Red flags (in no particular order)

•  "I like what you like."
• Explaining that you have to go to the ATM because the $1042 in cash you planned to carry was forgotten at home
• Too many gifts
• Expensive gifts too early
• Having an entire household in Thailand, where you don't even speak the language
• An interest in coins, where you let it slip that these are essential when the banks fail
• Having a loose panel on your car that you didn't get repaired, it flies off and then you take it to the shop, using your auto insurance.
• Being asked questions and avoiding them
• Saying you planned to be at the get together from your old job, but when the date is changed, you now can't make it because it's not worth your daily pay ("I'm not giving up $450 to go eat chili")
• Complaining about "losing" $30K due to taxes, because you didn't get to work overseas for a full year. And why did you have to come home? Because your dad died. But please, let's focus on the $30K.
• Telling a full grown woman that she's going to "blossom."
• Giving a full grown woman two men's size L shirts (one previously worn)
• Finding a new job and leaving a biohazard in the breakroom refrigerator when you leave, consisting of all the food you placed there and failed to remove over several months
• Telling someone to "ask you anything" - instead of just openly sharing the need to know information naturally
• Getting angry at someone for not asking you about your entire household in Thailand, where you don't even speak the language
• Wearing jeans with a hole in it at a nice dinner (okay, it's petty but I don't think it's too much to ask)
• Insisting on "gifting" someone a handicap placard that they don't need at all, and then being miffed that the person won't use it, on principle
• Offering unsolicited swimming lessons when the person you are interested in reveals she is not a strong swimmer
• Jarring spelling errors, while texting (I know, petty. These are *my* red flags)
• Saying "I don't like cats" to a person who has one
• Saying "I think I know why you're in my life" to someone, and then never actually sharing that thought.
• Excessive use of ellipses while texting
• Going on a texting rant, because the woman you're texting does not appear to have the same feelings for you, and also bashing her preferred method of communication because she's a "grown fucking woman." Throwing in insults about different generations, even though you are both Gen X
• Starting a very personal story about the woman who keeps your entire household in Thailand, where you don't even speak the language, and how this woman had never been kissed "on the mouth" (I did not get to hear if that status changed, or he he'd had anything to do with that)
• Saying "Good night" and "Enjoy your transition" when there is a hint of conflict
• Disappearing for two days after getting angry, and explaining that you had to "re-enter your body" to get to a place to be able to apologize 
• Saying "I'm going to die there" when discussing your entire household in Thailand, where you don't even speak the language

Failure to blossom

 I had a coworker who started working at my job at the beginning of the year. He seemed nice enough, and he seemed competent at his work - an asset, not a liability. Our team was small, and if you could bring more knowledge than your hired position required, you were extra valuable.

I got to know him more and more during a test. We were testing a ventilator, and it was fairly simple to operate, but with pandemic rules, making sure we had enough people scheduled to run tests could be a challenge. He wasn't officially part of our test team, but he was required to be on our site every day, so he recorded data and monitored any faults that popped up.

We bonded over things we had in common. His car was an updated version of a car I had for 13 years. The body was even the same vivid pearlescent metallic light blue. His parents were white and black, but the reverse of mine - his mother was black and his father was white, and he made sure to point out that when they had married, interracial marriage was still illegal in 20 states.We were both former military, and both of us seemed to develop a mutual appreciation for each other as time went on.

As we became more familiar with each other, gifts would appear on my desk. San Pellegrino sparkling seltzer, in matte metallic cans, in varying flavors. Izze soda cans. This progressed to bowls of fruit - cherries and grapes and berries, when they were in season. I would snap photos and brag to friends. Look at what C brought me!

When I later shared the photos of these offerings with my sister, she commented that something in me was compelled to document this. Maybe because, after two decades with someone who didn't do this for me (and in fact, it felt like he often took more than what was fair), I needed evidence that there were men who were thoughtful, and generous, and knew how to rinse and prepare bowls of fruit for other people. I know, basic shit, but the bar can go very low if you forget what that looks like.

We continued like this, with offerings. He sometimes brought in larger fruit, which he would cut up and share with the entire team. I thought this was especially gracious, a version of breaking bread. C brought pineapple, watermelon and cantaloupe. He loved cherries, and a few times if I found some at a good price, I'd bring them in, and leave them in the break room refrigerator, for everyone, but really, for C.

