Parachutes

First off, I need to get in a little rant before I start part duex. What's the point of writing a blog and scheduling a post to go up at a certain time when Blogger just pretends it will do it and then deletes it? I know I did it right this time, but no, it just shits it out of the Internet into some lost blog abyss. No more blogging in advance for me.

Okay. Here we go.

The Ballad of Stolen Valor: Part 2

It was a cold, dark night and the winds of El Paso whipped around me as I made the long walk from my car to the front doors of hell. Too dramatic? Okay, it was cold as balls and I was in a dark parking lot, trying to make a beeline for the door of work. I was trying to pry the exit door open (it was easier than going to the other side of the building), while juggling my coffee, lunch bag, and purse, when I heard him before I saw him. "Watch your six!" he yelled out with a cackle following it.

I don't know what he was expecting. Maybe he thought he would startle me and I would some type of PTSD flashback and he could see my moves? Maybe he thought we would bond over his usage of a "military" phrase? Or maybe, he's just a creepy rapist in a dark parking lot? Yeah, that's probably it. I did my best to ignore him as I finally got the door open, but he tried to squeeze past me. Um, apparently someone forgot the doors have a sensor to open them from the inside. So literally the door opens wide as he pushes past me and he looks even more like a rapist. "Oh, my bad," he says and all I can think is "You're going down tonight, fucker."

As I plopped myself down in my office chair, I began to devise a plan. I would wait until lunch and call him out in front of EVERYONE. Of course I would keep and ear out all night for his tales of Taliban killin' glory. But then it happened. I made an ally I will forever be blog indebted to.

His name is Tim. We will call him Midcity Stoner. MS is originally from SoCal, but thankfully didn't call it that. I would have hated him immediately. He used to work at Walmart, got fired for punching his manager, smokes weed like he's Snoop Dogg, and is my height or slightly taller (5'4"). He's thick, borderline fat, but has that sort of laugh that makes you laugh too, even if what he's laughing at was stupid. He calls me Tiff, only because the first time he did I asked him not to. He asked me why and I told him that a tiff is a petty little fight. So he never stopped. Whatevs. I call him much worse.

I'm walking back to the computer room to grab some paper and Midcity Stoner pops out of nowhere (scaring the shit out of me) and says "Tiff, come here. I gotta tell you this shit." We covertly make our way to the corner where diapers meets clothes and he fills me in.

MS: You know I fucking hate Mario, right?
Me: Well yeah, doesn't everyone?
MS: He he he. Yeah. Everyone. Even his family I think.
Me: True.
MS: So you were military right? Air Force or some shit?
Me: Yes, that exact shit.
MS: So you know about planes?
Me: Probably not as much as I should, but enough to call bullshit. Please tell me you have bullshit.
MS: Girl, I've got some serious shit.
Me: Please...continue. (Yes, I made an evil hand gesture, think the psych ward guy from Beauty and the Beast)
MS: Alright, so we're talking about Transformers 3 right?
Me: Why? It was terrible!
MS: I know, but its the only movie in the break room and we're gonna put it on during lunch.
Me: Got it. Continue.
MS: So Kenyon (another guy we work with...who's dreds have creatures) says like man that shit was crazy when theys in they squirrel suits. And Mario's fucking eyes light up and he starts saying that he used that shit when he parachuted or some shit into Baghdad.
Me: *could've heard a pin drop*
MS: Wait though, he said he parachuted from a B1. I don't know shit about shit like that but I know that's not that kind of plane.
Me: *finding my voice* What. The. Fuck.
MS: Right?
Me: Let's go with the plane first, no one, EVER, would jump, not parachute, but jump from a B1. It's a bomber. It holds bombs, not people. And who fucking "parachutes"? Seriously. I have never heard anyone who has been to Jump school call it Parachuting school.
MS: You look heated.
Me: He's just such a fucking liar.
MS: Call his ass out. That's what we do in my hood.
Me: That's what we do in my hood too.
Kenyon: *next isle over* Oh you got a hood?
Me: Yeah, you know. I keep it gangster.
Kenyon: I feel you.
MS: You're fucking stupid Tiff.
Me: I know.

So we devised a plan. I would take my lunch at the same time as everyone else, we would cue up the squirrel flying scene from Transformers 3 and wait for him to start. As soon as he opened his mouth with that bullshit, I would strike. I was giddy to say the least. He strutted in the break room about 20 seconds after I called for lunch. Such a fucking camper, but MS was right behind him. He didn't even go to the fridge, he cued up the movie. As the last employee strolled in, he hit play. Stolen Valor almost came.

SV: Yeah this is the best part!
Me: Why's that?
SV: Um, have you seen it? They fucking HALO. It's awesome. I guess you'd have to experience to get it.
Me: And you have?
SV: Pffft. Wouldn't you like to know.
Me: Yeah, I would.
SV: I bet you would.
Me: Well you'd win that bet because I would love to hear about your time in the service. Navy, right?
SV: Yeah.
MS: I thought you said the Army.
SV: No way bro, I'm a squid all the way.
MS: But you told me and Selena Army.
SV: You must have been high or something. *drunk hyena laugh*

I sensed what could happen here. He could try to divert attention on to MS so he wouldn't have to tell me about his service. I had to redirect.

Me: So seriously dude, you've done that?
SV: Uh yeah. I think I said that.
Me: Like operational or just for an exercise?
SV: We parachuted into Baghdad.
Me:...
Me:...
Me:...
Me: You did what now?
SV: When the war started, we had to parachute into Baghdad because that was the only way in.
Me: When was this?
SV: When the war started.
Me: But when?
SV: Like end of 2001, start of 2002.
Me: But you said you were involved in Umm Qasr in 03.
SV: Yeah, and?
Me: But that was the first battle of the war.
SV: Of the official war.
Me:...

Could shit have popped off secretly before the war started? Sure. Was this man involved in it? Hell no.

Is this what Navy bad asses look like? 

He went on to say that they had to parachute into Baghdad because there was no airport. So this place, aptly named Baghdad International airport since 1980, doesn't exist:

Baghdad International Airport is actually just a mirage. Oh, you flew into there? No, you didn't.

I asked him what kind of plane he jumped from. He said, " I PARACHUTED from a B-1. Who says jump? Hahaha." Um, everyone says jump. You go to jump school to learn how to jump. What the fuck? But I almost missed the plane he said he jumped from. Almost. 

Me: You jumped from a B-1?

SV: That's what I said.

Me: That's crazy. 

SV: Yeah.

Me: No that's literally crazy. A B-1 is a bomber. Where did you jump from? The bomb bay?

SV: Whatever. I was Navy. I don't know the planes. 

Me: Neither do I really, but I know you can't jump from a bomber.

SV: I meant M-1.

Me: That's a rifle.

SV: You know what I mean.

Me: No, I don't think I do.

There was a long, awkward silence...from him. Everyone else was stifling their laughs.

SV: What's the plane that they talk about in that chant thing?

Me: Do you mean a C-130?

SV: Yeah, that's the one.

Me: How do you mix that up with a B-1 Bomber or an M-1 carbine?

