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Math beyond what any normal person (and I use the term "normal" loosely) would use day-to-day is just fucking asinine. I can get by with just the basic functions without getting audited or arrested, so why all the drama? If I was going to be a rocket scientist like my brother, then yes, I can understand all the alphabet math. But for me, a political analyst major, who the hell cares if I can solve 15-2x=5-7x?
I think it's just a way the universities can milk billions from students who cares just as much as I do about higher math.
And it is true: I am Asian and I am not good at math. Well, half-true. Mestiza ako. A/2= -m (A=Asian, m=math skills)? Might be, Rabbit. Might be.
(So, which half is it anyway?)
This past Friday I went to (what seems a damn-near weekly appearance) the VA Medical Center for a hearing test. Since I came back from Iraq, I have been having the hardest time hearing in crowded areas and hearing nothing amplified white noise when I am alone in the quiet. Almost sounds as if my head is in a Champaign glass or something (I wish). I guess that's what happens when a mortar drops right behind your deluxe accommodations while you are asleep. Doesn't give you any time to put in your ear plugs they adamantly demand you keep on your IBA (interceptor body armor) at all times. Anyway, you can probably guess that the outcome wasn't good if I am writing about it. It was about what I thought it would be. A big indicator was the test I took on my final examinations on my way out of the Army. The audiologist said that my hearing has decreased in my left ear by about 15%. The only thing that this audiologist said to me was that I lost "quite a bit of hearing in the high and midrange and that I would have to come back for more testing." Oh, and the Champaign bubbles? That's probably tinitus, something they will have to monitor. Well, whatever the white noise is, it's not quiet.
I am pretty curious what the outcome will be. I don't think that it would bother me if I have to wear a hearing aid. If anything, it will give me something in common to talk about with my youngest nephew who is 70% deaf in both ears. I think the conversations would be interesting. He is a very smart guy (no longer a kid, I suppose). I wonder how he would feel if I told him it was because of a mortar. Maybe when he is a little older. I have only been back a year. But I could imagine the conversations with T. I remember he and our grand/great-grandfather were talking once about their hearing aids. T. told Grandpa that when my sister starts nagging, he turns off his hearing aids. Grandpa laughed very hard, saying that he does the same thing when Grandma starts yammering. To see the similarities across the generations was pretty intriguing to me.
In a sick little way, I sort of wish I was still in the Army being diagnosed with this problem. Just thinking of things I could have ignored. It reminded me of a story someone sent me while I was stationed at Bragg and he at Campbell. He was sort of in the same boat as I except his, I believe, was degenerative. But I received an email from him back in OCT 98 about an incident that occurred while he was doing his morning PT (physical training):
Picture this: a crisp, cool October morning at Ft. Campbell. A rather handsome, young E5 (SGT) 96B (All-Source Intelligence Analyst) is rucking down a deserted road by himself, happy at one with the universe. Suddenly, a 101st Ordinance Company breaks the solitude, complete with rucks, ducks (solid rubber weapon look-a-likes), pro masks (gas masks), kevlars, and of course, the company guideon. Because this is a tactical road march, the first person in the column asks the amazingly sexy 96B if he is friend or enemy. The 96B, being a kind and gentle soul, replies with, "I'm a fucking Viet Cong, you asswipe. What do you think??" Moving down the road, our hero then meets the CO (commanding officer) of the Ordinance Company, CPT Choadsmoker, who unwisely decides to yell at the suave 96B because his LBV (load bearing vest) is unbuckled. The 96B, being a good NCO (non-commissioned officer), not wanting to make this young captain look like a total idiot in front of his troops, merely points to his unit patch (my friend was with 5th Special Forces Group at the time) and makes a reference to the captain's lack of real wings (he was airborne as opposed to air assault... always a big dick measuring contests between the two groups, although I feel that air assault wings are about fucking useless), and suggests that maybe the captain can "mind his own fucking business." The captain, who is obviously well loved by his troops, did not appear to enjoy the laughter at his expense. He requested that the attractive 96B stop to discuss this issue further. The 96B did not stop. The captain reached, and maintained, a volume that turned his face red and made all his veins stick out of his head. But still the 96B kept strolling away, commenting to himself that a hearing profile (a restriction of capabilities) can be a wonderful thing.
Even today I still get a really good laugh from this story- mainly because I can see him saying and doing everything. It's a shame we are no longer friends, per se, but that is another story all in itself, and it doesn't have anything to do with the loss of hearing... more like listening.
Bath bombs, that is.