I liked seeing his car parked at the test site when I would pull up to the gate. I liked the days when we would do outdoor work. I didn't like when we would take a break and he would send me inside. I didn't really like the nickname he'd come up with, "Lady G." I didn't like when he acted like I was doing anyone a favor, doing that kind of work. It was part of my job, and I had accepted the position knowing there would be manual labor, with sweat and dirt involved. As long as I wore the right clothes and could shower at the end of the day, what was the big deal? I was getting a very nice salary for a break from sitting behind the desk. I didn't like feeling singled out because I was the only woman out there.

C found a new job in August. I was disappointed for our team, because we needed him, but also happy that his commute would be much better, and that he'd gotten a raise. Before he left, he said he wanted to talk to me, but in person. If you're an overthinker, you already know it's terrible when someone reveals that they want to talk, but you have to wait, and they give no indication about what will be discussed. So your mind develops a hundred imaginary scenarios while you wait for the real one.

We talked on a Monday. "I wanted to stay in touch after I leave. I have cookouts, and I'd like to invite you over for those. And your husband, of course," he added, ensuring that I knew there was no disrespect. I was separated, but I wasn't sure if he knew that. He would joke and flirt, like the time when he saw me I cleaning the front door of the large trailer building, where we worked. "I wish you weren't married!" He'd said. 

I treated him to lunch at a local Caribbean place as a farewell. I drove, and we joked a little, sitting across the table from each other. Away from work, I shared that I was separated from my husband. Well, he said, smiling, "Then you and the girls are invited to the cookout." I laughed.

I received a barrage of parting gifts as he made his way out of the building for the last time. Silver dollars, a metal tool to prevent having to touch icky, germy things when you're out in public. Hand soap and hand sanitizer from Bath and Body works. He even gave me a handicap placard for my car, which expired in 2029, and that I knew I would never use (I gave it back, and sensed he felt hurt or rejected that I could refuse such a valuable gift. I will not take a parking spot someone else might actually need). I left a small gift bag with my favorite things from Trader Joe's. I hope you like them, I'd said. "Whatever you like, I like," he replied. It seems like a sweet thing to say, but it felt completely off.

After he left, we went out a few times. I wasn't attracted, but thought he was nice enough, and maybe there would be a slow build to something warmer. If not, the friendship would be good, too, not in a consolation prize way, but because I didn't seem to have luck with male friends. C certainly seemed open to it.

The first time we went out, I chose a restaurant at what felt like a middle meeting point. Coal fire pizza. We sat outside, under the harsh lighting of the the strip mall walkway, and ate and talked. He wanted to walk around afterwards, so we drove to a nearby outdoor shopping area, which had a nice path around a small manmade lake. That became our place. We went there two more times, to walk after dinner. The other times we went out, I met him closer to the city, and finally, for lunch near his new job, on Veterans Day.

We primarily stayed in touch by messaging. He didn't have an iPhone, so the messages I sent were glaring green. His claim was that he didn't like iPhones because he didn't want a phone smarter than he was, but that's a strange thing to say - aren't all of these devices smarter than we are by now? He certainly wasn't choosing an old flip phone to stay in touch. I found some of his claims, even joking, to be weird, or nonsensical, or dare I say it, bold-faced lies. He said he didn't know if someone could have a Top Secret clearance if they'd had a DUI. I said I didn't know. Then he said, "I have a Top Secret clearance and I had a DUI." I said, "So you do know." Whether he was bragging about his clearance, or his DUI, I don't know. I threw that red flag into the pile with the others I'd seen.

We talked on the phone a handful of times. He shared that he had feelings for me, but didn't know what to do with that. I said, "You don't have to do anything." We are so often fooled into thinking we have to act right away, DO something, urgently! Shoot your shot! Now or never! The truth is, you don't. Sometimes it's okay to simmer. Sometimes doing nothing is okay. Sometimes the issue solves itself if you just leave it alone.

