Glory Days

I got a wild hair on Saturday and started to organize my e-photos. I think the way it really happened was that I went digging through a desk drawer trying to find a electronic thingamabobby cord and got totally fed up with the disaster that was my desk. So, out came all the random cds and cords and thingamabobbies and I spent the morning sorting them. The process was somewhat complicated by the fact that when I cleaned out Mom's house last year, I just dumped all her desk junk drawers straight into mine, thinking, oh, one day I'll get to that.

Saturday was that day, I guess.

But combo that organizing fest with hearing some of the guys at work get ready to transfer back to ships in the next few months, and I got a little nostalgic. I posted plenty of photos from my time on KISKA (and am *truly* appreciative of the crew's collective patience with having their pictures splashed across the web). But I've got lotsa pictures from the other ships I was on also. So here's my little trip down memory lane...oh the glory days -- I am *so* looking forward to Summer '14!

Local grocery, Petropavlask-Kamchotsky, Russia

My first "official" patrol on BOUTWELL was a D17 patrol that included a trip to Petropavlask-Kamchotky, Russia. It was March or April...and *cold!* I remember taking hours to Med-moor (e.g. Mediterranean moor -- backing in with the transom flush to the pier, with both anchors out to keep the bow from swinging; kinda like backing into a parking space), and the vodka, and the empty grocery shelves, and the beautiful furs the fashionista women wore (and they were all fashionistas).

Geting work done despite the weather, Petropavlask-Kamchotsky, Russia

It was my first foreign port call ever (I can't legitimately count Kodiak and Dutch Harbor -- as fascinating as they are -- still US soil). We had to wear SDBs when we went out in town, so we stuck out like sore thumbs. But all the locals just wanted to talk and were very friendly. I had a few words of Russian left over from the two years I took in high school and college, and really just succeeded in confusing the sweet woman who stopped to help give us directions to the local bank so we could change money.

Lenin's statue, Petropavlask-Kamchotsky, Russia

I don't recall how the timeline of that patrol unfolded. But we pulled into Kodiak a coupla times, Dutch Harbor at least once (on a Wednesday, of course...couldn't miss the seafood buffet at the Grand Aleutian). We boarded a bunch of fishing boats. We got a call to assist with a 6'6", 350-pound fisherman who had gone off his meds and was threatening the crew on his boat (I might be combining two or more medevac requests from that patrol, but I remember the helo crews' horrified expressions when it was suggested that they put a mentally unstable giant into their helicopter...I think we sent Doc over to see what the situation was first). And we were called to respond to the tragic loss of the F/V ARCTIC ROSE that sunk quickly in the early morning hours of 2 Apr 2001. All 15 crewmembers onboard were lost. I don't remember how long BOUTWELL searched; all we found was the bag to a survival suit.

And then we got our asses *handed to us* in a spring storm typical of the Bering Sea. I try my best not to exaggerate the conditions that night, but I know we logged 60 knot sustained winds (which means they were actually gusting up to 80 knots -- considered hurricane strength anywhere else) and 45 foot waves. I stood the mid-watch with Bos'n Rick Arsenault. I lasted a couple of hours, standing on the bridge, where the height of eye is approximately 55 feet, and looking *UP* at the crests of some of the waves as we crashed along at three knots, just trying to maintain our heading so we wouldn't turn broadside-to the seas. I was *terrified.* I finally told Rick that I was not getting anything at all out of standing the watch, other than terrorizing the crap out of myself. He was generous enough to let me go below for the remaining hour of my watch, to lie in my rack, wondering if the ship was going to bash itself apart on the water.

Yawn...just another gorgeous u/w sunset in the Eastern Pacific

I've spent some time lately thinking about that night. The storm was worst during the mid-watch and 4-8s. Just by the happenstance of the schedule, Bos'n and OPS (then LCDR Maury McFadden) had those two watches. And thank goodness they did. They were the most experienced shipdrivers we had onboard, other than the CAPT and XO.

One of my greatest fears when I went to be OPS on HAMILTON was spawned from that night on BOUTWELL, knowing that the crew would expect that level of competence from me...and also knowing that I had asked to lay below instead of face the fury of the sea that night. In my defense, I had been on BOUTWELL a sum total of five months, nearly to the day, at that time, and was barely able to find my way from my stateroom to the wardroom without getting lost. I was still in the throes of hating being underway.

