Well, Looky There!

How about that! I just logged into my gmail to see my li'l blog in the 'top recommendations' panel of my reader-thingy. Thought process follows...


Top Recs? I rule!


*clickity-click*


Ah, I see... 'Recommendations for new feeds are generated by comparing your interests with the feeds of users similar to you.' Probably means only I saw the false new-found indicator of my future fame and fortune, huh.


I don't rule, after all.


Holy crap! 74 subscribers?


I rule again!

Note To Self: Follow Instructions

When calling in to Mark's show, the recorded message instructs the caller to press '1' to notify the host that he has a caller on-hold. It might've continued by reciting that the host would be notified anyways, but I took that moment to take a sip of my drink... and decided to just listen on my phone for a bit. Riiiiight about the time when my thought was solidifying about the how to of spreading knowledge and the previous glassy-eyed looks I'd received from some family when it came to talks of ditty-boppin' to San Antonio, or the Valle-


"...a caller from the 512 area code, hello? Hello?"

Nuts. Am I on?


All in all, good show, from all. Plenty o' food for thought when it comes to planning, from starting small, not getting carried away, 'insurance', thumb-drive info, generic posted info, and the like. Good stuff.

Sweet, Sweet, Merciful Death...

... take me now.

Just follow the trail of crumpled tissues, pitiful moans, and gurgled hacks up the stairs to the couch. You might not be able to actually see me, what with the additional tissues, 'medicinal' bottles, lozenge wrappers, blankies, and whatnot, but I'm really here, lying on the couch waiting for your touch.


blergh.


Edit to add:

Bwaha *hack-coff-whimper-hack* haha...

Bah. Hum. Bug.

A couple of years back My Love and I bought our first house. That is a number of stories in and of itself, but I'll skip forward a bit to the point of this post. What comes after purchasing a house?

You get to put stuff in it.

Now, I'm a guy [last time I checked] so, in typical guy fashion, I'm not really too big on interior decor.

Shocker, I know.

That's not to say that I don't appreciate having stuff, I really do. Lemme put it this way; in my previous - [insert marriage-mandatory descriptions of; cold, lonely, miserable, solitary existence, without the benefit of the guiding light of my life, without whom I would continue to be a miserable excuse for a wretched human being] - bachelor life, for a short while I kept my clothes in a bag and slept on the floor of my apartment. So I appreciate having nice stuff, it's just that right now we already have stuff, it's the spending money on upgrades that I'm not exactly crazy about.

It was a battle, of sorts, and I appreciate her letting me think that I ultimately had any choice in the matter.

Said battle was on the spending of money. We'd already paid off everything but the mortgage, and had a bit of cash saved up. I was all for continuing to save, or perhaps spending it on truly worthwhile stuff like guns, ammo, big-screen tvs, fancy cigars, a bar, and perhaps a motorcycle or three. She wanted to buy nice furniture to replace the second hand stuff we'd used in our previous apartment/hovel.

So off we went, furniture shopping.

She did the research, I did the sulking and pining away for Daddy's oft-delayed toy collection, and eventually 'we' decided that 'we' had found exactly what 'we' always wanted for 'our' house and 'our' bedroom set. We walked into the local Furniture Store to pretty much get a last minute eyeball of the bedroom set and to start making the purchase.

Saleslady was good to go as far as they go, friendly and nice. My Love knew what 'we' wanted, but she had spared me on exactly what the price was. I had only just come-to after hearing the sticker price when some bastard explained to me that the number wasn't even for the whole set, just for the one fancy hoo-ya that you put a tv and blankets in. Some fancy-frenchy sounding name, and it didn't even come with a frisky-Frenchy, to ease (my) financial pain.

At the price, I thought it really should.

So we gave the lady our cash, she took down our info, and we were all set. She did kind of push hard for us to purchase the entire set (yeah, right!), but we explained to her that we'd be paying cash, not credit- no thanks, don't want to finance through the store, thanks - yeah, we understand that the set could go out of production (pleasepleaseplease, baby Jesus!) - just this one piece, for now, thanks. I didn't really begrudge her for the push, just her job, after all.

That whole process went ok. We got the delivery confirmation call a few days later, moving guys brought it in, dragged it upstairs, set it up and everything. It really does look good, and I'm sure we'll have it for the foreseeable future.

A few months later I decided to order the li'l tables you put on either side of the bed, for her birthday. I had scrounged up a bit more cash, took another long, depressed look at my various catalogues, and sulked my way back to the store. Same lady was there, and we did the dirty deed. Not as pricey as the first time, but it was still grimace-worthy.

Now, blame it on the mortars, IEDs, or what-have-you, but I hear (ha!) that the volume on my phone is a bit on the loud side. It works for me, so that the level I keep it at. I was having a grand old time tormenting My Love with false clues as to what she was going to get for her birthday one afternoon, sitting in the living room chatting, when my phone rang. Loud enough for apparently the entire neighborhood to hear, as she tells it, the lady from the furniture store yammered on about the delivery confirmation for our new bed-side tables. Mystery was kaput, after that, but she still loved the heck outta the things.


It was awhile back when I landed on the idea of what to get her for her Christmas gift. This was going to be the truly bend-right-over-and-take-it-in-the-wallet-pillaging item, so I knew that she didn't expect it at all. I had scrimped and saved like I usually do, mournfully drove right past the local gun store to the evil furniture nemesis shop of my doom. Quite surprisingly, they were again more than happy to take my money.

mumblegrumblemumble.