SV: *calls me something awful in Spanish*

Everyone was rolling at this point. No one tried to hide it. He got called the fuck out and yet, he wasn't done. He started talking about when he and his buddies went on a beer run to a nearby FOD (not FOB or forward operating base, but FOD, foreign object damage) and their convoy got blown up. Listen, I watched all 13 glorious episodes of Over There more times than I can recall and I know that that exact story happened in the same episode Bo gets his leg blown off in. I wish I could have had the smarts to record him telling this story as it was a shot by shot reference to that scene. Cool story bro, but Steven Bochco beat you to it. I held in my laughter and said "Man, I've had to do FOD checks so many times, but I've never seen anyone get blown up doing those."

Gee whiz info for the day: FOD, or foreign object damage, occurs when rocks or debris get on the flight line and damage the planes. When driving a vehicle onto the flight line, you're are supposed to stop before entering, check your tires for rocks, remove them, and then proceed slowly onto the flight line. Or just get out of your vehicle, pretend to look for shit, then get back into your vehicle.

The whole time he's popping off at the mouth, I'm posting his antics on my FB wall. My friend Melissa (we can work on blog names later) was in the Navy and was a great resource for me whilst calling him out. I asked him here he went to Boot and he got that answer right, but then told me he went to BUD/S and graduated on 9/11 ("The first one") and then it was boots to ground right after. Or is it boots to plane to air to ground?

Lunch ended far too soon. I couldn't stop though. Our word for the night became "jump." I streamed Kriss Kross' "Jump" and House of Pain's "Jump Around" on repeat through the PA system for much longer than would have been funny...except it was hilarious because Stolen Valor didn't get it. He...wait for it...actually jumped during the third or fourth playing of "Jump" and said, "Oh I fucking love this song!" Midcity Stoner almost died. We made sure to work the word jump into every conversation we had. "Hey, I need you to jump over to the bike section and get me this." "Make sure you don't jump off that ladder. It's pretty high. Not B1 high, but high." It was endless. The unspoken rule was that you couldn't just use it to use it. Stolen Valor had to be present. And each time, he just didn't understand that we were mocking him. He would just try to offer his opinion as a subject matter expert. 

There was much more to this post the first (and second) time I wrote it, but I will end it here today. Be ready next week for Part 3: The firing squad.

IRaq and Roll

Any of you who know me in real life and are not currently hiding my posts on your Facebook feed, know that I have been posting on the semi-regular about this ass hat I work with. His name is Mario, but I have given him a blog name BEFORE I even thought to blog about him.

The first time I met...wait for it...Stolen Valor, I was on a ladder, trying to not fall and crack my head open. He walked up, grabbed the frame, shook it a little bit, and then said "Oh shit, don't fall!" He then laughed like a drunk Hyena with a sinus infection for far longer than was appropriate. I calmly stepped down from the ladder, squared off with him, and said, "So it's funny to scare the shit out of someone while they are 25 feet off of the ground?" His face was priceless. He must have thought I was someone else (because there are so many white girls where I work) because he looked beyond shocked. He began backpedaling all over the place, saying he thought I was Maria or Alma or Beatrice (all short, squat Hispanics) and that they normally joke like that.

"So you think violating safety rules is a joke?" I asked in my best cop voice. "Oh no its cuz they like for me to tease them" he explained with a petulant but cocky tone. "Well, I don't. And you won't be doing it again. To me, or them. Got it?" I stated, rather than asked. I didn't wait for an answer. I walked into the back room and went straight to my "office." I needed to shake off the anger and fear I had from almost falling. See, I don't have a fear of heights, I have a fear of falling from them. Big difference.

But it didn't end. I'm angrily clicking the keys of my keyboard, trying to find a stupid signage report that my lovely coworker didn't finish and I feel two hands on my shoulders. As I'm preparing to take my keyboard and crack whomever the fuck it is in the face, I hear "Oy yey gringa, I'm sorry I scared you." I stand up, step to the side, then turn slowly and as dramatically as possible (I am nothing if not effective) and say "Listen, no need to touch. Ever." He laughs and says "Oh did I scare you? You jumped like someone shot a gun or something." "No," I replied, "I wouldn't jump from a gunshot. I jump when I'm in the back of a dark warehouse and feel creepy rapist hands on my shoulders." However, all he caught was that a gunshot wouldn't scare me.

"Oh, you know guns? You military?" he asked, tilting his head up to appear taller. In that moment, I knew. I fucking knew. He was going to be the bane of my existence. The rest of the night became a game of 20 questions, times 100. As he asked about my service (which I didn't really confirm) he mixed in his time in the Army, switched to calling it Navy, then back to Army and finishing strong with Navy. I wanted to call him out on it, but I decided that engaging him would be far worse.

It wasn't until I took my break that I really wanted to choke the life out of him. He sat right next to me, like scooted the chair even closer and began to probe me....for information. Had I ever been shot? Had I ever fired a gun? Did I say I was Army? Where was I stationed at? Was I ever down range? Did I know anyone in the Navy? I gave curt, one-word answers if I answered at all, but it dawned on me more and more with each question that he was trying to see how much I really knew about the military....so he could gauge how much bullshit he could get away with.

The next night when I arrived at work, he was waiting for me. Literally waiting at my desk. I say excuse me as politely as I can muster, but he still stands in front of my chair. "Can I help you with something Mario?" I ask. "Nah, I'm just back here. Watching them unload the truck, Angel wants me to oversee" he says, bragging to me. "Don't you have to be able to see them to oversee?" I ask. "Ah yeah, I got this," he replies. Okay, he can't take a hint, so I sort of motion for him to step aside. He laughs and  moves aside, but not silently.

SV: That was like a signal, huh? Like military stuff. But I got it, you know, cuz we were both military. Air Force right?
Me: Yes Mario. Air Force.
SV: Oh so like, you guys got pampered, huh? Not us man. We were in the shit. I graduated for my job on 9/11 and it was like go go go go after that. Yeah, I've been to war.
Me: That's great Mario (I'm thoroughly engrossed in my inbox)
SV: Yeah, I was on the George Washington, that's a ship, a big one. But we docked in Iraq and then went in from there.
Me: (Looking up from my inbox) You docked IN Iraq?
SV: Yeah, bet you didn't know that huh? Yeah, Iraq is by the ocean.
Me: Well, it's on the Persian Gulf, not an ocean. But I didn't think a carrier could dock in Umm Qasr. And I really didn't think that the US Navy would send a carrier INTO Iraq. (Yes, I know where Umm Qasr is...I have an excellent memory...I don't think he accounted for that).
SV: Yeah, well they did.
Me: I thought only spec ops went into Umm Qasr in 03. I mean, it was kind of a big deal battle.
SV: Yeah, how do you think I know about it?

This is important to remember for my next blog in The Ballad of Stolen Valor series. Umm Qasr, or rather, the battle of Umm Qasr was one of, if not the first objectives of the Iraqi invasion. Take the port, you control all supplies coming in. American and British Marines with some Polish bad asses took Umm Qasr. The only Navy involved was the trained divers who detect and remove underwater mines. So is he a diver now? Seriously, I remember all of that from a doc on the History channel and a little from when it was initially reported but I'm pretty sure a quick wikipedia search could get him more accurate shit.

I was just about to ask him for detail (to nail him with) but I think he saw the doubt on my face and he quickly bolted back over to truck land. No goodbye, no "Oh I think they called for me", nada. I went about my business for the night and tried to make a mental note of all the bullshit I heard him spewing as I passed. He was Angel's responsibility, not mine, so instead of telling him to shut up and get back to work, I just absorbed. In the span of six hours or so, I heard the terms AR15, parachuted, squirrel suit, boat, kill, hit, shot, almost, this close, and a few dozen others repeated with such fervor that I wanted to pounce on him and rip out his jugular. All of it was bullshit, even if I hadn't caught the full stories surrounding the words. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit (yes, read that like Kristen Bell says it in Forgetting Sarah Marshall).