He tried to get to know me by asking questions. "Have you ever done this, have you ever done that." I said no often, and felt like an unadventurous sheltered loser. He tried to persuade me to agree to swimming lessons with him. I am not a strong swimmer, but I can swim. I am not comfortable in deep water; I have this need to know that I can drop a leg and touch the bottom with my foot. I mentioned that I wanted to buy a folding kayak, so I could use it at a nearby lake, but also store it at home without it taking up too much space. "My sister has kayaks, I can get one for you." With limited storage and no way to carry a traditional kayak in my car, I refused the offer, and thought, did you listen to me at all?

He was always offering things. A fire pit. A grill. A TV. An inversion table. I suspect men that do this don't feel they have anything real to offer from themselves, so they show off by upping their currency with what material comforts they can provide. My refusals didn't mean he didn't try. Every time we went out, he arrived with offerings. Coins, crystals, shirts, washable playing cards from Dubai, gold plated earrings, to name a few. I would pull things from the gift bag like a magician who didn't know what was coming out of the hat. None of the gifts seemed personal; it seemed he was decluttering and also giving me things he knew were expensive, but it all felt aimless. He gave me a necklace that was too expensive for the level of our limited relationship. I googled, and saw that it was $250. I made the error of saying I liked it in a different color combination and would it be okay if we exchanged it? I braced myself for the lecture that I was ungrateful, or for an angry response, but he was nice about it. We returned one necklace as he ordered the one I liked better.

When we messaged, I noticed a pattern. When it seemed that our conversation was veering towards conflict, he would abruptly tell me good night, and that was the end of that. The first time, I brought up a high school soccer game in which my daughter's team beat the other school 10-0. Not only that, but these goals were scored in the first half. The game ended there, due to lightning. When he responded "That's great!" I tried to explain why it wasn't great, how it was a display of the economic disparity. That the girls on my daughter's team also played soccer for club teams, which cost thousands of dollars a year in dues and travel. In certain schools, you have to be at that level in order to make the varsity team, and at this opposing school, they clearly were not. I shared my annoyance that I was aware of this, but also participating in contributing to the problem.

Instead of acknowledging what I was saying, I was told that I couldn't be the "world's hall monitor." "That's the way of the world, bae" he'd say, which caused me to roll my eyes. The terms of endearment irked me. They were interchangeable, impersonal, and not a thing that someone who *gets* me would use. I'm not a dear, sweetie, or babe.  Another time, I was told to ask him questions because he's an open book. When I failed to ask him about his household in Thailand , he took offense. 

I didn't ask because having an entire household in Thailand seemed like a giant escapist red flag, and I wasn't sure how to get around that without sounding judgmental. But that conversation ended the way the soccer one did, with an abrupt good night. This time, though, he called in the morning to apologize. I accepted it.

The entire time I'd been asking that we move at a snail's pace. He assured me that he didn't want to repel me, or for me to be uncomfortable. I wasn't very interested in him, but he seemed nice enough. He donated blood for children with sickle cell anemia. He took his mother to her chemotherapy appointments. He cooked dinner for his sister and mother almost every Sunday. Aren't these the marks of a good person?

Why is settling for nice enough - a good person - especially as a woman, supposed to be enough? 

I questioned if he was genuinely good, or more interested in appearing that way. I side-eye anyone who seems to brag about their good deeds a little too much. I know it's tempting to want that pat on the back, but I'm suspicious of those who make sure everyone around them knows of the latest act of kindness. Isn't the value in doing good in the deed itself? Do we need an the applause of an audience to feel our efforts are worthwhile? I never got to ask.

After C left our work place, another coworker asked me to help him clean the fridge. When I did this, I realized much of the food, which were now science experiments on mold and fermentation, were likely C's leftovers - the extra cut up fruit that hadn't been eaten, the potato buns he had purchased months ago, during a lunch time outing to Food Lion, a half dozen baggies that contained two boiled eggs and a small yogurt container. It was as if the things C placed into the refrigerator never came back out, just like those old commercials about roach motels. Part of me wanted to verify that he was the culprit, by asking what he liked to bring in to work for breakfast, or a snack. If he responded,  "Two boiled eggs and a yogurt," then I had my offender. Let's add that possible red flag to the pile, shall we?

