Tsk.
Today we found a Rally's.
I missed Rally's. The last time I had a Rally's burger was when we were stationed at Scott AFB in Illinois, and we left there in July 1996. I reallllly wanted one. We thought we had found one a while back, but we got there and it was closed. Permanently.
Today we were leaving the base and had to stop by the post office (oohyeah, those of you who ordered books, they're on the way) and decided to see what was just past the place where we normally turn off.
There it was. The Spouse Thingy spotted it first, and I thought he was kidding. Cruelly teasing me. Yeah, right, there's a Rally's this close and we never saw it before. I mean, we looked in the phone book and never saw it there. But there it was. On the right. Just a couple miles away from the Number One Gate of the air force base.
A Rally's.
Oh yeah.
So we stopped, and The Spouse Thingy treated me to a Rally's combo. Burger, fries, and a coke. Yes! Yesyesyes! I was having Rally's for lunch!
And you know what? It sucked.
=sigh=
This is a good thing, over all. I don't need the temptation of a nearby really good Rally's.
But, damn!
Monday
Saturday
Holy Brain Surgery Batman!
Ok, it wasn't rocket science, but it was brain surgery. Slowly, envelope by envelope, the bills for my surgery in June have been trickling in. A thousand here, and few thousand there, until the total reached about $30,000.
Today we get another envelope in the mail, just as we're heading out the door to go see a movie. Did you hear a wild "HOLY SHIT!" riding on the air outside your house today? That was me, after opening said envelope.
$87,175.05
No, there are no typos there. Eighty seven thousand, one hundred seventy five dollars and five cents (I think the 5 cents was the price for me blinking freely in the recovery room; after all, the movement did displace air...). That brings the grand total to well over one hundred thousand dollars. $100,000.
This, boys and girls, has made all eighteen years of military bullshit worth it. Eighteen years of moving every 3 years, leaving friends behind, having to find new and inventive ways to keep myself occupied whilst the Spouse Thingy is at work and while I know no one and have no where fun to go.
Our share? About $50. Yep. Fifty dollars.
God Bless the United States Air Force.
Ok, it wasn't rocket science, but it was brain surgery. Slowly, envelope by envelope, the bills for my surgery in June have been trickling in. A thousand here, and few thousand there, until the total reached about $30,000.
Today we get another envelope in the mail, just as we're heading out the door to go see a movie. Did you hear a wild "HOLY SHIT!" riding on the air outside your house today? That was me, after opening said envelope.
$87,175.05
No, there are no typos there. Eighty seven thousand, one hundred seventy five dollars and five cents (I think the 5 cents was the price for me blinking freely in the recovery room; after all, the movement did displace air...). That brings the grand total to well over one hundred thousand dollars. $100,000.
This, boys and girls, has made all eighteen years of military bullshit worth it. Eighteen years of moving every 3 years, leaving friends behind, having to find new and inventive ways to keep myself occupied whilst the Spouse Thingy is at work and while I know no one and have no where fun to go.
Our share? About $50. Yep. Fifty dollars.
God Bless the United States Air Force.
Friday
OddzNEndz
Major kudos to Scary Duck. Our Webfooted Web Weaver was voted Best British Blog on the ‘Net, and deservedly so. He’s got a funny-assed blog, loaded with memories from his childhood, told in a way only the Duck can. Be prepared to spend a lot of time there reading.
It started raining here yesterday afternoon; a nice, steady soaking rain that we really need (oohyeah, I want those leave to change to all the pretty colors!) Now, don’t ask me why, but an hour after the rain began, one of my neighbors was out there mowing his lawn. I understand enjoying a walk in the rain, but cutting the grass? I wonder how thrilled he was later that afternoon when maintenance workers brought a mini-bulldozer over and ripped his lawn up to get at a broken water pipe.
I wondered, too, when the rain was coming down in torrents this morning – we got a good 4 inches – why he was standing outside, shaking a carpet runner…
Cats are supposed to hate water, right? (nice segue from the rain, eh?)
PsychoKitty doesn’t want to get in it, but he sure wants to watch it. It’s not possible to take a bath or a shower without his help. He stands outside the tub, waiting patiently for us to finish, so that he can stand at tub’s edge and watch water go down the drain. A flushing toilet fascinates him (for this reason all toilets are closed when not in use…) To keep him occupied for an hour, I can just dump ice cubes in the sink, and he’ll stand there and watch them melt.
Eh, I don’t get it, but whatever floats his little boat.
My books are still for sale, and I still really need a car.
No pressure, though…
Major kudos to Scary Duck. Our Webfooted Web Weaver was voted Best British Blog on the ‘Net, and deservedly so. He’s got a funny-assed blog, loaded with memories from his childhood, told in a way only the Duck can. Be prepared to spend a lot of time there reading.
It started raining here yesterday afternoon; a nice, steady soaking rain that we really need (oohyeah, I want those leave to change to all the pretty colors!) Now, don’t ask me why, but an hour after the rain began, one of my neighbors was out there mowing his lawn. I understand enjoying a walk in the rain, but cutting the grass? I wonder how thrilled he was later that afternoon when maintenance workers brought a mini-bulldozer over and ripped his lawn up to get at a broken water pipe.
I wondered, too, when the rain was coming down in torrents this morning – we got a good 4 inches – why he was standing outside, shaking a carpet runner…
Cats are supposed to hate water, right? (nice segue from the rain, eh?)
PsychoKitty doesn’t want to get in it, but he sure wants to watch it. It’s not possible to take a bath or a shower without his help. He stands outside the tub, waiting patiently for us to finish, so that he can stand at tub’s edge and watch water go down the drain. A flushing toilet fascinates him (for this reason all toilets are closed when not in use…) To keep him occupied for an hour, I can just dump ice cubes in the sink, and he’ll stand there and watch them melt.
Eh, I don’t get it, but whatever floats his little boat.
My books are still for sale, and I still really need a car.
No pressure, though…
Thursday
Shamless Self Promotion
For the many, many, many (okay, all 3 of you) who have asked about signed copies of my latest book As Simple As That I finally got a shipment in. It only took a month [insert rolling of the eyes]. They're $14.95 plus shipping. I still have signed copies of the first book, Charybdis available, too.
No pressure. But I really need to buy a car...
For the many, many, many (okay, all 3 of you) who have asked about signed copies of my latest book As Simple As That I finally got a shipment in. It only took a month [insert rolling of the eyes]. They're $14.95 plus shipping. I still have signed copies of the first book, Charybdis available, too.
No pressure. But I really need to buy a car...
Wednesday
Ack! Pooey! Furball!
I occured to me today, while I was vacuuming up enough dog hair to be able to knit three blankets and a couple of sweaters, that I'm not a dog person (though I love Hank), and if something happens to the Spouse Thingy, it's likely that I'll become a Cat Lady. You know, those freaky old women who live in the dark house at the end of the street, with the grass that never seems to need to be cut but still looks pretty bad, who have 22 cats roaming around inside and a couple of dozen outside. I'm going to be one of them.
I realized this while I was vacuuming, because the constant shedding of dog hair annoys me, and I had just had a conversation with the cat. Yes, I talk to the cat. He talks back. What's worse, is that we seem to understand each other. I never have conversations with the dog. I talk to him and he stares back with this vacant "I want food" look. I talk to the cat and he answers. I'm definitely a cat person.
I'm not much of a people person, either. I suck at casual conversation with other bipeds. But I can talk to cats.
Yep, I'm going to be that freaky old lady at the end of the street, who chases kids off the lawn with an old broom. =sigh=
I occured to me today, while I was vacuuming up enough dog hair to be able to knit three blankets and a couple of sweaters, that I'm not a dog person (though I love Hank), and if something happens to the Spouse Thingy, it's likely that I'll become a Cat Lady. You know, those freaky old women who live in the dark house at the end of the street, with the grass that never seems to need to be cut but still looks pretty bad, who have 22 cats roaming around inside and a couple of dozen outside. I'm going to be one of them.
I realized this while I was vacuuming, because the constant shedding of dog hair annoys me, and I had just had a conversation with the cat. Yes, I talk to the cat. He talks back. What's worse, is that we seem to understand each other. I never have conversations with the dog. I talk to him and he stares back with this vacant "I want food" look. I talk to the cat and he answers. I'm definitely a cat person.
I'm not much of a people person, either. I suck at casual conversation with other bipeds. But I can talk to cats.
Yep, I'm going to be that freaky old lady at the end of the street, who chases kids off the lawn with an old broom. =sigh=
Monday
Here, Have Some Cheese
Maybe I’m just being on the sensitive side lately, but I’m hearing a lot more whining these days: life sucks, my parents/boss/job/siblings totally blow, my friends are turning into little pricks, and I just don’t like the way everything is going. I want everything on my terms, and dammit, I’m tired of waiting for that to happen. Does the world not realize it revolves around me?
Ok, so maybe the whiners don’t feel things to quite that extreme, but it’s how they sound.
Venting is one thing. It’s a one-time, get it off your chest blowup that’s over 2 seconds after the last word escapes your lips. Whining is chronic. At some point it becomes noise, that background static people train themselves to ignore. Listen to yourself speak. If you’re complaining most of the time, if you’re snapping at people because they don’t seem to be treating you fairly, if friends are avoiding you… maybe it’s you.
Face it, you get out of this world what you put into it; if it seems like your parents are always on your ass, you can’t find a job, your siblings seem to walk on water which makes you look like scum, everyone is snapping at you, it may very well be because they’re reacting to the you treat them. It’s like parasitic symbiosis. You’ll continue to feed off one another until one of you changes.
