So, it’s been a few months since I last wrote here and it's been kind of busy actually.
The one thing that hasn’t happened though is that I’m still writing here as the unintentional bachelor because after my retirement from the Air Force I landed a job not back home with the Shadow but in Virginia (which is where we really wanted to end up anyway). So, it’s possibly yet another year before we’re all living under the same roof again on a permanent basis. Because of the big changes though, I’m going to rename this blog "UB: Life 2 Point Oh!" Because, well, that really just kind of sums it up to my way of thinking.
Also, I suppose it’s worth noting that the Shadow has finally entered the 21st century and actually has a Facebook site of her own, but I’m going to keep calling her the Shadow here anyway – just for continuity sake.
As I sit typing this in my third apartment – this one larger than the two previous BOBs and as yet unnamed, I’m eating off a microwave box because my gear from Texas hasn’t arrived yet. And tomorrow, I start work … it’s been nearly two months since I’ve gone into an office – probably longer than that since I’ve had any meaningful work to do during normal business hours and it’s also been about 7 weeks since I’ve worn long pants, so I’ve got some decisions to make after I publish this post.
Not the least of those decisions is what I want to wear for work – I’ve never really had to choose before and I’m faced with a closet full of clothes I’ve purchased with the help of the not taste-deficient Shadow – but because she’s 800 miles away, I’m left to try to figure out what goes with what. Fortunately, I’ve already warned my female co-workers that should they see me dressed in something suitable for a Goodwill advertisement, they should have no bad feelings about telling me. I have a disease, I told them, it’s like color blindness but for style.
Still, I think my dear Shadow has helped me choose clothing that I can’t do too much damage with – no horizontal stripes or garish colors – pretty much anything I choose should be ok. We’ll have to wait and see.
Now, I’ve been to my new office already and was more than a little thrilled to find a welcome bag full of Virginia Tech College of Science swag – which was very nice. My new boss called and said he also had some stuff for me and that they wanted to take me to lunch. This was impressive to me, for while I’ve had a going-away lunch at every single place I’ve been in the Air Force, I’ve never had a welcome lunch or been given a welcome basket. Although, in all fairness, I did go to a place in Europe once where they had stocked my fridge with beer –which is a seriously nice welcome after a long flight and customs - but sadly, it's not institutional policy. So, as of day 1, I have to say that I’m pretty much liking civilian life.
The flip side of it all is that I’ve been used to living in a Nanny State and not two days after my official retirement date I had to use medical services – and it was interesting to have someone from Tricare tell me to just go and do what I wanted to do so long as the provider took Tricare. This will take a little getting used to – but I shouldn’t think too much, truth be told.
And one final thought about Big Blue before I end this and go stare at my clothes for half an hour before making a wrong choice … leaving the Air Force, which I generally feel very good and happy about , was in itself a very surreal kind of event and I have to take a few minutes to explain the very lengthy and detailed event that is “out-processing.”
I arrived at the orderly room at the appointed hour on my final day of active duty back in June. I handed the staff sergeant a packet of papers and she ran through a short checklist. I had all the documents save one – which she dutifully printed for me and had me sign saying I’d seen it and then I handed it right back to her. I want to use both the terms “self-licking ice cream cone” and “jackassery” for this, but all in all it summed up very nicely the military experience.
Then she said, “That’s it, you’re done. Have a nice retirement.”
It took six minutes. And then only because I had to wait for the document to be printed.
“That’s it?” I asked, somewhat disappointed that it wasn’t more…I don’t know…officious or somehow ponderous. Joining was akin to taking out a mortgage whereas leaving was like a drive-by.
“That’s it.” She confirmed.
Hmm. And I walked away. It was, and again I have to use this word for no other is quite appropriate, very surreal. I supposed I had always known it, but at that point one realizes that the big machine just keeps chugging along quite happily with one or without one. While you are no longer grist for the mill, you can’t help but having a very tiny portion of you disappointed that the mill didn’t, at the very least, stutter for a moment before continuing on.
It does not.
More to the point, it cannot and it should not.
I think all my military friends are very aware of that ‘feed the machine’ existence they are involved in. But I also know they will all feel a little of what I felt when they have their own multi-minute out-processing moment of clarity.
So, with Big Blue in the rear view mirror I turn to the orange and maroon of life at a university. I expect there will be future posts where I make some comparisons between Va. Tech and my last stop at academia, as an ROTC instructor at Norwich University. Both schools have a Corps of Cadets … and that’s pretty much where the similarities stop.
Until next time, I’ve got to go match socks and pants or something and I’ve got to get on with Life 2 Point Oh!
I do hope you continue to stick around and see how it comes out.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Kids take after their parents...sometimes
So, in the course of about two weeks, my progeny each underwent their own medical procedures and at the end of all of it, I have to say I’m quite impressed by what these kids appear to be made of.