I knew I couldn't let him keep this up, but our shift was almost done and I was a busy girl. I would have to strike the next night....

This concludes "The Ballad of Stolen Valor: Part 1." Tune in next week for part 2.

Seriously, I know I've been a lazy blogger, but I will have part 2 up for you all next week. Promise. Why? Because I've already written it  and it's scheduled for a week from today. I have to keep you all coming back somehow.

Peaches and Cream

Monday already?! Fuck this noise. I want to go back to sleep! Even Little Bug is testy. She told me not to take her pictures. Que rude, right? Anyway, I have nothing for the must haves today. Want a time warp instead? Of course you do. Let me tell you a tale about a rotten vagina.

Her name was Tiny and she was a frienemy of mine. Younger than me (barely) and single, she and I fake bonded while I was pregnant and my husband was deployed. I had live in the dorms because my First Sgt kept dicking me over on when my married and pregnant self could move out and she lived down the way.

Did I mention this was an AF flashback? Picture everyone in BDUs and it should work better.

Back to it. Tiny was an active slut. Not knocking it, I dabbled in my single days, but she was out to set a world record. This isn't just word around the squadron stuff either. I'm talking from her lips to mine and God's ears. Her mouth lips. Get your minds out of the gutter.

Tiny and I always had an understanding. I would say nothing about her whoring as long as she stayed away from my guy friends. She could have my sloppy seconds, she could go after whomever made her lady parts tingle, just leave my friends alone. For a little while, she did.

Until that fateful night.

Remember my BFF minus the ovaries? Well, we still aren't talking. He has talked to Hubby and claims he knew nothing was wrong. That tells me he is an oblivious idiot or never got my texts or messages. Hmm. Anyway, before his current squeeze, he was on par with Tiny in the slut department. My pregnant belly served as his wing man more times than I am willing to admit, though not as many times as I served as DD. Everyone loves a pregnant girl, no need for a taxi.

He had been warned on several occasions, most of them sober, to stay away from Tiny. Not just because I didn't want to deal with the awkwardness if it didn't work out, but because
skank + man-skank= AIDS. He swore to me that nothing was going to happen. He lied.

One night, I refused to play DD or wing man or babysitter and I went to sleep. He went to the bar. So did Tiny. They came back to his dorm together. They tried to fuck. End of story.

Just kidding! You think I would leave it at that?! I'll tell you his side of the story first, as I heard it first. The next day, he and I met up after work. We usually ate dinner together at Chilli's or grilled outside. I think the plan was for Chilli's. He was such a good pregnancy friend. I never had to cook. Anyway, as I walked into his room, he didn't look well. He looked nauseated and shameful. Keep in mind, I had no idea about what had transpired the previous night, so I was concerned. I told him he didn't look well and asked if he was okay. He said he had to tell me something and that I should sit down.

Him: Something happened last night.
Me: Oh, you drank too much?
Him: Well, yeah, but that's not what I mean.
Me: Dude, what's wrong? You seriously look like someone shot your dog.
Him: I wish.
Me: Spill. Now.
Him: You're gonna be mad. Just know that. And save it until the end. And no judging. Well, until the end.
Me: I might be able to do that. Proceed.
Him: So I went to the bar last night. Had a good time. Hung out with some people. Brought Tiny home. Tried to fuck her. Couldn't do it. Her snatch was rotten. So, how are you today? Any morning sickness.

Read that last one as fast as you can. Now times it by 2 and that's how quickly he tried to get it out. Of course I made him explain. Apparently, she was DTF (down to fuck for those of you not hip to the lingo) and made it clear that he could have it. The more he drank (and the more he struck out with other ladies), the more he became open to the idea. I wasn't too mad. It was bound to happen.

They stumbled back to his dorm room and started foolin' around. She wanted to skip the foreplay and just go for it. So he did. Well he tried. She wasn't wet. Not a even a sprinkle. After a little bit of smashing and smacking, she suggested he warm it up a little. As he isn't a selfish man (his words), he obliged. He moved down to the nether region, opened his mouth, moved closer...and then stopped himself from throwing up.

According to him, it was quite possibly the most noxious smell imaginable. Imagine rotten cabbage, mix in a little sewage, add tuna, and you've got yourself the stink of Tiny's snatch. He gagged some more and promptly got up. He said he thought about lying and saying he was too drunk and was sick, but Texas pride wouldn't allow him to act like a pussy. Unfortunately, that was the only Texas quality he invoked. He told her that he couldn't have sex with her...because her vagina stank. She giggled and tried to play it off, but he repeated this fact and asked her to leave his room. Embarrassed as all get out, she gathered her things and left.

I wanted to smack him, wanted to scold him, wanted to high-five him for calling her out...but mostly, I wanted to be thinking about anything but Tiny's rotten puss. I had to leave. I couldn't eat dinner with him having just heard what I heard. In fact, I didn't eat (and keep anything down) for a few days. I had perma-morning sickness, but in this instance, it was the thought of her poon.

I went upstairs to my room and found Tiny writing a note on my door board. She looked upset (who wouldn't be?) and upon seeing me, she shrieked about how she was so glad to see me and how she needed to talk. And I didn't see this coming, how?!

Her tale started the same. Bar, boozing, propositioning him. At least she didn't try and put the luring on him. Props for that. But then it began to differ. He begged her to let him go down on her because he wasn't hard yet, whiskey dick and all. She normally doesn't like that sort of thing, but he was just so eager that she couldn't tell him no. That would be rude, right? So he goes down there and before he starts, he gets sick and almost throws up because he can't handle his liquor. She tried to see if he was okay, but he got mad at her for his not being able to get hard and then he shouted it out. He said "It's not my fucking fault you have a nasty ass pussy!" Naturally she was taken aback, but he just kept ranting about how her pussy smelled and told her to get the fuck out of his room. She left and wanted to come tell me immediately, but she knew how much I needed my sleep. So considerate, that girl.

I realize that the truth always lies somewhere in between both of these versions, but I've never found Tiny's words to be truthful. From what happened at work that day to her bra size, there was always something false there. And I know him, knew him I guess, and the boy can handle his liquor. And he would never shout at someone like that, he's a happy drunk, not an angry one. Like, ever. I could imagine his version of events in my mind, vividly, but her version seemed like a bad movie.

It took everything not to throw up on her. However, my nausea gave me an out. She excused herself and said she would check on me later, but if I could maybe talk to him...Yeah. Saw that one coming a mile away. I smiled and said that it really wasn't my place to talk to him about it. Shit flipped real quick. Why wouldn't I talk to him? Because I didn't want to. Aren't I supposed to be her best friend? That was news to me. What the fuck was my problem? At the moment, it was the overwhelming desire to puke. Was I just going to let him spread vicious lies about her? He wasn't saying anything. Didn't I know how much shit she could say about him? Um, this just got awkward-er.

I let her storm off and took a coma. It was lovely. Drama free sleepy-time is always great. I didn't even have one stinky vagina dream. Tiny and I, well our friendship never recovered. He never told anyone else about her skeezy snatch, I was only privy to that gem. But boy, did she run her mouth about what happened with him. Different versions to different people, but still a whole lot of shit came out of her mouth.