Well, I got the delivery-confirmation call yesterday afternoon from the store.


I was napping at the time.


Industrious lady / recent arrival to My List (and brand new top 10 member), after not getting ahold of me, looked into the store's records. Searching way back to the original purchase, she located another contact number for us.


It was My Love's cell phone number.


Bah!

WTH?

From yesterday's post,

...due to our geographical location, the concept of snowy fields was negotiable...

Yesterday's high temperature here in Central Texas was 81 degrees, as some reported.


It snowed last night and this morning.


I'm still waiting for the word that Texas has been closed for the day...


Go ahead, marvel at my power.

An Age Old Question & Finding Perfection

Well, maybe not age old, but fairly well debated, nowadays.


Real vs Fake: what do you prefer?


Just about everyone has their preferences, of course, and most will let you know about 'em.


'Real ones tend to sag, droop, and look a bit lifeless after time, whereas falsies stay perky forever.'

'I want mine as nature intended / Fake ones just feel weird.'

'My man paid for it.'

'Real, fake, whatever.'

'It's not what's above, it's what's below that counts!'

Was that last one a bit much?


Interestingly enough, most women that I know have very strong opinions about sticking au natural- see, Christmas just wouldn't be the same, otherwise.


What?


I'm talking about Christmas trees, you pervs!


So anyways, My Love and I a few years back had The Big Christmas Tree Debate. I didn't really have strong opinions either way, but my folks always had a fake tree, and we did all right. Fake trees might cost a bit more, tree for tree, but I was kind of keen on the reusability factor. No muss, no fuss, just toss that bad boy down from the attic, set it up, and voila! - time to decorate everything else risking life and limb on the rooftops..., and risking life and 'limb' when you find out that her treasured childhood stuffed animal collection is NOT to be staged in an erotic fashion.


Anywhere.


And especially not on top of the Christmas Tree, mantle, dining table, or guest beds when family is expected. (In my defense, I didn't know they'd be there that early, honest!)


Back to the story and quite naturally, my opinions were duly pondered (for about this ][ long) , and rejected. See, My Lovely had always had a Real Live (sort of) tree for Christmas, growing up (her, not the newly hewn sacrifice to the Christmas Spirit). She had visions of us searching pristine and well ordered fields for The Perfect Tree. As I came to understand it, due to our geographical location, the concept of snowy fields was negotiable. Excess Christmas Crack pulsing through her veins was not. Bah.


Interestingly enough, after much excruciating searching of the area, we found that in our area of the great state of Texas, these idyllic fields of Christmas Trees are all located at the local Home Depot, outdoor area.


I was only slightly enthused by the fact that there appeared to be an overeager young kid to assist us with our purchase. I'll give the guy credit, he was crawling all over the place, searching amongst the stacked and bound offerings to find 'that perfect one'. Finally, she was satisfied and I was only slightly homi/sui-cidal from the temps (low), time (long), and nearby shoppers (annoying).


He offered to help strap the tree down for us.


It was at this time that I remembered a few smaller items that I was meaning to get (read: stuff she told me to fix around the house but I just remembered about). So I tossed her the keys, reminded/mumbled to her about her previous marching orders, and off I went. I returned to the car just as the kid was slapping his hands of the roughly 20 lbs of needles produced/min that our tree gave off and tightening the last knots of the cords that held the tree strapped to the car's roof.


She was all smiles. I, for about the first time that evening, was also sporting a grin. Immediately noticing the change in my countenance, she was probably suspecting a psychotic break and asked me what was wrong. "Oh, nothing, my love. Let's just get in the car and go home, m'kay?"


I let her tug on the door handle a couple of times before I pointed out that the cords, while excellently tied, very effectively secured all four doors shut. I suggested that we enter the car Dukes style, but that idea got shot down as well.


Not that big of a deal, we got the tree tied down correctly (I was just happy to find that I wouldn't have to drive w/one hand out the window, holding that sucker down while cruising down the highway). Off we went.


Back at the house, I expeditiously removed the tree from the car's roof (cut the cord with my knife and heaved ho, ho, ho-ed), dumping another 50 lbs or so on the yard, quite conveniently covering up at least two of the dead-grass brown spots. I managed to drag that sucker up the short walkway, up the steps, and into the house, losing ever more needles (I figured I'd turn the naked half of the tree to the corner of the room). It only took about two tries before we realized that our tree was too tall for our living room, by the roughly 6 in skid-looking marks on the ceiling that faintly exist to this day. Awesome.

Finally, the tree was trimmed, somewhat still nettled, propped up and decorated. Yay, 'cause after you get the tree up, yer done preppin' for Christmas, right?


Riiiiight.


I did have fun positioning those stuffed animals, though... I always do.

I Can Be Such A Li'l Stinker

Seems like it's always those sporty-type cars that're riding my bumper like I'm a big booty gal shakin' what my momma gave me (Hay-ay!)... Well, a few days back I was driving down the road, minding my own business, when I had one of those right on my ass....


I was minding my own business, be-boppin' to the surely-to-be classic, 'I Kissed A Girl' (Man, that song never gets old, just as good the millionth time as the first!). I looked in the rear view mirror to see this car come speeding up right behind me. Something red, pretty asspensive, and very shiny. The driver, Miss Sweet Thang, was applying her make-up while talking on the phone.