Have you ever noticed that most things can be resolved with a nice hot soak in the bath? Throw in a blackberry bath bomb from Lush and a pint or two of Guinness and no matter who tapped danced on your last nerve, he is of no consequence.
For me to have broken out my heavily rationed bath bombs from Canada took a very bad day. It's hard to fathom that there are so many no-talent ass clowns in the world. And they all congregate here.
Now, if I could just find my red Swingline... I would clock some random son-of-a-bitch with it.
It has been a few days. I sometimes get in these moods where nothing strikes me as funny, irrational or inspirational enough to write about. Not that today was any different, I suppose. We'll see what transpires at the end of this.
I was at the post office today to mail a package to my "kids" in Iraq. Mail always makes the day in Iraq- even if it is junk mail. But I went to the post to mail a box and get some post card stamps. As usual, there was a line a mile long and only two of the four cashiers open. You would think that during lunch they would have a full staff to greet the onslaught. There I go thinking again... lest I digress.
Everytime I go to the post office, there is always a child-friendly DVD on the TV. Any other time, I just glaze over it and watch the people instead (much more entertaining). But today, for some odd reason, I started watching the movie, The Flinstones. I never saw it outside the bits and pieces when I am at the post office (they change them every other month, it seems); it is not something I would normally watch based on principle. Come on, a movie about a cartoon I used to watch religiously when I was six? Anyway, I started watching and I guess it had just begun because Fred and Barney live together and have yet to meet Willma and Betty. Five minutes into watching it, I had this epiphany (for the lack of a better word). The story about the Flintstones kinda mirrored a part of my life in a strange way. The part that had me think "gads" was when Fred asked Betty out and it ended up a double date: Fred with Betty and Barney with Wilma. Then there was the weird minute with the same funny laughs between Barney and Betty and they took off... After that it was the bowling incident with Fred and Wilma. These particular scenes reminded me of just after I graduated high school. My very good friend G. and I were hanging out in front of an all-ages "punk" club down at the beach (1st Street... HOOTIE!). G. went inside, I think, and I was approached by a tall, dark, and very handsome Indian named Z. (So, I bet you are wondering why I am only using first initials... I feel very awkward using the names of innocents in my novellas without their approval. Call it a guilt thing. I would use their names but, like me, are so unusual, it could instantly identify them. Why not make up a name? That would be silly.) We started talking for awhile then G. comes back out and he leaves. We go inside and she goes off to dance and Z. approaches me again. We continue to talk for the rest of the evening and realize we are very much alike. Then he asks me who my friend is. Now all the while, Z. was with this guy who doesn't say much, B. To make this boring story short and relevant to the movie... Z was interested in G. which was fine by me... I wasn't much interested in guys, believe it or not... not even at 15 with the exception of my first love, my heart, PS ... more like wanting to find myself first, well, maybe waiting for him perhaps). He asked G. and I, for some reason, decided to go out with his friend B. Similar, but not the same as the Flintstones, at least in my eyes. But it had me thinking, movies sometimes imitates life. My dearest S. and I used to talk about this once in awhile while we were in Iraq. Working during the night shift brought interesting conversations. S. and I used to do all of our talking either during breakfast, after shift, before I went to sleep, while I was getting ready for shift, or on our way to shift. Sounds like a lot, but all together, it wasn't much at all. Anyway, I remember we took a movie or a TV show and assign each character with someone we knew from the unit. For example, The Muppet Show. We assigned the two grumpy men in the skybox to our two chiefs. Gonzo was the LT, the prior commander was Ms. Piggy, the current commander as Kermit, so on and so forth. Then there was a time that S. and I took the movie Shrek and assigned roles. That was fairly easy and so very true to life. It would have been eeire if it weren't for the fact that it was a damned cartoon we were talking about. He was Shrek, I was the princess and my dog was Donkey (just thinking about it, if we were to discuss Shrek II, I am almost certain that we would agree our "kid" O. would be Puss n' Boots), the reserve unit would be those gay men in tights, etc. Thinking about that makes me laugh. Maybe because I am crazy.
Not everything is all tee hees and haa haas. There are some movies where I can draw direct parallels with my life. For some reason, I find myself addicted to the age of the kings and queens; the Elizabethian era or the Rennaisance, or the Enlightenment periods... Movies such as Elizabeth or Pride and Prejudice illustrates such parallels to my own life in such insignificant ways. Well, insignificant to others but me, that is. I could simply draw these paralles to explain, but why bore you to death now? You made it this far.
My point is simly this: Life imitates art imitates life. It could be commical, it could be poingant.