Why not be the one to make that first step? Be the adult, be the mature one. Start being nice, even in the face of nastiness, and see how the people around you respond to it. Attitude is everything. If you can change that, you can change the way you see the world, and the way the world sees you.
But whatever – don’t whine… it only makes you look immature and annoys the holy bejeezuz out of everyone around you.
Maybe I’m just being on the sensitive side lately, but I’m hearing a lot more whining these days: life sucks, my parents/boss/job/siblings totally blow, my friends are turning into little pricks, and I just don’t like the way everything is going. I want everything on my terms, and dammit, I’m tired of waiting for that to happen. Does the world not realize it revolves around me?
Ok, so maybe the whiners don’t feel things to quite that extreme, but it’s how they sound.
Venting is one thing. It’s a one-time, get it off your chest blowup that’s over 2 seconds after the last word escapes your lips. Whining is chronic. At some point it becomes noise, that background static people train themselves to ignore. Listen to yourself speak. If you’re complaining most of the time, if you’re snapping at people because they don’t seem to be treating you fairly, if friends are avoiding you… maybe it’s you.
Face it, you get out of this world what you put into it; if it seems like your parents are always on your ass, you can’t find a job, your siblings seem to walk on water which makes you look like scum, everyone is snapping at you, it may very well be because they’re reacting to the you treat them. It’s like parasitic symbiosis. You’ll continue to feed off one another until one of you changes.
Why not be the one to make that first step? Be the adult, be the mature one. Start being nice, even in the face of nastiness, and see how the people around you respond to it. Attitude is everything. If you can change that, you can change the way you see the world, and the way the world sees you.
But whatever – don’t whine… it only makes you look immature and annoys the holy bejeezuz out of everyone around you.
Friday
Butterfly Kisses
Remember that song? It was a hit a few years ago, a very sappy but kinda catchy tune about a dad mourning his little girl having grown up. I suspect most kids at the time thought it was a gag-me sort of song, and most adults thought it was sweet. I liked it (didn’t love it), but I always wondered… how freakishly long were the eyelashes on that little girl? If she was hugging her dad and he could feel her eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, she either had mutant lashes or he was holding so tight her eyes were popping out and the poor kid couldn’t breath. It’s amazing she survived long enough for him to write the song and smother the airwaves with it.
I thought about that song yesterday morning as I was climbing out of bed. I wake up every morning – a lot earlier that I would actually like – to whisker kisses. They start at about 4 in the morning; Max jumps up on the bed and very quietly creeps up to my face, sniffing my nose, checking to see if my eyes are open. I can feel his whiskers tickle my face, but I know better than to open my eyes. Once he’s satisfied that I’m still asleep, he crawls over me and either plops down on the bed to sleep, curling up and jamming his furry little body as close to me as he can (what is it about my ass? Is he trying to flatten it or what?), or he jumps onto the nice, soft window perch that the Spouse Thingy hung for him.
Like clockwork, he’s back at 8:30. During those 4½ hours that he lets me sleep he snoozes a while, then gets up when the Spouse Thingy does and helps him get ready for work (because, after all, we all know that the Spouse Thingy could not get ready properly without his help), and then he waits. Sometimes patiently, sometimes not. Once in a while I hear him, standing out in the hall by his dish, meowing his little head off, but for the most part he waits until the time he knows I should be getting up. He jumps on the bed and starts to sniff, his whiskers tickling my face.
He’s not so willing to let me stay asleep by then. If my eyes don’t open, the whiskers on my face become his head butting into my nose (which is still pretty tender from the surgery almost 3 months ago), and he starts nagging me. I don’t need to speak Kitty to understand what he’s saying.
“Get up. I’m hungry. Get up, I want food. Get up, dammit, get up get up get up!”
I either roll over – which does no good because he crawls over my body and starts the whole thing up all over again – or I open my eyes and let him know I know he’s there. That’s all he needs, to just know that I’m awake, and that I’ll get up soon to feed him. As soon as my eyes are open I get another healthy dose of whisker kisses, and he drops down onto his side to cuddle up against me, squirming and twisting, trying to get me to pet and adore him.
It used to annoy me, the clockwork precision way he’d check me out at 4 in the morning, every morning, and how he pushes me to get up before I really want to. But I thought about that corny little song, and realized that if he stopped doing it, I’d miss it.
At least I don’t have to squish his little head that close to feel his whiskers. I still wonder about that kid in the song, and if her head is all squarshed out of shape…
Remember that song? It was a hit a few years ago, a very sappy but kinda catchy tune about a dad mourning his little girl having grown up. I suspect most kids at the time thought it was a gag-me sort of song, and most adults thought it was sweet. I liked it (didn’t love it), but I always wondered… how freakishly long were the eyelashes on that little girl? If she was hugging her dad and he could feel her eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, she either had mutant lashes or he was holding so tight her eyes were popping out and the poor kid couldn’t breath. It’s amazing she survived long enough for him to write the song and smother the airwaves with it.
I thought about that song yesterday morning as I was climbing out of bed. I wake up every morning – a lot earlier that I would actually like – to whisker kisses. They start at about 4 in the morning; Max jumps up on the bed and very quietly creeps up to my face, sniffing my nose, checking to see if my eyes are open. I can feel his whiskers tickle my face, but I know better than to open my eyes. Once he’s satisfied that I’m still asleep, he crawls over me and either plops down on the bed to sleep, curling up and jamming his furry little body as close to me as he can (what is it about my ass? Is he trying to flatten it or what?), or he jumps onto the nice, soft window perch that the Spouse Thingy hung for him.
Like clockwork, he’s back at 8:30. During those 4½ hours that he lets me sleep he snoozes a while, then gets up when the Spouse Thingy does and helps him get ready for work (because, after all, we all know that the Spouse Thingy could not get ready properly without his help), and then he waits. Sometimes patiently, sometimes not. Once in a while I hear him, standing out in the hall by his dish, meowing his little head off, but for the most part he waits until the time he knows I should be getting up. He jumps on the bed and starts to sniff, his whiskers tickling my face.
He’s not so willing to let me stay asleep by then. If my eyes don’t open, the whiskers on my face become his head butting into my nose (which is still pretty tender from the surgery almost 3 months ago), and he starts nagging me. I don’t need to speak Kitty to understand what he’s saying.
“Get up. I’m hungry. Get up, I want food. Get up, dammit, get up get up get up!”
I either roll over – which does no good because he crawls over my body and starts the whole thing up all over again – or I open my eyes and let him know I know he’s there. That’s all he needs, to just know that I’m awake, and that I’ll get up soon to feed him. As soon as my eyes are open I get another healthy dose of whisker kisses, and he drops down onto his side to cuddle up against me, squirming and twisting, trying to get me to pet and adore him.
It used to annoy me, the clockwork precision way he’d check me out at 4 in the morning, every morning, and how he pushes me to get up before I really want to. But I thought about that corny little song, and realized that if he stopped doing it, I’d miss it.
At least I don’t have to squish his little head that close to feel his whiskers. I still wonder about that kid in the song, and if her head is all squarshed out of shape…
Wednesday
CNN Late Breaking News!
It has been reported that Osama bin Laden was captured this morning at 4:22 AM Pacific Standard Time by US Special Forces.
The prime suspect of the recent terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in New York City, bin Laden was captured at gunpoint as he fled an underground passage in a remote mountainside of southern Afghanistan.
Northern Alliance troops, who witnessed the events unfold, explained that moments earlier United States war planes had sprayed liquid Viagra across the southern Afghanistan countryside, and the little prick just popped up!
Heh... stolen from a post on Wil Wheaton's Soapbox
It has been reported that Osama bin Laden was captured this morning at 4:22 AM Pacific Standard Time by US Special Forces.
The prime suspect of the recent terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in New York City, bin Laden was captured at gunpoint as he fled an underground passage in a remote mountainside of southern Afghanistan.
Northern Alliance troops, who witnessed the events unfold, explained that moments earlier United States war planes had sprayed liquid Viagra across the southern Afghanistan countryside, and the little prick just popped up!
Heh... stolen from a post on Wil Wheaton's Soapbox
Carpe Diem
If today is your birthday, celebrate it. If it’s your anniversary, celebrate it. If it’s your kid’s recital, talent show, first lost tooth, go, enjoy, celebrate the changes. Take a deep breath and be glad to be alive, and take back your day.
Take it back. It’s yours. Don’t let them have it.
Will we have another surge of National Pride today? Will it last? Will people haul out the flags they out away, or replace they ones they just weren’t ready to store? And will Other People not grind their teeth at the show of what they think is bandwagon patriotism and just let them fly a flag without being made to feel like a lemming?
Yes, people started flying the flag last year. But it wasn’t out of pretentious patriotism; people had their reasons for it.
For some, flying the flag was an in-your-face, red-white-and-blue Fuck You to anyone in this world who would blink twice in the direction of the U.S. It was Empowerment. Capital E intentional.
I suspect for most people, though, flying the flag fulfilled an emotional need. It wasn't sudden patriotism, it wasn't jumping on the bandwagon to be that Perfect All American, all apple pie and cookie cutter God Fearing US Citizen... it was a blanket, a bandage to cover a deep, deep wound.
Face it, for most of us, even those of us who had friends in NY who are still suffering the emotional backlash of a year ago, and for those of us who had friends who are still grieving the loss of family, there was literally nothing we could do. Someone kicked us all in the teeth, but individually we couldn't hit back. There was a collective owie, and people needed a collective Band Aid.
That Band Aid was the flag... People wrapped themselves in it for comfort, not necessarily out of a surge of patriotism, but of a need for something indefinable. The flag became Mom's late night, make-you-feel-better cookies and milk. It's tangible, something that can be touched, felt, seen...