Green deck -- HH65 cleared for landing

But this all goes to the discussion of "proficiency" that we've been talking a lot about in the office recently. Am I more proficient today than I was the night of that storm? Heck, yes! Am I fully proficient? No, I don't think I am. I still have lots to learn, more skills to hone (skills that have sadly atrophied over the last two and a half years), fears to overcome and experience to gain. Am I safe to sail? I think I am. I know enough about how the systems work (even if I might be hazy on some of the details -- I still think of the gyro as a magic black box), I have confidence in my crew and my ability to read them, I have a sense of my limitations.

Static refuel -- HH65 on deck

How much proficiency is enough? And what does the right *kind* of proficiency have to do with things? I have flight deck experience, TAO experience and patrol boat experience. CO, XO, OPS. Eastern Pacific counternarcotics experience; Hawaii fisheries and SAR experience; and joint/DOD interoperability experience. I *don't* have 210' experience, or migrant experience, or D7/Caribbean experience...all of which is what I want to gain in my next assignment. Life (and by my logic, proficiency) is a journey, not a final stamp of arrival. IMHO.

Go-fast booty, BOUTWELL/HAMILTON Hitron patrol

I included the picture of the fueling team for the HH65 just so I could tell about the baked potato (the guy in the silver exposure suit holding the fire extinguisher) and the grapes (the fueling team in the purple jerseys). The tie downs (the kids that ran out to strap the helo to the deck before anything else is done) are known as blueberries because they were blue jerseys. I love sailor humor :)


I did three patrols on BOUTWELL: the ALPAT described above, the 9/11 patrol which is a story in and of itself, and a joint patrol with HAMILTON which was the debut of HITRON in the Eastern Pacific.

 It was an exciting patrol, replete with go fasts, gun shoots, contraband watches, port calls, swim calls, fish calls, drills, flight ops -- you know...all the good stuff.

BOUTWELL outboard of HAMILTON, Golfito, Costa Rica

That patrol was late spring, early summer. Tour complete JOs were starting to leave to their next assignments, Ensigns were newly reported. I somehow ended up being the only qualified helicopter control officer (HCO) (or at least the only one who wasn't otherwise tasked as Landing Signal Officer (LSO) or boarding officer (BO)) onboard for at least a good portion of the patrol. The HCO is the liaison between the bridge, led by the Officer of the Deck (OOD) and the flight deck, led by the LSO. I could go look at my old OER to figure out how many flight operations we did that patrol, but I'm not gonna...I just know it was a *lot!* I got really good at saying the take-off and landing spiel. And I was *oh so grateful* when one of the new ensigns got qualified!

I felt a little sorry for the poor town of Golfito. It's a peaceful place, tucked into the eastern side of Golfo Dulce in Costa Rica, and it was overrun by the crews of two 378s for three days. I think we may have drunk a couple of the bars dry that trip.

BOUTWELL and HAMILTON, Isla del Cocos, Costa Rica

At the tail end of the patrol, we somehow (thanks, OPS!! (then LT John Pruitt)) were able to negotiate permission to visit Isla del Coco, a nature preserve governed by Costa Rica, about 300 miles off the coast of the Panamerican isthmus. The small boats ferried crewmembers into shore. We swam with the baby nurse sharks and hiked up into the hills. And then went back to stand the anchor watch so that our shipmates could go ashore for a few hours.




When we got back to Alameda, I was off to my next assignment...XO of WASHINGTON. In Honolulu. But that's a good story for another post. To be continued...

Shipmates at sunset

Lack of Imagination

It happens more frequently than I'd like to admit, but sometimes I suffer from a debilitating lack of imagination. Seems hardly possible, right? Especially since who would have ever dreamed I would end up where I am...in the middle of a successful *military* career. I mean, that takes nearly a suspension in reality to even conceive of. But no, I really do think I have trouble picturing myself in some situations, and last night my own small-mindedness kept me from an incredible opportunity.

There MC Hooligan and I were, at about 1630 hanging in our office, racing each other to wrap up our respective week-ahead emails to the XO when who should walk in but the XO himself. Usually when the XO comes in, there is a brief moment of suspense until we figure out which one of us he is getting ready to task. But last evening he took a different tact and starting off with "We have a unique opportunity for an O3 or an O4." He went rambling on (which is somewhat unusual for an individual who is normally DIRECT and TO THE POINT) about how CG-82, by way of XXXX, came into a pair of tickets to the Inaugural Ball (!!!!!!) for a Reviewer and their guest. It took me another moment or two to realize he wasn't just in the office with idle gossip about these tickets...he was asking if I wanted the tickets.

Upon this realization, the first words that popped out of my mouth were, "Holy f***!" At which point I think he immediately regretted asking me.

