Private D-Bag and Mr. Money Mustache

In 2008 during our first three-week pre-deployment training I was in the bunk next to a perpetual whiner--wheel call him Private D-Bag.  This young, overweight, out-of-shape soldier had many problems in his short life.  One of the biggest, in his eyes, was a lack of money.  He bitched about being broke, wondered how he was going to make it to payday, and generally saw life as a platoon of evil trolls who lived to trip him at every step.

One day I was sitting in my bunk and D-Bag walked in furious that some member of his family refused to loan him money.  He unloaded his pockets.  In seconds his bunk was littered with cigarettes, a high-end cell phone, candy, a wrapper from McDonalds, and an iPod.  He also brought a TV and a PC with him.

(He wasn't this bad, but. . .)

I exploded.  "You are bitching about being broke and you smoke, eat candy, have a cell phone and a $200 iPod.  You could have spent three weeks eating Army food and not spent a dime.  You have no money and your pockets are full of stupid."

If I ever share a 40-man room with another idiot like D-Bag, I will be able to tell him to read the blog Mr. Money Mustache.  MMM is a delightful blog by a guy who retired at age 30 by spending his money as little as possible.  He is an engineer who looks at every part of life as a way to increase efficiency.  The link above is to a recent post titled "The Oil Well you can Keep in your Pants."  

My wife loves the MMM blog and has been reading his posts to me at the rate of one or two a day.  MMM would fit well in a barracks.  He is a great storyteller and his language would help him fit right in.  He does not swear in all posts, but it is odd to hear my wife reading financial advice in her soft voice and read "If you don't have $1,000 saved for an emergency start selling your stuff and stop fucking spending until you do."


http://www.mrmoneymustache.com/

Basic Training Plus 41 Years, One Week

Today is 41 years and one week since I went through USAF Basic training at Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Tx., in 1972.  At the end of the first week, our flight had the first of seven days of KP--Kitchen Police.  At that time KP started at 3am and ended at 6pm.  The first time was just luck--each flight (platoon in Army language) was supposed to have KP once.  We took KP for the seven of the other other eight flights in our group because we failed our tenth-day inspection so miserably.

We never go a weekend off like the other trainees.  It was more than 30 years later that I saw San Antonio.  We had KP both days of the weekend the other flights went to San Antonio.  On Sunday we served a Soul Food dinner.  Among the entrees were Chitterlings or Chitlins.  Pig's intestine!!  I stirred a 50-gallon vat of this southern favorite while it simmered.  

Chitlins cooking smells like boiled urinal!  I had no trouble staying awake on that job!  

Bucket of Raw Chitlins.  Mmmmmmmmm!!!!

Why I Got Out in 1984

In July of 1984 my Army career came to an end.  At least that was the plan.  At the time I was a tank section leader in charge of two M60A1 tanks like the one pictured below.  I really liked playing Army in the reserve unit I was in, but my uncle Jack, a Viet Nam vet, convinced me it was time to leave.

Reserve service is never just one weekend a month for the leaders.  So I was coming in the night before drills, going to meetings the Wednesday night before drill weekends, etc.  It was also time to go to Officer Candidate School if I was going to stay in.  I decided I could not have a professional civilian job and be an Army leader, so I left.

Jack also reminded me that, as a reservist, the retirement money did not begin until I was 60 years old (I was 31 at the time) and that if I did retire, I was subject to recall by the government until age 63.

So I left.

When I came back, I was so old I could no longer go to any leadership schools, so I thought it would really be one weekend a month and two weeks in the summer.

But now I am in charge of our unit's Facebook page.  I just wrote an interview article with the division command sergeant major, I will be writing another one next week after drill.

My part time job is leaking back into the rest of my life.  This time, at least, I knew what I was in for.  But it is funny that as I approach retirement age that my decision 29 years ago led me to a place where I am 60, working well beyond drill weekends and not able to retire because I was a civilian for so long.

Going Legit on Facebook

Some of you know I have a Facebook page for my unit.  The Pa. National Guard does not authorize Facebook pages below the brigade level, so this battalion page is not an official Army page--it is a fan page connected to my personal Facebook page.

This weekend I will be meeting with an Air National Guard sergeant in the Public Affairs Office to make my page legal!  The battalion page will officially become the page of the 28th Combat Aviation Brigade, with the approval of the brigade commander.  So I will be legal as of next week.

Mostly it is a matter of me getting Facebook training and filling out paperwork--it's the Army, nothing exists without paperwork.

So I will be maintaining the brigade page until they put someone in the brigade PAO slot who can keep the page running, or move me to that slot.  There is some possibility that I will officially or unofficially move to brigade.

An Assassin??

Ten years ago, I was an assassin.  Not actually, but according to my daughters' friends I was.  

My daughters were Lifers at Lancaster Country Day School, kindergarten through high school.  LCDS is a small, private school that graduates about 40 or 50 students per year.   the girls were two years apart, played on the same sports teams in middle and high school and had friends in common so they sometimes attended the same parties.

A lot of the girls on the teams had been to sleepovers at our house and knew me as they Dad who sometimes rode to sports games.  They also knew I had a job that took me overseas every month. So the girls would sometimes get calls from Hong Kong or Australia or Argentina.  I was also one of the only parents who had served in the military.  

So at one of the sleepover parties, my older daughter told one of her friends that I was an assassin--that's why I was overseas all the time.  The company I worked for had an office in Paris and often the round-the-world trips I took began in Paris, then continued to Singapore, Beijing, Perth, Hong Kong and other mysterious sounding places.

My daughter told the other girl not to tell anyone which meant within a week every girl and many boys in the school had heard Lauren and Lisa's Dad was an assassin.  It was month's later when I heard about, when the story had been pretty well debunked.  But for a while I was the coolest Dad  at LCDS!  There were a lot of cool Dads--heart surgeons, lawyers, and CEOs, but only one assassin. 

 

Army Sizes Run Small. . .Or NOT

Last weekend during drill I was on a list to go to the Inaugural Ball.  So I needed a dress blue uniform.  I told the supply sergeant my sizes.  He got a uniform in the sizes I specified, but I could not fit in the pants!!!

The new Dress Blue Uniform

Since my supply sergeant could not get the next size of pants, I went to the clothing sales store and bought a pair.  When I went to try them on, the sales clerk said "Army sizes run small."  

Actually, the Army might be the last place with reality sizing.  My Army dress pants are size 36, just like the pants of my older suits.  The pants fight tightly in the winter and loosely in the summer.  

But my Gap jeans are another story.  Six years ago I bought a pair of Gap jeans.  I tried on the 36 waist pair.  I could take them off zipped up.  The 34s fit.  I bought them.  

Last year I wanted to replace those jeans after rips that were beyond repair.  I picked up a 34 waist pair.  When I tried them on it was like the 36s five years before.  So bought 32s.

I have not shrunk.  But most retailers are flattering their customers with waist sizes disconnected from reality.  The Army is in pants reality.  

Not Going to the Ball

No pumpkin is turning into a coach for me.  My First Sergeant called me up to say they are taking a lot fewer soldiers than he first heard and I am one of the many not going to the Inaugural Ball.

Oh well.