about matters of life or death, I tend to take instructions quite literally. Thinking that I would add an extra ounce of protection into my day, I placed my left hand in the grab rope on the side of the raft and twisted, almost like I was a bull rider getting ready to leave the chutes at the PBR finals. This was possibly the worst decision I have ever made. We hit the top of Big Brother and I realized it was a seven wave series of rapids that stretched for close to 400 yards. I had a moment of panic as we hit the top and it went downhill from there. Again I was on the left and again we capsized left over right. But this time, I was caught in the rope on with my left hand. This meant that when I hit the water, I had no way to break free. I was at the mercy of the river and our raft. And when our raft righted itself, I was trapped underneath with no way to break free.
Many people talk about “finding God,” as if he were lost and you needed to search for him. I can tell you where he’s NOT. He’s not under a raft 15 kilometers down the Nile. I know this because I called for him many, many times…. It sounded a little like this: “Oh God, oh God, please, sweet Jesus, Lord have mercy…” And I realized that even while panicked, I have the ability to negotiate. That sounds a little like this: “God, please get me out of here. If you let me surface, I promise to be a better person. I’ll stop making fun of people as much, I’ll try to be more patient with the stupid people I encounter, I’ll stop offering unsolicited fashion advice to the ill dressed… You name it God, I’m in…”
I finally twisted free of our raft and surfaced, only to be smacked with our boat once more. I went under and when I came back up, after getting spit out of the center of this cyclone, I was more than 100 yards from our raft and completely alone. I could see Anthony back in our righted raft and searching for me and then I was snagged once again by an angel in a kayak. Cindy was scanning the water frantically trying to see where I was and I was hanging on to Henry (the rescue swimmer) while vomiting the several liters of water I had inhaled thus far. I was shell shocked at this point and not sure I had any desire to get back into anyone’s boat. I was thrown into another team’s raft and their guide did his best to soothe my nerves and I sat wide eyed and speechless, giving thanks while hatching an escape plan.
I was sent back to my boat and we had a chance again to relax before lunch. At lunch I was trying to figure out why I didn’t choose the half-day rafting adventure, knowing that I would be done by now and not preparing to face another 17 kilometers of rapids. But I didn’t have long to dwell before we were strapping the helmets back on and heading out again. And I couldn’t figure out, exactly, how so many teams were still dry when our team spent more time in the water than in our raft. It seems that with enough money, you CAN pay your guide to keep your boat righted. Hmmmm…. I have no problem paying for good services. Why didn’t I think of that? But it was too late now – we were back in the boats and out again.
The first hour after lunch was nothing but flat pools and a lot of chances to jump from the boat, swim and relax. This gave me time to talk myself out of my marathon anxiety attack. And just when I thought it wasn’t so bad, Tutu starts taking about a waterfall and throwing out options. First, we have to navigate around a Class VI rapid called “The Dead Dutchman.” I’m sorry – dead? You don’t name a rapid “The Dead Dutchman” unless there was a Dutchman who went over it and is now DEAD. I wasn’t finding comfort in this statement but I didn’t have time to ponder because it was decision time. We could go AROUND the waterfall, or we could go OVER it. Wow. I don’t see that as being a choice. Why godf over? But we did pay good money for this adventure and I didn't want to be the spoil sport here. Cindy shot me a look, told me (and I quote) to “cowboy up, find my balls and put on my game face” and I knew we were going over. But we couldn’t just go. We had to sit AT THE TOP, tied to some reeds, and wait for the safety boat to catch up. Then we even got to watch one or two rafts go over ahead of us, providing ample time for my anxiety to reproduce faster rabbits in the spring. But I managed to talk myself through it – until we were cresting the waterfall and got stuck. Yes, the other boats went over nose first. But we were special. We got to hit the falls right side (still my side) first and hang there at the apex for an indeterminable amount of time before crashing over and hitting the bottom. Somehow, oddly enough, we stayed rightside up and I was pumped. For about 30 seconds. Then we sat at the bottom and watched the last of the boats come over. And on the very last raft, someone got tossed. And he got caught in the waterfall. (By the way - he was on the mild raft. Mild my ass!)