Don't ask me what she was steering with, I'd be afraid to realize it was her penis...

What? She... (?) was a good lookin' chica!

So anyways, she's on my butt *snicker*, in the right lane, at the speed limit. I figure she's in a hurry to make the next exit ramp.

Nope. Not that one, at least.

She stays on my ass, close enough that I can't see her headlights, for two more exits.

I glance around at the sparsley occupied lanes to my left. I look around at my 10 yr+ old car, back at her shiny and new, clean car.

Hmm, her clean...

My windshield sure is dirty, must've been all that driving on those dirt roads...

*squirt, squirt*



I LOLed.

Somedays, It's Just Better To Stay In Bed

Oy.

Why did I run those stairs again...?


Went to the range this morning, and I'm on the verge of declaring it a 'learning experience'.


Started out as I usually do, dry-fire from the holster, low & high ready, everything feeling good. COLD, but gun-wise good.

Got my ears on, called range hot, and started firing a few practice relays. The dummy rounds I put into my mags kept me honest, for the most part.


I quickly found out that my jacket is too 'poofy'.

Why yes, that is a technical phrase.

I found that as I would draw from the holster (right-handed), I've a tendency to flare my right thumb in anticipation to lay it on top of my left thumb. In warm weather this is no problem, but with the above mentioned poofy jacket, there were a couple of times when my left hand would rise up to support... not a damn thing, as my right hand's thumb was caught up in the right pocket of my jacket. Whoops.


Empty the mags, ready to shoot for score. Doin' the ICE qualification, feeling like ice, this morning...

First round, at 3 ft from target, bent-elbow shooting, from the holster.

Slow is smooth, smooth is fast...

"Shooters ready?... The Shooters are ready.."

There's the target... draw... *Boom!* scan... tuck & re-holster... target turns again... draw & crap,snaggedonthefriggin'pocket-therewego,extendand... *click* whatthe-taprack*Boom!*... *click* sonofamother-taprack *Boom*!


... and it went pretty much downhill from there. I took a moment to clear and break down the weapon, nothing major out of place, slide-release worked fine, nothing blatantly out of whack. I suspected I was limp-wristing it, but was leaning more towards blaming the gun, the weather, the sun in my eyes... or heck, global warming.

I am, after all, a self-declared master combat super tactical expert pistol sniper...


For the record, I must've shot two bullets perfectly into one hole at the 15 yd line- uh, again. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.


At least I can say that I got some great immediate-action drill practice in this morning. Darn near from every shooting line, to boot.


Transitioning from standing to kneeling was fun, lemme tell 'ya. Nothing like slamming yer knee onto a frozen rock while trying to not whimper from running those stairs the other day like I was friggin' Rocky, or something.

25 yards, shooting from cover... two standing shots, two kneeling (greeeaat), reload and prep for shooting on the other side of the cover, again two standing, two kneeling...

"Shooters ready? The Shooters are ready, standby...

The targets turned, my draw was good, extension was ok, first four shots were fine. Kneeling down again *groan*, I took my first shot from the kneeling on the left side of the barricade. I was so dialed in on the front sight post that barely registered the gun-light flying off the frame.

Figures... heck, I should be happy it's only happened once!


End result? Pretty good (considering), but not great. Heck, a bad day at the range is still a good day, right?


Naturally, runing through the course of fire again and for the heck of it resulted in no problems. None, zip, zero, nada.

Been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I thought I'd take a moment to let y'all know what kind of stuff goes running through my 'mind' the past few days.



What a difference a year makes...


Remember the '15 min prior' rule? That's the one that runs along the line of a Battalion Commanding Officer talking to his Executive Officer. He tells his XO that he wants to hold a formation at 1800. The word travels down the chain of command, from Officer to Occifer, Senior Staff NCOs to Staff, around and about to everyone that has something to say about it. By the time it gets down to my level, I'm standing tall in formation with my guys at 0745 that morning, wondering why the Battalion formation is running late...

Preparing for large family gatherings around say... Thanksgiving, for example - is kind of like that. Timelines are more of general suggestions and/or loosely held guidelines, especially with select members of the family.

Know what isn't a general suggestion?

Heh.

One of the only things that's more fun than the 15 min. prior rule is the to-my-knowledge unnamed rule that deals with visits by a General. Before a General arrives, you better believe there is a massive 15 minute rule applied, but even more so than that is the advanced preparation. The guy could be planning to not even go anywhere near your shop/office/barracks/heads/whatever - but the cleanup... *Oy, vey!* Floors will be buffed to panty-viewing perfection, weapons will be lick-dried if necessary, and grass will be cut, by hand and by individual grass blade, if possible. All this and the Man is only going to visit the other side of the base... again. Yeah, we kind of had that goin' on this weekend. I almost expected My Love to tell me that she wanted the Virgin Mary herself to be proud to come over to take a- well, you know.


The next time I tell myself that I'm gonna go on a good run on Thanksgiving morning and not eat so much that night... I'm actually going to do it... hopefully. I'm lucky if I can get up enough steam for a good waddle, right now.

On a related note, in my life I've gathered up quite a few skills that, while not necessary enjoyable, in the moment make life a bit easier. Lamaze breathing and relaxation techniques on the throne is a good example of one of those skills.