Later, she would give another friend of mine Gonorrhea. He knew it was her because he hadn't had unprotected sex with anyone else (and for quite sometime). He told her after he went to the doctor and she denied it. She said there was no way he got it from her because she had just gotten the all clear from her doctor. I know this to be a lie because I was at the doctor the same day she got her test results. She cried on my shoulder and begged me not to tell anyone. I didn't, until now. Whoops.

So that's the tale of a stinky vagina. Be repulsed. Be disgusted. As long as you were entertained, I'll be happy.

Have You Forgotten?

Today, I am worse than any car crash on I-10 as it winds through Sun City. I am a total wreck. I woke up with a smile on my face and a Little Bug snuggling up next to me (when does her new bed get here again?). And then it hit me. Before I looked at my phone, before I turned on the news, before anyone said anything to me, I remembered. 

11 years ago today, 19 piece of shit MUSLIM (because that's what they were, who they are, and why they did it) terrorists attempted to destroy our country. Attempted, because even though the Towers fell, even though they split open the Pentagon, even though that plane crashed in the field, they did not succeed. We are still America. We are STILL standing.

I was supposed to post a blog about BMT today as requested by Baby Sis, but that'll have to wait until next week. I didn't blog about September 11th last year, I just wanted to soak it all in, but this year I am plenty soaked. It's been 11 years since my mother woke me up to tell me we had been attacked. 11 years since I groggily asked what she was talking about and thought she meant someone had broken into the house. 11 years since I watched the smoke leave the North Tower and think that it had to be an accident, who would do this to US? 11 years since I watched in horror as the second plane stuck the South Tower  at 9:03 (6:03 my time) and know that it was NOT an accident.

I just remember how sad I was. As the flames and smoke continued to build and the bodies fell from the sky (yes, they aired that live), the Pentagon got hit. Sadness fell away and anger, unspeakable anger flowed through my body. It made it real for me. The WTC was horrific, but the Pentagon was an audacious challenge in my mind. "Here we are, we spit in the face of your military, your strength." I may have waited until I was 21, but I know in that moment, I joined the military. 

The images of people running from the scene, the smoke and ash covering everyone, the men and women in service dress running INTO the Pentagon to help, I can't remember it without tears falling. Everything stung. I felt so helpless and emotional, as I am sure everyone else across America did. I felt so far away in California, so small, and so raw. Every agonized expression on those poor people who were there was like a stab to my gut. 

And then they fell. And so did my tears, which I thought had run dry. It was one thing to see those planes hit, not okay by any means, but there was a moment of "Fuck you assholes. They're still standing!" But they didn't. They fell. I can't even describe the way I felt. I just know that everything ached and everything was changed.

As the day progressed and even the week, we learned who was responsible for this awful, cowardly attack. We watched as people searched for their loved ones, to include some joyous reunions and some devastating revelations of loss. We watch as first responders dug through the rubble day and night and saw everyone pause when they found someone alive or dead. Every time they found someone alive, I just imagined what must be going through the minds of the people who were missing someone. I felt so bad for the thousands upon thousands who would learn their loved one wasn't coming home. I still do. To everyone who lost someone, we will never forget. 

I remember the swell of pride in our nation and our first responders. Every flag that was flown caused a stirring in my heart. Every person lined up outside of a blood bank to donate made me cry. Our nation's Commander-in-Chief, President George W. Bush saying just the right things to rally this country. I've never been more proud to be an American. I have ALWAYS been proud of my country, ALWAYS (yeah, that's to you Mrs. Obama), but the days and weeks after September 11, 2001 might always be the proudest. Those bastards wanted to destroy us, they failed.

Today, I had to discuss 9/11 with Little Bug for the first time. I had the TV on and she wanted to know about the pictures of the fires and the people who were crying (and why Mommy was crying. This is what I said:

Me: 11 years ago on this day, very bad men called al-Qaeda crashed 4 planes into American buildings and they hurt alot of people, a lot of people died.

Little Bug: That's not nice at all.

Me: No, it wasn't. But America is fighting back. That's why Mommy and Daddy and Aunt Baby Sis all joined the Air Force. That's why Mr. R is in the Army. We fought back and we don't let the bad guys win.

Little Bug: Oh, that's nice. I'm glad America fights back.

Me: Me too baby.

Little Bug: But don't cry anymore Momma, your nose gets red.

I know when she's older, this is going to be more difficult to explain things like this, but I'm just glad it didn't scare her. I'm glad she could see those images (as awful as they are) and know that we fought back, and that it gives her peace. I hope the children of the victims of 9/11 have that peace some day.

Hug your babies, kiss your significant other, call up your momma and tell her you love her, hell, even shake a Fireman's hand (or a cop or a military member), but do something today. Even if it's small, just do it. Never forget what happened and never again take life for granted.

The Way The Whole Thing Ends

No, not the end of my blog, just the end of the layout. I haven't liked how my blog looks for quite some time. I need to spruce it up. I've been looking for a custom blog designer for a while, but everything is too kitchy. I need something that is cleaner, but still me. Hopefully, I find that soon...lol.

I also want to add a page or two. I need to finalize the photo-a-day list for October, yes, October. All the freaks come out in October. Freaks are required for this contest! And once a week starting next week, I will be featuring a pinterest craft that I will be making (and should have made a long ago). Not in Pintester fashion, I really want to do a good job...lol. I'm starting next week with Scrabble tile coasters. They should be amazing!

Okay, on to the time warp....I'm not doing one today. DirecTV is being installed and shit is getting crazy. I'll be back tomorrow.

Defend You

Today counts as a Time Warp since I will be discussing the events of last week. Accept this logic and just let me rant. You'll like it.

Baloo had been reported to the Ministry of Magi.....wait, sorry. That's not right. I've managed to watch every Harry Potter movie in the past week and I'm getting my stories mixed. Let me start again.

Baloo has been reported to the head of faculty at University of Fictitious Bird. My very feisty academic advisor was beyond livid when I spoke with her on Friday about the situation that happened Thursday night. She told me that while she was unable to confirm or deny that Baloo had had previous complaints, she couldn't confirm or DENY that he had previous complaints. She said it four or five times and I politely played along, though I got it the first time. Big Time Army had already told me as much. She insisted that there will be an observer in each of my next classes with Baloo to ensure my "academic safety."

From here on out (or then on out?) all grades and online feedback is being monitored by some magical grade elf who will notify his bosses should my grades suddenly decline. Not a Harry Potter reference, that's really how my advisor explained it to me. When I laughed at the "magical grade elf" comment, she said "Well, you know, one of those people who use computers." If you're reading this from a computer, you are now a magical elf. I prefer the Lord of the Rings type of elf to the Harry Potter version. You're free to choose.

I also had to convey the incident in email form to the faculty director. He's a father of daughters and a PhD in Criminal Justice, so to say that these facts shaped the email I wrote would be an accurate statement. I detailed the humiliating and traumatic experience of the second class, but set up the incident by reliving week one as well. I think you could hear my tears. I referenced Baloo's version of events that he posted into my feedback forum. His version was seriously lacking the basic elements of the night...mainly, the truth and I said how upsetting it was that he not only sought to humiliate me in front of my peers, but to tarnish my sterling academic reputation.

