Mon – April 4, 2005
I’m on leave, finally! It lashes fairly tightly with spring break, which I take as a kind of blessing – an opportunity, perhaps.
But today was a work day, for the most part. Oh, and got an email from the guy in charge of my future: Spice mines *. A “by name” requisition, I should feel quite flattered, etc. Very respectfully, etc.
In a twitch of the bureaucratic beast, one future evaporates and another * takes form.
Oh, it isn’t so bad as all that. I’m well paid, well appreciated and well, still here. So I’ve got that going for me. Which is nice.
I only have to p!ss off one 3-star admiral. I don’t think you get to do that to two of them, before you get fitted for your flak jacket, and your trip to the Green Zone, to count mortar shells. Which would be fine, if they sent me, but which I’d have a difficult time staring the Hobbit in the eyes and telling her I’d volunteered, if you can feel me. Which is good news for you: When they want thickening former FA-18 pilots boots-on-ground in Baghdad you know that we’ve either come to a desperate pass indeed, or that we’ve decided not to win.
But as today was a day of rest, the first in a bit, I took the opportunity to ask the Kat if she’d like to hit the softball around. She admitted as though that wouldn’t be entirely unwelcome. And now, we together went through the ritual common to every military family: We thrashed around in the garage for the better part of half an hour, trying to figure out which packing box had the softball gloves, balls, and bats within.
Having satisfied ourselves that the chase would not be worth the candle, we steamed up the five to the shopping mall, wherein a perfectly suitable replacement set of balls, gloves and bats could be purchased. Ultimately, one suspects, to join the pile of similar gear moldering in the corner, all unobserved.
And with the Kat, I met the Hobbit for a perfectly ordinary, entirely unremarkable, perfect dinner at one of the local pizza joints. Because there’s some things you never take for granted anymore, after a lifetime spent at sea, in the uttermost parts of the world.
Subsequently, I had the opportunity in the growing gloaming to pitch softballs to the Kat, in the light of the open garage door, while watching her bat them out of the light, and out of sight, and for the most part, straight at my head. Which didn’t do much for my sense of paternal gravitas, I can tell you.
And now I’m writing you, gentle reader. Apologizing for my lack of time to make this more worthwhile. But promising that tomorrow, or at the very least, the day after, I shall provide you with what I suspect will be a wondrous tale, which will leave you gasping.
I could be wrong, though. Check back in and see.
* 07-06-18 – Link gone; no replacement found – Ed.