It’s A Bit Like Decaf, or Non-Alcoholic Beer

We are all entitled to like whichever kind of music we like–it may be polka, it may be gangster rap, it could even be chamber music.  I like a lot of music, but there is one type in particular I could never, ever enjoy.  Ever.  Don’t try to make me.

It’s Christian rock. 

That’s not to say there aren’t talented Christian bands out there with great-sounding tunes.  I might be into it if I weren’t a lyrics person, but alas, I am a lyrics person, and therein lies the problem.  I just can’t rock out to Jesus.

The church I attending as a young’un left a pretty big impression on me.  It was a fire-and-brimstone type of place, where it was made clear that no matter what I do, I am going to go to hell.  There was no rockin’, it was hymns.  With an organ player, or if the organ was broken, a piano lady.  Sometimes the piano lady would sign in a church lady voice.  A church lady voice, if you don’t know, is a very nice soprano voice with plenty of reverberation…but you can be sure you’ll never hear it on American Idol.

So I’ve been to lots of churches, including the megaplex New Life made famous by Ted Haggard, and I can assure you I could never participate in the rock concerts.  There would be people a-throwin’ up their arms but I just couldn’t do it.  In fact, I feel pretty queasy at the very sound of Christian rock…it’s like don’t you guys know Jesus hears your electric guitars?  Shut up!  But no one else seems to care; they are all into the jumping and the mashing and the headbanging to the Gospel.  I need my biblical and my musical separate, and the two shalt not meeteth.

 

Give Your Phone a Bath

So I haven’t been posting much because my life right now involves three things:

• Work on Computers in Various Scenarios
• Farming and Rhubarb
• Brief Appearances in Family Life

I do have to share with you that I dropped my phone in a big vat of rhubarb.  To keep rhubarb fresh while traveling, it needs to be in a bucket of water.  Therefore, I dropped my phone in a bucket of water.  I immediately pulled it out and shook the devil out if it, water flew all over myself and a customer who was there to pick up her vegetable share; I hope that she forgives me for flinging water upon her at only our second meeting.

Then my phone started to ring!  A customer was calling for directions to the park where I was handing out produce.  Except when I tried to answer the phone, the phone camera started going berserk!  I was taking pictures of the gravel, the sky, the rhubarb and my hat as I continued to fling the water out of the phone and curse at Murphy.  Every time I pushed a button, the phone’s camera snapped a photo. 

I was able to pry the phone apart and take the battery out.  I left the pieces to dry in the sun.  It finally broke 70 degrees so the hot sun dried out the phone, and after about 20 minutes I put it back together and it worked.  Oh my goodness, it worked.  I am so thankful because there is NO WAY I have the time or cash to go get a new phone. 

So again, if YOU should drop your phone in a watery bath of rhubarb, remember:

• Shake Well
• Shake Some More
• Dry Parts in the Sun (if it’s raining, you are screwed)
• Pray to the Verizon Gods
• Reassemble phone

That’s it!  Enjoy and remember to spay and neuter your pets.

 

Service Charges

If Congress really wanted to make a difference to the average Joe and Jane, they would ban service charges.

I am so over service charges.  I loathe them.  If you only encounter service charges once in a while, they seem okay.  But lately my life seems to be one big, fat service charge.  And the ironic thing about every single one of them is that I get no service at all for the charge.  It’s insanity that we as a nation have not revolted yet, based on the service charge concept.  It’s ridiculous.

Phone bills are probably the worst.  When you set up a phone, be it a normal land line or a cell, they quote you a low, low price of $49.99 a month.  Or whatever.  But the bill is never $49.99.  It’s more like $62.34, always a crazy amount that makes balancing a checkbook a fearsome task.  And the extra fees come in the form of mysterious “service charges.”  I would much prefer that they round the bill up to $65.00, and just tell me straight up front that it was going to cost me $65.00.  It would cause less anxiety and anger that way. 

Service charges run rampant in banks.  When my check card got stolen, I get to pay for the investigation.  This is called a “service charge.”  Every time someone on the other side of the phone or website touches a button, a service charge is charged.  Just call it what it is!  Put ”highway robbery” onto my statement instead of “service charge.”  No one is doing me any favors. 