And as the healing began, people began to take the Band Aid off. The pressing need to fly the flag wasn't as great. Yes, greater respect should have been paid to the flag itself, and those that became tattered should have been removed and replaced, but the circumstances are not the norm. Some people are not, not even now, ready to give up the thing that made them feel even just a tiny bit better, not even to replace it with something identical.
They still need time. And that should be ok.
I don't think it was ever bandwagon patriotism. For the most part, the surge of flags flying was the Band Aid, the security blanket people needed.
Seize the day, friends. Be glad you’re alive.
I know I am.
If today is your birthday, celebrate it. If it’s your anniversary, celebrate it. If it’s your kid’s recital, talent show, first lost tooth, go, enjoy, celebrate the changes. Take a deep breath and be glad to be alive, and take back your day.
Take it back. It’s yours. Don’t let them have it.
Will we have another surge of National Pride today? Will it last? Will people haul out the flags they out away, or replace they ones they just weren’t ready to store? And will Other People not grind their teeth at the show of what they think is bandwagon patriotism and just let them fly a flag without being made to feel like a lemming?
Yes, people started flying the flag last year. But it wasn’t out of pretentious patriotism; people had their reasons for it.
For some, flying the flag was an in-your-face, red-white-and-blue Fuck You to anyone in this world who would blink twice in the direction of the U.S. It was Empowerment. Capital E intentional.
I suspect for most people, though, flying the flag fulfilled an emotional need. It wasn't sudden patriotism, it wasn't jumping on the bandwagon to be that Perfect All American, all apple pie and cookie cutter God Fearing US Citizen... it was a blanket, a bandage to cover a deep, deep wound.
Face it, for most of us, even those of us who had friends in NY who are still suffering the emotional backlash of a year ago, and for those of us who had friends who are still grieving the loss of family, there was literally nothing we could do. Someone kicked us all in the teeth, but individually we couldn't hit back. There was a collective owie, and people needed a collective Band Aid.
That Band Aid was the flag... People wrapped themselves in it for comfort, not necessarily out of a surge of patriotism, but of a need for something indefinable. The flag became Mom's late night, make-you-feel-better cookies and milk. It's tangible, something that can be touched, felt, seen...
And as the healing began, people began to take the Band Aid off. The pressing need to fly the flag wasn't as great. Yes, greater respect should have been paid to the flag itself, and those that became tattered should have been removed and replaced, but the circumstances are not the norm. Some people are not, not even now, ready to give up the thing that made them feel even just a tiny bit better, not even to replace it with something identical.
They still need time. And that should be ok.
I don't think it was ever bandwagon patriotism. For the most part, the surge of flags flying was the Band Aid, the security blanket people needed.
Seize the day, friends. Be glad you’re alive.
I know I am.
Sunday
By Any Other Name...
We learned something this weekend. It may prove to be invaluable in the future, when we’re trying to decide what we want to do on any given weekend, as we peruse the newspaper for local goings-on. “Festival” in the Midwest generally means one thing, no matter what else is tacked on to the title.
Saturday we went to the Starving Artists Festival. I assumed, naturally I think, that there would be artists there. You know, as in “I paint pictures” kind of artist. There were some awesome displays of woodwork, homemade jewelry, tie dyed t-shirts, quilts, embroidered shirts and skirts… but no paintings.
Hmmm.
Today we went to the Beavercreek Popcorn Festival. I like popcorn. It seemed promising; 200 booths, and all were supposed to have popcorn in some form (according to the Dayton Daily News, anyway.) There was also a nice little car show, with enough classic cars and ragtops to give us both minor cases of drooling.
I only saw 5 or 6 booths that had popcorn. The rest was, well, woodwork, homemade jewelry, tie dyed t-shirts, quilts, embroidered shirts and skirts. The skill of these people is incredible – at both festivals – so good I wondered a few times why they were hawking their wares there instead of setting up shop in the mall. But I also wondered where the heck all the popcorn was.
I can only conclude that in the Midwest, “festival” when coupled with any other word really means “craft show.”
I wonder what we’ll see if we go to something advertised as a craft show…
We learned something this weekend. It may prove to be invaluable in the future, when we’re trying to decide what we want to do on any given weekend, as we peruse the newspaper for local goings-on. “Festival” in the Midwest generally means one thing, no matter what else is tacked on to the title.
Saturday we went to the Starving Artists Festival. I assumed, naturally I think, that there would be artists there. You know, as in “I paint pictures” kind of artist. There were some awesome displays of woodwork, homemade jewelry, tie dyed t-shirts, quilts, embroidered shirts and skirts… but no paintings.
Hmmm.
Today we went to the Beavercreek Popcorn Festival. I like popcorn. It seemed promising; 200 booths, and all were supposed to have popcorn in some form (according to the Dayton Daily News, anyway.) There was also a nice little car show, with enough classic cars and ragtops to give us both minor cases of drooling.
I only saw 5 or 6 booths that had popcorn. The rest was, well, woodwork, homemade jewelry, tie dyed t-shirts, quilts, embroidered shirts and skirts. The skill of these people is incredible – at both festivals – so good I wondered a few times why they were hawking their wares there instead of setting up shop in the mall. But I also wondered where the heck all the popcorn was.
I can only conclude that in the Midwest, “festival” when coupled with any other word really means “craft show.”
I wonder what we’ll see if we go to something advertised as a craft show…
Saturday
Coin, Shiny, Other Side
We’re coming up on 18 years in the United States Air Force. Technically, the Spouse Thingy is, but since I’ve bounced from place to place with him, I’m a part of it. Eighteen years; that’s a fricking long time.
Now, granted, it’s not what I want for my son, not in terms of a career anyway. Over that 18 years things have shifted back and forth so much in terms of whether its worth it or not, that for the most part, I don’t think it’s worth it. Not for the long haul. I have serious issues with how little the enlisted troops are paid (hey, our military members should not qualify for food stamps, not even an E-1 or and E-2; and no, very few really know what they’re getting in to when they sign up, and no one can just quit if it turns out to be less than desirable for their family circumstances). I have issues with the rules of fraternization, though I do understand the basic “why” of them; I just think those rules are carried too far. I have issues with the way retirees are treated, like 3rd class citizens who seem to exist only to block the commissary aisles. I have issues with the officers' wives who seem to think they wear their husband’s rank.
But for all the reasons I wouldn’t want my son to make a career of it, it really isn’t all bad. It's been very good to us.
When the Spouse Thingy went in 18 years ago, it was as an enlisted guy; he was roughly 3 semesters short of his BSN, but we had a baby and needed to pay rent on more than an orderly’s salary and what little I could make working at International Fitness Center. He enlisted, and started bringing home the megabucks. All $800 a month.
One of the benefits of the military is the educational programs available. At the time, if he had wanted to take college classes in his off-hours, they would have paid 75% of his tuition. That’s up to a full 100% now. There are several programs available through which an airman can get a degree; the Spouse Thingy applied for, and was granted admission to, the USAF Bootstrap Program.
Basically, this gave him 3 semesters off work, at pay, to finish his BSN. When he graduated with his degree, he was commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant, and began working as a medical ward nurse. He had his eye on cardiac care nursing; six months later he was transferred to the CCU. It was invaluable experience.
His eye shifted to anesthesia; he wanted to become a Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetist. The Air Force had their own training program via the University of Texas Health Science Center in San Antonio. After two years of CCU nursing – a requirement for the program – he applied and was granted admission. By then he was a Captain… and the pay was better than $800 a month.
Two years after that he had his MSN in Nurse Anesthesia and a required commitment to spend another 4 years in the Air Force. By the end of that 4 years he was at 12 years in and made the decision to stick it out for 20, reasoning that the pension would be worth it.
And it will be.
But the gist of it is that he took advantage of the military education benefits in the best way he could, and when he retires he’ll have another career waiting for him. One that pays pretty danged well.
There are risks to being in the military, obviously. Being shot is one of them. Tours in the desert in the middle of summer. Being called at 3 a.m. and being told you have to be on a plane to an undisclosed location in an hour, for an undetermined length of time. War. The wrong end of things that go =boom=
But the benefits are there. Education. Medical care (hey, I got a $30,000 surgery and we’ll wind up paying a whopping $50.) Travel.
It’s worth it for the short term, I think. Four to eight years. Serve your country, get an education, see places you never would have, like endless cornfields in the Midwest and huge fricking desert scorpions. And you get really cool food, like dehydrated pork patties.
Yep, that’s worth it.
We’re coming up on 18 years in the United States Air Force. Technically, the Spouse Thingy is, but since I’ve bounced from place to place with him, I’m a part of it. Eighteen years; that’s a fricking long time.
Now, granted, it’s not what I want for my son, not in terms of a career anyway. Over that 18 years things have shifted back and forth so much in terms of whether its worth it or not, that for the most part, I don’t think it’s worth it. Not for the long haul. I have serious issues with how little the enlisted troops are paid (hey, our military members should not qualify for food stamps, not even an E-1 or and E-2; and no, very few really know what they’re getting in to when they sign up, and no one can just quit if it turns out to be less than desirable for their family circumstances). I have issues with the rules of fraternization, though I do understand the basic “why” of them; I just think those rules are carried too far. I have issues with the way retirees are treated, like 3rd class citizens who seem to exist only to block the commissary aisles. I have issues with the officers' wives who seem to think they wear their husband’s rank.
But for all the reasons I wouldn’t want my son to make a career of it, it really isn’t all bad. It's been very good to us.
When the Spouse Thingy went in 18 years ago, it was as an enlisted guy; he was roughly 3 semesters short of his BSN, but we had a baby and needed to pay rent on more than an orderly’s salary and what little I could make working at International Fitness Center. He enlisted, and started bringing home the megabucks. All $800 a month.