I don't know if it is the alignment of the planets or what, but for the second time in a week I have subjected myself to the masses during Prime Time- shopping at the mall on a Saturday. Oh, but this was a special edition. It is a tax-free weekend. (For those who don't know what this is, it means that the state will not charge you taxes on certain items. Many times they are items related to school such as clothes, shoes, computers, etc. ad nauseaum.)
Don't get me wrong, I love a bargain like the next gal, but good Lord! It's only 7% on the first X-amount depending on what the item was (there is a whole laundry list). The mall was like the Running of the Bulls. People were rushing around as if their lives depended on it. For me, I was on a mission for some "proper" shoes. Up until this point, my footwear wardrobe has consisted of boots, platforms (and not of the patent leather, $2 whore variety), and Birks. Since I am venturing into uncharted territory, I took cues from what I did see when I went in for my interview. Certainly not the khakis and polos kinda crowd like where I am currently, unless they participate in the institution of Casual Fridays. It should prove interesting.
But the mall. What the hell, people? Sure, I understand your coming to the mall for the tax incentive, but do you and your children have to act like heathens? Is it really necessary for you and your brood, who have several different fathers, to meander the mall aimlessly hindering the traffic of others who have a purpose? Or what about people with children who put on dramatical tantrums, complete with the sprawling of the limbs? What kills me is that their parents just look at them as if it is cute. There is nothing cute about it. My first inclination is to kick the bastard across the hall. That would certainly give it something to cry about. People's unruly kids are not my concern. They are just an annoyance.
Needless to say, shoes were a no-go. It's hard to find shoes in my size. It just made my excursion through the mall all that much better.
Why did I go today of all days? Mainly for the people watching... and the tax break. It was, after all, the Running of the Bulls(hit).
The title doesn't make much sense, does it? Well, it's just like the article I just read in this week's Time (The Fast Track, p. 18). The article began as a feel good story about a wounded soldier becoming a naturalized citizen with President Bush in attendance. Then it goes on about the history of allowing non-citizens serve in our military since the War of 1812 and how they are 2% of today's forces. Although I am aware of the 2002 Executive Order waving the mandatory three year waiting period before a petition for citizenship, I cannot help but to think that this could be used to infil sleeper agents into the military. Sounds too Conspiracy Theory-ish? Well, so what. It is worth to at least consider it a possibility. With all the news of illegal aliens using fake IDs to get into the country, who is to say that these IDs are not being used to join the military? I fail to believe that the background investigations being done for these noncitizens are 100% thorough. I am sure there is a small number of people in the military who joined with fake identification. A small number is too many. Even though the highly sensitive jobs are closed to most non-citizens, there are other jobs that do not require a clearance, but are just as sensitive. I can see someone going into the military and learning everything he can only to use it against us. It's been done before, it's just a matter of when it happens again. As porous as our borders are, I think it would be easy to slip in, obtain fake identification and join the military. I don't know about you, but at a glance, can you tell a Latin American from a Middle Eastern? No. Not at a glance. It's just creepy how my mind works. But it is a potential issue that needs to be investigated further.
Immigration is a huge problem right now. People in Congress are at ends as to what to do. Open the border? Are you smoking crack? Fences are expensive and probably useless. Hire more Border Patrol Agents? It's a long process and I am sure that they are not receiving nearly as many applications as they need agents. Probably because most of our more qualified people are fighting the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Put more National Guardsmen on the border and militarize it? Now that's a solution. Viable? Could be, if we pulled some troops back from obscure places like Bosnia and Korea. We aren't accomplishing much in the former, and the citizens want us- but not our money- gone from the latter. We could increase the use of fingerprint technology. I know it's being used, but how stringently? Even with that, though, you are only catching maybe a handful that try. It's the people that cross illegally is the real issue. Some solutions? Deny citizenship to children of illegals regardless if they were born here. Heavily penalize or shut down businesses that hire illegals. Make public examples of them. There should be a way that the government can make a company register their workers in a national database that is accessible to all alphabet agencies. In a perfect world, that would be dandy. But I know what a headache that could be to start up as well as maintain. And there are no guarantees that there will be companies that pay people under the table. There is also an issue with information whoring. In every agency, federal government or military, there are always the info whores. I know all about this. Anyway, almost everyone can agree that our borders need to be tightened- and quickly. I am going way off my intention for tonight's babble.
Towards the end of the Time article I was reading, it said that there is talk about recruiting in India- a potential mega-source of English-speaking enlistees. I about had a seizure. First, corporations are outsourcing jobs to India and now the government is talking about opening recruiting stations there? WFT, guys? Can you see the potential problems there? The same ones I mentioned at the beginning of this tirade.