Automobile repair shops and car dealerships have perfected the art of the service charge.  I think that they may have been the ones that invented it.  Car dealerships factor in years of service charges if you are the kind of person that needs a loan to pay for a car. 

If you have to get something fixed, then service charges appear in strange places on your bill.  Oil change?  There is an environmental service charge to remove the oil nowadays.  Need your roof fixed?  Service charge because a ladder and danger is involved.  Just do everyone a favor and factor the extra two dollars into the price. 

I think that service charges are making us all crazy.  We think something is going to cost fifty dollars, but it never does.  We can’t prepare for that!  We never know what to expect!  We have nothing stable to hang our hats on in life.  If we had a place to hang our hat, it would probably include a service charge too.

I get that companies are out to make money.  Great.  Do it.  But I recommend that companies:

• Round up to the nearest dollar.  I am sick of 99 cent anything.
• Don’t call it a service charge.  Either blend it in and call it The Actual Cost or give it an accurate name…”fee of suckage” comes to mind. 
• Remove service charges to save the environment.  If companies removed these dumb charges, the cost of printing would be reduced by three quarters.  This is based on my phone bill, which is one page of bill and three pages of dumb charges. 

 

Bitten

I’m sorry to report that this may be my last post.  For I have so many mosquito bites that there is no possible way that I am not going to die of West Nile by Wednesday.  The nasty mosquitoes are out in swarms out at the gardens.  It seems a bit early for them, but I don’t recall exactly when they came out last year.

I hate DEET.  I don’t care for sprays or aerosols or spritzes in general, but there is something so repulsive and awful about DEET that I don’t even consider using it.  This weekend I used some citronella junk called “Natrepel”…I think the “Nat” was supposed to signify that it was “natural”…but all it did was leave me a mosquito bitten carcass that smelled lemony-riffic.  If I do survive to get bitten again, I am going to reconsider my personal ban on DEET.

***

We moved into the new place this weekend.  This is the third move in a little over a year.  I will be happy if I don’t have to see another U-Haul for several moons.  The new house is pretty fantastic.  I wish it was mine.  There are a few strange things about it, of course.  I bathed the children last night, and for five minutes I was terrified that there was no hot water.  It turned out that on the upper level, all of the faucets are crisscrossed, so if you want hot water you turn to the “C”.  Caliente.  I need a word for “cold” that starts with an “H.”  It does not have to be Spanish.

***

I am re-reading Nora Ephron’s “I Feel Bad About My Neck.”  This book makes me incredibly happy.  However it also makes me feel bad about not being born incredibly rich.  Most of the time I could not be more relieved about not having millions of dollars.  I truly do believe simpler is better.  Mo’ money, mo’ problems.  In the book, Ephron goes on and on with truly wise and wonderful observations about life.  But she does so from the lofty view of a New York City apartment, lucrative job writing movies, books, and magazines, and with the clout of someone who was around to work in the JFK White House.  The book resonates with nearly every woman I know who has read it.  You just have to look past some of the parts that involve money. 

***

Nearly everyone has pondered the “why” of mosquitoes.  There does not seem to be any purpose for them other than to fill the biblical role of pestilence.  Do you know what would be great?  If scientists could come up with some mosquito derivative that cured cancer.  The scientists would get a large government grant to build giant mosquito sucking vacuums (silent ones, so as not to interrupt us during dinner) that flew around, systematically slurping the mosquitoes and delivering them to the research lab that would then blend their evil little bodies into a gel that people could brush their teeth with, and it would eliminate cancer.  It would come in either mint or cinnamon. 

***

Clearly I need some sleep.  Good night.

 

Part 7 – You Will Break

This is the story of the most miserable day of my life.

**********

The Marines break you down so they can rebuild you…the same way you were, but stronger, smarter, and hopefully fearless.  It takes some people a short time to reach their breaking point, and some longer, but no matter what, they will find a way to break you.  I didn’t think it would ever happen for me, but I was wrong. 

The girls who couldn’t adapt at all had already gone home.  Another girl, she would have been a great Marine, had fallen from an obstacle and broke her hip.  She was sent home.  We were slowly being reduced in number. 