One of the benefits of the military is the educational programs available. At the time, if he had wanted to take college classes in his off-hours, they would have paid 75% of his tuition. That’s up to a full 100% now. There are several programs available through which an airman can get a degree; the Spouse Thingy applied for, and was granted admission to, the USAF Bootstrap Program.
Basically, this gave him 3 semesters off work, at pay, to finish his BSN. When he graduated with his degree, he was commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant, and began working as a medical ward nurse. He had his eye on cardiac care nursing; six months later he was transferred to the CCU. It was invaluable experience.
His eye shifted to anesthesia; he wanted to become a Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetist. The Air Force had their own training program via the University of Texas Health Science Center in San Antonio. After two years of CCU nursing – a requirement for the program – he applied and was granted admission. By then he was a Captain… and the pay was better than $800 a month.
Two years after that he had his MSN in Nurse Anesthesia and a required commitment to spend another 4 years in the Air Force. By the end of that 4 years he was at 12 years in and made the decision to stick it out for 20, reasoning that the pension would be worth it.
And it will be.
But the gist of it is that he took advantage of the military education benefits in the best way he could, and when he retires he’ll have another career waiting for him. One that pays pretty danged well.
There are risks to being in the military, obviously. Being shot is one of them. Tours in the desert in the middle of summer. Being called at 3 a.m. and being told you have to be on a plane to an undisclosed location in an hour, for an undetermined length of time. War. The wrong end of things that go =boom=
But the benefits are there. Education. Medical care (hey, I got a $30,000 surgery and we’ll wind up paying a whopping $50.) Travel.
It’s worth it for the short term, I think. Four to eight years. Serve your country, get an education, see places you never would have, like endless cornfields in the Midwest and huge fricking desert scorpions. And you get really cool food, like dehydrated pork patties.
Yep, that’s worth it.
Friday
A Case Of I Want
Some of the simplest things can be a big thrill – I saw a commercial yesterday for Rally’s and literally stopped what I was doing and sighed “Oooh, I want that.” I haven’t been to a Rally’s in at least eight years, and dang, it sounded so good. As I recall, it was nothing but cheap burgers and seasoned fries, but I really liked it.
The Spouse Thingy, being the Good Person that he is, looked it up in the phone boo, saw there was one not too far down the road, and declared Night Off From Diets and Cooking. After feeding Hank and PsychoKitty this evening, we jumped into the car and headed down Airway Road.
Yep, there was a Rally’s there.
It was closed.
Not just closed, but Out Of Business closed.
I was so bummed. Now granted, it’s just a burger, but dammit, I wanted that burger. We pulled into Wendy’s instead, and I had a burger anyway. Heck, it was good, I love Wendy’s burgers. It just wasn’t Rally’s.
Before we left I decided I wanted a Frosty. If I can’t have the burger I want, then by golly I’ll have a Frosty. The Spouse Thingy went to the counter to get me one, said “one small Frosty to go, please,” and the counter person handed him one.
For free.
Ok, so I’m still bummed the Rally’s was closed, but a free Frosty? Heck yeah!
We know for sure we’re in the Midwest now. Aside from the various county fairs, tomorrow Beavercreek is having its annual Popcorn Festival. Yep, an entire festival dedicated to Popcorn. According to the newspaper, every booth there has to off popcorn in some variety; a local church is planning on having popcorn noodles and chicken.
Um. Yum?
We’ll check it out on Sunday (because Sunday they’re also having a car show, and even though I lack the requisite testosterone, I want to see the cars).
Saturday there’s a Starving Artists Show somewhere in Dayton that we’ll try to see. I need to pick up a cheap crappy painting to match the cheap crappy painting I bought at WalMart just before we left California. I like my cheap crappy painting; it kind of goes with the Thomas Kincaid the Spouse Thingy bought me for Christmas.
If the Spouse Thingy would get his stuff out and get back into Bob Ross painting, he could create the cheap crappy picture I can’t seem to find anywhere else.
Surely some Starving Artist has created the ultimate cheap crappy painting…
More than Rally’s, I want a car. A convertible. Almost any convertible will do at this point. Yes, I’m pouting.
I want Jelly Belly Jelly Beans too.
Mostly, I want the car.
Some of the simplest things can be a big thrill – I saw a commercial yesterday for Rally’s and literally stopped what I was doing and sighed “Oooh, I want that.” I haven’t been to a Rally’s in at least eight years, and dang, it sounded so good. As I recall, it was nothing but cheap burgers and seasoned fries, but I really liked it.
The Spouse Thingy, being the Good Person that he is, looked it up in the phone boo, saw there was one not too far down the road, and declared Night Off From Diets and Cooking. After feeding Hank and PsychoKitty this evening, we jumped into the car and headed down Airway Road.
Yep, there was a Rally’s there.
It was closed.
Not just closed, but Out Of Business closed.
I was so bummed. Now granted, it’s just a burger, but dammit, I wanted that burger. We pulled into Wendy’s instead, and I had a burger anyway. Heck, it was good, I love Wendy’s burgers. It just wasn’t Rally’s.
Before we left I decided I wanted a Frosty. If I can’t have the burger I want, then by golly I’ll have a Frosty. The Spouse Thingy went to the counter to get me one, said “one small Frosty to go, please,” and the counter person handed him one.
For free.
Ok, so I’m still bummed the Rally’s was closed, but a free Frosty? Heck yeah!
We know for sure we’re in the Midwest now. Aside from the various county fairs, tomorrow Beavercreek is having its annual Popcorn Festival. Yep, an entire festival dedicated to Popcorn. According to the newspaper, every booth there has to off popcorn in some variety; a local church is planning on having popcorn noodles and chicken.
Um. Yum?
We’ll check it out on Sunday (because Sunday they’re also having a car show, and even though I lack the requisite testosterone, I want to see the cars).
Saturday there’s a Starving Artists Show somewhere in Dayton that we’ll try to see. I need to pick up a cheap crappy painting to match the cheap crappy painting I bought at WalMart just before we left California. I like my cheap crappy painting; it kind of goes with the Thomas Kincaid the Spouse Thingy bought me for Christmas.
If the Spouse Thingy would get his stuff out and get back into Bob Ross painting, he could create the cheap crappy picture I can’t seem to find anywhere else.
Surely some Starving Artist has created the ultimate cheap crappy painting…
More than Rally’s, I want a car. A convertible. Almost any convertible will do at this point. Yes, I’m pouting.
I want Jelly Belly Jelly Beans too.
Mostly, I want the car.
Wednesday
Serve Your Country, Then Bend Over
Imagine that you’ve spent 20 years working for a company who promised you, in writing, that if you stuck it out for the full 2 decades with them, you could retire with a pension (50% of pay) and full medical benefits. That’s the contract: 20 years for full medical and a pension.
Now, imagine what you would do if you reached that 20 year mark and they turned around and said “Well, no. We meant it when we said it, but we changed our minds. You have to pay for your medical.”
You’d sue their asses, right?
Military members don’t have that luxury. They are property of the U.S. Government, and as such don’t have the right to sue Uncle Sam on their own behalf. So when, years back, the government decided to not honor that part of the contract and shifted medical benefits to the HMO-like TriCare, hundreds of thousands of military retirees found themselves faced with losing their medical care, unless they were willing to pay hefty premiums for what had been promised to them for free.
These are the guys who served in World War II, Korea, Viet Nam. These are the guys who uprooted themselves at the government’s whim, frequently, moving their families with them, to every corner of the world, serving this country with not just their sweat, but their blood as well. To thank them, the rug was yanked right out from their feet, the promise reneged on.
It took several years for them to get back that “free” medical care. Recently TriCare For Life was implemented, giving retirees back their medical care. Sort of. They also must be enrolled in Medicare, which becomes the primary payee on medical costs. But, essentially, they got back their care.
That leaves the pension promised. For the most part, if you serve 20 years in the military, you get a pension that equals 50% of your base pay (it does not include any housing or subsistence allowances). If you gut it out for 30, you get 75% of your base pay.
If you leave the military officially disabled and can’t work because of that disability, you get screwed by a law that prohibits the military retiree from drawing a pension in excess of a disability check.
In a nutshell, that means that if a civilian retires from a private company and has a pension of $2000 a month, is certified disabled and his disability check is $1500, he has an income of $3500 a month. If a military member retires with a pension of $2000 a month, is qualified for disability at $1500 a month, he has an income of… $2000 a month. $1500 of that is disability, and his pension drops to $500.
Those are generous numbers, by the way. A $2000 pension is for the ranks of major and above. Junior officers and enlisted won’t see that kind of money.
The numbers don’t matter, though What matters is that this is legal discrimination, invoked on people by the government they spent the better part of their lives serving.
Spend your career on your knees loading bombs or repairing airplanes, destroy your lungs while serving as a Fuel Specialist, or have them seared from the fires in Kuwait… Become 100% disabled – meaning you cannot work after your 20 years are up - while serving your country, and you will not get the pension to which you are entitled.
Most retirees go on to other careers; they have the ability to earn for themselves a second income, enough to put bread on the table and their kids through school. Disabled retirees, however, cannot work. They don’t have the options. And then they’re expected to live on anywhere from a few hundred to about $1200 a month. Pretax dollars.
If they were civilian, they would get both their pension and disability.
And people wonder why I want a generations-long tradition of military service to end with my husband. Why I don’t want my son in the military.
Why would I?
Imagine that you’ve spent 20 years working for a company who promised you, in writing, that if you stuck it out for the full 2 decades with them, you could retire with a pension (50% of pay) and full medical benefits. That’s the contract: 20 years for full medical and a pension.