I figure I've still got a few days before I get tired of turkey sandwiches, turkey pot pies, turkey stew, turkey a la mode, turkey jerky, turkey subs, fried turkey, turkey gravy, turkey jello, etc, etc, and etc...


Eric, I have no idea who you are, but you're on my list, buddy, and it ain't my Christmas list...


I love watching some good football games on a full belly - but I try to avoid thinking too much about it. If I did, I'd get pissed all over again about the way things are run and the way that certain players act. When I become king of the word I'm going to institute a single elimination tournament system. To make it interesting, elimination will be done with axes. Should make for some good times.

Speaking of interesting times, what the heck is going on with the players (again)? If I was making that kind of money to play a game, the only time I'd leave the house would be to do charity work, feed the homeless, and help the nuns at the orphanages. Sheesh.

What the heck was he thinking?

So a buddy and I were talking about the current political situation and related news about a week back.

Inevitably, the conversation turned to our President-elect.

He's a wee bit more pro-O. than I, but neither of us begrudge the other for our differing views, too much, at least...

I was kind of surprised when, after about 10 minutes or so he made a comment in the vein of, "...it doesn't really matter how much I like to see the first Black President, 'cause someone's bound to try and take the brotha down n' out, ya know?"


[scratching record sound here]


"Really, you think so?"

He answered in the affirmative.

I might be pessimistic in some ways, but I'm not nearly that pessimistic..

I tried countering that by emphasizing the value of the Secret Service. I spoke about the group as being for the most part well trained, thoroughly vetted, highly motivated and dedicated outfit true to their mission. I told him that with their level of training, standard OCD level of anxiety in every aspect of what they do- hell, it'd almost be worth it (in an academic training sense) to see some turd begin to try something. Of course anything can happen at any time, but I'd be willing to wager that there's a fairly good chance that they'd perform exceedingly well, succeeding at their mission, letting nothing get in their way of accomplishing their tasks, no disctractions whatsoever, driving straight on through...

*sigh*


Figures....

Down Time, Clips, and a Doh!

I was cruising through the MC Times the other day, when I read this.

Pretty nifty, huh.

Especially nice when they talk about service members and loved ones being able to communicate about babies first steps, birthday parties, and the like.

Obviously, this memory isn't about such wholesome and family friendly things. Heck no, this one's about what they don't allow on the family friendly channel...

I might've mentioned before that some of the guys would take digital video and pictures out on patrol. I don't remember this ever being something that was officially sanctioned, but the fact was that it was eventually commonly accepted as part of the information gathering process. For the most part, all knew when it was appropriate to have a camera out and when it wasn't. Also, it was much, much easier to pass over a memory card at the debrief rather than try to describe familiar tattoos on bodies or suspicious drawings and arabic writings. We'd much rather take personally owned equipment rather than take what would have been the military issued, gen 1, 25 pound, rarely functioning, often assed-up, Camera: Picture, Polaroid, 1.

Heh, '... for the most part...'

I remember one stop we made to the guys up north. If I remember correctly, we were delivering misdirected mail and dropping off a repaired hummer. We pulled into the staging area, got all the vehicles topped off, and I sent the guys to grab some chow while I checked in with the CO. After a fairly uneventful debrief and a little chewing of the fat with some of the staff, I grabbed a bite and wandered the area looking for some buddies I hadn't seen in awhile. I poked my head into one of the squad rooms.

"Hey, anybody know where y'alls squad leader is?"

Their eyes were rooted to the tv show they were watching. One guy pointed vaguely 'upstairs', another grunted something sounding like 'farther back down this hallway', and one guy farted.

Good times.

As it turned out, they weren't really watching a tv show, but an episode of Combat's Funniest Videos. Not familiar with that program? Lemme 'splain...

When I mentioned that most guys knew when to have the camera in their hands and when to have a rifle, well, that was correct. See, after all the hoopla has passed is the time to bust out the cameras for the record. Angles of approach, maps, id, uniforms, weapons, vehicles, anything and everything that can possibly help the intel weenies should be noted, and in detail. When the enemy is attacking well, let's just say not the best time to record, unless...

Apparently one of the guys in the squad I visited had hit on an idea. He had a fairly lightweight camera and a number of spare batteries. He was a Lance Corporal, so he managed to 'acquire' an extra helmet cover and a bunch of zip ties. He trimmed some helmet cover material with his bayonet and used his sewing kit to fashion cammo covers for his camera. He then affixed his camera to his helmet. Other than taking a little extra care getting into and out of his vehicle, he was good to go. No hands necessary after pushing the record button.

What resulted was a little bit documentary, a bit of COPS, and a whole lotta funny.

There was a passable Aussie accent when recording a pair of mutts going at it, some shaky footage of a Marine taking a deuce, and a short while later, the ambush. It was pretty standard as far as ambushes went back then, a bunch of amateurs with beat-to-hell weapons and questionable tactics, but his voice during the attack was what made it memorable. While narrating the video, he was grinning and chuckling as well and trying to explain his thoughts during his hasty nose dive out of the vehicle (not tripped, 'hasty vehicular dismount'). His running commentary of, 'ohshitohshitohshitohshit' as he ran to a building (talking to himself whilst trying to keep attempting to gain personnel accountability, not freaking out), and his high-pitched "Aiiiieeee" was a rallying cry/way cry (and most definitely NOT a 9-year old girl shriek).