Occasionally, usually in the evenings or in the middle of the night, someone would start to cry.  I never understood what they were crying about.  Hell, three months isn’t that long to be away from your family.  None of this was really that hard.  Come on, already. 

A routine existed in boot camp.  Each morning the day started, and each night ended with us laying in the rack at the POA until we were told to rest (now we could use our covers, because we were now skilled in the hospital corners).  What came in between the morning and the night was never known to the recruits.  We woke to noisy chaos in the morning, got dressed and ready to move in two minutes, and followed the orders that were given, whatever those orders might be.

One morning we woke up and were informed that it was NBC week (Nuclear Biological Chemical).  The purpose was to learn about the nasty tricks that mankind has derived, using Ns, Bs, and Cs; as well as how to implement them and/or treat them, should they happen to you. 

We started off by hiking several miles to a shanty in the woods.  It was raining, we were dirty and covered in bugs, we were hungry, and when we made it to the shack that we would be sleeping in, it seemed like a luxury hotel just due to the fact there were beds.  We stripped off our cold, wet cammies and laid them on the edges of the racks to dry overnight.  We ate cold MREs.  We went to sleep exhausted.   

Then morning came.  Our clothes were still wet, still cold, and a little bit crunchy with frost.  We had no choice but to pull on the frozen clothes.  When I pulled on my pants, they were too short.  And they smelled like cat pee. 

“I think you have my pants,” I told the recruit who was on the bottom bunk. 

She shook her head.  “Nope.” 

“These are not my pants,” I said.  “These are your pants.”  She was already wearing mine. 

A DI approached us and snipped “Why aren’t you dressed, recruit?”

“Ma’am, Recruit Williams has my pants.”

“Then I guess you better wear Recruit William’s pants,” she said. 

Fuck.  

Recruit Williams had a massive kidney infection, and that was why the pants smelled like piss.  I pulled on the pee-covered, frozen, disgusting pants and felt a little bit sorry for myself.  I decided that I hated Recruit Williams, because I was wearing too-short pants that she had peed on. 

Then we marched.

***

The first part of the training that morning consisted of book lessons on nerve agents, blood agents, and other nasties that would kill you if you didn’t immediately inject a syringe of atropine into your thigh (remember The Rock, and how Nicolas Cage had to stick that needle into his heart?  You’re actually supposed to stick it in your leg).  We learned about mushroom clouds, and what to do if we had the misfortune to be at war when a mushroom cloud appeared in the distance. 

Have you ever wondered about this?  Well, I will tell you what you are supposed to do.  If you see a mushroom cloud, then you have to lay face down on the ground, preferably in a gulley or behind a berm, and ensure your head is facing toward the blast.  After the shockwave passes, if you still are wearing your skin, you may then get up off the ground and continue your assault on the enemy. 

A brave recruit raised her hand.  “Won’t we be dead anyway…from like the radiation and stuff?”

The trainer’s response, “Yes you will surely die, but if you can survive the blast then you will at least live to shoot a few more of the enemy.”

Solid advice, I guess, especially if you’re trying to rack up a higher confirmed kills quota. 

Then we learned about MOPP gear.  (This is an important part…pay attention!)  MOPP (Mission Oriented Protective Posture) refers to five levels of “Oh Shit, there’s deadly gas floating in the air” and the steps you must take to prevent misery and death.  MOPP level zero indicates you have your mask and equipment on hand, just incase.  MOPP level four indicates you are fully suited, masked, and prepared for doom.  The levels 1, 2, and 3 are varying between those extremes.

We practiced donning our masks when someone yelled or signaled “Gas Gas Gas.”  If someone yelled “Gas Gas Gas” and you weren’t at the local burrito joint, then that meant you had about thirty seconds to get that gas mask on, cleared, and secured on your face.  We did this a few times.  The important thing to remember is to stay calm.  That’s right…deadly gas is floating in the air that could kill you, or burn up the inside of your eyes and lungs, or cause your future children to be born with two heads…BUT STAY CALM.

****

Then the hands-on training began.  It was designed as a hike through the woods, down the NBC trail, where several stations would be set up along the way to continue our training.  The training hike would end at the gas chamber, where we would enter and find out what it feels like to get gassed.

