Well, hey, what can I say? I've been busy alright? I know, I know, it's been a while. Cut me some slack. I've been in class all week as well as feeling supremely guilty about missing the birth of our son. Numero Cinco, Baby Samuel. Oh yeah, let me quickly give you the run-down on the stats: Samuel Levi Kenworthy, 5# 8oz, 18". Good deal of black hair. Pictures availalbe on Stacey's blog or website shortly I'm sure. Anyhow, this week's been one for the record book, so bear with me.
Where were we? Ah yes, so...back up a little. So, last Sunday, I let out to the airport in Salt Lake at O-Dark-Thirty. Stacey of course drove me, because I like to maximize my inconvenience to the family whenever I go TDY (Temporary Duty). So, I had her drive me to the airport at six AM on a Sunday, because she probably had nothing better to do but rest and prepare for two weeks without me, herding four (now five) children. But I digress. So, anyhow, she drops me off at the airport, after my little tirade the night before about not being able to find this or that and how I'm a tad stressed because of the need to go to a local neighborhood soire' instead of pack. 'Course, I do that to myself all the time right? I dont want to hurt anyone's feel-bads, and I know I'm going to have a good time, but it's really the night before a major undertaking and I just KNOW I'm going to be frantically searching for a GPS unit, or a Kevlar or some other piece of gear/clothing that is SUPPOSED to be in my closet or my Army Gear Trunk (see also: "BAD ASS PREPAREDNESS KIT") in the garage. OH yeah, I forgot to tell you, my Army stuff is not allowed in the house because it's messy and takes up too much space in the closet and would be better out of sight and therefore out of mind....which...is precisely why I can't find the crap I need the night prior to my skulking off into the dead of night to slit someone's administrative-throat.
I lost my train of thought, where were we? Ah yes. So, then I get to the airport, after a major detour off of Bangerter Highway, through the industrial area, to a picturesque part of 1700-ish South that I've never before visited. Perhaps sometime Stacey and I can go back there for a nice picnic or perhaps to take some family photos, but not today. Anyhow, so I report to the kiosk at the Delta Help Yourself and commence checking in. So I swipe my DELTA GOLD card (I'm...KIND of a BIG DEAL) and of course, it doesnt even register. So, I have to hand-jam in my number, just like the last forty-two times I've used their kiosk and swiped my card. Anyhow, I need the miles, so whatareyagonna do? Ya know? Anyhow, that's how I paid for Stacey's Hawaii ticket a few months ago was with my Sky Miles so...you go to war with the Gold Card you have, not the Gold Card ya want.
Anyhow, I check my bags, and look at Horatio, or..Geraldo, or..whatever his name is and making clear and distinct eye contact say, "So...my bags are checked all the way through to South Carolina right?" To which of course he waves his hand in the Jedi manner and tells me all is taken care of. These aren't the droids I'm looking for. Well, low and behold, I scan my ticket, and resultant from my Bigdealativity, I've been up-graded to first class. Things are looking up.
So, I get on the aircraft, sit down, have my complimentary snacks and what not and enjoy being in seat 1C, wherein every swingin' Richard that enters the plane hits me with their carry-on in the left side of my noggin as they go past as though this is the first time they've every seen over-head compartments or a space shuttle from the inside. Whatever. I'm in first class, and..you know what? By the way, why dont they put First Class at the BACK of the plane? Especially where there are sometimes two doors for exiting? Whatever, I'm not a design engineer nor a airline exec so what do I know right?
Where were you? Oh, you were riveted to my rant...yeah, so...anyhow, that flight goes into Detroit, and from Detroit I transfer (along with the common-folk) into a smaller aircraft with no first class arena and on into Columbia, South Cacalacky.
So, from thence, I skip on down into the baggage claim area, and pick up ONE...I said...ONE of my bags. The smaller of the two, the one with my uniforms, (sans boots and sans t-shirts)(which plays out later in our story). So...while I'm waiting for my second bag, I hop on over to the Hertz line adjacent to the baggage claim, (Insert Mirand Lambert Song) and check out my new, white, convertable Chrystler Seibring. Which, as it turns out, when you're driving around with another dude, makes you look like a total homosapien. (NOT..that there's anything WRONG with that). So, knowing I now have the ultimate antiquing vehicle, I'm just about set. Turns out, at the lost baggage counter, my particular bag (one of two lost on the entire flight) somehow made it's way to Houston, to visit some old college buddies and drink beer late into the evening. However, NOT to worry, this particular hub has two...count them, TWO flights coming in later in the evening, one of which will have my bag. Scout's Honor.
Fast forward to that evening, where I'm calling the 1-800, wondering where in Sam Hill my bag is, along with my boots and a nice tan t-shirt for tomorrow's opening festivities. So, long story longer, turns out my bag wadn't gonna make it. So I get the dubious honor of showing up to class (mind you as the student class leader) without the benefit of an actual uniform, new underwear, a shave....wearing yesterday's travel clothes (cowboy boots) and looking like a complete shlub.