In Baloo's feedback he stated that I shouted at him. I acknowledged this by saying that while I might have raised my voice to be heard over Baloo's discriminatory comments that seemed never-ending, I in no way shouted. I didn't come close to exerting that kind of energy. I also said that because of my service to the United States Air Force, I have been left with documented significant hearing-loss and inner ear problems that make it difficult to hear how loud I am (not BS, really is true). I said that I in no way wanted to be treated differently because of my disability, but as Baloo was aware of this issue, to accuse me of shouting is hurtful and disrespectful. Oh, did I mention my academic advisor filed a Americans with Disabilities Act complaint against him?

To put the cherry on top, I told him about how up until that moment, I was proud to say I was a member of the University of Ficticious Bird family, but now I felt dejected and humiliated by a man who is supposed to encourage and uplift. While I am not one to question teaching methods, surely there is nothing to gain from berating and chastising students. I didn't sacrifice all those years of my life in the military for an education to be treated like I was nothing, nor did I think that the other members of the class deserve to be bullied and threatened.

Everything in the email was true. I attached Baloo's feedback and snarky, unprofessional emails to me. I gave dates and times (thank goodness for live blogging to look back on) and informed him that a recording of the first class was available to him as evidence of Baloo's treatment of me, should it go that far. My advisor doesn't think it will, though she has heard the recording (I only made it because I thought I wouldn't be able to blog) and it only helped to piss her off more.

Thursday, I will be going to class. I don't now who the monitor will be, but I have been told it will be another criminal justice faculty member. Hopefully, it will be one of the many who I am told HATE Baloo. Oh, BTW, because I am awesome and have great relationships with all the right people, I found out that Baloo has had more than one complaint about him having to due with his treatment of women in the sheriff's department. Doesn't help me with my school issue, but it does give my evil mind some leverage.

I will say now, I am not looking for a fight. I just don't see the harm in coming to class fully prepared. And really, what Texas (fat bottomed) girl wouldn't come with fully loaded guns and extra ammo?

Depending on how class goes, I might just link you to his TMI Facebook page.

We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together

Time Warp Tuesday has arrived and again, I am drawing a blank on what I should write about. Having a designated day for memories past is more pressure than I thought it would be. So this post is going to go one of three ways. I can rant and rave about boyfriends that were less than deserving of me (and their are many). I can single out one of them, leaving other's for future blog material. Or, and this is my favorite for today, I can provide you an in-depth analysis of Taylor Swift and why I find her to be terrible and amazing at the same time. What's that? You want Taylor time? Yeah, me too.

For those of you who do not know, "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together" i the latest single by Miss Swift. It will be on her new album Red which will be released on October 22nd of this year. I, undoubtedly, will be buying the album, just like I bought the single.

Here's the thing, it's not great. It's not country. It sounds like a bitter teenage girl wrote it. And mostly, it's catchy as all get out. I've listened to it more than 5 times since yesterday's download, and while that is far from the thousands of times the devoted 13-year-old girls of the Taylor Nation have rocked out to it, it feels like too much for a woman in here late 20's. When I was forced to pay for it instead of stream it on Spotify, I should have taken it as a sign that my Taylor Swift enjoyment days had come to an end.

She isn't the best singer to begin with and her lyrics seem to forever be stuck at the pubescent love/heartbreak stage. She falls for dudes 30 seconds after dating them and then publicly slams them in interviews because they weren't as into her as she was into them. I mean, for a girl who claims to have been bullied, she sure dishes out her fair share of abuse. Have you heard "Better Than Revenge" on her last album? It's allegedly about the girl who stole Joe Jonas from her. Here's an excerpt:

She's not a saint and she's not what you think.

She's an actress.

But she's better known for the things that she does on a mattress.

So she's a whore because your boyfriend broke up with you for her? Seriously, women who blame the woman piss me off. From what I've read, the digs she takes at the girl, Camilla Belle, are hardly subtle. She references that she went to prep school but that won't give her dignity. She even uses lyrics from the song Jonas wrote about Belle. My favorite line is when she says "She thinks I'm psycho cause I like to rhyme her name with things." Well, maybe she's right. It's one thing to write "You Oughta Know" and leave everyone guessing, it's a whole other to blast the shit out of this girl. Smartly, Swift didn't release the song as a single. Something tells me she would have lost a few fans due to her cattiness.

And John Mayer? Surely she had to have known he was too much for her. Jennifer Aniston and Jessica Simpson couldn't change him, what made her think she had a shot. She wrote 3 songs about him on her last album. THREE! "Dear John" was the worst of them. She paints him as this older man who just callously tossed her aside when he was through with her. And again, a song that wasn't close to subtle. Not that John Mayer deserves any sympathy from the females of the world, but way to kick a man when he's already down.

I recently read that she's dating 18-year-old Connor Kennedy of those Kennedy's. She's 21 or 22 right? Can we say dating a younger guy because he isn't experienced enough to know how crazy you are? She even bought a $4.9 million house across the street from, well, his parent's house. I've seen Fatal Attraction and Single White Female enough times to know that he needs to hide his bunny rabbits and change the locks. 

I know people who love T-Swizzle. They also read this blog and will probably lecture me about her greatness, but it matter not. I won't be deleting her albums from my iTunes library (they're stored in the cloud so it's pointless) and I will no doubt sing along the next time the "Shuffle All" button sends one my way. It doesn't make her less of a twat. And it doesn't make her less of an angsty Avrile Levigne wannabe. She can win Grammy upon Grammy and date ridiculously good-looking men to the cows come home. It doesn't mean she doesn't pander to the teenage girl market better than a boy band. 

Do I sound like a judgey bitch? I hope so, it' what I'm good at. I'll leave you with this gem of a song that will now replace "Call Me Maybe" in the "stuck in my head" slot.

Private Idaho

I don't know what it is today, but I am all kinds of tired. Oh, I know what it is. I stayed up too late and woke up to early. I've been zombie status all day because of it, but as promised, here is a time warp from a very memorable first day of school.

Mid-way through my seventh-grade year, my mother moved my two sisters and me to Idaho. The details of why are not important, but just know that we were not happy. We had visited my Uncle Stew and his family when we were younger and Baby Sis had not been created yet, but all I could remember was that my older cousin Mike was a dick. I was also bitter that Uncle Stew had effectively stolen my grandmother from us, as shortly after my mom and step dad married, she went to live in Idaho.

My Uncle Marc and his buddy helped us move up there. He made it fun. Everything was a joke and he helped change my attitude about how Idaho was going to be. Except Uncle Marc wasn't staying in Idaho with us.

We got there and settled in as best we could with Uncle Stew's (at the time) 3 little kids running amok and creeping us out. The girl, Jo, was 4-ish and kept chanting "The cousins are coming!" over and over. While only 11, my witt and sarcasm was already strongly developed and I had to refrain from making fun of them...all of them.

You know what, there is far too much detail required to explain my family in Idaho. And considering they're the most manipulative, hypocritical Christians I have ever met, we're gonna skip 'em. They don't really matter in life so they shouldn't matter in my blog (which I know one of them reads searching for gossip).

So our first day of school came and it was cold as shit. Most of our clothing wasn't unpacked yet, though I was lacking on the winter clothing front. We had come from California, it wasn't anywhere near that cold. I threw together (what I thought) was a cute outfit and tried to mimic my Older Sister's "I don't give a fuck" 'tude. I failed (of course) but we looked good and I had just learned that the middle school and high school were joined, so I would have her there if I needed her.