I quickly said yes, and went flying off on flights of fancy about the Rocket Scientist coming up for the weekend and going to this spectacularly awesome and historic event in my beautiful ball...go...w...n...oh crap, I probably would have to go in uniform. Which I don't have, never before being in receipt of an invitation to an event which required Dinner Dress Blues. I thought briefly about the possibility of borrowing a set from the one person I reckoned might have them, not initially considering the fact that she is 5'9" and probably two cup sizes bigger than me (there is only so much even a good tailor can do). So I reluctantly turned the tickets down, suggesting to the XO that he should probably look for someone else who was better prepared with a full O4 seabag.

The ironic kick in the head came about 45 minutes later when I found out that one of the other women in the office has a set of DDBs that she said would likely fit me. I went back to the XO to check if the tickets were still available; he had already given them to someone else...who was in the process of finding DDBs because she didn't have any either.

I think I fell victim to the confines of my own self-image. I couldn't think big enough to imagine myself at such a fancy soiree. I get stuck in thinking of myself as a mostly uncouth, socially graceless sailor. I pigeon-hole myself, assume I can't break out of my mold. Which is kinda funnily ironic given how much I tout my ability to face a challenge as one of my defining characteristics.

I remember a little scene from when I was about 8 or 9; I was trying to teach myself how to hock a lougie (is that how it's spelled?). I thought at the time it was one of the coolest things a kid could do. There I was, out in the parking lot of our townhouse complex, trying to spit. I must have just eaten a piece of cherry or cinnamon flavored candy, because my spit was coming out pink. My sister and I were waiting by our car, getting ready to go somewhere with Mom, and Vicki was so thoroughly disgusted with my totally disgusting behavior. She told Mom I was spitting, and I got in trouble. Yes, it was totally gross, but just recently I was out with Vicki somewhere, and hocked a big ol' nasty ball of snot out of my throat, and then apologized sincerely for my abjectly rude action. Vicki said she was a little jealous, she had never learned how to do that, and wasn't it a useful thing to be able to do sometimes. This from the woman who reads Miss Manners (my sincerest apologies again, Sis, for sharing such a base little anecdote).

But that's the paradigm (ugh) I'm comfortable in. I can clean up my act when I have to...which I *certainly* would have done for the Inaugural Ball! but it's not a natural state of being for me. It takes *effort.*

And as I write this, I realize I didn't just suffer from a lack of imagination...I also suffered from a lack of faith...in the universe at large. *So what!* I didn't immediately have the right uniform?!? If I had trusted the universe a little more, what really were the options? The only possible thing that *could* have happened was that I would find all the right bits and pieces to the uniform in time for the ball. With all the women stationed at Headquarters, I am sure someone there, hearing my story, would have lent me what I needed.

Definite *headsmack* moment. Think *BIG!* Dream *BIG!* Don't ever let the little things get in my own way...especially my own small thinking. Lesson learned.

Refocusing

I don't really do New Year's resolutions. They sound like a nice enough idea, but also seem rather arbitrary to me. Or maybe I'm just lazy, and don't want to make any kind of effort to change my behavior. Whatever the reason, I've never wasted much effort on them.

This year isn't really any different. I haven't made any resolutions. I think of them more as...refocusing of efforts and attention -- areas of my life that I think are important enough to spend time and energy thinking about and doing. So here goes:

Where is my money going? When I first though about this one, I kind of framed it as wanting to pay attention to where stuff is made, and stay away as much as possible from cheap crap made in China. The last two purchases I made for the house at the beginning of December last year were a sewing machine and a hairdryer...both made in China. When I bought each, I thought I needed them, and would use them constantly. I've used the hairdryer twice (I’m not very coordinated with it -- The Rocket Scientist tells me I need to practice more), and just got the sewing machine out of the box today. I don't know that I really did need them, and if I did, if I couldn't have taken the time to look around for quality items that support ideals I value.

When I mentioned this "Refocusing" to my good, crazy-high-speed friend (who will likely one day be either Commandant or in Congress -- or both), she asked what I had against buying goods from China -- as a developing economy, they need the economic demand to continue driving their growth and concomitant progress. And maybe it is provincial and protectionist of me, but I want to support *my* country's economic growth and progress. Call me a Tea Party convert (bahahahahahaaa), but I've pretty much bought into the notion that our country's economic metabolism depends on the slow, steady contributions of mom and pop enterprises. And I can chose to spend my money at big box stores where the dimes will get lost in a corporate oubliette, or I can chose to spend my money in places that will provide direct and immediate support to real people. Yes, I *know* that is an extremely simplified and generalized version of reality, but I see this as part of my thought process, starting with "do I really need XXXX?" and moving on to, "what are my options for where to get XXXX?" and then "who benefits from where I spend my money on XXXX?" Etsy.com is my new starting point for pending purchases. We'll see how this works when I'm looking for more than just random wants like purses and jewelry boxes.