The last lunch took place near his office in a town in Virginia where I had previously worked for nearly a decade. I usually took metro and didn't like driving there but it was a federal holiday, I was off of work, and I figured the traffic would be bearable. I texted when I left and told him when I was going to arrive. "Call me when you are five minutes away" he texted. I took that to mean, call him when I was parked, as it was going to take at least five minutes to walk to his building from the parking garage. So, I pulled onto the main drag, snapped a photo and sent it off to him before the light turned green. I pulled into the parking garage, found an acceptable spot, and parked. My phone rang.

He asked where I was, and I said I'd parked in the garage across from his building. "I told you to call before you got here," he said. I sensed some irritation in his voice.

He gave me the nickel tour of his new office and then we ate outside, at a burger place I loved. He ordered almost exactly what I chose, the second time he'd done that. I always got the sense that he was careful to reveal what he genuinely liked, and wanted to play it safe, by going with my choice of restaurant, and even my selection from the menu. I didn't feel entirely comfortable at lunch, but couldn't put my finger on it. I had gifts for him (it now felt obligatory not to show up empty handed), and he gave me the necklace in the color that I had wanted. I thanked him.

He walked me to my car and he told me he'd wanted me to call so he could get me into the parking garage. He offered to cover my parking fee, but when I drove up and inserted the ticket, there was no charge, maybe because of the holiday. I dropped him off in front of his building and headed home.

Things seemed okay. We usually started the days with warm good morning messages, and the day after the lunch started the same way. In the evening he asked if I was busy. And then texted "Guess so." And then later, asked if it was okay to call. Then came the text tirade.

What I gathered was, he didn't like that he felt like he had to ask "permission" to call me. He didn't like that I preferred to message (so much for "Whatever you like, I like"). Unsaid: he had feelings for me, and apparently it was clear that I was not at the same level. He told me I was a "grown fucking woman" and should have been able to talk to him. He closed by saying he had "broken his finger with this..." (I guess texting is strenuous?) and finally, "I think you are special in many ways and know you will blossom."

And there was the root problem with him. He was a 55 year old who talked to me like I was 15, not 46. I tried so often to point out when things he said felt condescending. The issue is being heard when you say it, and not being told "I didn't intend for it to sound that way." Whether one intends it or not, it felt condescending and sexist. I don't hear about men in their 40's blossoming, or being told that by someone not even a decade older than them.

This was the end. He reached out in little ways over the weekend, sending an email about restaurant week (did he actually think this was a possibility, after the things he'd written?), and sending a Facebook message with a video of five ways to apologize in Italian. On Sunday morning, I texted him to let him know I would send back his gifts. By the time Monday morning rolled around, he was asking to talk - even texting was okay. I was done.

I was done "giving him a chance," which so many women are expected to do just because a man spends extra attention on them. I was done ignoring red flags for on the surface "good" qualities. I was done even trying to cobble together a friendship with someone who did not seem to want to know me, a real person who would never live up to the fantasy version in his mind. I boxed up his gifts, and got that package into the mail. I stayed as calm as I could, and businesslike, when I communicated. I asked valid questions (which, as usual, he failed to address), and closed with, "If this is how you treat people you claim to like, then please do better."

You can understand someone's pain and forgive them while also walking away. I was not obligated to give him a chance, or keep trying with someone who had repeatedly proven himself not to be safe, or even able to listen. Safety goes beyond physical - if I feel like I have to censor myself, or tiptoe around someone's feelings, they aren't safe, and I can't really be myself. And as I get older (and yes, this will be a terrible metaphor because of the current pandemic), I refuse to wear a mask so someone else can be comfortable with me.

The Fake Shall Inherit the Earth (alternate title: Jodi Pliszka is a charlatan and other stories)

 I'm generally pretty selective when it comes to connecting with other people on social media. I have about 400 Facebook friends (and shrinking), 170 or so Instagram followers (and holding), and I don't do Twitter. The exception is LinkedIn. In my own mind, I am a LinkedIn whore. I hate using that term, but this is how my brain has labeled it, and it's an inside joke with myself (and now anyone reading this blog), so as my brain states it, let it be known. I also share the least of myself on LinkedIn. There is a photo and the laundry list of jobs I've had and companies I've worked for, the college I attended (more on that later), and a couple of volunteer positions. In the work world, you're encouraged to be extraverted, to connect, to *network* as far and wide as possible. It's expected. "Get comfortable being uncomfortable," and all that. So, along those lines, the more connections you make, even virtual ones, with people you may never meet in real life, the better. Right? Right.