Mom drove us to school (but we later took the bus), which was located 14 miles away in the town of Riggins. Everyone stopped and turned on the town's main strip when we passed. Mom drove a candy-apple red Lincoln Town Car, so I guess we stood out a bit. As she turned up the steep hill to the school, I got more nervous. Would they like me? Would they hate me? Would there be cute boys? What if I got lost? What if Older Sister ditched me (she did)? What if I got on the wrong bus home?

When we flattened out and I saw the actual school, I let out an audible laugh. My middle school back home was bigger than this place. When we walked to the office through the main hall, I literally LOL'd because there was absolutely no way to get lost. The main hall was the only hall. It connected everything. Well, except the main middle school building, but that also had one hall and only two classrooms. One question answered, I would not get lost.

A very large, loud woman with Texas pageant hair greeted us at the office. Her name was Winnie (no more code names, shit just got real) and she was the Principal. I would later learn the students called her Winnie the Pooh, which is hilarious now because she went on and on about how much everyone liked her. They didn't. At all.

This is where I am sure I am messing the whole year we were there into one day. I can remember the events of that day, just not the order, so eff it. You'll be gettin' a great tale.

I think the first class I went to was that of Buck Fitch. Yes, that is his name. He was out social studies teacher. He was big, balding, and burly and the best part...he had a stutter. He yelled at everyone for no apparent reason and the louder and meaner he got, the more the stutter came out. Once, he was talking to my mom and he said "L-l-l-l-Lydia" and she wasn't aware of the stutter. She thought he was calling her Little Lydia (my grandma and her have the same first name) and she said "Who you callin' little?!" If he wasn't such a jerk, I probably would have felt bad for him.

He sat me by Greg, our next door neighbor. He was cute (I thought at 11, now, not so much) and seemed like a bad boy. Every girl likes a bad boy, right? Seated next to him were the two Sarah's. Or Sara and Sarah. Sarah was brunette, while Sara was blond. Both looked like skanks. Yes, skanky 12-year-olds. Well, almost 13, I would learn because at 11, I was the youngest 7th grader.

The Sarah/Sara's started in on me quick. Where in California was I from? Where did I shop at? Was I in a gang? Did I know Snoop Dogg? Did I surf every day? All the stuff they had ever heard about California. I should have let them think I was in a gang, maybe they wouldn't have made the next year of my life a living hell.

The next class was with Mrs. Updegrove. Math. It was pretty remedial for me and my fancy California education (public school but light years ahead of them) and I spent most of the class getting to know the rest of them. Topper (real name and yes, after the penguin) was a country boy who was illiterate. He had to read something from the textbook and he struggled with the word "The". He was funny enough, in a laughing at not with way, and he dipped in class. I had no idea what dip even was until him, so thanks for that, I guess. His midget buddy Ryan sat next to him. I'm sure he has grown since then, but he was shorter than me. And like all short boys, he was a loud mouth trying to make up for his stature. He had blond hair and it flopped over his forehead in what I now think was a primitive Bieber hair style, but shaved in the back. He wore baggy clothes because no one informed Idaho that trend had passed.

The girls were nice enough. Lindsey, Stephanie and Meghan all were jocks and sat together. Shannon and Thea were glued to each others hip. And Faith and Miranda were part of the Sarah/Sara's and part of the others. Believe me, it was a very fine line to walk. There was also Barbara and Danielle. Barbara could use a shower and Danielle was a beached whale. I didn't care how nice they were (well, Danielle was NOT) I knew to stay away.

Following math was science with Mr. McCormick. He was a ginger (before it was cool...just kidding, it was never cool), short, and peppy. He took to me right away. He was sarcastic and dry at times and I would be the only one who laughed/got it. He would dryly crack on each student as they attempted to read, and though I am sure it didn't help me fit in, I had to laugh. He said "Let's see what you got" and had me read aloud. He gave me a standing ovation and said "Thank you, I truly appreciate that." That's where my day started to go downhill.

Lunch happened and I sat outside by myself because my sister had already become popular and didn't meet me. A few upperclassmen walked by and took pity on me to strike up a conversation. They knew my cousin Mike and maybe he said to be nice to me or maybe they knew what a chode he was and felt bad, but they spent the rest of lunch outside with me.

After lunch was English with Mr. Lindsey. He was originally from there, moved away to find a wife who wasn't related to him (most of that canyon was inbred, I'd put money on it) and came back to teach. He was pretty cool, though the rest of the students didn't think so. Maybe because he required them to do shit. Maybe because his wife was Alaskan Indian. Seriously. Biggest bunch of racists to ever walk the earth. To this day I am still friends with the Lindsey Family. Tim is the oldest, then Jordan, then Ana and his wife Bev. They were like an oasis in the desert for our family. If any of you are reading this, I would not have survived that hell whole without you all. And Mr. Lindsey (I can't call you Randy), you have no idea how much you molded me in your class. Thank you.

I had band and something else that day but I can't remember. In band, though I was a clarinet player, they gave me a trombone. Seriously. Then somehow I got switched to percussion. Sarah played clarinet and tried to make me intimidated. Now I know she was so good because she sucked cock like a champ.

It never got better. Ever. They hated me from day one to the very last day when we left that hell whole back for California. Sure, there were moments of fun. Like when I personally started a middle school cheer squad, but that slowly lost its luster when the Sarah/Sara's and Mirnada threatened to beat my ass if I stayed on it. I did, but only to piss them off. There was Aaron. My first real boyfriend. His brother was dating my sister, well, since they were two of the only not inbred guys in town. I was too young and immature to handle it though and broke up with him over something stupid a month or so after. Big mistake because it just gave them another reason to hate me.

I went to church, so there was another strike. I didn't live in a trailer (which was all the rage there) so I must have thought I was better than them. My mom drove a "limo" as they called it, so we must be all fancy. They didn't get my sense of humor, I didn't dress like a skank, I thought studying was a good thing, and I wore glasses. I also wasn't my older sister. She was adored or feared in her half of the school, I was tortured. I cried daily, though I tried to never let them see me cry. I would hide out in the library whenever possible or hang with some upper-classmen from band as they protected me from the wrath of the Sarah/Sara's. We got a new principal and he expelled Sarah for her threats and bullying, but her white trash family slashed his tires and she was allowed to come back.

I prayed every morning and read Ephisians 6:10-17 in the parking lot before going in. You know, "put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes..." because to me Sarah was the devil. My eyes filled with tears and hers filled with hate. I now know somethings about her family that explain a whole lot. She also got knocked up in high school (probably by her daddy) and popped out a few more before marrying a much older man. She still lives in that canyon and probably still gets off on making other's miserable. She probably wouldn't remember my name if I told it to her, but I'll always remember hers and pity the shit out of her. Knowing that she doesn't know how disgusting she is makes me happy. Is that wrong?

There are a few girls who have gotten out and gone far. I occasionally talk to them on FB and I am very happy for them. They have wonderful husbands, happy kids, good jobs, and they didn't let that canyon swallow them up. Unfortunately, they are few and far between. A quick FB search of the names I can remember (okay, like all of them) shows that they're still getting drunk and high, have different baby daddies/mommas, never went to college or didn't graduate and still live in a trailer. Qualities that make you popular in Riggins.

I could write an entire book on that year in Riggins, easily. Remind me some time and I'll share some more. See you tomorrow!