It was a 9 year-old little girl shriek - trust me, I kno... - er, I'm pretty sure...

Hey! Who's laughing in the Back? Rambo? Well, ok then... the rest of y'all, tell me how you do the first time downrange!



Anyways, fast forwarding to a half-dozen months in the future, and I was sitting in my parents living room, my assorted bags scattered around, and my mom's toy poodle humping my leg.

Ah, the good old days...

Dad was really keen on getting ahold of all of the pictures and clips that I had collected on my all expenses paid trip to fun in the sun for his collection and for distribution to family. I don't think I had yet confessed that the one collection of pictures I had sent of a hummer hit in an IED attack was actually my hummer, but it was coming, I'm sure. Anyways, we were both on the couch, his laptop on his lap, and mine on mine. I was pulling discs from the pouch, inserting them into my laptop, getting a rough idea what was on it, and handing it over to him for copying. My part of the process was quicker than his, so he had a nice pile of discs waiting to be copied. He still noted when I subtly slipped a few discs back into the pouch. "What're those discs?" "What discs?" "The ones you just put back." "Oh, those. Those're nothing, just some ah,... recreational stuff." "Recrea... sure...."

Eventually, I got kind of lazy and began relying on the label details of what was on one of the discs. During the deployment I had eventually gotten detailed about what was on the discs, dates, names, and all of that. The last two discs weren't actually even anything I had taken, but some discs that other Battalions had handed out. Our Battalion had approached the end of our tour at the same time as some others, and during the inevitable down time that always happened back in the rear, we managed to trade a number of discs back and forth. Gave each other a rough idea of what else was going on in the greater AO while we were each in town.

I asked Dad if he wanted 'em, he said 'sure', and I handed 'em over.

It was only a couple of hours later that I remembered what one of those discs contained. The Battalion Disc in question had compiled a bunch of video sources together on one disc, voted on by popularity by its Marines. There were the standard combat ops, down time funny stuff, and some miscellaneous stuff towards the end. There was no question in why one clip at the end was hugely popular; apparently, one lonely soldier (female type) had decided to make a clip of herself... er, dancing around to Marvin Gaye's 'Lets Get It On', I seem to remember. I guess it was pretty warm in the can, 'cause she was pretty scantily clad at the end of the clip, you could say.

Very nice.

Wonder if Dad ever got that far in the disc...?

Ah Yes...

The day has come again when I spend half of the day setting the clocks in my cars' radios, stove, micro, clocks, alarms, watches... and the other half trying to set the VCR (yup, still got one). I usually spend the whole day looking at the time and thinking, 'what time is - oh... hold on, did I set that one, yet?'


What always makes it interesting (aside from periodically discovering various time pieces throughout the next few days n' weeks and the inevitable one in April or May), is finally figuring out that I've reset the time on a few items that have already automatically switched over... again, and that I've set a few clocks twice.


A small price to pay, all in all, for the extra hour of sleep.


That other one, that cold & mean bastard who steals an hour? Well, that's just cruel.

I got one of those letters the other day, letting me know that I was now eligible for a new phone.

Shoot, I'm still getting used to this last one.

I've had exactly four cell phones, kinda sorta. My first phone lasted about two months before going kaput, got it swapped out for another of the same model. I had that phone for about... forever, long enough that I don't remember exactly when I got it, just that it was sometime around '98 or '99. Still have it, and it still works. Looks good too, on account of there's the equivalent of about three years that it wasn't used, packed up in storage or at my folks' house while I was away on deployments.

Heh, I remember when I discovered that it had texting capabilities a couple of years back, when I got a wrong number 'booty text'.

ME: Sweet! Booty text!

ME: Holy crap, this thing has text!

CRICKETS: *sigh*

ME (typing): s-u-r-e... i... b-r-i-n-g... k-y... y-o-u... b-r-i-n-g... w-a-i-t... u-r-e... n-o-t... a... d-u-d-e... ?

Never did get a response, guess it wasn't meant to be...


Anyways, I got a wild hair a couple of years back and got a new phone. One of those fancy ones, with a camera, music ringy thingies, games, and all kinds of stuff. That one lasted about a month before it disappeared.

So, after a short debate about just going back to old faithful, I wound up with another fancy new phone. This phone (the one I'm currently using) has most of the new stuff that comes with phones nowadays, but I realized the other day that about the only thing that I use it for besides calling (gasp!), is keeping a list of Stuff I Gotta Do.

I'm a big fan of lists.

Pretty sure this started in school, writing lists of everything, and it was something that carried over to the Corps. I have my own system, separating things that I have to do, stuff I have to buy, items of interest, and the like. With notes, you don't have to try to remember every little detail, just jot it down and there ya go. I used to have a bunch of note cards, and just grab one as the old one got all items crossed off, or disappeared.

I was always losing those darn things.

I was afraid to keep 'em in my wallet, because with my luck, I'd lose my wallet and all of my personal crap in it. Besides, I had a ton of cards, and if it was important enough to remember, it'd eventually make it back onto another list. That's not to say that it'd get done pronto, just that it had a better chance than before. I was likewise a little leery of putting my lists on a phone, but I figured I had that thing with me even more than my wallet, so mebbe I had a better chance of holding onto it.