*hold on, I gotta pee, hold that thought*
You were saying? No, I was...ok, sit down, it gets even more boring from here. Grab a Diet Coke for me too will ya? OK, so...I show up to class, with 24 fellow captain-type students from all over the world (U.S. Army only) and two Major's whom we come to find will be our, "Facilitators". Which, is the new term for, "Instructor". (It's a kinder, gentler Army). So, I of course apologize profusely for the second day I'm wearin' these underwear and the double-shot of, "Domain" cologne I had to use to cover this Saturday Wal-Mart wear in order to be ready to learn in style.
So, we introduce ourselves, I get my marching orders and we start into this class. Well, turns out we're supposed to have pictures on that day, and now I, as said Class Leader, am going to be the only one in boots and jeans and 2x the legal limit of Domain. Well, anyhow, after six introductions and welcomes to the school by everyone from the School Assistant Commandant to the janitor we finish out what could have been done at any Guard Armory across the 54 States and Territories in about....two hours. Only it took these pogues all damn day to do it. Oh, and half way into the next day too.
So, this whole week we've been giving each other briefings, using the school-house slides without personal knowledge of what the test may be geared toward, taking copious notes. Only, we're not allowed to use our notes during the tests. Which...aren't really tests... they're..."Assessments" which apparently is, "Ajutant General" speak for, "totally subjective review of your abilities". So, we're all a little frustrated to say the least. Mostly because the program of instruction has no syllabus, no clear expectations, and every "ass-es-ment" we've taken to date has been so nebulous that pretty much it tells us they're making this crap up on the fly. OH, I forgot to tell you, we're the, "test case" for the new course of instruction, and this is the very first time they've tried this. Comforting isn't it?
Anyhow, so my bag of course showed up, I climb into the warrior-suit and commence class-leading the hell out of these 24 capable and directed captains. Here's the problem though, in addition to the unclear expectations from the facililitators, we're also being force-fed a diet of training that really appears to be the same trash you'd feed a brand-spankin-new second lieutenant fresh off the turnup truck. Problem is, we've all been commissioned for eight or more years and been down-range and back and have our very own, "This One time, IN Iraq/Afghanistan" stories which all rival the paper-cut stories from our instruct...facilitator's. This one time, in Kuwait, when I was there for six months, NOT getting shot at...." Whatever.
So, meanwhile, while I wasn't pulling these captains off of the ceiling trying to keep a mutiny from taking place, Stacey get's admitted to the hostpital to be induced and Baby Samuel is born. So, now, I'm in this course, as the class leader, of 24 mutinous captains with PTSD, who are cordially invited to write, rewrite and potentially re-re-write their nebulous non-gradable assessments before working on a Saturday with no clear expectation of what the hell we're even trying to accomplish. I tell you what, if you're ever in charge of troops, dont waste their time. They can smell B.S. a mile away and we're about waist-deep in it at this point. OHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhh I forgot the best part. So, this U.S. Army (Active) Colonel comes in...mind you, to a classroom full of near-mutinous Guard and Reservists. He's the J-1 (Personnel Officer) for U.S. Army European Command. Only, we're not really even sure who invited him or what the hell he's trying to get across. I tell you, he told us more about how great he was and how he's single-handedly saved democracy (from..an....Administrative...standpoint) than McArthur or Eisenhower. THEN this jagazz proceeds to tell us how the Guard and Reserve are a thing of the past, and that we're going back to the old days where we all drank beer on the drill weekends and never deployed. CONTRARY to everything that the 3 star general he works for tries to make policy. So I'm like...*eeeeeeeeerp* Brake sounds...dude, you're done. I'm out. I'm not sure what he said after that, but you can be damned sure it was about how he once saved G.I. Joe's Personnel Records file from a burning building. Whatever.
Anyhow, so the stress has been up a tad, yeah, I get that. But, the flip side is I'm meeting some really cool people. REALLY cool people. We have a great class and everyone here is involved and willing to learn even if we have to teach ourselves.
Starting Monday, we all get the dubious honor of putting on Kevlar Helmets and some web-gear and walking across gravel in a make-shift training FOB (forward operating base) to a warehouse with a cube farm to practice what it's like to be a Battalion S-1 (personnel officer) in the...real world. Pardon me while I towel myself off from anticipatory sheen.
Anyhow, if you read this far I'm actually pretty amazed. I can't wait to get home and see your bright and shiny faces. I miss everyone back in the..."world" and can't wait to see my new son. I'm so excited. Of course I feel incredibly guilty about being away when he was born, but I'm so very very thankful for such an incredible spouse who makes it all look effortless.
So...I guess we're done now, and this is getting awkward and..since this IS my room, you..should...probably leave now.
All the best to you and yours.
Always,
J
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