I have over a thousand connections on LinkedIn (and growing, admittedly at a very slow pace). It's to the point that my profile says "500+ connections" instead of getting specific. Even when I, the account holder, check that list of connections, the description at the top says "About 1,000 results." A thousand-ish. This is not me bragging, but illustrating how decidedly unpicky I am when it comes to connecting on LinkedIn. I don't post there, I mostly lurk, and if you and I have one connection in common, I will most likely accept your request to connect. It's just good business, right? Right.

What surprises me is how unprofessional certain posts are on LinkedIn. I don't want to hear about political opinions, or birthdays, or memes. That's Facebook territory. Holidays are a mixed bag. Veterans Day is a big one. I'm a veteran and many of my connections are as well. It's not something to be taken lightly. I will always value the experiences I gained during my service. It opened my eyes to a life I would not have known in different circumstances. That said, I didn't give all that much. There will always be a ranking among veterans: those who deployed in peacetime, those who served in war, those bearing physical, mental or psychological scars from their service, and among all of us, we personally know those who sacrificed their lives. There is always a feeling that you could have given more, done more - that someone else had done the most. Maybe it is survivor's guilt, or being hard on yourself in the way military life always asks for more of you, to the point that you don't feel you've ever given enough. So when I saw one of my connections post a photo in celebration of Veterans Day, it raised my eyebrows.

Aside from the ridiculousness of this message and its complete irrelevance to veterans, I realized, I don't know this person. I have plenty of LinkedIn connections that fall into that "I don't actually know them" category, but what I felt inside was, I don't know this person and I don't think I want to know this person. She and I had several connections in common and I'm fairly certain she sent me the request to connect. Given my very lax (nonexistent) vetting process, and my lack of having this individual on my radar, I decided to look deeper. 

Ignoring the idiocy of Jodi Pliska, Ph.D's post (from the message that a bad attitude is one's only disability, to using  a dog in its wheelchair as some kind of surrogate veteran (?!), and finally to "double TAPPING an image to show vets some love, which does what, exactly?) I noticed something incredibly fishy in her message. I had to ask myself if it was worth making a comment. Did I really want to be the one pissing in the post with little dogs (with one in a wheelchair, no less!)? Did I really want to be *that* person?

After finding myself unable to just ignore it and keep scrolling, as we are so often advised to do, I decided that, yes, I did want to be that person. I needed to say something.

       

That was it. I left my thoughts there, in as neutral a way as I could muster. No feelings, no insults, no fuss, no muss. Just the facts, and in fact, a very easily Google-able fact at that (yes, I Googled, which is ridiculous, because if by some miracle after 218 years of existence, West Point suddenly did offer a Master's program, I would have known!). 

Inside, upset was brewing, on multiple fronts. 

First, why would someone lie about something so obviously disproven? I went to her profile (okay, stalked) to see how thoroughly she perpetuated this mythical West Point Master's degree.

At the top level, it looked like this:

Given this information, one would have the impression that she attended the United States Military Academy at West Point. It says it right there. I knew that was incorrect, but I also suspected she was bending the truth by being deliberately misleading.

If you click on the education portion while looking at someone's profile on LinkedIn, you will get another screen with more detailed information (I did not know about this feature until I had the opportunity to use it). This is where you can read the fine print:

Here, things come into focus. Ignoring the other two schools listed, at the bottom of the description, it says "WEST POINT through LIU."

What does that mean, you ask?  "LIU" is Long Island University, which has campuses around New York, and the school does in fact use some of the classroom space at West Point. And, there were uniformed students who attended, because they needed to earn a Master's degree to prepare for the positions they would hold at West Point, and it's very convenient to attend those classes when you are already stationed there. So, you could say you attended classes at West Point because you were physically sitting there, in a classroom, at West Point. Her Veterans Day post could be viewed as being true if you cock your head and close an eye, but it is an extremely stretched out truth. 