As an example, one of those things recently was Find The Holster.

During the work-up to Iraq, I went out and bought my own high-speed low-drag Hollywood-sexy thigh holster. I knew that any crap we'd get issued would be just that -crap- and once I got the impression that higher wouldn't have too many objections to us getting our own stuff as long as it fit some regs, I went ahead and picked one up before they could change their minds. Naturally, as it turned out, there weren't enough m9s to go around, and once I issued them out to guys who needed 'em more than me, I read the writing on the wall and realized that I wasn't even going to get one (sad face), I gave one of my guys the holster to use in Iraq. He remembered to give it back at the end of the deployment, only somewhat worse for the wear, and that was about the last time I saw it, stuffing it down to the bottom of my seabag.

So, down in the garage in my storage space / pile o' military crap, there lies my old seabag. Standing it up and opening the flaps was a trip through memory lane. A faint whiff of stale man stanck, left over Iraqi dust, some uniform items that I doubt I'll ever fit into again, and assorted odds and ends. There was a nifty little map case with a bunch of pockets that I'd long ago forgot about, one of which included a list card. One side had a bunch of Marines' names and where they needed to go (medical, dental, admin, etc), schedules for issued gear turn in, flight schedules, and what looked suspiciously like a list of bars and strip clubs (ah, good times). Flipping it over, I looked at the other side to view my personal list of stuff to buy or do, and had a good chuckle.





ITEM 1 - FIND OLD LIST(S).

ITEM 2 - DON'T LOSE THIS LIST, DUMB-ASS!!!


whoops.

Humps, Tender Tootsies, and Comfort Is King

I've tried to explain my love/hate/hate relationships with humps to some friends and family, with varying success.

'What's the big deal?', some think, 'it's just walking around with a pack... kinda like hiking, or something'.

Or something...

I try to explain it by suggesting they find someone roughly 1/2 of their own body weight. Have that person hop on your back, or boost them up so they can kneel on your shoulders. They are now your pack. Have them hang so that they inflict maximum pain and discontent on your lower back, upper back, baby got back, neck, everywhere else, and generally make life as miserable as possible. Go out and find some hills - now 'hike' for say, 10 miles. For added fun, break out into a run every once in a while. Bonus points for having your friend talk trash about how fat and nasty you are throughout the hump- er, sorry - 'hike'.

That's more-or-less the level of fun in boot camp. In your unit, it gets even more fun, due to the added weight from ammo (rifle and mortar), crew-served weapons components, bodily dragging the snivelers, etc.

Early on in my Corps life, humps weren't too bad. As I both aged and gained a bit of rank, I found that they sucked more, but I still didn't have any issues keeping up (physically, that is. Mentally, sometimes I felt like a whiny little turd). Even when I was away from the guys so as to attend a school/class (and therefore missing some of the shorter humps in the interim), when I would rejoin the unit, well, it sucked quite a bit but I still got through it. Getting notice that one memorable welcome back to the platoon involved SAPI plates and full combat load in addition to the regular gear was a bit of a gut check, I admit...

One thing that always helped me out was foot care.

This is a pretty big deal in training, and even more so deployed. As a Pfc, I would take note of boot brands that worked, and those that didn't. Foot powder always. I would always pack additional pairs of clean socks and change socks every time that an opportunity presented itself. I would roll the tops of my boot socks, as to avoid them slipping down and bunching up in the boots (don't care how it looks, if it's comfy and works, I'll do it).

Might want to make a note of that last sentence...

Another thing about picking up rank, is the fact that it's just a given that you take care of your Marines. Like I've mentioned before, while mission accomplishment is always first, troop welfare is always a close second. During breaks (both for rest and of bodies), the Corpsmen, many of the Staff NCOs, and Officers are all constantly on their feet, checking on their Marines. This pretty much mandated to me that as a Sergeant, I would also be on my feet, from start to finish of the hump. Every hump. There was always canteens to fill, feet to inspect, and stragglers to be threatened (with the infamous 'silver-bullet') during the breaks, so there was progressively less and less time to take care of my own footsies. Take a wild guess as to what started next...

I started getting some nasty foot issues.

Never really had any problems with blisters before I picked up Corporal, but afterwards -man!- I started getting some doozies. We're talking blisters that leaked (not dripped) when I couldn't take it anymore and popped 'em, blood-filled blisters that covered a fist-sized space on the bottoms of (both) my feet, and boots that eventually conformed to the shape of my blistered feet to the point where I couldn't even wear flip-flops to the shower, I had to put back on those stanky-assed boots.

Good training, huh.

After one particularly hellacious hump, I had some extra time to spend with Lovely. Upon seeing me hobble through the front door, she suggested some treatment for my tender tootsies. I gingerly took off my boots, peeled off my what-was-shortly-before-new, clean-socks, and whistled. My feet were... grody.

A brief word, re: my Lovely.

Lovely Love has a foot fetish like you wouldn't believe.

Hold on, that didn't sound right...

My Love looooves her some foot massages. Loves 'em. If you offered her a choice between a foot rub and chocolate-covered strawberries dipped in wine, sprinkled with crack and served on a tight-bodied cabana boy named Raul (¡Ole!), -let's be honest, here- she might think about it, but she'd choose the foot rub, every time.

