Oh Crap!

So I like my privacy. I mean, I like it to the point of being neurotic about it. If I could, I would shower with my clothes on. And going to the bathroom, well, let's just say there are strict conditions that must be met. And if at all possible, I try to avoid playing away games. I don't know if I had a traumatic incident when I was a kid or if I'm just a freak. Either way, given that I'm in the military and have to be away from home at times, this issue means lots of wandering around looking for an empty bathroom.

As part of my job as an instructor, we had a field training exercise every class that required us to be gone for 3 days. After several trips to our training site in Georgia, I had figured out the best times to shower and use the restroom. Of course, no plan is perfect. So one morning I had just sat down when someone else walked in. Okay, no big deal I thought, maybe he just needs to pee. Then he walked into the stall beside me. Okay, okay, there's still a chance. Maybe he likes privacy too. Nope, he didn't care about privacy at all.

My first thought when he sat down was “Well, this ain’t happening.” After that, I just started having an internal debate with myself about whether to wait it out or leave. As I’m sorting through the pros and cons, I hear his phone ring. Every sane person just lets it go to voicemail in that situation, right? Not this guy. He answers the phone! I’m still baffled by this. What possible decision-making process do you go through that makes you think, “Yeah, even though I’m in stall 2 taking my morning constitutional, I should really answer this”? Look, I’m not saying I’ve never sent a text message while being indisposed. It happens. I get it. But answer the phone? That’s where I draw the line. To make matters worse, I recognize his voice and realize it’s my boss sitting beside me. The scales had definitely been tilted in favor of getting the heck out of there before something else weird happened. Too late.

As I started to formulate my exit plan, I heard my boss rattle off a series of “Yes, Ma’ams”. I then realized that he was talking to his boss, a very refined female Colonel. Are you kidding me? What in the world would she think if she knew he was talking to her from his current location? I thought my head was going to spontaneously combust. This was just too much for me to process. So I decided to just make a run for it and hope he didn’t realize it was me. I jumped up and started for the door. There was only one miscalculation in my master plan. The toilet had an automatic flush. And a loud one at that.

And that's the way I flushed my career down the toilet.

Phonetic Friday

When I was training officer candidates, one of my favorite days was Phonetic Alphabet Friday.  During the first two weeks of training the OCs, as they were called, had knowledge they were responsible for on that particular day.  Our job as staff was to ensure they learned it.  Any time they were in formation outside and not moving, we would walk from person to person drilling them on that day’s knowledge.  And Heaven help the person that didn’t know it. 

So, on Friday of the first week of training, the OCs were responsible for knowing the phonetic alphabet.  For those of you who may not know, the phonetic alphabet is where you use a word to represent a letter.  For example, is someone told you to spell cat using the phonetic alphabet, you would spell it Charlie, Alpha, Tango.  Well, with a name like Kallstrom, I lived for Phonetic Friday.  My favorite thing was to go from person to person asking them to spell my name using the phonetic alphabet.  Listening to a trainee butcher both my name and the phonetic alphabet was priceless.  And it gave me a good reason to get my yell on.  There are two particular instances that stand out the most.

Tired and cranky at the end of a brutal week, I rolled in hot on an unsuspecting OC and gave him my standard line, “Spell my name using the phonetic alphabet.”  Crickets.  Not a word.  So I told him again, in a much louder voice, “Spell my name using the phonetic alphabet!”  Again, no response.  I started coming unglued.  The staff is not to be ignored under any circumstances and I vociferously reminded him of this.  Finally, the kid says “Sir, OC Jones reports to make a statement.”  “What?!” I replied.  After a slight hesitation, the trainee broke out, “Sir, I know the phonetic alphabet but I have no idea who you are.”  The rest of the staff had to turn around and walk away because they started laughing so hard.  I never lived it down and that poor kid will never forget my name again.

 The other instance happened outside the dining facility.  One of the flights was waiting to go in so I decided to start asking them to spell my name.  It started out much like the story above.  I kept asking this trainee to spell my name and he kept not saying anything.  Finally, I asked him if he knew who I was.  He still looked confused. “Come on!  You are really starting to hurt my feelings,” I said with just a hint of sarcasm.  At the time there were only two majors on staff and the other one was black and a former all-state football player.  It wasn’t like we were easily confused.  So I started in again.  “What’s my name?!” I asked for the last time.  The OC took a deep breath and said, “Sir, it’s Major…Kasselhoff.”  “Kasselhoff?” I replied incredulously.  “That’s right,” I continued in my best sarcastic voice. “I was on Baywatch, the number one show in the world, and I gave it all up to come train people like you.”  Then, as I started to walk away, I turned and said, “But don’t worry, I’m still huge in Germany.”