The irony is that she's lying about having earned a degree from a place known for placing a high importance on honor. "Honor" is at the center of our school motto. We have an Honor Code, which can result in a perfectly stellar student being removed from the academy for lying, cheating or stealing. A large part of the honor investigations deal with determining whether a cadet conducted him or herself with the intent to deceive, to gain an unfair advantage. Yes, there are people who lie on their resumes, and it's done with the intent to deceive, to gain an unfair advantage over others. This is an expanded way of doing that, but to lie about attending a school that prides itself on producing graduates of high integrity, seems especially egregious. In doing so, she is slapping the face of some of the veterans she's trying to honor in her (admittedly lame) post.

These were not my initial thoughts. I had to stew over it. By the next day I was angry for so many reasons. I am a West Point graduate. I can say that without hesitation, without an asterisk, without anyone clicking through my profile to see that I went to classes there but my degree is actually from an entirely different school. I went there, and it was not easy for me. I went there and struggled, all four years, to earn my Bachelor's degree. I went there, I wore the uniform, and graduated, and then served in the Army, as graduates are expected to do. I went there, and still have the occasional dream that I am at the bottom of the second semester, my senior year, and I have skipped an entire class. It's the dream of those suffering from impostor syndrome. The dream of those who, despite their achievements, and despite what they have to offer the world, feel it still somehow isn't enough. Then you have an actual impostor, staring you right in the face (or, you know, from their profile photo on LinkedIn), boldly staking claim to something they had not done the work to earn. It's stolen valor, academic edition.

That is not to say a Master's degree is not hard work. Or that I'm looking down my nose at anyone who attended Long Island University. I'm saying, claim your school, claim it proudly, and tell the truth. With a few alterations, she could have edited her post to reflect the whole truth. More and more, I think of the Cadet Prayer, which, like so many things, has gained personal significance to me as I've grown older. I don't know the entire prayer by heart, but one line with forever stick with me: "Make us to choose the harder right instead of the easier wrong, and never to be content with a half truth when the whole can be won."

The following day I commiserated with friends (women who had graduated with me from West Point). I peeked under the rock for her post, and noticed that my comment had been deleted. How convenient, I thought. And those were my kid gloves. I posted again. I don't need to look to know that it's gone the way of my first comment. I was a little less gracious and a little more angry (and a lot more verbose).

My disappointment in the world seeps through. It seems that those who are the loudest, or the most proficient at promoting their "brand" are the ones who get ahead. Even if you scrape the most basic layer of this person's claimed credentials, the facade crumbles. But how many are doing that? How many people is she "life coaching" to success when the image she shows people to see is false? Is authenticity and integrity part of this coaching? I sure hope not. 

The claim that she attended West Point was not the only bold faced lie (shocking, I know!). Witnesses, for exhibit B, I'd like you to look at the Ph.D credentials - in the detailed section, she states "PhD minus dissertation." *Insert record scratch here* Isn't completing the dissertation the entire point of the Ph.D? (Answer: yes.) One of the friends I commiserated with is in a Ph.D program now. When she saw this, she added a comment of her own, which most likely was also deleted. 

Is this the world we want? If you give the illusion of being the thing, is that every bit as valid as doing the work it takes to become the thing? If you don't like when someone calls you out, you can tidy away their response like it never happened (and hope that not too many people saw). What the Cadet Prayer misses, is that the wrong that initially appeared to be the easier option, becomes hard. "Wrong is hard, too" a friend of mine told me, and it stuck.  When that person who hired you decides to verify your claims and discovers you are not who you say you are, when you have to jog your memory for which version of the story you told someone, when you have to look at yourself and know that what you are showing the world does not match what is happening inside of you, the lie becomes exponentially harder than the truth. 

No, the truth is not always shiny, or cool, or easy, but it is always right.

Is this thing on? (AKA InfoDump 2013)

I haven’t been blogging because I don’t know where to start.  I’m going to start, but I may not know where to end.  Here goes.

Running.  If you would have told me I would be running at 38 when I was a young, fit 23 year old, I would have laughed in your face.  But I am.  I know it's an "in" thing to do.  It's so simple.  You get to wear cool clothes if you want.  Technology is so advanced, you can wear your music on your arm and headphones with no wires.  The best part--I am not being subjected to a timed test, or forced to run in a formation, or being told I'm "slow" (Hi, Army!)  I have been doing this since late December 2012 and honestly, it's the lazy person's exercise.  I can run for an hour and burn 800 calories.