If 'Raul' ever figured out how to do foot rubs, I'm totally screwed...

Lovely has all kinds of foot-oriented stuff. Lotions, oils, comfy footwear, foot-care tools, nail paints, the list o' crap goes on about as long as everything else does re: the ladies. Allow me a moment to grab some sack and thank every deity known and imagined for making me a dude... Ok, good.

One look at what passed for my feet convinced her that this was a moment for her portable Orgasmo-Ped 3000. This contraption was a sort of small tub that you filled with water, plugged in and apparently were immediately whisked off to the heights of... somewhere. The fact that she allowed me to use her nearly-most prized possession should indicate either that she really loved me or that she still had her uses for me - possibly even both.

So I sat down on the couch and stuck my feet in the thing. She filled it with hot water, flipped the switch, and I watched as the water started... buzzing(?) bubbling (?). The ridges on the bottom felt ok, I guess. It was relaxing, but I couldn't help but feel kind of guilty at the fact that apparently it didn't do nearly as much for me as it did for her.

Eventually, she got up and went to go grab some towels for when my feet were done. When she placed the towels on the armrests, she asked if perhaps I wanted a sandwich or something.

I love this woman.

We continued our conversation while she made herself busy in the kitchen and I dried and inspected my feet. Looked kinda shriveled, felt a bit better than before, probably just needed some additional airing out and they'd be fine. I shuffled over to the kitchen to wash my hands and for some strange reason she started to laugh at me!

See, as I was sitting on the couch, just after I finished drying off my feet, I noticed a pair of old slippers.

They were comfy. I wore them. The thought process was completely natural to me.

The fact that they were a pretty yellow color and had little duckies on them had no significance to me.

They were comfy.

If I Ruled The World...

I had a thought, recently.


Don't act too surprised, reader(s), they happen on occasion.

What we really need, when it comes to politics, politicians, and most people in general, is something like this.

Work with me here...

I propose that any time a politician lies, fudges the facts, makes dumb remarks, distorts figures, avoids the question etc etc ad friggin' nauseum, he, she, and/or it should get a good n' solid jolt - you know, to help them get back on track. They're always all miked up anyways, adding a coupla extra wires wouldn't be terribly complicated, and I'm sure there'd be plenty of volunteers to help with the equipment and administration.

Just imagine,

"Ah did not have sex with- *crrackcrrackcrrackcrrack!* ...Ungh!"

For more current events, I think it might be a good idea to institute a 'Zap List', or that is to say a list of words, suggestions, or situations in which the Taser of Doom would be wielded with gleeful abandon. I propose the following;


Any mention of;

Clinton(s)

Universal... anything.

Bail out.

"The One".


Any time;

Senator Biden opens his mouth (preemptive measure).

A musician, actor, or TV hosts spews their views ($$$, fake boobies, and inflated ego are no protection from my Taser of Doom...).

A politician answers a yes or no question with anything other than... wait for it... 'Yes' or 'No' (Friggin' amazing concept, that one...).

A politician opens his cake hole without sufficient knowledge of the question (Muahahaha....)

A politician makes dumb jokes (bombing other nations, shooting at other candidates, corner stores with funny accented folk, etc).


Any news updates showing (jolt for the news 'journalists' and all hands in the clip);

Whenever Obama fans cry and/or show their 'O face'.

Creepy Obama's-gonna-save-the-world music.

Fashion critiques on friggin' shoes. Shoes.


To be fair, I might consider credit on future taser avoidance as a result of someone being honest for once [chuckle]. Hell I'd declare a temporary (3o minutes, say) moratorium for anyone that might actually say, 'You know, I don't know, but I'll find out'.


Thoughts or suggestions are nice, but 'tase yourself' probably won't be taken into consideration...

I Just Killed The Internet...

*Whew*

False alarm, folks. Also, I just figured out this whole 'screen shot' thing, so yay me. I tell ya, every day on the 'net is an adventure when you have the computeristical saavy like I do.


[no ninjas or googles were harmed in the creation of this blog post]

Palm, meet Forehead; Forehead, Palm.

Ahahaha...

Looks like Jay G. decided to post a bit o' public mea culpa. Seems like the ole goober's been reading this li'l blog for awhile with not so much as a link... on... his... blogro-


*ring, ring...* [clue phone]

"Hello? Oh, it's for me!"

*smack!*


Hey everybody, guess what time it is?

Yup, blog love time!

MArooned is the cleverly titled blog of the above named author. Dad, gun-nut, biker, owner of what is possibly the best crazy-face with a shotty at the range that'll I'll ever see, and all around Masshole of the highest caliber (ha!). I've likewise been reading his blog for quite some time. 'Wicked Pissah' blog, Jay.


With a casual glance over at my feeder and blogroll, I note that I'm obviously not only in that particular same boat, but I'm the friggin' designer, captain, and ship's monkey. More blogs to be updated soon...

Gonna run run run...

The running post a ways back was inspired largely due to the fact that I'm trying to get back into running shape. Only slightly more accurate of a thing to say would be that I'm trying to get back into some sort of shape other than what I am right now. I'm not wheezing from climbing a set of stairs or from a couple of 12 oz curls, but I've notice quite a bit of decline in my conditioning since I've gotten out.

Shocker, I know.

Not trying to set any records here, and I'm being careful to not set any impossible goals (can you tell I've done this before?).


