American Girl

My 4th of July will be spent watching Brave with my Little Bug, eating until I want to puke (because diets do not exist on July 4th), and watching fireworks on TV because the Sun City is expecting thunderstorms. I may or may not get to my What in the World Wednesday, but if I do, I'll be choosing something far less controversial than the posts of past. Perhaps a photo essay of my favorite patriotic moments? Anyway, it'll be swell. On to the Time Warp.

One of my most memorable July 4th festivities took place in 2009. Far from the E. coli filled lake of Lodi, CA where I spent every Fourth staring at the lackluster firework display above the diseased waters from either our church parking lot, the lake surrounding the park or from the order window of Sno-White Drive in. No, this 4th took place on a tiny air station of Kapaun in the city of Kaiserslautern, Germany on a US installation called Vogelweh.

Vogelweh was my first and longest duty station while I was in the Air Force (not counting Lackland). It housed a high school, a commissary, a BX with food court, a skating rink, a movie theater, the NCO academy, and a resource that required super duper security. There was a small Army side to it, guarded by inept contracted Germans and that had a car wash, kids zone, outdoor rec, and the K-9 kennels, but not much else. The AF side was larger and also contained family housing. Just a few minutes drive from Ramstein AB, Vogelweh was the younger, cooler cousin. Hubby and I were both cops and though the base was small, we had off-base jurisdiction and patrolling the German towns and roads was a blast.

I detested being posted on Vogelweh. When I was pregnant, I was bound to a desk, managing my flight office because my flight chief figured he could get 9 months on indentured office servitude of me. After that, I worked up at our Combat Arms firing range and though I loved it, it was still Vogelweh every day. After returning from a deployment in 2009, I was assigned to a new flight with a broad selection of mouth breathers, sluts, and possible stoners and being posted on Vogelweh with them meant 12 plus hours a day of listening to who they fucked, who they wouldn't fuck, how drunk they may or may not still be, or how our job was just so unfair.

I had been back since May, hadn't had a single day off with my husband as we worked opposite schedules and when I heard we had the 4th of July off AND Hubby's flight chief gave him the day off as well, I was beyond ecstatic. We could go to Ramstein and enjoy the Rockin' 4th celebration they put on every year. The year before, Little Bug was just a tiny and she had still really enjoyed it. This year would be even better! No, wrong. This year was even worse.

Our new flight chief announced to us that we would be working on our day off to provide crowd and parking control for the Rockin' 4th that would be held on Kapaun Air Station. What the what? Kapaun AS is the size of a Super Walmart at best, why the fuck would anyone want to hold a fireworks display/fair of sorts for 55,000 Americans? That's Air Force logic for you. Let's take 50+ people and have them work from 11 am until 3am to wrangle tens of thousands of people. I already knew what a nightmare it would be, what with parking and lost kids, but booze was allowed too. Fucking super.

To say I went to work on the 4th with a bad attitude is, perhaps, a bit of an understatement. I went ready to make sure every one's 4th of July sucked ass. Not just mine. If someone was standing in a no standing zone, they would feel my wrath. If someone got lippy while I directed them where to park, someone would be getting a ticket. I would be that cop. But once we formed up and were given our assignments, I realized the day wouldn't suck so much. I was on walking patrol with a female Army MP that I got along with, the vehicle section of our squadron had a cookout going for us and there actually didn't seem to be too many people crammed in there. It would be fine.

After an hour or so of patrol of our area, we were told to RV the cookout and take a break. Cool, I like banker's hours. We arrived to find the vehicle bays full of the Nifty Fifty. What is that you ask? Well, our squadron received an influx of new Airmen straight out of tech school all at once. We dubbed them the Nifty Fifty. Probably one of the worst bunches of Airmen a person could put together. They were still in phase 1 training, as in hadn't even started real work yet, and they were already in trouble. One female troll showed up to training drunk and in civvies and interrupted a class being taught by our commander....before passing out. She was already being given and Article 15 because she was high on prescription pills that, wait for it, weren't hers. A bunch more had already had alcohol related incidents, gotten paperwork for being disrespectful, late, out of regs....you name it, they did it.

Two of my friends were their trainers and while I normally would laugh at them for the fuck wads not falling in line, upon watching them socialize in the vehicle bays instead of directing traffic like they were assigned, made me realize that they just didn't give a fuck. When Senior NCO's are looking around for a place to sit and a table full of NO STRIPERS who don't have food or drinks doesn't offer to move, that's a problem. When you don't stand up when an NCO, especially a Senior NCO, is talking to you, that's a problem. When your direct supervisor, be they an E-4 or an NCO, tells you that your hair is out of regs and you need to fix it and you roll your eyes and say whatever....that's when Tiffany steps in. Let me explain.