I went to my 20 year high school reunion.  I felt a bit like I did after last year’s college reunion.  I wish I had done more, gotten out more, but then again, maybe I need to stop doing this to myself.  This is how I am.  I have a small circle of friends.  I don’t kiss up, or put on a happy act.  One person told me he “admired” me for getting in to West Point and joining the military.  I never would have guessed that.  Sometimes I still can’t believe I survived four years as a cadet until graduation.  I look at my college classmates and feel like a dud.  So many have advanced degrees.  We have doctors and lawyers, people who continued their education through Ivy League schools.  We have lieutenant colonels and private business owners.  I feel like I have been left behind, when really, they are just far ahead, and the ones plodding along just like I am, are not outspoken about their averageness.  In the bigger picture, I am doing alright.  I just have trouble some days figuring out what I really want to do, and deciding how to get there, which brings us to…

Writing.  I feel like I have fallen off the map and lost my motivation.  I have 1.5 books revised, and now what?  I have decided to go the self/Indie publishing route, which I used to scoff at.  The tide has changed.  I still want an objective edit (possibly $$$$) and a beautiful cover (more $$$) design and formatting (you can do this yourself, but I read the instructions and my brain locks up, possibly more $).  I have to do the legwork and I’m starting off tired.  Why, yes, I would like some cheese to go with this whine.  Right now, I can’t quit my day…

Job.  Without elaborating any further, I will just say it’s time to move on.  You know that point when you’re ready to leave your current job (hello pay cut, hello, watching coworkers get laid off, hello, threat of office disappearing pretty soon?) but have not landed the new gig yet?  I’m there.  And conversely, I am shopping online like it’s my job.  I think this is a combination of compensating for sucky job (because things = happiness) and the pre-Christmas shopping selfishness that goes on every year.

Kids: I love them and they are exhausting.  We took our two on vacation in July.  The 7 year old had a blast.  The toddler, not so much.  She had a horrible fever the first couple of days.  We took her to the nurse, who took her temperature and gave us a cup of Tylenol (kids HAAAAAATE this stuff).  The fever went down, but went back up again. We took the toddler back to the nurse, who made me sign a waiver when I decided not to see the doctor.  Who’s the bad parent now?  She was okay, but I don’t think she enjoyed the trip.  Now the following week with her grandparents?  Guess who was smiling in every photo?  Guess who was bored?

Husband: We are carpooling.  Some days are great.  Some are opt out events.  This morning, at the last minute, I pulled back and opted for the commuter train + metro + walking over commuting with my beloved.  It was a series of annoyances that built up into “I can’t do this today.”  Yet, I am halfway expecting him to call and see if I want to ride home.  And I would respond, “Only if you don’t mind riding in the cold, cold shade I’m throwing, darling.”  I kid (kind of).  Most of the time that is our quality time together.  We have been very fortunate to be able to keep up some version of carpooling for the past 4 years.  We are coming up on 14 years of marriage and 16 years as a couple.  It has been mostly fun and very fortunate. Can you tell I’m not good with writing about these things?  I have a great husband.  Not perfect, but most of the time he is fantastic.

Depeche Mode: Saw them in concert AGAIN.  Still love them!  It always wigs me out to think I am roughly the age (or a bit older) than they were when I watched them for the Violator tour.

A time of peace

I attended West Point a time of peace. While I was there, the thought of classmates dying at war was theoretical.  We were more concerned about  making it to graduation and seeing what waited for us in the "real" Army.  Sometimes we couldn't even see graduation, the focus was on surviving the month, the week, the day.  I knew I would be entering "the profession of arms," but I never realistically considered the full meaning and possible consequences of that profession.

The class of 1997 has lost too many classmates in war -- it's not a big number until you consider there were less than 900 of us.  Not a big number until you attach faces, names, spouses, children, siblings, friends and classmates to those we have lost.  Not every death has been from war, but most of my classmates that have died were in Iraq or Afghanistan.

I am hoping Jaimie Leonard was the last.  Her funeral was on Thursday, at West Point.  From the pictures, it was a good send off, but the world would have been better with her still in it.