Now if you’ve never seen an object hit the bottom of a waterfall and get caught in the tumble, I have to tell you, it’s a breathtaking sight. But when it’s a person and they can’t flush free, it’s a different story. As the rescue boats were trying their damnedest to pull him out, I was desperately looking for ways to step off our boat and on to the safety of land. I figured that at this point, I could walk down to the final landing, meet the group there and still have a great story to tell. But there was no way for me to bail so instead I got to watch in horror as they freed the guy. They pulled him to safety in the amount of time it took me to work on a whole new panic attack and then we were off once again.
The final hurdle of the day was a rapid called “The Bad Thing.” A picture may be worth 1,000 words, but sometimes a name says it all. It really was a BAD THING. In order to get to the Bad Thing, we had to beach our raft and walk about 100 meters through the jungle to get around another Class VI rapid too strong to navigate by boat. Once on the other side, we were given our last option of the day. We were told we could split our team and take another boat. You could do the Bad Thing, with a 50/50 chance of flipping, or you could take the safety boat, float around it and be done for the day. Harriet was long gone by now, having opted some time ago for the safety boat. I was already in our boat when this option was presented, and feeling like I had nothing to prove, was quite ready to jump to the safety boat. But by now, a crowd had formed on the banks and in order to get to the safety boat, I would have had to step off our boat and walk through them. And I couldn’t do it. I realized I would rather swallow more Nile than swallow my pride and before I knew it, I heard the words “Screw it – let’s do it” coming out of my mouth and we were off one last time.
I knew before we were even at the top of the Bad Thing that we were going over one last time. There was no doubt in my mind that we were flipping. So I picked the left side of the boat and started talking myself through it. Sure enough, we went under the first wave, through the second and over the third – and we were airborne. As soon as I realized we were flying, I planted my feet on the side of the boat and kicked with all I had. I managed to clear the people on the right – by quite a bit – before hitting the water. And then it was game on. I grabbed my vest with both hands, shut my eyes and held on for dear life. I flipped and tumbled a few times, I inhaled more water than is recommended by the USDA, but I was okay. And never, ever so happy in my entire life.
We came to the end of our adventure - which includes beaching your raft, climbing some 500 meters up a cliff covered in wet mud while carrying your gear - and were done. For the 30 minutes after, the 90 minutes on the bus back to Kampala, the hour in the car back to the hotel and the two hours it took me to fall asleep, I still felt like I was on a boat. At night, sometimes as I drift off to sleep I feel like I'm falling. Last night, I felt like my bed was about to capsize. I may very well have PTSD from this adventure. And given the amount of water I swallowed, I'm pretty sure that there is a case of dysentery in my near future. Every drop of water I had had since yesterday evening still tastes like the river. I'm black and blue from toe to torso, I think I have whiplash and I'm pretty sure that the sunburn on the tops of my legs has reached an epic level. But I have a tee shirt, tons of photos and a great story to tell - a story that I'm sure will only get better with time.
On a final note, we were on the White Nile in Uganda. The portion of river that we were on will cease to exist after about 2010 as they are creating a new damn in the area and diverting the water. Knowing that I conquered a portion of water that will soon no longer be traversable by man gives me a slight feeling of pride and awe. But that still doesn't mean you could pay me to ever put myself through that again!
Lord only knows what Cindy will come up with next. And I can almost promise you that no matter what her next suggestion is, I'll say "Sure, let's do it" and then once find myself wondering what the hell I'm doing in whatever situation we find ourselves in!
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
It's hotter than Hell
The high yesterday in Hell, Mich., was 62 degrees. The high on Camp Lemonier yesterday was 123 on the wet bulb. That means, by my math, it is almost twice as hot in Africa than it is in Hell. And it's only early May. My friend Ian fondly tells us every day "It's only going to get hotter..." Because THAT goes far is making me feel better about this plight, right?
We've run out of fun little euphuisms for hot. I used to say "It's Africa hot..." but now I know it was never THAT hot. And we used to say "Wow, who turned the thermostat to Africa..." but I realize now that no thermostat in the U.S. has a setting close to what you'll find here. When I said "It's 100 and stupid out" I couldn't have know at the time that nothing has ever been this stupid.
A lesser known fact - Djibouti, Africa has the highest recorded temperature of any inhabited place in the world (there are hotter places, but no one is retarded enough to LIVE there.) It's already a level of hot that defies comprehension. I can't explain what it feels like to walk to lunch when there is 86 percent humidity and the asphalt has caught fire around you. There are some clouds that look to threaten rain but those aren't actually clouds. They are actually an accumulation of smoke from all of the places on camp that just spontaneously combusted throughout the day.