I put this process to the test on Wednesday. I needed milk (ok, maybe need was a little bit of a stretch -- but I get really grumpy when I don't have milk for my tea). I drive right by Aldi and Safeway on my way home. Eastern Market (long-standing farmers' market close to Capitol Hill -- yuppy-town galore, but a foodie's dream) and Glut Food Coop (a throw-back to 1973 when it was opened -- hippy-central, but 5 blocks from my house) were also viable options. I wasn't sure Eastern Market was open as late as I needed, and so, with a slight alteration to my normal route, I stopped by Glut and picked up some milk from a local dairy. Yes, more expensive than half-a-gallon from Aldi, but organic and I could picture the farmer who fed the cows the morning they gave the milk. And spending money at Glut ensures that my neighborhood has a natural food store providing good, whole comestibles to a less-well-off part of town.

What are my daily choices about my health? Ugh. I've been on a work-out and healthy-eating hiatus for a coupla weeks now. The holidays, no settled work schedule with lots of time off with family and friends...I've read all the warnings from women's magazines about how to resist weight gain and backsliding during the holidays -- and I ignored them all in the *grandest* style, since about Halloween! Cookies, candy, cupcakes, pork and mashed potatoes, lots of butter, turkey and stuffing, popcorn, sodas, potato chips and *fritos!!* Over the last two weeks, I have abandoned my smoothies, salads, morning oatmeal, bike rides and runs, workouts of any kind, really. And I'm definitely feeling the results. I feel like a slug. I know I'll get back to it, but it's gonna be a hard slog. I might hafta go cold turkey on cutting sugar out.

The most sensible route is to just be more aware of what I do and how I treat myself. Getting back to the three-mornings-a-week, 7.5-miles-each-way bike-ride-to-work will be a big boost in the right direction. I've found that I can easily ride on Monday and Tuesday, but by Wednesday, I've lost interest in getting up so damn early and going out into the frigid cold morning only to get to work and have to do it all over again on the way home. So I drive on Wednesday and Thursday (which works out well for the office's Fun Run usually scheduled for Thursday mornings) and then bike again on Friday, when I can tell myself, it's just one more day before I can sleep in. Yoga on Sunday mornings at Joe's Movement Emporium up the street from Glut.

But it can't just be about the workout. I have to pay attention to what I'm eating too. Fresh fruits and vegetables, whole grains and beans, no processed crap and oooh, eeek, awww, limited cheese and dairy. (Julia Childs' cooking program just came on the tv behind me -- I don't think her style of baking will really help me much). And it will be interesting with how I resolve my first "Refocusing" with this second "Refocusing." They both take time and attention...searching out good food isn't usually fast.

What can I write about? I am not really happy with my lacksadaisical approach to writing, and in particular to this blog. I used to keep a journal, in addition to writing here, but I have also fallen off of that. I have to remember that I get a lot out of writing like this...thinking about issues bigger than just the daily grind, my place in the grander scheme of things, my emotional and spiritual well-being, and sometimes just darn funny things that pop into my little pea-brain. And writing things down helps get them out of my head. I have a really bad habit of allowing the hamsters to race and race and race and race around on their wheel without making any attempt to quiet their frantic but completely unproductive efforts. The process of writing and journaling gives those poor rodents a break.

However, I am not going to make any rash and binding promises about how much I will write. I'll keep my goal of a blog post every week or two, but don't want to feel like I should beat myself up if I go, idk, a month!! or more!!! without blogging. But I darn well better have at least cracked my journal open!

All of these redirections require more time commitments compared to how I spent my time last year. Unfortunately, I can't make more time, so something will have to give. Maybe less time on trashy fiction novels. Maybe less time on bitching about work. Maybe less time on waiting around for stuff to happen. There are a few things that I won't allow to suffer however...time with friends (including the two newest additions to my house -- Ringo and Lucy, brother and sister mono-chromatic kitties from the DC pound), work (sad to say in some ways, but I take pride in doing what I do and doing it well (or so I tell myself) that I'm not willing to half-ass my efforts there), and the house, especially once spring comes and I can get back into the yard and garden.

Happy New Year, all! May your “Refocusings” be long-lived and productive for you this year :)

Baggage

A few months ago, I asked a good friend (we'll call him Coyote, mostly because it will amuse him) what was the difference between lessons learned and baggage. I was going through a bit of a relationship crisis, and feeling the weight of trying to make good choices instead of falling into the same old trap of bad decisions spawned from parts of myself I had yet to fully acknowledge and accept. Coyote responded, baggage weighs you down and lessons learned help you move forward.