Coincidently, it was shortly after this incident that we were instructed not to use sarcasm as a training tool.  Evidently, it’s not very effective.  I’m not so sure.  To this day, if Hasselhoff makes the news for some type of buffoonery, I have random students from that class email and ask me if I’m okay.  I would say the sarcasm worked.

The Salsa and the Cheese, part II

If you missed part I, you can read it here:

http://the-rickter-scale.blogspot.com/2012/01/salsa-and-cheese-part-i.html

I had mixed emotions about being played so effectively by my daughter at the UT football game.  Part of me was proud of her abilities.  She was definitely my daughter and it was extremely well played.  The other part of me was not so supportive.  I hate to be embarrassed.  And to be outwitted by one of my kids?  Well, let’s just say that didn’t sit well with my overly competitive nature.  So, after being torn for about 37 seconds, I vowed my revenge.  I would find a way to return the embarrassment plus 10 percent.

It took a while but my moment finally came.  We were at one of our favorite Mexican restaurants one Sunday after church.  We were eating with most of my family, which meant we had four teenage girls there.  On this particular day, Emily seemed to be particularly obsessed with talking about how hot various celebrity guys were.  No father ever wants to hear his daughters talk about that.  A father wants to believe that he will always be the main man in his daughter’s life.  Of course, that day had long since passed with Emily.  I'll never forgot walking into her room when she was 9 and asking her who the most handsome man in the world was.  Every other time I ever ask her, the answer was me.  Not this time.  Without missing a beat, she said "Justin Timberlake."  And that was that.  Devastating.  Never asked her again.  But I digress.

So, anyway, the girls continued to judge guys’ hotness despite my protests.  And, of course, my beloved Emily was leading the charge.  She knew I was uncomfortable and was going for the kill.  Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and turned the tables.  I looked at her and said, “Well, it’s obvious that your hormones are raging so I think it’s time we have the talk.”  She laughed and replied, “Oh, Daddy…” because she was sure I wouldn’t give her the talk period and definitely not in public.  She underestimated me.  I just kept going.  “You see, Emily,” I said, “sometimes when a man and a woman love each other, they lay together in a special way.”  Yep, went straight Old Testament on her.  She was now mortified that I was going to continue…and I did.  I just needed an effective way to illustrate the value of purity.  I looked around for a second and it came to me.  “It’s like the salsa and the cheese,” I said while picking up a bowl of each.  She and her cousins all looked confused now.  “The salsa is like the woman.  An incredible creation that is wonderful and pure by itself.  And the man is like the cheese, also a tremendous creation that is great by itself.  When you put the salsa and the cheese together,” I continued, while mixing the bowls together, “they create con queso- the greatest dip in the world.  When you’re married, you’ll want to have con queso frequently.  But just always remember this.  Once you become con queso, you can never go back to being salsa or cheese.  No matter how much more salsa or cheese you add, you will always be con queso.”

Given that Emily will no longer eat Mexican food, I’m gonna say I won that round. 

The Salsa and the Cheese, Part I

My oldest daughter loves to shock me.  If she can say or do something to leave me speechless, she does it.  Usually, she does this by talking about feminine issues.  I'm constantly having to remind her that I'm in the room.  She knows this, of course, which is why she does it. 

A few years ago I decided to take her to a University of Tennessee football game.  Ever since she was a little girl, I always tried to take her on special dates.  I thought it would be special time for us.  You know, a chance to create some memories.  I guess I should have been more specific about the kind of memories I wanted to create.

As we walked into the stadium, she decided she needed to go to the restroom.  I waited patiently outside for a few minutes while she worked her way through the long line.  When she finally came out, she had a terrible look on her face.  Immediately, I asked her what was wrong.  She looked me dead in the eye and said, "I just got my period, Daddy."  You got what???  I nearly started hyperventilating.  As a group of sympathetic ladies looked on, I finally stammered, "Umm...okay...I love you...okay...well...ummm...hold on a minute.  I need to call Kim."  At this eloquent response, I thought some of the compassionate onlookers might actually hug and comfort me.  Forget about my daughter, clearly I was the one is distress.  I can only imagine how pale I must have looked.  I finally got out my phone and started to call my wife, who I was suddenly pissed at for not being there when I needed her.  I mean, isn't she supposed to be the one who has to deal with these things?  I'm pretty sure that's in the marital contract somewhere.  My job is to pay for prom dresses and pretend that they will never love another man besides me.  Nowhere in the Daddy training manual is there a chapter on menstrual cycles.  Anyway, as I'm working through my irrational anger at Kim, Emily interrupts me.  "What?!", I snapped.  "I'm trying to call Kim and can't remember my own phone number."  She looks at me again, gives me an evil smile, and says "It's okay, Daddy, I was just kidding.  Wanna get a hot dog?"