I'm escaping the misery for a little over a week as Cindy and I hit the road. They're unleashing us on the continent again without adult supervision. And this time, we get a day off. So, not ones to waste a chance to make this war count, we're going to white water raft on the Nile. We have found a company (http://www.blogger.com/www.adrift.ug) that will allow us to spend a day shooting the Nile, provides lunch and will even pick us up at a hotel and drop us back off. The Global War on Terror is funding our airfare to and from and even covering our hotel. So all we have to pay is the $125 for the day trip. I pray that I will never have to come back to this Godforsaken land so I'm going to enjoy it while I can.
The company also provided us an option for "Nile High Bungee" jumping. You jump from a bridge, your head dips into the water and then you snap back up. For about a day I thought this was a stellar idea. Cindy tried to talk me out of it by saying "Do you REALLY trust someone in Africa to ensure the bungee is safe?" But I didn't find it any different than trusting some 19 year old on meth at Fiesta Village to secure my bungee. But she won on Logic - Round Two. She pointed out that Karma is a bitch and that bitch doesn't like me. Therefore, as Cindy pointed out, the odds are fairly good that I would be "THAT" girl - the one who popped back out of the water just in time to have a large Nile croc jump out and eat my head. I'm sure it would make for great photo and video, I don't think I want to risk it. So instead I'll just stand on the bridge and make fun of everyone else who may or may not get eaten. I was going to open up the "jump or no jump" poll to American voters and let you be the judge. The column with the most responses would have won. But I don't trust all of my friends enough to vote with my best interests at heart. So we won't be jumping off of any bridges (real or proverbial) any time soon.
On a separate note, the good people at Armed Forces Entertainment brought the Edwin McCain Band out to perform for us last night. If you just said "Who?", don't feel badly. He released the 1997 hit (I mean that so loosely) "I'll Be" and the 1999 radio pop gem "I Could Not Ask For More." After that, I think he might have written some television theme songs for the WB but I don't think he was selling out any amphitheaters anywhere. So where do you go when you're a fallen pop star looking to resurrect your career? I guess the answer to that is "Djibouti." Because there is nothing that will invigorate record sales faster than crooning ballads to semi-intoxicated sailors serving shore duty on the surface of the sun. But it was free, so I really shouldn't bitch. (I WILL, I just shouldn't... There's a big difference!)
That's all the news that's fit to report. Since I will be out of communication for a while, I'd like to take this renta-space to wish all of the mothers in my life (and two very special mommies to be - Jessica and Amy) a very happy Mother's Day. I hope your Sunday brings everything you could wish for - sleep, a clean kitchen, positive numbers in your bank accounts, positive control of the TiVo remote and no trips to the emergency room! I love you all!
We've run out of fun little euphuisms for hot. I used to say "It's Africa hot..." but now I know it was never THAT hot. And we used to say "Wow, who turned the thermostat to Africa..." but I realize now that no thermostat in the U.S. has a setting close to what you'll find here. When I said "It's 100 and stupid out" I couldn't have know at the time that nothing has ever been this stupid.
A lesser known fact - Djibouti, Africa has the highest recorded temperature of any inhabited place in the world (there are hotter places, but no one is retarded enough to LIVE there.) It's already a level of hot that defies comprehension. I can't explain what it feels like to walk to lunch when there is 86 percent humidity and the asphalt has caught fire around you. There are some clouds that look to threaten rain but those aren't actually clouds. They are actually an accumulation of smoke from all of the places on camp that just spontaneously combusted throughout the day.
I'm escaping the misery for a little over a week as Cindy and I hit the road. They're unleashing us on the continent again without adult supervision. And this time, we get a day off. So, not ones to waste a chance to make this war count, we're going to white water raft on the Nile. We have found a company (http://www.blogger.com/www.adrift.ug) that will allow us to spend a day shooting the Nile, provides lunch and will even pick us up at a hotel and drop us back off. The Global War on Terror is funding our airfare to and from and even covering our hotel. So all we have to pay is the $125 for the day trip. I pray that I will never have to come back to this Godforsaken land so I'm going to enjoy it while I can.