One of the trainers, a female named Smalls was talking to me about the challenges of trying to make them behave and she spots one of her bunch with hair that wasn't even attempting to be in regs. Through gritted teeth, she tell me that she has told this girl at least 5 times that her hair need to be in a bun. Not a side-swept, low pony tail, but a fucking bun. I said "Wow, that's when you get some scissors and just chop that shit off." She looked at me with a knowing stare and smiled as she said, "Or you can handle her." I smirked. That would be the emotional equivalent of lobbing off her hair with my Gerber multi-tool. "Fuck it," I said. "Why not?"

I walked over with Smalls and said "Excuse me, Airmen City on the Mexican Border, may we have a word please?" She looked up from her conversation with another dirt bag female and said "Yeah, in a second" and continued her conversation. Smalls looked at me as if to say "See what I'm dealing with?!" Yeah, I saw it alright. "No, not in a second. Right. Now." I answered and the terror that filled her eyes kind of made me want to skip. She rose slowly and carefully as if she might get hit and though I recognized the fear, no part of me wanted to take it easy on her.

Me: Senior Airmen Smalls has informed me that she has had to brief you several times on your hair being out of regs, is that correct?
CMB: Yeah, but...
Me: (holding up one finger to her face) Yes or no?
CMB: Yes, but...
Me: (with the finger again) No buts. And how about we try standing at parade rest when a person who outranks you is speaking to you?
CMB: (stares blankly at me)
Me: That may have sounded like a question, but it was an order, not a request.
CMB: (goes to parade rest)
Me: Now I am positive that at some point in your very short and insignificant Air Force career someone, somewhere showed you AFI 36-2903 (dress and appearance) and you were told that you are to abide by that, correct?
CMB: Um, yes ma'am.
Me: So what part of your hair is in accordance with that regulation?
CMB: Ummmm...
Me: We say um now? Is that an answer? Um?
CMB: Uhhhhh...
Me: Oh, (looking at Smalls) um and uh are taught in basic training now.
CMB: Well, (with a cocky neck work to boot) I wasn't aware you wanted an answer.
Me: Airmen, did I ask you a question that seemed in any way rhetorical? (Stopping her before she answered) See, that one, was rhetorical. The first one wasn't. What. Part. Of. Your. Hair. Is. In. Regs?
CMB: I just thought it looked good ma'am.
Me: Looked good? Well, that's debatable, but in regs it certainly is not. Fix it. Now.
CMB: I have gel and hair spray in it.
Me: I wasn't aware I gave you an option instead of an order. Smalls, was that an option?
Smalls: No, I don't think so. Do you think so CMB?
CMB: Is that retractable?
Me: No and it's not rhetorical either. Fix it or you'll be fixing it after you sign your LOR.

I directed her to the bathroom and after she removed about fifty bobby pins from the frizzy mess that was her attempt at a sleek do, she put it into a neat and professional bun...well, a somewhat neat and professional bun. I told her she could return to doing, well, nothing, and I went back to the vehicle bay to get some chow. I got flagged over by a Tech Sgt from my flight. He high-fived me for the thrashing and then pointed out another Nifty Fifty member. His hair was all out of regs as well. He said "That guy is pissing me off. He has a shitty attitude and I think he could use some Tiffany magic." Jeez, let me fucking eat here. The kid was walking around with sunglasses in doors, chest stuck out like he was a boss and hair that made my Hubby's barely in regs hair look like a high and tight. Why not?

I scarfed down a burger and Tech Sgt Wolfpack and I walked over. Well, I thought we were walking over, but he was pulled aside by one of the trainers. I'd do this solo. Whatevs. I was on fire, a briefing machine. As I approached Airmen Pat, I heard him telling the group a story about how much of a bad ass he was when he was in Korea (apparently his first duty station) and how he doesn't take shit from anyone. It's like he was begging me to make him take my shit and then some. Right as I was reaching to tap this little prick on the shoulder, I hear Tech Wolfpack yelling "Tiff! Break Break Break! Stand down and rally up!" with a huge smirk on his face. I walk towards him and he explains.

WP: That's not a boy. He's a she.
Me: He's a she?
WP: Yep, a shman. That's a...girl.
Me: But he sounds like a man. And looks like a man. That's a man.
WP: He, I mean she is a she.
Me: Really?
WP: Short of checking for his, I mean her parts, yeah, that's a man. I mean woman.
Me: I have no words.

Airmen Pat even had a man's name. And this isn't some anti-gays in the military, this was full on you would think she was a man. I know some lesbians who have a more masculine style, but I still know they're females. But this one, I would have bet a month's paycheck she had a dick. I would later learn that she was a lesbian who was of the predatory type. She was aggressive and vulgar and would end up with an Article 15 before the year was through. I don't feel bad thinking she was man because she wanted people to think she was a man. She got off on it. I guess I am disgusted by it. Creeper.

The rest of the day wasn't so bad. Hubby and Little Bug came by and I got to give her lots of kisses. The heat wasn't so bad and people were very well behaved while the sun was out. When the sun went down though, that was a whole 'nother ball game. Kids were getting lost, people getting pushy. I could not wait for the fireworks to start (and finish) so we could get the hell out of there. UGH, it got so much worse.