No Church in the Wild

"The single greatest cause of atheism in the world today is Christians, who acknowledge Jesus with their lips, then walk out the door, and deny Him by their lifestyle. That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable."                                                               

                -Brennan Manning

Without delving into my confusing and often chaotic religious upbringing, let's just say that I have good reason to abhor organized religion. I saw a bumper sticker that read "I've got nothing against God. It's his fan club I can't stand" and I completely agree. The hypocrisy and hatred that flows form the pulpit and the pews of most churches makes my blood boil. I know it isn't every church, but in my experience...it is.

Names have been changed of people and organizations.

When my family moved to El Paso in 2002, we struggled to find a church to call home. After two or three failed attempts to "belong", everyone had pretty much given up. I enjoyed the church-less family we had become. For once I felt like everything I did wasn't being judged and scrutinized by people who were more righteous (in their own minds). I probably went to far. Smoking, drinking, dating a boy who didn't deserve me and then some. I was ill-equipped to deal with my new found freedom of religious limitations. 

A few of my co-workers at a national coffee chain all attended the same church and were constantly pestering encouraging me to attend a bible study of sorts that they called Small Group. One night, after a particularly bad fight with Terrible Boyfriend, I decided to go. I wasn't going to play chauffeur to him and his loser friends, I was going to go to church. Bizarre logic, I know, but over the mountain I went in search of Intersection. 

Intersection was a church seed off of a bigger church on the same side of town. From what I had been told, the pastor, a man named Coral, had started the church as an outreach for youth in the troubled area. It was initially a coffee house out of a warehouse and a back-alley that served as an alternative to running the streets. It grew into a church and by the time I wandered into the same warehouse, it had been roughly ten years since it's conception. 

I immediately liked what I saw. A coffee bar to my right, tables and chairs next to it, an open sanctuary beyond that decorated with graffiti wall murals and mismatched chairs. It was everything the church of my upbringing was not. Even though I saw no one, I felt welcomed and comfortable. Then Gulp popped up. Gulp was a mid-20's hipster looking fellow. He had glasses and dark hair and scared the living shit out of me. "Hey," he said. "Are you looking for something?" I laughed off my initial shock and introduced myself. I explained that my coworkers had invited me as Gulp nodded and looked me over. I was immediately skeezed out as he stopped at my chest and his gaze didn't leave. 

Slowly, other Small Group members arrived and I began to feel more at ease. Erica, one of my co-workers, was there with her husband, the leader of the group, Ernie. Her BFF, also named Erica joined us and seemed friendly. They were excited I had come and quickly whisked em away from the lecherous paws of Gulp. Mal and Fanny were also there and were closer to my age. Mal was full of energy and an aspiring singer, while Fanny was a college student who had been going to Intersection since it's beginning. Fuzz, brother of Erica 2, was another longtime member of Intersection and good buddies with Gulp. It was a great night and I felt really renewed. It was possible to love God and not be surrounded by crazies.

Over the next few months, I began attending Intersection regularly and eventually my family joined. It was a far cry from anything we were used to. There was a 15 minute break between worship and the sermon to allow the smokers a quick cigarette. No. Lie. Pastor Coral would often stand outside and shoot the shit with us. One sermon in particular did it for me. Coral preached about the prodigal son. I thought "Wow, that was for me" and I was hooked. It was a judgement free zone. That should have been a red flag, but I liked when he would describe us as a "beer church." After all, I was a beer drinker. 

The more I immersed myself in the Intersections culture, the more I really thought I found a place I belonged. I could still drink and smoke and have too good of a time on Saturday night, but come Sunday morning, no one was judging me and there wasn't guilt like there would have been in the church(s) of my youth. I became pretty close with Fanny, we hung out all the time. She was more timid than most of my friends and I think she liked that I was her token wild friend. She never told me I should smoke or drink less, seemed to delight in my retelling of whatever guy I was currently seeing. Living vicariously through me was her favorite past time.

On Sunday, I really loved God. I felt His presence when I sang and praised Him. Over and over, Coral would tell us how grateful we should be for God's love, that He forgives anything. But no sermons on NOT acting in a way that would require forgiveness. Not that that's an excuse. I was raised to know better, I chose to go the other way. But Intersection made it okay for me to keep going. It was almost encouraged. 

And Gulp was ever present. He was a creeper, no doubt, but in my fragile state of religious confusion he picked and picked until he wormed his way into my life. Fanny and Fuzz were constantly making fun of him. His supposed friends, now laughing at his every pathetic attempt to hit on me, seeking out the gossip on Sunday morning, but hanging out with him as if they didn't just laugh at him. Fuzz was equally as creepy. I started playing poker with the group of Intersection guys and Fuzz dubbed me "9 to 5" as my poker nickname...yes, because of my rack. Real Christian like, huh? 

It got much worse. The Erica's, though older than the rest of us, were the biggest group of mean girls the religious world has seen. They were jealous of any pretty young thing that walked through the warehouse doors. They were passive aggressive and would start rumors, judge the other mothers in the church (Erica and Ernie were parents, not Erica 2), and anytime I would walk by them, the conversation would stop like they had just been talking about me. Rachelle, married to Shawn, was a frequent target of their cattiness. The things they said about her behind her back were horrendous. I remember one incident at a summer festival, a girl from another church was there who was gorgeous. She could have been a model. But Erica 1 noticed this too and treated her horribly. She made a big scene about the girl giving her dirty looks. Come to find out, the girl had shingles and her face was paralyzed in a half-scowl. I tried to explain this to Erica 1 but she continued treating her like a bitch. 

And then their was our Amish drummer, Joe. He always made me uncomfortable, and not just because Fanny was pinning away for him and he ignored her. He stood too close to you when he spoke to you. He looked through you as if you weren't worth of his time. His eyes were never right. I'll leave it at that.

Gulp got more brave. He started telling me that he and I getting together was God's plan for our life. Seriously. I thought "Isn't it funny that God is telling us different things?" He kept at it and any time I shunned his advances, he would tell me I needed to get closer to God. I, in-turn, got closer to a bottle and some cute Army guy because the more her tried to prophesy over my life the more I wanted away from the church. Instead of offering comfort or sound biblical advice, Fanny would just gossip about what I had told her. Gulp began spreading rumors about me as well. I finally had enough, and with the backing of my mother, went to Pastor Coral.

I told him everything. Yes, I probably led Gulp on a bit at first. It was funny and I was encouraged to do it by Fanny and Fuzz. I didn't like him that way and he had been told many times but he kept coming. I told him about his words from the lord about us being together, I told him about the times he would insinuate I was a godless whore because I went on a date with someone who was not him. I told him how alone I felt because it was cool for everyone else to hate Gulp, but if I did it, I was some trouble-making outsider. I cried as I sat across form Coral's desk for what seemed like forever. Coral took a deep breath and proceeded to tell me quite the tail about Gulp.

This wasn't the first time he had religiously strong-armed a girl. He had been warned about this on more than one occasion. He told me how sorry he was that this happened and if I had come to him sooner, he could have stopped it. It didn't comfort me. It infuriated me. Gulp was still in a position of leadership in this church and they knew of his predatory behavior towards females? What the holy heck? He assured me he would take care of it with confidence attached and I left. But what happened? I became the bad guy. Gulp started rumors that I showed up to church hungover, or would miss because I was too drunk. It spread to the other church too. I brought it up to Coral, but it didn't stop. There was always a smile to my face but whispers as I walked away.

