It’s been a busy week - I had an administrative board hearing this week where I presented the government’s case and argued why they should kick someone out of the military.  I did a really good job and was very proud of how smoothly I made it through despite some serious nerves.  It’d been a few years since I did one last and I’ve never done one for the Marines so I had a few minor obstacles to overcome but all in all it went amazingly well.

I do love working with the Marines like I did on this - there is something about their sayings and their delivery of those sayings that makes me laugh.  Sometimes they’re trying to be funny, and sometimes they’re not and make me laugh that much harder.

Then there are the parts of my job that are less rewarding, like when you make someone cry because you’re the one who has to deliver news they never saw coming that can be the end of their career.  I despise those moments.  I’m grateful I don’t have to do that often.

And then there are the parts of my job that are just irritating, like having to account for every minute of every day, everything I do has to be entered in a database to be tracked to see if my job is worth keeping.

There are the parts of my work life that aren’t particular to being in my career field but still come with the territory of being in the military.  Being passed over for promotion.  Having to make difficult decisions on where I go next.  Working so hard for my peers only to be rejected by them.  Questioning whether I’m doing enough, wondering what more I can do because it feels like whatever I do isn’t enough.

I sometimes wonder if I should keep doing this.  I wonder what’s waiting for me on the other side of this life.  I know the saying, the grass is always greener on the other side, but I know for a fact that when I drive around my neighborhood, there is a definite difference between one yard and the next.  It’s all a matter of how well it’s tended, how much water is given, how often dog shits on it…I guess what I’m saying is sometimes the grass IS greener on the other side, and I just don’t know which side that is.  Because I know that regardless of which side I’m on, I’ll have to deal with dogshit.

THIS is why I own cats.

OK.  I don’t really think I’m dumb.  Please know that before this goes any further.

After I finished high school, I had three choices:  go to college, get a job with no work experience or marketable skills, or join the military.

A job with no work experience?  That couldn’t go well for me, especially with that “no marketable skills” part.

The military?  Hellllll-to-the-NO!  I’m never going in the military, nuh uh, no way.  Never, never, never.

So college it was.  Surprisingly, despite my lackluster grades throughout high school, I got into a state university and off I went in the fall of 1995, armed with zero social skills and Alanis Morissette’s new, angry album to console me.  It was really my first time away from home, and without the necessary social skills that it takes to live on a college campus - any social skills would have been helpful, even if they were classified as “dork” - I had a very hard time adjusting.  I was confused by the antethetical climates of partying and studying, and I fit into neither.

My first semester, I went to a couple of classes as recommended by some educational counselor somewhere.  By the end of the first semester, I found myself drifting off in class frequently, not sleeping, and often missing class altogether.  By the end of the second semester, I found myself doing all of the above, except in more alarming intensity and now including a newfound eating disorder.  Which I don’t think until now anyone really ever knew about except me.

By my third semester, I was foregoing classes in exchange for sleeping, not eating, and my new infatuation, surfing the internet.  It was a haven for the unsociable Karyn, the one who had good qualities in her but didn’t know how to share them with others unless it involved complete and utter anonymity.  I never pretended to be someone I wasn’t on the internet; instead, I thrived on being able to be myself in the company of strangers who couldn’t sense my awkwardness and instead just enjoyed conversing with me.  The internet both hurt me and helped me: every free moment I had was spent on it which left no time whatsoever for anything academically-related (especially back then when the internet was not used much for learning - I learn so much now from it but back then only used it for entertainment purposes), and yet it was also the beginning of learning to value myself as an intelligent person who actually did have the ability to entertain others.  Unfortunately, at that time I still had no social skills to speak of in real life.  And so I continued the self-destructive cycle of sleep and internet.  And nothing in between.  Including eating.

Every once in a while I would make a feeble attempt at attending a class.  I would show up, and either drift off, either falling asleep or just not paying any attention whatsoever to what was being taught.  By this time, my not eating was starting to be something I noticed; early on, I didn’t think anything of it except that I didn’t feel like eating but as time went on I realized I wanted to eat but I couldn’t.  And then there was that morning at the end of the winter semester in 1996 when I found myself staring at my reflection in the water of the toilet after actually eating breakfast, and I knew I had to get out of there.  Right then.