And that's why I asked him...because I knew he'd have an excellent answer. Stated so simply, it made some basic sense.

So now I'm in the fits of realizing that I have some baggage left over from KISKA's drydock, and the trials and tribulations of being berthed in Waikiki, a couple of islands away from home, with extremely limited means by which my crew could affordable-y feed themselves, having to commute more than 30 miles each way out to Barbers Point which was an acceptable 45 minutes on the way to the drydock, but could take an exhausting two hours on the way back to the hotel through Waikiki traffic...and on and on and on about all the bad things from that five month period. I'm still mad that our situation was so poorly planned. And a little chagrined that I was so proud of myself for getting some solution (the crew ended up getting the subsistence allowance for about three months-worth of the drydock...and the HQ office responsible for the policy changed the policy specifically to disallow the use of the allowance in that manner in the future), instead of being a squeakier wheel, finding the right advocate and running a full court press for the full five months-worth I thought they deserved.

This past week was hard. I think it was really the first week in the office I carried my expected weight as the Body Shop Reviewer. Crazy complicated issues that if I get them right, the Service chugs along without major disruption; but if I get them wrong, bad, bad things are likelier to happen -- multi-hundred million dollar things or things that cause chaos in the workforce. The reason I say it was really the first week I carried my expected weight is that I knew enough about the issues that I couldn't play the stupid new Girl card and weasel out with a slack-ass half effort.

One of the issues was similar enough to my experience on KISKA that all those old feelings of anger, injustice, lack of a voice came bubbling up to nearly choke the sensibility out of me...or at least squeeze a few tears of frustration out of me (thank goodness I made it to the privacy of a stall in the women's head before they leaked out...I hate crying in front of bosses -- especially when it's the kind from being pissed off that I just can't control) and prod me to call my sister one evening on my way home and spew vitriol and resentment in the form of enough f-bombs to make the attack on Dresden look like a small-town fireworks show.

So it became clear to me I'm carrying some baggage about KISKA's drydock.

The questions I find I must ask myself are how do I set aside the weight of the baggage and open it up so I might find the lessons to be learned within? What are those lessons? The majority of the insights to be gained are likely to be highly personal...how I perceive myself, what I think are my strengths and weaknesses, how I define success and failure, how I want to be perceived by others. Did I use getting the crew monetary compensation for their meals as a substitute to cover for my leadership shortcomings? Or were my motivations more in line with how I originally spun them..."It's my job to make sure they've got what they need to do theirs." Yeah -- don't know I'll be able to come to resolution on that one anytime soon. But at least I've defined the scope of the question.

And as much as I don't like admitting to such pettiness, I find I am not yet willing to let go of my resentment that nearly five months of my time assigned to KISKA was spent in a cold-iron maintenance status with no chance of cruising the great blue sea around the islands under the countless stars, dodging whales, ducking into lees to hide from the incessant trade wind chop, finally sailing into Hilo Bay past Coconut Island to our cozy little finger pier in Radio Bay and tripping merrily home to my Big Island bungalow. After taking difficult assignments (somewhat unwillingly in the case of orders to HAMILTON) and turning them into relative successes, I felt like I worked hard to get it and earned my time on KISKA -- the boat I had dreamed of being assigned to ever since I learned there was a patrol boat on the Big Island, eight years prior.

Did I really make the most of my time onboard? Wring every last bit of enjoyment and satisfaction to be had out of those short fourteen months? Or do I feel like I let some of it slip through my fingers? I will never be in that place, in that time, with those people again. I have some minor regrets about a few of the details, but the truth remains that my time on KISKA was my favorite tour (so far, anyway :) I have high hopes for my next tours afloat). I had an excellent crew, some difficult conditions, leadership challenges to keep me on my toes, and an amazing op area. I did the best I could based on what I knew at the time. I can't go back and do any of it over, so I better make damn sure I get it as close to right as I possibly can the first time.

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving (a day late)!! It’s been a great holiday for me so far. I flew down to Alabama on Wednesday after an early departure (officially sanctioned – Thanks, DCMS!) from work. I left from Reagan International from the terminal that has TSA Pre-Check lines…active duty military and others (I don’t know all the rules) get a special line. I walked past about a 45-minute wait, right up to the front with only six people in front of me. *And* I didn’t have to take off my boots, belt or take all the crap out of my bag. Loved it!

Yesterday was a feast with the Rocket Scientist and his family. So much food, wonderful people, a beautiful day and lots of laughter and fun contributed to a picture perfect holiday, touched with a tinge of sadness that I didn’t get to see my family, just talk with them for a few minutes on the phone. It firms my resolve to make a concerted effort to see them at Christmastime.