It started with my youngest – my baby girl who has, rather unfortunately, inherited all of those habits of mine which the Shadow has so ruthlessly tried to ferret out over the last two decades – with minimal success I hasten to add. She’s impulsive, headstrong and, if I may paraphrase Blackadder, has a pigheaded stubbornness and refusal to look facts in the face that will see her through. What she does have which will serve her in good stead, however, is her mothers’ lovely features. I genuinely feel bad for her future boyfriends.
Anyway, she took a tumble at school which required stitches just at the bottom and slightly underneath her chin – a place that if it leaves a little scar will endow her with just enough of a scar to be endearing and mysterious – easily visible, but not blatantly obvious – all in all an excellent scar as scars go. When getting stitched she didn’t cry or whimper or anything that I would do and when having them removed she described the process and ‘prickling’ – which is not anything like I would describe it but that could just be because I know swear words.
My son at the tender age of 10 was involved in dental surgery. You see, as a British born youth of a British mother, he is culturally predisposed to needing dental surgery – it’s like Americans are predisposed toward being, for the most part, culturally ignorant of every other country on the planet except their own. We must just accept these things and move on.
When I asked him about his surgery he said the following: “It was really cool, I think they must have hypnotized me or something because when I opened my eyes the doctor was standing over me snapping his fingers in front of my face…”
Uh….yeah….hypnotized. I’m going to file this away for reference because in about 6 or 7 years I expect him to use it as a code word when he calls me at 2 in the morning from a friend’s house in an addled state of mind from Drambui or some other heinous act of beverage selection saying, “dad, sorry I can’t make it home, Bob is hypnotizing us.”
Shadow then told me that when he was coming around he was trying to say something that was pretty much unintelligible due to the four wads of gauze shoved in the spaces where his teeth used to be. Turns out what he was saying was this: “Mom, I’ve got four feet!”
I’ve only been under the influence of medical sedatives once in my life and the reaction it gave me was to make me never want to be under the influence of medical sedatives again. That fact that he used the words, “cool,” “hypnotized,” and the phrase “I’ve got four feet” and sounded excited about the possibilities that could mean for track season, give me some cause for concern as you might imagine.
It is, however, quite comforting in many ways to know my kids, although made up of DNA from Shadow and myself are really becoming their own people – and are made of stronger stuff than the gelatinous mass either of their parents would become if confronted with the same circumstances.
It started with my youngest – my baby girl who has, rather unfortunately, inherited all of those habits of mine which the Shadow has so ruthlessly tried to ferret out over the last two decades – with minimal success I hasten to add. She’s impulsive, headstrong and, if I may paraphrase Blackadder, has a pigheaded stubbornness and refusal to look facts in the face that will see her through. What she does have which will serve her in good stead, however, is her mothers’ lovely features. I genuinely feel bad for her future boyfriends.
Anyway, she took a tumble at school which required stitches just at the bottom and slightly underneath her chin – a place that if it leaves a little scar will endow her with just enough of a scar to be endearing and mysterious – easily visible, but not blatantly obvious – all in all an excellent scar as scars go. When getting stitched she didn’t cry or whimper or anything that I would do and when having them removed she described the process and ‘prickling’ – which is not anything like I would describe it but that could just be because I know swear words.
My son at the tender age of 10 was involved in dental surgery. You see, as a British born youth of a British mother, he is culturally predisposed to needing dental surgery – it’s like Americans are predisposed toward being, for the most part, culturally ignorant of every other country on the planet except their own. We must just accept these things and move on.
When I asked him about his surgery he said the following: “It was really cool, I think they must have hypnotized me or something because when I opened my eyes the doctor was standing over me snapping his fingers in front of my face…”
Uh….yeah….hypnotized. I’m going to file this away for reference because in about 6 or 7 years I expect him to use it as a code word when he calls me at 2 in the morning from a friend’s house in an addled state of mind from Drambui or some other heinous act of beverage selection saying, “dad, sorry I can’t make it home, Bob is hypnotizing us.”
Shadow then told me that when he was coming around he was trying to say something that was pretty much unintelligible due to the four wads of gauze shoved in the spaces where his teeth used to be. Turns out what he was saying was this: “Mom, I’ve got four feet!”
I’ve only been under the influence of medical sedatives once in my life and the reaction it gave me was to make me never want to be under the influence of medical sedatives again. That fact that he used the words, “cool,” “hypnotized,” and the phrase “I’ve got four feet” and sounded excited about the possibilities that could mean for track season, give me some cause for concern as you might imagine.
It is, however, quite comforting in many ways to know my kids, although made up of DNA from Shadow and myself are really becoming their own people – and are made of stronger stuff than the gelatinous mass either of their parents would become if confronted with the same circumstances.
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