And that’s what I did.  I don’t remember packing up, I don’t remember leaving, I don’t remember coming home or telling my parents I was done with college.  I only knew that I was done, that college wasn’t for me.

This left me the remaining two options: job with no education, or military.  And since, of course, I was NOT joining the military NEVER EVER NEVER NEVER, I found a job.  I moved back in with my parents and got a job at the coffee cart in the hospital my mom worked in at the time.  During the day, I was a barista.  At night, I went to a cafe until it closed and drank more coffee.   The good news was that as unexpectedly as I had stopped eating, being back out of the college environment I started eating again.    The bad news was that being a barista wasn’t exactly a successful, long-term job and I still had no plan.

After a couple of months of doing nothing, my parents wanted me out.  Still to this day I’m conflicted on whether to be angry that I couldn’t have the time to work through whatever it was I was working through, or to be grateful to get that boot up my ass that shoved me out the door.   And out that door meant going into Door #3, the only remaining door I saw as an option that had any potential whatsoever.  Plus, now that I’d already gone into the other two doors and realized I couldn’t hack it behind either one, this door was not looking so shabby anymore: A steady paycheck, job skills, the opportunity to move somewhere bigger than Milwaukee.

Since then, I think I’ve done a pretty good job of playing the game that I never intended to play.  I have found good success so far and have surprised myself in many, many ways.  And one of the things I’ve always appreciated is that I didn’t need a college degree to do so.  Now, I could have gone that route and gotten my degree and joined the military and become an officer with much nicer pay and benefits, but at least I could still be successful without having to get the piece of paper that declared me Smart.

However, in the last couple of years of playing the game, I’ve realized that one of the things holding me back is my Fear of Failure.  My very big fear of failure.  Failing once again at education.  Failing at being smart.

And the other thing keeping me back is my frustration that I chose this path that did not require a degree to succeed and now I’ve got this held over my head as a reason I don’t get promoted.  I get angry that I have to get a degree, and yet with my degree which is pretty much the only qualification that separates civilians from being able to be an officer or “only” an enlisted person.  I won’t get paid more.  I won’t get better benefits.  Sure, now I might be able to get promoted but my promotion will only bring me $333 more a month, but if I was in for 11 years and was an O4, I’d be making almost double what I make now.

Why spend my time, which I don’t have enough of the way it is, in a classroom earning a degree  instead of at work, or at home with my family, or volunteering? And another reason I didn’t want to take any college classes is because the colleges here are cheap.  They give degrees to anyone who takes enough classes with them.  They pass anyone who shows up once in a while.  They grade on curves that allow a 59% to be an A (seriously!).  It’s a joke, and I refused to participate until this semester.

But as I’ve mentioned before, this is part of the game.  And I am, by choice, playing the game so I guess I’ve got to play it my hardest, which I acknowledge includes college. So I enrolled in one of the local colleges that offers face-to-face classes (I tried a distance class last year and failed miserably) and tonight was to be my first class toward an associate’s degree in criminal justice, a class on courtroom procedures - something I have a leg up on the competition in - and something I actually started looking forward to.

And it was cancelled.

Fortunately, they’re going to make one last attempt (this was the 2nd time it was “off”) to get enough people enrolled to be able to hold the class, and I have a much more successful plan “B” once this semester is over.  I applied today to enroll in Roger Williams University, an actual reputable college that the Navy has partnered with that  offers a bachelor’s degree in paralegal studies and after this semester I’ll be able to take courses with them.

Then I’ll be smart.

Navy women need fashion help, critic says

from the Navy Times

Navy women “are getting the short end of the stick” with unflattering and un-stylish uniforms, wrote a fashion critic on the Web site of an influential style magazine, but never fear — she has some suggestions for improvements.