And today, I am *making* time to write a post. I haven’t for a very long time, and I kind of feel it in my head. Lots of post thoughts rattling around, making a bunch of racket in my skull. I don’t think I really have anything in particular to write about…or, no, that’s not quite it…I have a *ton* of things to write about. I just can’t. Predecisional, political both in the grand “federal government” sense (think fiscal cliff, Sequestration, etc., etc.) and in the internal CG sense, I just can’t write about a lot of the stuff I do on a daily basis.

It’s *frustrating!* I’ve said before that I don’t always start out with knowing where I’m going with a post. The process of getting the words out of my head helps figure out how to articulate exactly what I’m wrestling with and define the scope, underlying difficulties and potential solutions.

For example, I recently submitted my application to be a TRACEN Cape May Company Mentor. It’s something I’ve thought about doing for a while now, and since I’m a little closer to New Jersey than I have been for a long time, I decided to go for it. The application was fairly straight forward (sadly, the question I struggled with the most was, “What eight weeks over the next year are you most available?” Umm, none of them, but this is important to me, so I’ll make the time if you tell me when I need to be there). The meat of the application was the question, “Why do you want to be a Company Mentor?” or something to that effect. Huh, I hadn’t ever thought it through; I just knew it was something I wanted to do.

I wish I had access to my response while I write this post, because I’d take the easy way out and just cut and paste. But I’m still having difficulties with RAS, and I didn’t think ahead to what I was going to write about this weekend, so there ya go. Basically my answer was that one of the things I miss most about being a Commanding Officer (being on a ship in any capacity, really) is the interaction with my fellow crewmembers, especially the junior folks. There is something about their enthusiasm for all the new experiences that is inspiring and motivating. My current job that is so demanding, I need all the motivation I can find, and hanging out with new recruits sounds like a great opportunity to be reminded that the wonky budget work I do has real consequences to real people out doing real work in real dangerous conditions. I think I added that I stood to gain more from being a Company Mentor than the mentees might get from me.

In drafting my answer, though, it really started to make sense not only some of what I’ve been missing from not being underway but also why that sense of connection to field operations is so critical to my ability to make my best effort with program review duties. I wouldn’t have taken the time to go through the mental exercise of figuring out my motivational needs without the requirement of having to articulate why I want to be a Company Mentor. And that’s just good information for me to have about myself.

And it’s kind of funny that I feel such accountability from my blog. I mean, I *could* idk, journal about those things I can’t write publically about, but I just don’t have the forcing mechanism to make myself – being basically lazy and all. But because I’ve got such loyal readers, I feel obligated to continue writing for them…even if it is less frequently than before.

A quick side story about my readers: I’ve had a couple of recent encounters with people who read this bit of maundering. One was about two months ago: I cold-called somebody from one of my programs with a question. He’s something of a talkative sort who was newly reported and queried me about my background during the conversation. I gave him the last few years of my bio and at that point he asked me, hey, do you write a blog? Once I admitted that I did he told me he had run across it at his last job when he was searching online for resources about writing OERs to give to his JOs. I was a little embarrassed (but delighted) when he said he referenced my post to his JOs. I can only hope that one or two of them got something useful out of my thoughts on writing OER input.

And then just two or three weeks ago, I ran into a fellow blogger as I was making the trek between the two Headquarters buildings after a meeting. I hadn’t seen him for quite a while and stopped to chat with him for a moment. He said he was still reading my blog, it comes up on his RSS feed, and very kindly told me about how one of my posts about riding motorcycles had reminded him how much he enjoyed riding a motorcycle himself. He had a crash a couple of years ago, and hadn’t gotten around to replacing his bike. But after reading about my two-wheeled adventures, he remembered what fun he had and got a new motorcycle. Wow! I mean, Wow!! I guess I get a lot of satisfaction out of knowing that what I write resonates with other people and they find what I say useful. Hedging my bets against my mortality, maybe.

Regardless, I’m thankful for the forum.

Unexpected Time

The phone rang yesterday morning when I was about halfway through my bowl of cereal (Honey Nut Cheerios (yes, rather plebian, I know, but a comfort-food throwback to breakfasts at my grandparents' house) topped with thawed peaches, chia seeds and cocao nibs). It was Lynn from The Farm, telling me she didn't think they were going to be particularly busy and they wouldn't need my help.