Now, imagine what you would do if you reached that 20 year mark and they turned around and said “Well, no. We meant it when we said it, but we changed our minds. You have to pay for your medical.”
You’d sue their asses, right?
Military members don’t have that luxury. They are property of the U.S. Government, and as such don’t have the right to sue Uncle Sam on their own behalf. So when, years back, the government decided to not honor that part of the contract and shifted medical benefits to the HMO-like TriCare, hundreds of thousands of military retirees found themselves faced with losing their medical care, unless they were willing to pay hefty premiums for what had been promised to them for free.
These are the guys who served in World War II, Korea, Viet Nam. These are the guys who uprooted themselves at the government’s whim, frequently, moving their families with them, to every corner of the world, serving this country with not just their sweat, but their blood as well. To thank them, the rug was yanked right out from their feet, the promise reneged on.
It took several years for them to get back that “free” medical care. Recently TriCare For Life was implemented, giving retirees back their medical care. Sort of. They also must be enrolled in Medicare, which becomes the primary payee on medical costs. But, essentially, they got back their care.
That leaves the pension promised. For the most part, if you serve 20 years in the military, you get a pension that equals 50% of your base pay (it does not include any housing or subsistence allowances). If you gut it out for 30, you get 75% of your base pay.
If you leave the military officially disabled and can’t work because of that disability, you get screwed by a law that prohibits the military retiree from drawing a pension in excess of a disability check.
In a nutshell, that means that if a civilian retires from a private company and has a pension of $2000 a month, is certified disabled and his disability check is $1500, he has an income of $3500 a month. If a military member retires with a pension of $2000 a month, is qualified for disability at $1500 a month, he has an income of… $2000 a month. $1500 of that is disability, and his pension drops to $500.
Those are generous numbers, by the way. A $2000 pension is for the ranks of major and above. Junior officers and enlisted won’t see that kind of money.
The numbers don’t matter, though What matters is that this is legal discrimination, invoked on people by the government they spent the better part of their lives serving.
Spend your career on your knees loading bombs or repairing airplanes, destroy your lungs while serving as a Fuel Specialist, or have them seared from the fires in Kuwait… Become 100% disabled – meaning you cannot work after your 20 years are up - while serving your country, and you will not get the pension to which you are entitled.
Most retirees go on to other careers; they have the ability to earn for themselves a second income, enough to put bread on the table and their kids through school. Disabled retirees, however, cannot work. They don’t have the options. And then they’re expected to live on anywhere from a few hundred to about $1200 a month. Pretax dollars.
If they were civilian, they would get both their pension and disability.
And people wonder why I want a generations-long tradition of military service to end with my husband. Why I don’t want my son in the military.
Why would I?
Sunday
Saturday
Wandom Wabbit Musings
Know what? You can find tons of cool things to do in a new place, but if you lack transportation, all that cool stuff might as well be in another state. I’m excited; I’ve got Things To Do here, and once we get a second car, I can do them. And I don’t think it’ll be much longer until we can get that car, maybe a month. Maybe two. I can wait that long.
Until then I can just get my sorry ass back to work, both writing and learning how to start up a business. Yes, boys and girls, I want to start up my own business, a small publishing company. I know the basics, I just need to learn the specifics, and then buy the software and stuff that I’ll need.
For Pete’s sake, if you’re stoned out of your gourd, don’t make telephone calls. You won’t make any sense at all, the person to whom you are speaking will become very irritated, and avoid calls from you for a very long time. There’s nothing funny about protracted silences, changing subjects in the middle of a sentence, and pontification upon subjects about which you honestly know nothing. If you have to call someone while flying higher than the proverbial kite, make sure it’s someone equally as stoned.
Pet peeve: Stay out of the freaking handicapped stall unless you have a legitimate need to be in one. Having a toddler with you, and using the space so that it’s easier is not a legitimate need. Millions of mothers and fathers before you managed just fine in regular stalls with their tiny offspring. Needing to change your pantyhose is not a legitimate need. Become more flexible so that you can do that in a regular stall, or just shed some inhibitions and do it outside a stall.
Why does this bug me so much? I spent several months in a wheelchair. I now understand how important it is to have that lone, roomy stall available to someone who really, truly needs it. Your only excuse for using the handicapped stall is if there are only 2 stalls to begin with, and you have no idea how long the person in the regular stall will be there; if there are 7 stalls and one handicapped, stay out. Wait your turn. I don’t care how badly you have to go, unless you’re 3 years old, you can wait. What would you do if every stall were occupied? You’d wait. Pretend the big stall is occupied.
Face it, you can fit into any stall. The person in a wheelchair cannot. The person needing a walker for mobility cannot. They have only one choice, and oftentimes do not have the bladder and bowel control you do.
Whiners irritate the beejeezus out of me. I don’t mean a regular, everyday complaint. Those happen, and usually for a reason. I mean people who couch everything in chronic whining. Work sucks, school sucks, life sucks, my hair sucks, my siblings suck, my ex sucks, everything is someone else’s fault and never my own.
Get over it. Grow up. Stop whining.
I’ll stop now. I’m starting to whine…
Know what? You can find tons of cool things to do in a new place, but if you lack transportation, all that cool stuff might as well be in another state. I’m excited; I’ve got Things To Do here, and once we get a second car, I can do them. And I don’t think it’ll be much longer until we can get that car, maybe a month. Maybe two. I can wait that long.
Until then I can just get my sorry ass back to work, both writing and learning how to start up a business. Yes, boys and girls, I want to start up my own business, a small publishing company. I know the basics, I just need to learn the specifics, and then buy the software and stuff that I’ll need.
For Pete’s sake, if you’re stoned out of your gourd, don’t make telephone calls. You won’t make any sense at all, the person to whom you are speaking will become very irritated, and avoid calls from you for a very long time. There’s nothing funny about protracted silences, changing subjects in the middle of a sentence, and pontification upon subjects about which you honestly know nothing. If you have to call someone while flying higher than the proverbial kite, make sure it’s someone equally as stoned.
Pet peeve: Stay out of the freaking handicapped stall unless you have a legitimate need to be in one. Having a toddler with you, and using the space so that it’s easier is not a legitimate need. Millions of mothers and fathers before you managed just fine in regular stalls with their tiny offspring. Needing to change your pantyhose is not a legitimate need. Become more flexible so that you can do that in a regular stall, or just shed some inhibitions and do it outside a stall.
Why does this bug me so much? I spent several months in a wheelchair. I now understand how important it is to have that lone, roomy stall available to someone who really, truly needs it. Your only excuse for using the handicapped stall is if there are only 2 stalls to begin with, and you have no idea how long the person in the regular stall will be there; if there are 7 stalls and one handicapped, stay out. Wait your turn. I don’t care how badly you have to go, unless you’re 3 years old, you can wait. What would you do if every stall were occupied? You’d wait. Pretend the big stall is occupied.
Face it, you can fit into any stall. The person in a wheelchair cannot. The person needing a walker for mobility cannot. They have only one choice, and oftentimes do not have the bladder and bowel control you do.
Whiners irritate the beejeezus out of me. I don’t mean a regular, everyday complaint. Those happen, and usually for a reason. I mean people who couch everything in chronic whining. Work sucks, school sucks, life sucks, my hair sucks, my siblings suck, my ex sucks, everything is someone else’s fault and never my own.
Get over it. Grow up. Stop whining.
I’ll stop now. I’m starting to whine…
Tuesday
Another Year, Another... ?
41.
Damn, that sounds old.
41.
40 wasn't bad, it was still close enough to my thirties to feel fairly young, but that little "1" makes a big difference. I am really, truly, headed into middle age. And as I look around, I realize I’m surrounded by mostly grown-up things now – bookcases that aren’t made out of pressed particle-board. A table that isn’t “oh how cute!” Carpet that wasn’t purchased because “it won’t matter if the kid spills on it, the dog sheds on it, or the cat barfs on it.”
My stuff has grown up, too.
I’ve also outgrown the need for a big to-do about birthdays. Having it acknowledged was nice, but I didn’t really want anything. No special birthday present. Yesterday the Spouse Thingy and I went to the Dayton Art Institute to look at the artwork, found a Schlotzsky’s for lunch (first time in 4-5 years!) and then drove around the base looking for Fun Things To Do. We went into the pro shop at the golf course to find out about fees and rules (nice course but pricey), then found one of the gyms and checked it out – and ran into a guy who teaches TKD there twice a week. It’s in the WTF system, but he doesn’t require sparring, which suits me just fine, so we’re going to show up for the next class and see how that goes. For dinner we went to Chili’s.
Nothing major, nothing overblown. Just a nice way to spend a day.
I did have to buy myself a birthday present, though. A nice, cushy toilet seat. Middle age should have its creature comforts, after all.
41.
Damn, that sounds old.
41.
40 wasn't bad, it was still close enough to my thirties to feel fairly young, but that little "1" makes a big difference. I am really, truly, headed into middle age. And as I look around, I realize I’m surrounded by mostly grown-up things now – bookcases that aren’t made out of pressed particle-board. A table that isn’t “oh how cute!” Carpet that wasn’t purchased because “it won’t matter if the kid spills on it, the dog sheds on it, or the cat barfs on it.”
My stuff has grown up, too.
I’ve also outgrown the need for a big to-do about birthdays. Having it acknowledged was nice, but I didn’t really want anything. No special birthday present. Yesterday the Spouse Thingy and I went to the Dayton Art Institute to look at the artwork, found a Schlotzsky’s for lunch (first time in 4-5 years!) and then drove around the base looking for Fun Things To Do. We went into the pro shop at the golf course to find out about fees and rules (nice course but pricey), then found one of the gyms and checked it out – and ran into a guy who teaches TKD there twice a week. It’s in the WTF system, but he doesn’t require sparring, which suits me just fine, so we’re going to show up for the next class and see how that goes. For dinner we went to Chili’s.