I joined the Air Force in 2005 and before leaving I planned on one last "Fuck you all!" to my Intersections betrayers. I refrained because my mother and sister still attended. While I was away, serious shade was thrown in their direction as well. Baby Sis went on an Intense Camping Mission with Erica and Ernie, Erica 2, and a few other members of the youth ministry. Or should I say clinging to their youth ministry, since the only teens were Baby Sis and her not-Christian friend she brought along. The Erica's were vicious to them. Regina George had nothing on them. When she returned from the trip and told my mother all the shit they put her and her friend through (who BTW will never come to Jesus after that experience), my mother confronted Ernie about it. He made excuses for his wife and the other Erica, fell over his closeted self apologizing for their behavior, but he still allowed two grown-ass women who claim to be Christians to bully 14 year old girls. 

Upon my return to Sun City after the Air Force, I tried to rebuild my relationship with Fanny. She was dating Shawn because his wife Rachelle had left him for Amish Drummer Joe (great Christians right) but they all still attended Intersections. I thought maybe we could have a mature friendship but it was clear she wasn't interested in Tiffany the mother and wife when almost every conversation included her reminding me about how we used to go out and I was so wild. Can't party vicariously through someone who doesn't party anymore. And though I had grown-up from the girl that Intersections loved to pray for, she hadn't. Still going to the same church that never appreciated her musical talent, still kissing the Erica's collective asses, still making fun of Gulp, and yet prying me for any juicy details that might make her life a little better, a little more fun.

She'd always talk about the glory days of Intersection. It used to be so awesome, they could just come and be. There wasn't any drama, just kids loving Jesus and it was so powerful. It never felt like a real church with all these rules. But now Coral was talking about organization and tithes and being responsible. You know, shit the bible says you should do. It must have been hard for her to grasp the concept of change. Those teens came to Intersections. They graduated, went to college (okay, like 3 of them did), got married and had babies (though not always in that order), and with their change, the church changed. You can't have all night jam sessions while the babies sleep in the nursery. But Fanny didn't have those life changes so she had to cling to what Intersections used to be. 

With all the drinking and smoking they condoned, the cussing and the criminal activity that was discouraged but never corrected, I was shocked to find out their stance on homosexuality. You would have thought gay was okay, but Fanny explained to me that gay was a choice and we shouldn't support it. Shawn's sister Shana actually fought with me on FB about my pro-gay stance. She married a guy when she was 18 or 19 that everyone in the church hated. Even Coral couldn't stand him and his cult like family. They've got her locked up in a compound in New Mexico now (one girl, three men) and apparently, all she can do is rage on my FB. She deleted me and blocked me after going full-fledged psycho. Way to blow your witness. Shortly after, I deleted Fanny and Shawn from my FB when Fanny said that Hubby and I should meet her and Shawn for drinks. Like 2 minutes after her future sister-in-law lost her shit, I got the invite. Too shady for my liking. I imagined Shana waiting in the parking lot with a knife as I came out of the restaurant. No thank you.

I hear they expanded and have the storefront on the other side of the warehouse now. They've legitimized their "little back alley project." Coral still plays the part of the aloof/hippie pastor, Gulp still does worship. Ernie is still the youth pastor and his mean wife and her twin are still talking shit about everyone in site. Rachelle and Joe are now parents and married and Shawn was all but excommunicated from the church since you can forgive a cheater, as long as her ex-husband isn't around. Fanny is as wishy washy as ever, having bouts of Intersection devotion and hatred. The older people of the church, the ones who I actually enjoyed, have all moved on to other churches, choosing to have a significant relationship with God over regaining their youth. 

I remember telling Fanny that it would be so funny if I randomly showed up to church one Sunday morning with Hubby and Little Bug in tow just to see their faces and see how fake they would be to me. She said "You should! Rub how hot your hubby is in their faces and show off how cute and smart Little Bug is! Gulp would lose it! And Erica 1 and 2 would be so jealous." I laughed, but she was serious. Gay is bad, but doing that would be okay? I don't want that kind of shit in my life.

I still speak to a few Intersectioners, but they're people I had a connection with outside of Intersection or have since left the church. Some of them are just as jaded as me, some are the kindest people you will ever meet. They really do live a life of love and compassion, I would never lump them into the hypocritical Christian bunch. 

I guess my biggest beef with all of this should really lie with Coral. Wasn't this his flock to shepherd? Sure, we should be grateful that God forgives us, but we should also try to lead a life that doesn't require forgiveness in the first place. I don't miss the hellfire and brimstone sermons of my younger years, but I sure could have used some accountability. A lot of them could have. But I guess it's easier to be everyone's friend instead of moral compass.

I sound pretty bitter. I'm aware of that. Intersections isn't solely responsible for my disdain for organized religion, I'd say it's a 40-60 split with the churches of my youth. Those churches laid the groundwork but Intersections led to the total contamination of my soul. For those who love their church and live the life, good on ya, but I cannot ever go back to a church. I want no part of it. Not even the Methodists who love the gays, because I always have that fear that church politics and drama will be more important than God and his love.

Like the bumper sticker said, I've got nothing against God. It's his fan club I can't stand.

Back When I Was Four

Four is a magical age. Little Bug makes me realize this every day. She reminds me so much of my baby sister, it's scary. Singing and dancing to songs she made up, telling vivid stories about princesses, eating food at the slowest pace imaginable...I gave birth to my baby sister.

Speaking of Baby Sis, I am so proud of her. She was on the flag detail of the MLB All-Star game tonight. Her tiny little ass in her ABU's, holding an 1,100 lb flag like a boss. Little Bug was beyond excited as we tried to spot her on the field.

She is the biggest baseball fan that I know. Earlier this year she got to hold the flag for a Kansas City Royals game, but the All-Star game? I know how excited she is. Even as a National League fan, she geeked out and told me how close she was to Verlander, Napoli, and Hamilton. I told her that if she gets within touching range to show Buster Posey, Matt Cain, Melky Cabrera, and Pablo Sandoval how much I love them.

We've been texting back and forth as I watch from home and she watches from the stands. If I wasn't so excited and proud of her, I'd be HELLA jealous.

It cracks me up that she loves a sport so much. This is the same girl that picked dandelions and camped out in the center of the soccer field at Little Bug's age. We'd yell for her to run after the ball and she would run the opposite direction because she probably spotted a butterfly. Elementary school and middle school she was sportless. In high school, she went out for the softball team on a whim and though I wasn't their to witness it, I'm told she was terrible. She didn't stay that way for long. She put her nose to the grindstone and within a year was on the varsity team.

It was also around this time she turned her new found love of the game into making herself a stats machine! She (as do I) loves her some San Francisco Giants but ask her anything about baseball and I am confident she will have the right answer. One day she aspires to marry Tim Lincecum and I'm okay with this, as long as she gets me Brian Wilson's number.

I know this isn't my usual Tuesday, but I have to brag on that little Bat Girl. Bat girl because as a child she was obsessed with Bat Boy (of national enquirer fame), not because she's obsessed with baseball. Anyway, here are some of her pics from the game. Be jealous and proud with me.

Lucky little Airmen (of the quarter btw)

She was the first on the field at the bottom left corner.

I am green with envy!

And she got a ticket to Fan Fest! Very happy MLB is good to our service members!

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.