We walked down the trail and stopped at the first station.  We learned about a few types of gas grenades that we might encounter during our careers are Marines.  It was informative, and believe me this is the kind of thing you want to pay attention to, no matter how tired and pee-covered you are.

The training hike continued to the second station.  An NBC Marine waited for us at a little spot off the trail.  He had a plastic dummy next to him, laying face down on the leafy, cold ground.  “Come in close,” he shouted.  “This is important.  See this dummy?  This is your buddy.  He’s just been gassed.  We’re going to learn how to inject this needle in his leg to save him.”

The crowd gathered closer. 

“Closer,” he said.  “You need to learn how to do this.  This is your buddy.  You can’t leave your buddy behind.”

The crowd gathered closer. 

“Okay,” he continued.  “Your buddy is face down on the ground, so the first thing you need to do is get him face up again.  So grab him by the shoulder and roll him like this…”  He grabbed the dummy and yanked…

Popping sounds filled the air, along with white clouds of gas.  The dummy had been rigged with gas grenades.  The other drill instructors had been following close behind, and they were already in on the action.  Gas grenades were flying everywhere. 

I took a few steps backward, and stayed calm.  At least as calm as I could.  I knew the first thing I needed to do was get that effin’ gas mask on because what was about to be breathed was not going to feel good.  So I stopped, and shaking, reached into my pouch and grabbed my mask.  I placed it onto my face, tightened the straps, and cleared it. 

But the freak out quotient was too great for the majority, and there was a stampede happening that I was oblivious to.  The crowd was running like a herd of bulls.  Just as my mask had been cleared, I was knocked flat onto my back by a very large, freaked out recruit.  My mask stayed on, but someone else running from the chaos tripped over me.  The person who tripped over me, in an attempt to get back up and run, kicked me in the jaw hard.  My mask flew off and I took in a deep breath to get some air, and that’s the same moment a canister of gas landed in front of my face.  I sucked in poison and I wanted to die. 

I reached around for my mask and managed to get it back on.  Then I threw up inside of my mask.  A drill instructor who had seen the whole thing came up and asked if I was okay.  I shook my head.  My face burned.  My eyes burned.  And we’re talking burn.  Like the worst sunburn of your life, with the first layer of skin melted, and salt being rubbed into your eyes and nose. 

I stood there nauseated, dizzy, pee-covered and wearing a container of my own vomit on my face.  I couldn’t take it off because the air was white with gas, so I just continued to breath the rancid moist air inside my mask.

***

It was time for the gas chamber.  We stopped in front of the chamber and were ordered to take off our MOPP gear and leave it on the ground, except for our mask.  We removed our masks and I had a chance to sweep out any remaining barf.  Then we went into the chamber and they started to fill it with gas.  It was pretty awful, but we had to leave our masks off for one minute (I think it was just a minute, but I could be wrong) before we could put them back on again.  It sucked, mostly because this was now my second heavy dose of CS gas of the morning, and I felt like I needed my teddy and my blankey. 

***

After the chamber, we came outside to heavy rain.  We had to put our MOPP gear back on for the rest of the trip.  I found my MOPP gear in a deep puddle of mud.  Somehow, it was the only set of gear that had found a mud puddle.   MOPP gear at that time was extremely heavy to begin with, and now mine was soaked in mud.  I pulled on another wet outfit, and I didn’t cry, though I felt my soul starting to completely fall apart from frustration.

****

That night back in the barracks, I found that I had a case of chiggers, which are the itchiest thing I have ever experienced.  I got to go down to medical and get some cream for them which helped. 

****

I had spent the day covered in pee, mud, dirt, and frost.  Then I had been kicked hard in the face only to suck in gas, about a foot away from the canister.  I had to wear wet MOPP gear on a five mile march back to the barracks, and now I had chiggers chewing the place behind my knee. 

We had about thirty minutes of free time before bed.  Free time was supposed to be used for ironing, polishing, cleaning weapons, or writing letters.  On this particular day, I climbed up to the top of my rack, crawled under the covers, and sobbed.  I cried and cried, and it led to unwanted thoughts. 