The company also provided us an option for "Nile High Bungee" jumping. You jump from a bridge, your head dips into the water and then you snap back up. For about a day I thought this was a stellar idea. Cindy tried to talk me out of it by saying "Do you REALLY trust someone in Africa to ensure the bungee is safe?" But I didn't find it any different than trusting some 19 year old on meth at Fiesta Village to secure my bungee. But she won on Logic - Round Two. She pointed out that Karma is a bitch and that bitch doesn't like me. Therefore, as Cindy pointed out, the odds are fairly good that I would be "THAT" girl - the one who popped back out of the water just in time to have a large Nile croc jump out and eat my head. I'm sure it would make for great photo and video, I don't think I want to risk it. So instead I'll just stand on the bridge and make fun of everyone else who may or may not get eaten. I was going to open up the "jump or no jump" poll to American voters and let you be the judge. The column with the most responses would have won. But I don't trust all of my friends enough to vote with my best interests at heart. So we won't be jumping off of any bridges (real or proverbial) any time soon.
On a separate note, the good people at Armed Forces Entertainment brought the Edwin McCain Band out to perform for us last night. If you just said "Who?", don't feel badly. He released the 1997 hit (I mean that so loosely) "I'll Be" and the 1999 radio pop gem "I Could Not Ask For More." After that, I think he might have written some television theme songs for the WB but I don't think he was selling out any amphitheaters anywhere. So where do you go when you're a fallen pop star looking to resurrect your career? I guess the answer to that is "Djibouti." Because there is nothing that will invigorate record sales faster than crooning ballads to semi-intoxicated sailors serving shore duty on the surface of the sun. But it was free, so I really shouldn't bitch. (I WILL, I just shouldn't... There's a big difference!)
That's all the news that's fit to report. Since I will be out of communication for a while, I'd like to take this renta-space to wish all of the mothers in my life (and two very special mommies to be - Jessica and Amy) a very happy Mother's Day. I hope your Sunday brings everything you could wish for - sleep, a clean kitchen, positive numbers in your bank accounts, positive control of the TiVo remote and no trips to the emergency room! I love you all!
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Caught with my pants down
In case you've ever wondered what you would do if you got caught with your pants down... let me give you the answer. But first, there is some background required, so bear with me a second.We live in what are called "Containerized Living Units." The CLUs are sea/land shipping containers sightly retrofitted to be livable. By sea/land container, I mean the Corrugated tin Maersk rectangular boxes you see at ports, on ships and passing by on trains. They're 32 feet long and 7 feet wide, divided in half. There are two people living in each side. This means that Nikki and I share a 17 by 7 space filled with two beds, four wall lockers, a small desk and two chairs. Essentially, I have about 11 inches of personal space in my CLU when all is said and done. I have less room than my cousin's ex-husband had when he was serving time in the Tehachapi State Prison - and HE got time off for good behavior!
Now, I'm blessed to have Nikki as my CLU-mate. She is my age, my rank, a single mom, she's clean, she's polite. It's great! And we have a system... whoever gets home second knocks before we open the door just to alert the other - just a little courtesy right?
So last week, I get back from work first. I walk to the back of the CLU to get out of my uniform. I have my clothes in my hand, I have set my things on my bed. I'm very obviously in MY CLU. So there I am, left hand on the wall, right foot on the floor, left foot raised, pants around my ankles half bent over trying to pull my pant leg off. And WHAM - my door swings WIDE open. I freeze. I can't move... I'm stunned and confused. There, standing at my door is Pat from SNL - I wasn't sure if it was a man or a woman. He/she looks at me, swings the door closed to look at the "address" and then swings it back open. I'm still frozen... Again, he/she swings the door closed to look at the number and make sure it's MY CLU. And now I'm starting to doubt myself. Sure, it's my pink sheets on the bed and my fluffy towel on the hook. It's even my clothes in my hand. But I'm seriously starting to think that maybe I am in someone else's CLU. That's how surreal this is.
Now, after take two of the door check I realize it's a woman who needs to either fire her hair dresser or purchase a mirror from Drugstore.com and I'm starting to think about what "high maintenance female" tips I might be able to lend her to transition her from the "Pat" look into something a little less 1980 and a little more 2008. But then she COMES IN and shuts the door! She stands in the doorway of my house (yes, I'm still half naked, white hiney in the air, hand on the wall) and says "Wow, I guess I'm in the wrong unit..." and then, as abruptly as she appeared, she left. Just like that - gone.
I now know the answer to what I'd ever say if I got caught with my pants down... Not a damn thing people; not a damn thing!
This kind of stuff doesn't happen to other people, does it?
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