Roxanne Robinson-Escriout, the senior accessories editor of Women’s Wear Daily, a trade publication known as “the bible of fashion,” took a look at the women’s uniforms this summer aboard the cruiser Anzio, which is commanded by her brother, Capt. Scott Robinson. Although he described the ship’s offensive capabilities during her visit, Robinson-Escriout wrote that she “was naturally more interested in finding signs of chic.”

There weren’t many. With the ship’s training officer, Lt j.g. Sandra Davis, serving as a model, Robinson-Escriout concluded that the officers’ khaki pants were unflattering; Davis’ v-neck uniform sweater was “too boxy;” and worst of all were the crew’s coveralls: “These puppies were definitely designed to erase any trace of femininity.”

But she had a solution: Upon discovering an officer “with a designer’s dream body” — Lt. Charlotte Bigg — Robinson-Escriout suggested Bigg cinch up her web belt, turn up her collar and push up her sleeves:

“Voilà! Instant Navy makeover!” she wrote. “It seems logical to me that if you look better you work better, no?”

Robinson-Escriout had other suggestions for Navy women to become more fashionable: fitted shirts that don’t need to be tucked in; pencil skirts; and splashes of red or blue around warships to break up “the allover battleship gray.” Still, there’s only so much Big Navy can do, in this era of Task Force Uniform, so Robinson-Escriout had another suggestion to pull the Pentagon back from women’s uniform design.

“Why not enlist an American designer like Marc Jacobs, Michael Kors or, of course, Ralph Lauren to add a little fashion-forward flair to regulation garb?” she wrote — an idea that has been tried by European police departments and the Russian military. “Maybe then the military just might find themselves with a few more female recruits.”

Two points:

***

1. There are probably only about 14 LT Biggses in the Navy, and

2. SERIOUSLY??

Get your mind out of the gutter!

When I was a wee 8-year-old girl, we moved to the house my parents still live in, in a relatively nice suburb of Milwaukee. Before that we’d lived in a housing development in Milwaukee. This move to our new town was major; we went from a small 3 bedroom condo-style place to a beautiful 4 bedroom home with our own garage! And yard! And septuagenarian neighbors!

It’s always uncomfortable starting a new school, but it seemed to be much more so since we lived in a town that most kids went to school with the same kids from kindergarten - for some, pre-school - until college. And it didn’t help that I have always been socially awkward. I don’t know whose bright idea it was, mine or my parents, to have me try to play a sport, but let me just tell you: that was one of the most embarrassing moments of my then-8-year-long life.

And, at 31, it still ranks right up there in the top 3. And for the life of me, I can’t think of any other 2 moments more embarrassing right now.

So there we were: Jaycee Field, September, 1985. All the kids are out with their cheering families. The excitement is evident as school has starting back up and the parents are happy that their kids are now doing something with their time besides trying to kill each other or playing the Wii all da– wait, that’s now.

I stepped up to the tee to bat on my turn. I tapped the plate like I’d seen in the Brewers, and took my first swing.

Steeeeee-rike ONE!

OK, it’s OK. It happens. I made my next attempt.

Steeeeee-rike TWO!

Right, now I’m a little embarrassed. Swing lower.

Steeeeee-rike THREE!

Apparently, hitting the tee and the ball falling off does not count as a hit.

I’m now mortified, but! BUT! There’s no striking out at tee-ball! So go ahead, little Karyn, try it again! Focus now, keep your eye on the ball, yes that one that’s stationary. On the tee.

Steeeeee-rike FOUR!

And on, and on, and on and on it went. At steeeeeee-rike EIGHT they finally conceded that either they’d have to let me go to first base or we’d be there until morning, and besides, at this point I just wanted to dig a hole for myself, lay in it AND DIE.

Save for the shot put, that was my last attempt at a sport, and certainly the last time I ever tried playing baseball, softball, whiffle ball, catch, or anything involving a mitt, a bat and a hard object.

Until this weekend.

I’m a part of an organization on base for first classes (Navy E-6s), and I’m the president so I go to every event we have going on. This weekend was a softball tournament to help raise money for the Navy Birthday Ball. The last time we had a softball game, my back was - thank God - injured and I could barely walk without hunching over, so I got a free pass to sell beer instead of humiliating myself. This time, however, I wasn’t so lucky. Since we got stood up by 4 of our players, I needed to play. And instead of putting me somewhere far out in right field, they made me play catcher.