A brief snippet of what runs around in my mind nowadays when out for my PT run.


Ok, here we go, easy little run... how did it go? 'Forward at a double time!' Pffft...

Allrighty, not so bad... keepin' it slow and easy... well, slow, anyways.

Damn, shins are starting to hurt, wonder if I should change out my 'go fasters'. The shoes are only...oh hell, 5 years old. Yeah, I should probably put that on my 'crap to do' list, volume 1, section 2, chapter 3, page 12.

Damn that sun is awfully shiny today.

Geez, this sucks more than I remembered. Must've gone a couple of miles by now... hmmm, how long've I been running? Crap, 5 minutes. Definitely not a couple of miles.

Ugh, just got passed by Timmy... on his tricycle.

Stupid kid... with his stupid lacrosse? stick... running (at a friggin' sprint) in his stupid h.s. jersey.

Urf, think that was breakfast threatening to make a re-appearance.

Ooh look, shiny!

Dang, those shorts on that lady are pretty... uh, short.

Note to self: no need to run faster when other folks are running by, no matter what they happen to be wearing... *urp!*

Little Known Greek Mythology

It seems that I might have possibly discovered a new god - in the Greek Mythological sense of the word, made even more interesting by the fact that it's been years since I've done any reading of the myths.

Really.

Murfisticles, better known in his modern incarnation as Murphy, is the god of general goings wrong and is the inspiration for this humble blog. He is the bastard child of Ares and the result of what was reportedly a helluva liberty party with some 'ladies' of questionable reputations.

Tequila... does it every time.

Recent research has indicated that, interestingly enough, he got his start as the more specific god of... the nut shot. Bear with me here...

Many of Murphisticles' fans were ladies of course, but only guys are... er, properly 'equipped' to serve this minor deity. Proper worshipping position was remarkably similar to the fetal pos, on the knees, hands cupped around ones tender bits, moaning softly.

Murphisticles works in mysterious ways - including, as recently discovered - small toddlers who, excited at their new found jumping ability, visiting family, and by life in general, land - not on my lap, no! - my right. square. on. my.... urf!

Passwords, Emails, and Websites, oh my!

I've got a lot of passwords.

Lotsa.

I've passwords for work ('bout a metric ass ton), home pc, laptop, and oodles of websites. There's the bank, emails (lotsa), forums, and a few miscellaneous sites here and there...

My passwords are usually quite complex, the most basic of which are only numbers and letters... and less than 10 digits (big 'uns have symbols, caps, hand-signals, and chicken noises). The majority of 'em, if you ask what they are, I have to tippity-tappity on a keyboard - it's more muscle memory than memory-memory. Yeah, changing of passwords can get rather... interesting, at times.

I also have a bit of time on my hands when others might be doing other stuff... like sleeping - you know, inconsequential stuff.

So recently I was goofing around the net, and decided to google myself. This can get kind of fun considering that I can sometimes pick out what time in my life I knew someone by what name they refer to me by. I've got a rather long birth name, a not terribly common nickname, (and did I mention I have two last names, sometime hyphenated, sometimes not?), and have been known to go by several variations of names, both military and civilian. Heck, I respond to flying objects and muttered curses, at times.


Then there's my emails.

I have way less emails than passwords, that's for darn sure, but there've still been plenty of those. I've had work mails, personal mails, email addys for when I was a student, and emails that are loosely assigned a purpose. To explain, I've had some that're basically for friends & family, and those that are more disposable, for ordering stuff from amazon, cdnn, and the like.

Back to the googling, I noticed a number of stuff that had popped up for others with my name.

Guess my particular label isn't as rare as it once was, I guess.

Scrolling down and at about the second page or so, I saw something interesting. It was a profile on one of those myspace-esq sites, where you can meet up with old buddies from school or whatever. Huh, seems this particular guy with my name was a Marine, too.

Imagine that.

Huh, guy served at the same time as me... in the same unit...

*sigh*

So I had two friends on this site that I had completely forgotten about, the site's host, and an old college buddy.

I tried to login. "Error. Login user name not recognized."

Hmm, must've been another password... or email.

"Error. Login user name not recognised."

Thus ensued the longest session of email addresses and password combinations, ever.

No luck, and I tried about every combination of known emails and passwords, nothing worked.

Considering the time when I apparently set it up, I must've had a different email addy and a long since forgotten password.

Heck, I even set up another account, to see if I could find my other email address and use that to jog the ole memory, and that's when I figured out it was almost definitely an old email addy.

So, now I have two accounts set up for this website that I'm probably not ever gonna use...

Heh, I even tried emailing myself, from the new account to the old. I thought that perhaps seeing the 'To' part might jog my memory. As I was doing this, I thought about why I would set up an account and then never use it. My question was answered when I tried to send an email, view an account, or click on just about anything, 'cause they all had the same result - a pop up box soliciting for an upgrade to the account, one of those $5 per month, or $30 for the year. There was no, 'screw that, I'm a cheap bastid and just wanna use the cheapie-cheapie version'. There was no passing that upgrade pop-up neither, apparently.

That about explains it...

When I went to delete at least the new account, guess what message I got? Yup, another request to upgrade and a friggin' phone number to call to delete the account. Nice.


So, C., pretty sure you read this every once in a while, lame excuse as it might be, it's my story and I'm stickin' to it.