Life is unfair, but it doesn't mean it hurts any less when we experience the unfairness.

See you Monday (or will I?)

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a promotion of two co-workers. They are in the Army and both of them took the long route toward earning their new rank. The ceremony was a mess, but it was nice to meet the families and take a break from our desks. During the ceremony, we could hear an ambulance siren in the background. Later, we learned for whom the siren tolled. 

“Did you hear? Dr. Rhymes-with-Parker died while waiting to brief Important Dude. Important Dude (ID) was notoriously picky with briefings. He liked clips, not staples, and the documents had to be in a certain format. There was an email with directions of briefing ID, which included forcing yourself to behave unnaturally. If you were there to brief ID, then you look only at ID, even if you are addressing a question from someone else in the room. Answer that guy but KEEP YOUR EYES ON ID. DO NOT LOOK AWAY FROM ID.

So, I thought, “Maybe Dr. Rhymes with Parker” looked away from ID."

I know. Mean.  Eeeee-Vil.

 Back in our office, we talked about it.

 “I just saw him the other day,” said co-worker #1, clearly freaked out. “I LOOKED AT him.”

 “Oooohh—don’t let #1 look at you!” we said for the rest of the day. 

“I looked at him, too.” Said co-worker #2. “And I said to myself, that’s an accident waiting to happen.”

Clearly co-worker #2 is not the sentimental or rose-colored glasses type. He was also correct. Dr. Rhymes-with-Parker was not the picture of health. He probably should have retired and taken care of himself instead of making that last trek to ID’s office. It saddens me that someone died at work on a Friday afternoon, the time you are looking forward to the weekend and the plans you have for the time that belongs to you. The thought of dying at work is a nightmare, but dying on a Friday is an extra twist of the knife.

 “Maybe ID will have new standards for those coming in to brief him,” we guessed.

 “A blood pressure check before you enter his office.”

 “A cholesterol count."

"A BMI of no more than 25.”

 It was so awful we had to joke. It’s like the jokes that came out after the Challenger explosion. It's so horrifying you compelled to distract yourself with something funny.

 “They’re cleaning his desk out now,” said the boss.

 We all shook our heads. This reaffirmed the things we already knew: Life is short, take care of yourself, and if you can help it, don't die at work.

My two cents

--I graduated two years after Paula Broadwell. No, I do not remember her. I knew about the book just from being in the same circles, but that’s it. On Facebook, the class of ’95 started multiple discussions. Of course there are plenty of people in glass houses there. One idiot said her actions do not speak for their class, and therefore... (wait for it) ...the class should issue a statement saying just that. So you want to distance yourself from this situation by inserting your entire class into the media spotlight. Luckily someone had the spine to call this out as a stupid idea (basically saying, I don't want the loudest mouths speaking for me. You all don't represent me.). No one is looking at the West Point class of ’95. No one is saying , “Oh, we knew that entire class was a bad egg.” C'mon, son. The class president also added that the class of ’74 (Petraeus’s grad year) was not issuing a statement so they wouldn’t be, either.

--Also included in discussion(s): She was not the #1 physically fit person in her class, there were many people with that title, as the ranking changed from semester to semester (I am possibly the #1 worst ranked in physical fitness, so that was something I did not know). And there was some petty sniping about her using Facebook to promote her book (because, no other author uses social media to self-promote, apparently).

--I can no longer spy on their class board anymore via my husband’s account, since someone has done an audit and removed those not in the class.

--Despite what many people think, West Point and its graduates represent all segments of society, despite being touted as the best and the brightest and having to follow the Honor Code. Maybe the percentages are different, but I assure you, every “type” is represented there.

--Another day, another groundbreaking revalation, and another person is dragged into this. I am genuinely curious when this will die down.

--If something seems like it came straight from a "Bad Idea" Jeans ad, do not proceed.

--Husband commented (on the drive home, on Friday, when this was breaking news)—"He’s not the cheating type." I said, “what -- you mean he has no swagger?” He said, “I don’t mean swagger, just that he’s not like a Clinton.” I said (again) “So…no swagger.”

--How do people find the time for these shenanigans? Head of the CIA? Married mother of two young kids? I can barely handle a 9-5 and a crappy DC-area commute with two kids. And I have zero swagger.