Which meant I had to catch. Including the first pitch, which was thrown by the XO of the base. The pressure? Let’s just say that I could cope better with the pressure involved in pushing out a 10 pound baby the pressure I felt at that moment.

But! I caught it! I actually CAUGHT a ball, despite feeling like I was a glass statue with a 20 pound rocket aimed at its chest.

However, the moment I most dreaded was still to come: batting. I told them they reeeeally didn’t want to do this. That the reputation of first classes everywhere would be ruined. It’s not as if I would have been the only person to strike out (it was one-strike rule), but I would have been the only one to strike out in such a spectacular manner that would have been as memorable as man landing on the moon.

They yelled my name a couple of times before I made it up to bat, my legs feeling as stiff as the young Forrest Gump’s. I had to force myself to keep my eyes open instead of squeezed shut in fear of the ball about to fly toward me and the humiliation I was sure to endure. I could feel the blood draining from my limbs so that it could focus on raising the blood pressure in my heart, and just as I was about to DIE FROM THE PRE-HUMILIATION, I swung blindly at the ball hurtling toward me like a meteor certain to end my life.

And I hit the ball! I HIT THE BALL! So what if the ball went directly into the mitt of the pitcher, I STILL HIT THE BALL! I may have been our team’s second out, but I went back to the dugout triumphant, high-fiving everyone, ready to sign my contract with the Yankees.

My next at-bat wasn’t quite as successful, but that was OK, and was more than made up by me actually catching a ball to get an out against the opposing team. The best part was that in all of this, I actually had a great time and got over my fear of playing again.

Most of you already know, but the Chief’s results came out on Friday and I did not make it this year. While it always hurts to not be selected, I was extremely happy to find out that my good friend Ronnie made it. We were in Iraq together and I was really hoping he would make it this year, and indeed he did. While I’m doing what I need to do right now, what I really need to do is get on a ship - not on a deployment but real duty on a ship. Hopefully we’ll be able to pick which ship I can get on. We’re now considering cutting my extension here a bit short so that I can transfer before next summer and report to a new duty station early next year.

So while the first day was very tough, I’m keeping my head up and looking forward to continuing on what I’m doing now. I’ll make it when it’s my time and I just hope that next year, no one EVER MENTIONS ANYTHING about me making Chief.

So with that, it’s back to my regularly scheduled programming. We haven’t been doing all that much this summer as far as traveling around, but we’re happy with what we’re doing - which includes a lot of weekends spent at the swimming pool having a great time together.

Last weekend was eventful, with the extended weekend being filled with carnivals, barbeques, beach trips, and waaaayyy overpriced dinner. This weekend was markedly different, spent within 5 minutes of home and involving a lot of Pledge and Windex.

We contemplated having a rummage sale next weekend with our neighbors but decided instead to pack all of our stuff with us when we move back to the U.S. and have a rummage sale there. It really is easier moving things thousands of miles away than to think about dealing with the Spanish converging on our house. The last time I sold some stuff I wanted to take my toys and go home, literally.

But what has me posting this weekend is Anja. She is mourning the recent move of her best friend here, the one person that she has spent the most time with; the one who she clicked with from day 1 of them meeting. We have always been so happy to have him over because he and Anja can spend hours playing happily together, and it finally hit her tonight that he’s gone. That’s the hardest part of being a military family, having such short times to forge friendships.

So this post is for Anja and Mason, two fantastic little kids that enjoyed their friendship every day they were together - I’m hoping they get to eat Popsicles together again soon.

We have a few distinguished visitors here for a few days (my command master chief from our headquarters office as well as the command master chief of the Legalman community and the master chief of manpower in our community).  We took them for a tour of the Osborne bodega (where they make the sherry that this region is famous for) and as part of the tour, our guide had a few of us try our hand at the skill of pouring sherry with a venecia.  I didn’t do very well but I had fun!