Nothing major, nothing overblown. Just a nice way to spend a day.
I did have to buy myself a birthday present, though. A nice, cushy toilet seat. Middle age should have its creature comforts, after all.
Wednesday
Sunday
Don't Sneeze On Me
It’s only August, but it’s coming. It comes every year without fail, spreading across the country on the hands and sleeves of school aged children, sneezes aimed in every direction, coughs uncovered and kisses unchecked.
Cold and Flu season.
Germs are flying everywhere, and inevitably, one or two will land on me. I don’t appreciate it one bit. Now I understand, people need to work, to shop, to go to school and to work out, but if you’re sick stay home! There’s nothing admirable about being in public when you’re contagious.
Years ago I had a TKD instructor who believed training through the flu was a good thing; the sweat leeched toxins from his body, and he recovered quicker. He was a terrific teacher, but terribly misguided. So he rid himself of the flu in 6 days instead of 7. Goody for him. While he was in the dojang sweating it off, he exposed every student who came to his classes, and most of us would catch whatever creeping crud he had.
I didn’t appreciate that, either.
Think about how you’d feel if someone intentionally exposed you, your spouse, or your kids to some bacteria-laden crap. You catch it. Your kids get it. Your spouse gets it. You might be out of work for a time, and not getting paid. Your kids aren’t allowed in school, and your spouse gets really bitchy while trying to take care of a bunch of sick kids whilst in personal agony. All because someone could be bothered to stay home while sick instead of going to work, to school, or to the gym.
There’s nothing admirable about showing up anyplace when you’re sick. It’s selfish and inconsiderate.
If you’re sick, stay home. That I’ll admire.
It’s only August, but it’s coming. It comes every year without fail, spreading across the country on the hands and sleeves of school aged children, sneezes aimed in every direction, coughs uncovered and kisses unchecked.
Cold and Flu season.
Germs are flying everywhere, and inevitably, one or two will land on me. I don’t appreciate it one bit. Now I understand, people need to work, to shop, to go to school and to work out, but if you’re sick stay home! There’s nothing admirable about being in public when you’re contagious.
Years ago I had a TKD instructor who believed training through the flu was a good thing; the sweat leeched toxins from his body, and he recovered quicker. He was a terrific teacher, but terribly misguided. So he rid himself of the flu in 6 days instead of 7. Goody for him. While he was in the dojang sweating it off, he exposed every student who came to his classes, and most of us would catch whatever creeping crud he had.
I didn’t appreciate that, either.
Think about how you’d feel if someone intentionally exposed you, your spouse, or your kids to some bacteria-laden crap. You catch it. Your kids get it. Your spouse gets it. You might be out of work for a time, and not getting paid. Your kids aren’t allowed in school, and your spouse gets really bitchy while trying to take care of a bunch of sick kids whilst in personal agony. All because someone could be bothered to stay home while sick instead of going to work, to school, or to the gym.
There’s nothing admirable about showing up anyplace when you’re sick. It’s selfish and inconsiderate.
If you’re sick, stay home. That I’ll admire.
From The Old Works Files:
My Stomach Heaves Over The Dojang
To the tune of My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean
Why doesn't my sidekick look beautiful?
My round kick and front kick won't pass
Tornado kicks make me look stupid
As I try and fall flat on my ...
Situps, pushups
And one million jumping jacks
Don't you see?
Situps, pushups
They tell me it's call T-K-D
My forms look like some old grandmother
Came straight from a 3 valve Bypass
She rejected the notion of white belt
And jumped into the next Black Belt Class
Situps, pushups
And two million jumping jacks
Don't you see?
Situps, pushups
I don't know what has come over me
The kata are hyungs so they tell me
Or poomse for the really uptight
But Poom is an underage Black Belt
And sparring ain't Kumite, right?
Situps, pushups
And three million jumping jacks,
Don't you see?
Situps, pushups
I owe everything to Master Rhee....
©1993 K.A. Thompson, all rights reserved
Friday
The Big Meow
Okay, so we were living quite happily in California; family in both Sacramento and Modesto, the Boy had a good job and was going to school and doing well; I was busy doing different things, like taking a couple of classes and writing a couple of books. We had a nice house on the Air Force base and had lots of Things To Do in the area. Theaters we liked. A terrific place to poorly play pool. Fun stuff.
So the Air Force decided we were much too content, and sent us on our merry way – sans the Boy – to Ohio.
We didn’t mind too much; Wright-Patterson AFB near Dayton is supposed to be a very good assignment; lots to do and see, just no family nearby. Everything we own was packed up, loaded onto a truck, and off we went… with an aging Golden Retriever and a Truly Pissed Off Cat.
Max the PsychoVelcroKitty howled for the first 5 hours in the car. He cried all the way to Sacramento, he threw a temper tantrum – complete with body slamming himself against the walls of his carrier – through the drive up the mountains, through Reno, and halfway to Salt Lake City. At some point, when he finally quieted down for more than 5 minutes, we decided to let him out for a bit so that he could stretch (dang cat is too tall and could not stand in his cage, only turn around). He stretched himself all the way across my lap, and promptly fell asleep.
We had blissful quiet the rest of the way that day as he slept either on my lap, or on the floor of the passenger side of the truck (and yes, I know this was stupidity on our part; he should have stayed in the carrier, but it felt like sticking him in a coffin for hours on end and he was literally having panic attacks). After 14 hours on the road we were all ready to collapse; we stopped in a small town in Wyoming and discovered quickly that finding a motel room wouldn’t be so easy. Who would have thought that the Senior Olympics would be held in Wyoming?
I didn’t realize anyone even lived in Wyoming. You just can’t tell by the nothingness of the landscape along the Interstate.
We settled on a second floor smoking room, the Spouse Thingy carried Hank up the stairs (Hank does not do stairs, we’re not entirely sure why) and we suffered through a night of smoke-tinged air and Max running at full tilt from one corner of the room to the other, hollering his little head off every fifteen minutes.
Max only cried for three hours the next day. We’re fairly sure he was nearly bored to death by the scenery along I-80 in Wyoming; he fell asleep before lunch and only vented his frustrations every hour or so, as he woke to turn over.
He cried off and on the third day. It was tolerable; we felt sorry for him, after all, being stuck in a box and not knowing why or what was going on.
And on the fourth day, Max was lucky he was allowed to live. He started his chit fit at 5:30 a.m. and did not stop until we had checked into a motel room in Dayton Ohio at 3 p.m. He cried from the moment he was put in the car, he screamed and threw a hissy fit every ten minutes, he hollered at the top of his little lungs when we made it to Dayton and searched for the base housing office. Max was tired of the trip, and was letting us know in vivid feline language. He stuck his paw through the bars of the kitty carrier, trying – with loud frustration – to open the latch that kept him locked inside that plastic tomb of doom.
Tuesday morning, August 13, Max found heaven.
We got base housing the first day we got here; a 2 story, 3 bedroom 2½ bath duplex with tile floors. The empty house, combined with the tile flooring, makes for one large echo chamber – something Max discovered within an hour of arrival. And he lets us know, all day long, especially at 2 a.m., that for a little cat he has a big voice, and a persistent one at that.
He talks to himself all night long.
Max is insane.
The house will be virtually empty until the 20th, when all our stuff gets here; I suspect he’ll still be in kitty heaven. The house might not echo, but there will be boxes. Lots of boxes. Boxes to jump on, jump in, and explore. A veritable Max Jungle Gym, complete with krinkly packing paper to attack and carry from room to room.
He was mad as hell all the way here, but I think Max will like Ohio. Max’s people probably will, too, but they’ll like it even more when he quits bitching about everything. When they can get a full night’s sleep without his nonstop chatter.
Okay, so we were living quite happily in California; family in both Sacramento and Modesto, the Boy had a good job and was going to school and doing well; I was busy doing different things, like taking a couple of classes and writing a couple of books. We had a nice house on the Air Force base and had lots of Things To Do in the area. Theaters we liked. A terrific place to poorly play pool. Fun stuff.
So the Air Force decided we were much too content, and sent us on our merry way – sans the Boy – to Ohio.
We didn’t mind too much; Wright-Patterson AFB near Dayton is supposed to be a very good assignment; lots to do and see, just no family nearby. Everything we own was packed up, loaded onto a truck, and off we went… with an aging Golden Retriever and a Truly Pissed Off Cat.
Max the PsychoVelcroKitty howled for the first 5 hours in the car. He cried all the way to Sacramento, he threw a temper tantrum – complete with body slamming himself against the walls of his carrier – through the drive up the mountains, through Reno, and halfway to Salt Lake City. At some point, when he finally quieted down for more than 5 minutes, we decided to let him out for a bit so that he could stretch (dang cat is too tall and could not stand in his cage, only turn around). He stretched himself all the way across my lap, and promptly fell asleep.
We had blissful quiet the rest of the way that day as he slept either on my lap, or on the floor of the passenger side of the truck (and yes, I know this was stupidity on our part; he should have stayed in the carrier, but it felt like sticking him in a coffin for hours on end and he was literally having panic attacks). After 14 hours on the road we were all ready to collapse; we stopped in a small town in Wyoming and discovered quickly that finding a motel room wouldn’t be so easy. Who would have thought that the Senior Olympics would be held in Wyoming?
I didn’t realize anyone even lived in Wyoming. You just can’t tell by the nothingness of the landscape along the Interstate.