Everyone wanted to leave at once. People were over-flowing into the street, pushing and shoving and forget trying to direct people. They'd look right at your badge and gun and tell you to fuck off. The flow of people swarming down the hill and to their vehicles seemed never-ending. One guy, a tall, lanky drunk white man grabbed his gf by the arm and told her to hurry the fuck up. All the while standing less than a few feet away from me. "Hey," I said. "Let go of her arm." He looked me straight in the face and said "Shut the fuck up you stupid bitch." Oh. No. He. Didn't.

Me: Excuse me, sir. Give me your ID card. Now.
Him: What the fuck for?
Me: Because I'm a cop and you're on a military installation.
Him: This is police harassment!
Me: And judging by how hard you're grabbing her arm, that's assault.
Him: Man, shit the fuck up.
Me: And now you're disobeying a lawful order.
Him: This is bullshit. I'm just standing here minding my own god damn business and you wanna try and get all racist and shit! You see a black man with a white woman and it pisses you off.

Seriously, what? This guy must be albino if he's black. Not that his ethnicity mattered. What mattered was the lock he had on this woman's arm and the tears coming down her face. What mattered was the obscenities he was screaming as children walked by with their parents. What mattered was the fact that he had no respect for my authority or fear of my gun. And I had no back-up around and a dead radio battery.

Me: Sir, release her arm. Now. And then hand me your military or dependant ID card. That's. An. Order. (I kept my hand near my ASP for good measure.)
Him: (Throws his ID at me) Here bitch. And you can call my lawyer while you at it. Captain Lane at ADC. He'll handle that shit.
Me: Pick it up.
Him: What you say bitch?
Me: You will pick up that card, hand it to me and then take a step back. Or this can go a whole different route.

His woman pleaded with him to just do what I said and he complied, all the while starring daggers at me. As I mentally stored his information, I realized why this Army E-2 was so fearless. He was already on his way out the door. ADC is the Area Defense Council. He was facing some type of legal action. Probably for his shitty attitude or maybe domestic assault. He didn't have any respect for women as shown by his grabbing his girl and his words with me and he certainly had an issue with cops. Part of me was praying back-up would happen to walk by and part of me was figuring how this was going to go down if he got violent.

Mind you this whole time he's still running his mouth. I'm a cunt. I'm a whore who just wants that black dick. I'm gonna get my ass stomped if I don't give him back his shit. As I'm pulling out my cuffs (because that's the last fucking straw) and about to tell him to turn the fuck away from the sound of my voice, I hear a booming "THAT'S ENOUGH!" It jolted me and I see my sup, a big ol' crusty Tech Sgt Jones barreling towards us. Wolfpack and two Master Sgts are in tow. Thank you, Jesus.

Jones tells the suspect to shut the fuck up and sit on the ground and then asks me what happened. I give him a rundown and point toward the red marks on the females arm. He asked why this fuck bag wasn't in cuffs yet and I show him that they're ready to go in my hand. He laughs and says "Sorry to ruin the party." Wolfpack and the Masters aren't as light-hearted. One of them tells me "Tiff, this guy has a lawyer."

Me: And?
Mast #1: Well, he's crying racism and you're gonna have to stay to do the report.
WP: Racism? He's white!
Jones: Right?
Mast#2: We're doing good tonight guys, no arrests.
Me: So this guy would put a cramp in that?
Jones: Fuck that. Tiff, it's your call.

Let's just say, I made the wrong call. I took down all his info, called his sup and had him pick him up. Should have charged that POS with everything under the sun and the UCMJ but these two Masters, who I genuinely felt bad for, had a point. The last thing our red-headed step-child of a squadron needed was a hiccup at our first Rockin' 4th. I had to check my vagina and feelings at the door.

That's what being a cop was/is. People will hate you because you've caught them breaking the law. His sup assured me that the chick was German and would not be staying in the soldiers barracks with him. He also explained that the guy was getting kicked out for whatever reason and would be gone from the country in less than a week. He even took my information and emailed me with an update the next week showing me the orders and itinerary of the punk. Not what I wanted, but the jail cell he was headed to stateside (must have been bad if it wasn't Mannheim) gave me a little comfort.

When we turned in our weapons to the armory that night, everyone was asking me why I didn't beat that guys ass. I chuckled to myself each time as they described what they would have done. Everyone had an opinion, but not everyone understood why. Oh well. Technically, Rockin' 4th went off without a hitch. That's what mattered. I got to brief a dirt bag, discover Pat's true gender, spend some time with my family, and not crack a skull open. I arrived home at 0330 hrs. I was exhausted. I crawled into bed right as Hubby was getting up for work. Awesome timing.

I'm sure I've had a better 4th of July. I know I have. But they are far less entertaining in comparison to this one. Hope your 4th isn't rained out (like ours will be) and I hope that wherever you are, you're happy, healthy, and safe.