An unexpected Day Off! How glorious a prospect! I immediately changed into yoga clothes and planned to leave the house by 0920 to walk up the street to Joe's. In the interim coupla hours, I did some laundry, cleaned the litter box, folded clothes, and generally puttered around the house. After yoga, I admit I mostly squandered my day, lounging on the couch, reading a book, watching football and then some backlogged tv shows.

Oh, and cooking. Apparently, I cook when I have downtime...who'da thunk. It started with mac&cheese, polluted with chicken sausage and one of the last garden tomatoes from the summer. Followed by brownies with pecans. Followed by a melange-mess of a stew...sweet potato, onion, barley, poblano pepper, more of the chicken sausage, veggie stock, lentils, worchestershire sauce and a bottle of pilsner that had been lingering in my fridge for umm, longer than I can remember. Most of the stew has already been transferred to the freezer, back up meals for when I get home after a twelve or fourteen hour day. But the leftover mac&cheese joined the leftover quiche (bacon, spinach and feta...from when the freezer came unplugged a coupla months ago), salad fixings, apples, cheese, mole accoutrements, chestnuts and smoothie-makings in the already full refrigerator.

Speaking of smoothies, the subject of them came up during the office fun-run this Thursday. The XO finally took the opportunity to query me on just what was in them. I rattled off the list: frozen pineapple, peaches, strawberries or whatever else happened to be on hand, lately Swiss chard, but sometimes kale and/or avocado, oatmeal, fresh ginger, sometimes spirulina (a green algae superfood) and/or beets (though the combo of the deep green spirulina and bright red beets does mix into a disturbingly unappetizing purple-brown, somewhat reminiscent of radioactive pond-scum), tumeric, cayenne, chia seeds and cocoa nibs, yogurt and juice. I think I lost his interest soon after "frozen fruit." But the smoothies do pique interest in the office, and I have a standing request from a couple of folks who want to try them. Will take in samples shortly.

The brownies are wrapped up, still on the counter, singing their siren song to me. I don't know that they'll last through the day.

I made some preparations for the arrival of Hurricane Sandy yesterday also. Like putting odds and ends from the yard away, bringing the outdoor trash cans into the laundry room, bringing in some extra kindling (shoulda brought in more firewood than I did...how cozy would a nice cheery fire be to ward off the skittery feeling of the impending storm), plugging in the rechargeable lantern and finding extra flashlights, filling a couple of largish containers with water...just in case. I rode the fence for a while about going to the grocery store, but finally leveraged my lazy ass off the couch with the thought of just how aggravatedpissedannoyedfrustrated I'd be with myself if I ended up not having to go into work but not having any milk for my tea.

And this morning, I made apple-walnut pancakes.

The funny-ironic thing about all this food is that it's not really the type of food that is fit to share with other people. It's good enough for me, because when it gets down to it, I'll eat damn near anything I make as long as I'm hungry enough. But I have sufficient sensibility to realize pond-scum smoothies and melange stew do not appeal to most anyone else. I am gonna make some cranberry-apple bread pudding to take into the office when the storm is over though.

But now I'm rather at odds. What happened to all those things I've always said I'd do when "I got the time?" I've got the time now, and I can't remember a single darn one of them. I think this is actually one of my greatest fears...to become so involved in my work, regardless of whether it's due to demanding hours, long deployments, or inescapable responsibility, that I lose the rest of myself...my interests, my abilities, my sense of fun.

Now, granted, the circumstances of today (unknown amount of downtime, **crappy** weather conditions outside) limit my ability or desire to pursue a lot of what I like to do...The Old Man would probably permanently *revolt!* if I tried going for a ride today, and the garden/yard is a soggy mess that tampering with in these conditions would only make worse. Where are my inside interests though?

I've got bookshelves full of books to read (am saving them for when the power inevitably goes out and I don't have internet access anymore). I could clean house...hahaha -- well, I typed it with a straight face, anyway. Why isn't my loom set up? Oh yeah, no space and weaving definitely takes more of a time commitment, what with planning, set up and finishing, than I will have for at least a decade. Should I pick up knitting or crocheting? The Rocket Scientist recommended remote control boats.

I know...I'll practice writing, ya know, for when I start to write a book as so many people tell me I should. And plan homemade Christmas presents like when I was a poor college student. And, idk, just *wallow* in not having anything to do!

Stay safe, everyone!

My Sixth October

Ahem. Yes, I know it's been six weeks since my last post (or is it seven weeks?). Yes, I know I'm an absolute slacker. My litany of excuses includes: OMB roll-out, the Rocket Scientist's safe return from Afghanistan, a brief spate of fomenting minor revolution, a two-week motorcycle vacation in Florida, a backlog of household chores, and volunteering at Larriland Farm for their October weekend madness. And it's not that I haven't been thinking about writing, but I'm definitely feeling the difficulty of being limited in what I can talk about with regards to my job, and, well, a self-imposed limitation about sharing tmi about my personal relationships.