We settled on a second floor smoking room, the Spouse Thingy carried Hank up the stairs (Hank does not do stairs, we’re not entirely sure why) and we suffered through a night of smoke-tinged air and Max running at full tilt from one corner of the room to the other, hollering his little head off every fifteen minutes.
Max only cried for three hours the next day. We’re fairly sure he was nearly bored to death by the scenery along I-80 in Wyoming; he fell asleep before lunch and only vented his frustrations every hour or so, as he woke to turn over.
He cried off and on the third day. It was tolerable; we felt sorry for him, after all, being stuck in a box and not knowing why or what was going on.
And on the fourth day, Max was lucky he was allowed to live. He started his chit fit at 5:30 a.m. and did not stop until we had checked into a motel room in Dayton Ohio at 3 p.m. He cried from the moment he was put in the car, he screamed and threw a hissy fit every ten minutes, he hollered at the top of his little lungs when we made it to Dayton and searched for the base housing office. Max was tired of the trip, and was letting us know in vivid feline language. He stuck his paw through the bars of the kitty carrier, trying – with loud frustration – to open the latch that kept him locked inside that plastic tomb of doom.
Tuesday morning, August 13, Max found heaven.
We got base housing the first day we got here; a 2 story, 3 bedroom 2½ bath duplex with tile floors. The empty house, combined with the tile flooring, makes for one large echo chamber – something Max discovered within an hour of arrival. And he lets us know, all day long, especially at 2 a.m., that for a little cat he has a big voice, and a persistent one at that.
He talks to himself all night long.
Max is insane.
The house will be virtually empty until the 20th, when all our stuff gets here; I suspect he’ll still be in kitty heaven. The house might not echo, but there will be boxes. Lots of boxes. Boxes to jump on, jump in, and explore. A veritable Max Jungle Gym, complete with krinkly packing paper to attack and carry from room to room.
He was mad as hell all the way here, but I think Max will like Ohio. Max’s people probably will, too, but they’ll like it even more when he quits bitching about everything. When they can get a full night’s sleep without his nonstop chatter.
Thursday
Ooook
I have no idea what screwed up on that last entry, but it wont let me change it, so... It didn't drop much, just that the new book is available to order.
I can see, y'all are all waiting with bait on your collective breaths.
I have no idea what screwed up on that last entry, but it wont let me change it, so... It didn't drop much, just that the new book is available to order.
I can see, y'all are all waiting with bait on your collective breaths.
Ow
It's midnight, and my ass is numb.
We made it to Ohio in one piece, have a place to live, got phone lines today and we get cable TV tomorrow. But we have no furniture - that comes on the 15th - so I'm sitting on a very thing pseudo-futon on the cold tile floor.
In a day or two I'll elaborate on the drive out here... oh joy oh bliss.
But for now, I updated my website with info on the new No comments:
It's midnight, and my ass is numb.
We made it to Ohio in one piece, have a place to live, got phone lines today and we get cable TV tomorrow. But we have no furniture - that comes on the 15th - so I'm sitting on a very thing pseudo-futon on the cold tile floor.
In a day or two I'll elaborate on the drive out here... oh joy oh bliss.
But for now, I updated my website with info on the new No comments:
Monday
Move Along...
The years in the Air Force have been good to us; we move just about every three years, and we’ve always had fairly smooth moves. Not much has been broken along the way, just a knob off the dryer that I never used anyway (well, I used the dryer, just not that knob), and once they caved in the side of the washer, but we filed a claim and got that fixed quickly. There was a gouge once in our cheapo entertainment center – that thing was so cheap we didn’t bother filing a claim. Heck, the gouge gave it character.
Every time we’ve moved our belongings have been packed and loaded onto the truck in a reasonable amount of time. The packers usually show up at 9 a.m. and work until 5 or 6 p.m., show up the next day and finish around 3 p.m. The truck shows up the third day and it’s loaded and ready to go by late afternoon. Always very smooth.
This time, it’s payback for all the smooth moves we’ve ever had.
The packers showed up on Friday at a reasonable time, just 15 minutes later than we expected. Both of them. Two people to pack up a 3 bedroom house with a stuffed storage unit in the carport and another storage shed in the back yard. One of them was sick, and they ran out of materials around 3 p.m. So they left.
This morning one single packer showed up, an hour later than we thought they would be. One person. Sigh. Later a second person showed up to help, and then a third; they might get done if they stick around late enough. The Spouse Thingy, who is stuck sitting there keeping an eye on them, doesn’t care, as long as everything gets on the truck tomorrow.
Yep, he’s sitting there and I’m in temporary quarters with the cat. I should be with the dog, too, but we got an apartment (hey, this beats other temp quarters which are usually a single room) on the second floor, and Hank does not do stairs. We don’t know why; it’s not as if we ever threw him down a flight of stairs. He just hates them, he always has, and he won’t go up. He’s too heavy to carry up and down the stairs 4 or 5 times a day, so for now he’s at the house with the Spouse Thingy, and we’re supposedly getting a downstairs place tomorrow. Supposedly. We were supposed to get one today, but whomever is there didn’t leave, and they won’t toss ‘em out so we can have it. Tsk.
Max The PsychoKitty is terrified out of his little head; he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, just that he’s not at home, and not all his People are here with him. He cried all night long, stopping at 5 a.m. when he found a quiet spot under the bed to hide. From the moment I got out of bed at 8 this morning, he’s turned himself into VelcroKitty, sticking to me like maple syrup on a toddler.
He knows I’m a sucker; he knows he can make me feel guilty and that I’ll drop what I’m doing to pay attention to him. He helped me make a TV dinner, and helped me eat it – Swanson’s chicken evidently much better than Fancy Feast Chicken Glop.
The truck comes tomorrow to take all our stuff away, and we should get a downstairs apartment, so we’ll all be together and that’ll make Max happy – until Friday, when we shove him into his carrier and stick him in the truck for the drive across the country.
Poor Kitty.
On the bright side, I got two advanced copies of my book today, which means it’ll be on Amazon and bn.com soon… I’ll update my website tonight or tomorrow with the URL for direct ordering from the publisher. I know y’all can’t wait. Heh.
The years in the Air Force have been good to us; we move just about every three years, and we’ve always had fairly smooth moves. Not much has been broken along the way, just a knob off the dryer that I never used anyway (well, I used the dryer, just not that knob), and once they caved in the side of the washer, but we filed a claim and got that fixed quickly. There was a gouge once in our cheapo entertainment center – that thing was so cheap we didn’t bother filing a claim. Heck, the gouge gave it character.
Every time we’ve moved our belongings have been packed and loaded onto the truck in a reasonable amount of time. The packers usually show up at 9 a.m. and work until 5 or 6 p.m., show up the next day and finish around 3 p.m. The truck shows up the third day and it’s loaded and ready to go by late afternoon. Always very smooth.
This time, it’s payback for all the smooth moves we’ve ever had.
The packers showed up on Friday at a reasonable time, just 15 minutes later than we expected. Both of them. Two people to pack up a 3 bedroom house with a stuffed storage unit in the carport and another storage shed in the back yard. One of them was sick, and they ran out of materials around 3 p.m. So they left.
This morning one single packer showed up, an hour later than we thought they would be. One person. Sigh. Later a second person showed up to help, and then a third; they might get done if they stick around late enough. The Spouse Thingy, who is stuck sitting there keeping an eye on them, doesn’t care, as long as everything gets on the truck tomorrow.
Yep, he’s sitting there and I’m in temporary quarters with the cat. I should be with the dog, too, but we got an apartment (hey, this beats other temp quarters which are usually a single room) on the second floor, and Hank does not do stairs. We don’t know why; it’s not as if we ever threw him down a flight of stairs. He just hates them, he always has, and he won’t go up. He’s too heavy to carry up and down the stairs 4 or 5 times a day, so for now he’s at the house with the Spouse Thingy, and we’re supposedly getting a downstairs place tomorrow. Supposedly. We were supposed to get one today, but whomever is there didn’t leave, and they won’t toss ‘em out so we can have it. Tsk.
Max The PsychoKitty is terrified out of his little head; he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, just that he’s not at home, and not all his People are here with him. He cried all night long, stopping at 5 a.m. when he found a quiet spot under the bed to hide. From the moment I got out of bed at 8 this morning, he’s turned himself into VelcroKitty, sticking to me like maple syrup on a toddler.
He knows I’m a sucker; he knows he can make me feel guilty and that I’ll drop what I’m doing to pay attention to him. He helped me make a TV dinner, and helped me eat it – Swanson’s chicken evidently much better than Fancy Feast Chicken Glop.
The truck comes tomorrow to take all our stuff away, and we should get a downstairs apartment, so we’ll all be together and that’ll make Max happy – until Friday, when we shove him into his carrier and stick him in the truck for the drive across the country.
Poor Kitty.
On the bright side, I got two advanced copies of my book today, which means it’ll be on Amazon and bn.com soon… I’ll update my website tonight or tomorrow with the URL for direct ordering from the publisher. I know y’all can’t wait. Heh.
Saturday
Wanted: Cleaning Fairy
The packers showed up yesterday right about the time they were supposed to, just a few minutes late. They would have been on time, but someone gave them an address 100 number to the left of correct, and since that house number does not exist… well, they got a bit confused trying to find us.
The packing company sent two guys to pack us. Two. The last move we made, from Grand Forks to here, it took four people two days to pack all our crap. These guys got here and worked really well – until they ran out of packing materials at 3:00 p.m. They could have sent for more stuff, but the one guy was sick, so they left. There’s still 70% of the house to pack and only Monday to do it; if they send only two people again it’s going to be one long day for them. The truck comes to pick everything up on Tuesday; if it goes like it did last time everything should be loaded by mid-afternoon… or we could get screwed like the people across the street, and wind up with the Crew From Hell, and they’ll still be here at 10 p.m. loading stuff.