Maybe we should entertain the idea of conscription. Oh, wait. The politicians wouldn't want that. They couldn't stand the thought of having to send their spoiled little darlings in the military with the common riff raff.
I was so enthralled by the ass-sault at Wal-Mart last night that I inadvertently put aside what I was going to write about- my day at the VA. I don't think I have ever come close to bitch-slapping someone I didn't know. But before I delve into the story, perhaps a little history would do you some good.
I have been suffering from migraines and insomnia for the last 18 years. Strangely enough, I was allowed to enlist. Of course I didn't have any time to sleep, let alone suffer a migraine episode without the expressed permission from the drill sergeants while I was in Basic or AIT. I was actually fine until my first year at my first duty station. I went a couple of weeks of sleeping two hours a day with a killer headache hanging over my right eye like a hemorrhoid. I was pretty functional but it took a toll on my appearance. According to the LT, I looked dead. So I went in to see the medic. The medic referred me to "the 4th Floor". Being a novice in the vast myriad of the hospital, I didn't know I was being referred to the puzzle factory. But, being a good soldier, I went. I just never understood why I went to a shrink for a migraine that was causing my insomnia. The shrink tried a whole host of anti-depressants, saying that I am suffering from depression, which is causing my migraines, which is causing my insomnia. Even then I thought it was bullshit. But could you tell a bird colonel that? I tried, and tactfully at that. Apparently it didn't work. Neither did the cocktail of drugs I tried. I was still getting headaches. Then there was a change in quacks. The new doc, surprisingly, asked why I wasn't referred to the neurologist. Fancy that, common sense in the Army. So I began at square one with neuro and finally got relief for my headaches. And I finally slept with a little help though modern pharmaceuticals (until I established a pattern). Problem solved. Well, at least until I went to Iraq. My headaches were manageable, but I couldn't sleep most of the time. I think it was the combination of working into overdrive, the fear of being killed while taking a shit in the honey bucket and worrying about my soldiers and my friends living the high life outside the wire. Oh yeah, there were the mortars, too-minor details. But sleep escaped me then and followed me home. I decided to have it documented if, in fact, one of the several hundred ccs of crap I had been shot with came up to be the cause of it or anything else that might happen in the future. Big mistake. I went back to the shrink who did nothing but inquire about my nuclear family. Enough already. Made no sense to go back.
I am not sure what they wrote about me in those little book of theirs, but it seemed to have resurfaced at the VA labeling me as me having some major depression issues. I didn't know this until I finished my initial screening with the health care provider last week. I had to turn in my little sheet to the admin cave when I looked at the top, I saw that it broke my percentages beyond what I received in my final judgment (another sore point of contention with me). It says that I am 10% service connected for major depression. WTF? A totally new one on me. What most people don't realize is that this could be a potential career killer in my line of work. I was livid, but decided inaction was the best recourse for the moment. (In fact, I think I am going to talk to that male wombat behind his cage about it later this week. If he could do anything about it, I am not sure.) The next day or so I get an appointment notification for Monday at 0900. Ok, I figure, I am going to go in and talk to a shrink and everything will be alright. Oh no. I went and it was a group session, "Depression and You" or some shit like that. I about flipped my gourd. How many times do I have to tell people I am not depressed? So I get up to leave. The little nice lady asked me where I was going. I told her that I wasn't depressed and didn't need to be here. She says I had to because I am on anti-depressants (my primary care provider had put me on Amiltriptaline for sleep, which may have tripped the group hug alarm). I told her I was given the meds so I could sleep. She countered, "insomnia is a symptom of depression". I was getting pissed. I told her nicely that I am not depressed and that the only logical reason why I cannot sleep is because my mind refuses to shut down long after my body does. I am always thinking. She said I was in denial and should sit for the session. It must have been obvious I was beyond livid because she added, in her sweet, little old lady voice, "you know, dear, aggravation is also a sign of depression." I just sat down. It was either that or I give them a reason for them to issue me my own love-me-jacket and a place at the padded Hilton.
I must be mellowing in my old age.
Math beyond what any normal person (and I use the term "normal" loosely) would use day-to-day is just fucking asinine. I can get by with just the basic functions without getting audited or arrested, so why all the drama? If I was going to be a rocket scientist like my brother, then yes, I can understand all the alphabet math. But for me, a political analyst major, who the hell cares if I can solve 15-2x=5-7x?
It has been a few days. I sometimes get in these moods where nothing strikes me as funny, irrational or inspirational enough to write about. Not that today was any different, I suppose. We'll see what transpires at the end of this.