I knew, just knew, I would never see my family again.  I wished that I had gotten along with my brother more.  I wished that I had gotten to visit my grandparents more.  All I could think of was this whole idea of joining the Marines had been a terrible mistake, and that I would hate myself forever because everyone I knew on the outside was going to die before I got the chance to see them again.  I cried, and cried, and cried.  I missed Montana.  I changed my mind, I wanted to move back and marry someone and just have babies and work at the restaurant.  I sobbed.  The whole rack shook, and other recruits came up to see if I was going to live or die.  Some offered hugs and helpful pats on the back.  I imagine it was really hard to hug me since I was balled up under the covers and on the top rack, but some of them tried to, and thanks to them for that. 

***

The next morning I woke up a new person.

 

That whoooooosh you hear is Facebook sucking at your soul

“I got stuff to do! I got to see my credit rating, I got to send an e-mail to Nelson, check out Foley’s vacation photos…”

- Randy Marsh, South Park 2008 ”Over Logging”

Facebook is destroying my life!  I know this to be true, because I just took a quiz called “Is Facebook destroying your life?” and the results were:

 ”Facebook is 97 % desstroying ur life.” 

See?  I can’t argue with statistics. 

It all started last year, around the time MySpace became the internet ‘hood.  I fully enjoyed MySpace, because I knew how to evade the phishing links and I had the speakers on my computer turned off, so when I clicked on someone’s profile I didn’t have to hear the latest tune from <insert boy band here>.  But the first time I got offered virtual meth, I was out of there!

Facebook bored me a lot at first, but then I got an invitation to build a virtual farm.  I received a Plum Tree as a farmwarming gift, and what choice did I have but to plant the fake tree in my fake farm?  It would have been rude to ignore a gift, you know.  Soon my farm was in production, digital crops were being harvested every 24 hours, and I was making enough money that I was able to buy the barn.  Once I had the barn, I was able to slow down on the farm work because my cows and chickens had a place to sleep.  Did you know that fake computerized livestock needs a place to sleep?  I read that on Wikipedia.

SoonI was tasked by my FB peers to answer 25 vital questions about my life.  Much thought was placed into selecting the 25 things, because I was tasked and I didn’t want to let anyone down.  It was a balancing act to come up with some original material while using some standard life questions (what’s your greatest fear?  Would you eat a bug for money?), after all, no one wants to sound like they are trying too hard.

In the meantime, war was brewing and I was invited to World Domination.  I’m not much of a pacifist, so before I knew it I was purchasing cyber-B52s and launching ICBMs at Canada.  That’s kept me busy for a while, but I’ve conquered most of the globe so when I am done I am retiring from the military for GOOD. 

Then a really strange thing happened.  I discovered that FB is the only way I can stay in touch with MOST of the people in my life.  When else am I going to do it?  I have people that I love and miss all over the country and I can now keep tabs on them because of Facebook. 

More and more weirdness ensued.  “Focus groups” and “Causes” started happening on Facebook.  My husband joined and got a few photography gigs from it.  Facebook started to have a purpose other than purely time wasting.  Therefore I can now spend even MORE time online because it’s not just a waste of time anymore.  I imagine there is a quiz about what percentage of time is Good Facebook Time (networking, meaningful notes to old friends) versus Bad Facebook Time (My Farm App, the “What Random Object Are You” quiz). 

I have more to say, but I just had three notifications pop up!  Someone commented on my photo, so I have to either go comment back or go to their page and make a return comment (it’s just polite!).  Someone just gave me a FB hug, and that one I will delete because I don’t do hugs in real life so I sure won’t do them in fake life.  Lastly, I have a facebook friend request that I need to go review and see if I know who it is.  Sometimes I don’t remember until I go see the photos, and I am like “oh yeah, it’s you that good buddy I hung out with in the diner in Jersey back in 2002!  Let’s be FB BFFs 4 eva.”

No seriously, I love this.  Wait!  Another quiz invitation just came in.  The quiz wants to know (and I quote) “How Retartted Are U?”  **

I better go find out!  This could be useful information that I need for tomorrow. 

** Maleesha does not condone or encourage use of the “R” word, even if it is misspelled.