Either way… once all the stuff is gone, we have to clean. I hate cleaning. I really hate cleaning. Well, if I’m getting paid for it I do a great job, but I hate cleaning my own house.
There’s the problem – when you live in military housing, you have to leave it pretty darned clean. Usually before they let you sign out they do a white glove inspection; they want is so clean that smart people hire contract cleaners to assure they pass that final inspection. Last time we lived here we paid $300 for someone to clean out house to military standard. In Grand Forks we paid $200.
We were all set to fork out the cash again, but they’ve changed the rules a little bit here. Travis has a contract cleaner they send in to clean houses after occupants leave, so it has to be good, but not perfect when you move. We have it even better – our house is slated to be torn down to make way for new housing. Ours has to be so-so… only the appliances have to be as clean as we can get them. But, the housing guy also said that if we break a sweat cleaning, we’re working too hard.
But I still don’t wanna do it. I want a Cleaning Fairy. Someone to swoop in and do it for me.
I’m lazy that way.
The packers showed up yesterday right about the time they were supposed to, just a few minutes late. They would have been on time, but someone gave them an address 100 number to the left of correct, and since that house number does not exist… well, they got a bit confused trying to find us.
The packing company sent two guys to pack us. Two. The last move we made, from Grand Forks to here, it took four people two days to pack all our crap. These guys got here and worked really well – until they ran out of packing materials at 3:00 p.m. They could have sent for more stuff, but the one guy was sick, so they left. There’s still 70% of the house to pack and only Monday to do it; if they send only two people again it’s going to be one long day for them. The truck comes to pick everything up on Tuesday; if it goes like it did last time everything should be loaded by mid-afternoon… or we could get screwed like the people across the street, and wind up with the Crew From Hell, and they’ll still be here at 10 p.m. loading stuff.
Either way… once all the stuff is gone, we have to clean. I hate cleaning. I really hate cleaning. Well, if I’m getting paid for it I do a great job, but I hate cleaning my own house.
There’s the problem – when you live in military housing, you have to leave it pretty darned clean. Usually before they let you sign out they do a white glove inspection; they want is so clean that smart people hire contract cleaners to assure they pass that final inspection. Last time we lived here we paid $300 for someone to clean out house to military standard. In Grand Forks we paid $200.
We were all set to fork out the cash again, but they’ve changed the rules a little bit here. Travis has a contract cleaner they send in to clean houses after occupants leave, so it has to be good, but not perfect when you move. We have it even better – our house is slated to be torn down to make way for new housing. Ours has to be so-so… only the appliances have to be as clean as we can get them. But, the housing guy also said that if we break a sweat cleaning, we’re working too hard.
But I still don’t wanna do it. I want a Cleaning Fairy. Someone to swoop in and do it for me.
I’m lazy that way.
Friday
The Color Of Hell
The entire country collectively held its breath yesterday, hoping against hope that two teenage girls who had been kidnapped would be found alive. The resulting national sigh was nearly audible; after all, this country needs good news. They were alive. Safe. Getting these two girls back, so soon after the rescue of nine trapped miners in PA, was one of those things that both makes your heart swell and lumps form in the throat. Two good things followed potential tragedy.
But I kept hearing the same thing on TV: “Now they need time to get over it. They’ll get over it. Over it.”
That’s wishful thinking.
After the bloom of relief falls off this rose, these girls will be left with an unbelievable amount of anger, fear, sadness, and guilt. Therapy will probably help them get on with life, and let them live it to its fullest, but you never get over being so thoroughly, selfishly violated. It’s always there, stuck behind a cobweb in the recesses of the brain, whispering dark thoughts, a numb finger drawing dark shadows that color every future relationship.
More than just a couple of decades ago there was this fifteen year old girl; she had a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, most of them her own age, but some of them older. She was particularly fond of one of the older friends; he was a senior, had a car, money, was funny and charming and considerate. He was nineteen years old – if he’d been just two years younger she would have asked him to come over and meet her parents; if he were younger he would have been just the type they would have approved her dating.
He was tool old by their standards, so she intentionally neglected to mention his existence. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
Not too long before she turned sixteen, she joined friends at a riverside party; the parents assumed this was a gathering of her younger friends – she never told them any different, and allowed them their assumption – and provided her a ride to a friend’s house. The friend’s parents would be driving them to the party. Or so she told them.
The river was a short walk from the friend’s house, and they made their way through thick overgrowth of bushes and trees to join the throng of high school juniors and seniors on the small, secluded beach by the river. There was a small fire for roasting hot dogs and toasting marshmallows, Frisbees and a radio blaring, and a cooler full of soft drinks. And a pony keg filled with beer.
It was a loud, typical teen party; kids paired off, wandered away to make out, splashed in the water, told stupid stories, and there was a lot of laughter. Laughter that rose above the music, enough noise that had this party been held at someone’s house, the neighbor’s would have called the police.
It was loud enough to drown out the screams of a fifteen year old girl who saw, in violent flashes of bared teeth and clenched fists, the other side of that charming nineteen year old senior. The drunk senior who wouldn’t take no for an answer, the kid who used sweatsocks to bind her wrists together, the man who tore into her so many times she lost count, so many times she wanted to slip inside herself and just die.
She didn’t dare tell anyone, especially not her parents, whom she was sure would blame her for everything. It would be her fault, just rewards for lying about where she would be, who she would be with. A deserving consequence for being out with That Boy. The sad thing is that she was right. Her parents would have blamed her.
The secret stayed buried for years; she got on with the business of living life, carefully at first, so that on one would know her secret. Later she was able to find some slice of happiness – she fell in love with a decent man, married him, had a kid, and had a Good Life.
But it never went away. It’s always there, looming, holding her back from ever being able to fully give of herself, no matter how much she wants to. It touches every remote aspect of intimacy, of trust. It colors everything, even the moments of joy. A simple kiss is Expectation. A hug is a Demand. Praise is nothing more than a Way He Gets What He wants.
Those two girls who spent a lifetime of terror in just those few short hours may have help, but they will never get over it. It will be there, always, hovering in the back of their minds, whispering, touching, reminding. The insidious deviant who did this to him, who died at the hands of the police, he got off easy.
He delivered them hell, and got off easy.
The entire country collectively held its breath yesterday, hoping against hope that two teenage girls who had been kidnapped would be found alive. The resulting national sigh was nearly audible; after all, this country needs good news. They were alive. Safe. Getting these two girls back, so soon after the rescue of nine trapped miners in PA, was one of those things that both makes your heart swell and lumps form in the throat. Two good things followed potential tragedy.
But I kept hearing the same thing on TV: “Now they need time to get over it. They’ll get over it. Over it.”
That’s wishful thinking.
After the bloom of relief falls off this rose, these girls will be left with an unbelievable amount of anger, fear, sadness, and guilt. Therapy will probably help them get on with life, and let them live it to its fullest, but you never get over being so thoroughly, selfishly violated. It’s always there, stuck behind a cobweb in the recesses of the brain, whispering dark thoughts, a numb finger drawing dark shadows that color every future relationship.
More than just a couple of decades ago there was this fifteen year old girl; she had a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, most of them her own age, but some of them older. She was particularly fond of one of the older friends; he was a senior, had a car, money, was funny and charming and considerate. He was nineteen years old – if he’d been just two years younger she would have asked him to come over and meet her parents; if he were younger he would have been just the type they would have approved her dating.
He was tool old by their standards, so she intentionally neglected to mention his existence. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
Not too long before she turned sixteen, she joined friends at a riverside party; the parents assumed this was a gathering of her younger friends – she never told them any different, and allowed them their assumption – and provided her a ride to a friend’s house. The friend’s parents would be driving them to the party. Or so she told them.
The river was a short walk from the friend’s house, and they made their way through thick overgrowth of bushes and trees to join the throng of high school juniors and seniors on the small, secluded beach by the river. There was a small fire for roasting hot dogs and toasting marshmallows, Frisbees and a radio blaring, and a cooler full of soft drinks. And a pony keg filled with beer.
It was a loud, typical teen party; kids paired off, wandered away to make out, splashed in the water, told stupid stories, and there was a lot of laughter. Laughter that rose above the music, enough noise that had this party been held at someone’s house, the neighbor’s would have called the police.
It was loud enough to drown out the screams of a fifteen year old girl who saw, in violent flashes of bared teeth and clenched fists, the other side of that charming nineteen year old senior. The drunk senior who wouldn’t take no for an answer, the kid who used sweatsocks to bind her wrists together, the man who tore into her so many times she lost count, so many times she wanted to slip inside herself and just die.
She didn’t dare tell anyone, especially not her parents, whom she was sure would blame her for everything. It would be her fault, just rewards for lying about where she would be, who she would be with. A deserving consequence for being out with That Boy. The sad thing is that she was right. Her parents would have blamed her.
The secret stayed buried for years; she got on with the business of living life, carefully at first, so that on one would know her secret. Later she was able to find some slice of happiness – she fell in love with a decent man, married him, had a kid, and had a Good Life.
But it never went away. It’s always there, looming, holding her back from ever being able to fully give of herself, no matter how much she wants to. It touches every remote aspect of intimacy, of trust. It colors everything, even the moments of joy. A simple kiss is Expectation. A hug is a Demand. Praise is nothing more than a Way He Gets What He wants.
Those two girls who spent a lifetime of terror in just those few short hours may have help, but they will never get over it. It will be there, always, hovering in the back of their minds, whispering, touching, reminding. The insidious deviant who did this to him, who died at the hands of the police, he got off easy.
He delivered them hell, and got off easy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)