I know I've procrastinated too long when I get a text from FR, "Hey I think you are due for a blog post!" Nothing like getting tasking from an ex-XO...(his comment when I shared that thought with him, "Payback"...tee hee).

So here I am, mid-way through a quiet Sunday afternoon, with a cheery fire in the fireplace (just because I can and there's just a hint of a chill in the house), with the football game keeping me company, finally sitting down to get some of this noise out of my head.

And disappointingly, I'm going to start with a whine session. (No, I don't want any cheese with that whine...the cheesy post is going to be the one I write about the vacation -- two weeks on a motorcycle with my boyfriend cruising through southern Florida -- yes, it was all that. Definitely going to be sappy). But my job is hard. And kinda sucks. The hours are long, the problems difficult, the budget environment is...umm, challenging?, programs are in various states of acceptance, and the stakes are high.

Now, don't get me wrong. I like a challenge. And I don't need my hand held, or constant pats on the back or  atta-boys or public recognition of  how hard I work. But a win for the good guys, every now and again goes a *long* way to making a difficult situation more tenable. Instead, it's been contentious arguments, obstructionist behavior, obdurate attitudes, and even sometimes, unproductive castigations about insufficient contributions.

I'm a little embarrassed about that last one, because that was me. I could have handled the situation much better, but I was *FRUSTRATED!* I didn't say anything that wasn't true; there was just no way that what I said was a positive and supportive addition to the discussion. Especially since I couldn't bring myself to apologize for it. The best I could manage was to acknowledge how unproductive my comment was to accomplishing the goals of the meeting. Unfortunately, it put the receiving individual on the defensive to the point where s/he won't deal with me directly anymore, deliberately removing me from email replies. Dang.

Oh, and I said it in a public forum, with an audience of about half a dozen other people, so there's really no way to allow the recipient to gracefully recover. Double dang.

So yeah, I'm feeling a little beat up. Or maybe beat down. I can't decide.

But after working 60 hours a week in the office, I've been going to the farm one weekend day to help out with their October weekend festivities. Add another nine hours of demanding labor to my work week. I've been wondering why, oh why, I chose to spend my precious weekend hours busting my ass, being polite and helpful to customers, manhandling pumpkins, wrangling bushels of apples, dead-lifting gallons upon gallons of cider, herding teenagers in the packing area and making endless rounds to gather up abandoned baskets and carts.

The Farm has changed a little bit since I first started working there in 1987. I was a puny 14 year-old, at my first job; kinda shy, not much self-confidence, no idea of what work ethic was, nervous, wanting to do a good job, but not sure what all that entailed. Huh, 25 years ago...over the span of four decades (the 80s, 90s, 2000s and 20-teens). I counted it up, and I think this is my sixth October working weekends on the Farm.

My memories of the first few Octobers are covered in powdered sugar. From head to toe. In my hair, in my ears, up my nose. I spent 10 hours in the apple fritter booth, usually both Saturday and Sunday (that's back when The Farm ran the booth internally...somewhere along the way, they got smart and outsourced it to a local church group (?)/non-profit). I was the front-Girl...taking orders and payment, and putting the finishing touch of a dusting of powdered sugar on the fritters hot from the deep fryer. One day it was windy, and I ended the day looking like a ghost. I had more sugar on me than I think got on the fritters. I can eat fritters again now, 25 years later. But the smell of them still takes me back to those first few weekends.

I really enjoy going back to The Farm. Maybe it's an attempt to hold onto my younger days. I can't be old if I can still lift two half-bushels of apples at the same time (I've always been too short to try for three at a time). But, in particular these days, I think I enjoy it because I can contribute to the good guys winning without much effort on my part. I can walk into the market, back into the packing area and pack a peck of apples without thinking about it, look at the display tables and know what needs to be done next, jump onto a register and help whittle down the long lines, back up the clerks by bagging two lines at a time, answer endless questions from customers with a smile on my face. It's all stuff that I did so long ago and for long enough that it is fairly well ingrained in me. I can be good at it without trying too hard. And in these days, when I need the good guys to win one every so often, going to The Farm restores me a little.

It didn't hurt that the ride home was right at sunset, through the rural area of Montgomery County. The golden pink rays of the sun soaked into all the fall colors of the leaves changing, and just *lit up* the countryside. There were some solitary trees that were in full glory that were unbelievable...it seemed like all the goodness of the day was shining out through those brilliant shades.