How Did I Get Here?

Friday

The morning started with me crashing two of my three automobiles.

How did I accomplish this, you ask with a little too much giggling in your jackass voice?

Well, it involved backing out of my garage in my Pilot and talking to my wife, not paying attention. It was made possible by taking a wider-than-normal turn last night when pulling in Uranus so that it was just a little bit to the center of the driveway. (Can you see where this is going?)

I’m discussing something with Carrie as I back out when I hear this crunching noise. And not the good kind. (Is there a GOOD crunching noise?) Carrie then makes the most intuitive statement: “You crunched it!”

I pulled forward and got out of the Pilot to discover, yes indeed, I had just backed out one of my cars right smack into my other car. The right back fender caught the front of the left fender of Uranus and scraped back almost to the side mirror, cracking the fiberglass frame just a bit. The Pilot lost a little paint but with some rubbing, nothing much is visible but a little cosmetic idiocy I will be hearing about until I can hear no longer.

OK, the day begins.

We make our way to Starbucks because I’m flying to Miami today and… you know what, let’s face it, there really doesn’t have to be much of an excuse to make an unplanned stop at SB’s.

I get my venti triple shot white mocha blended Big Mac and Carrie orders her own concoction because I punted the ordering of said offering into the stands last weekend when I tried. This happened to be what we were discussing when I played smash-em-up with my own cars, but I digress.

We drove to the MAC terminal where I met the other Marines and Sailors who were flying to Miami to participate in the Miami marathon. I was the only one running the marathon and two others were running the half. The other five were using the crank-wheel bikes for the race and there were two wives along for the ride.

After discarding my shaving cream because it would obviously blow up the entire C-130 into a million burning pieces as we all plummeted to our deaths somewhere over Arizona, we loaded up and I settled in for the 6 hour and 15 minute flight.

C-130 flights are the shit because although you can’t hear a thing (score!), you can sprawl out. And since I take good advice when offered (thanks, Paola), I brought along my pillow, a sleeping bag, and two books along with my sound-cancelling headphones and iPod. I was all set for a sprawl-a-thon, read-a-thon, and warm snuggle-a-thon.

Not much happened on the flight other than the Doc with the missing leg (who you might remember from my American Idol post) was across from me and when he curled up like a cat, he pulled up his prosthetic leg, twisted it so it stuck straight up in the air at an odd angle, and fell asleep looking like he had been in a wreck and was mangled. Quite disturbing.

When we got to Florida, we were greeted by volunteers from an organization called Achilles who sponsored us coming out for the race. There were also volunteers from the NY and Miami fire departments to give us a ride to the hotel and who will be providing a staging area for the bikes along with our marathon-eve meal.

All these wonderful people were falling all over themselves to shake our hands, help us, and tell us how much we appreciated what we did. It was difficult to adequately express how much of an honor it was for US to be THEIR guests.

We drove for an hour through Miami and South Beach on a Friday night. Maybe it was the long trip talking but I didn’t like the place. You all know how I feel about new places and I had never been here before. The strip was lined with condos, apartments, hotels, motels, and just about every form of lodging you can imagine. There were shops, restaurants, clubs, etc. packed along the way and maybe it was just too much. I just felt swamped, closed in, and in a foreign land.

But I have to hand it to them, they have the best mannequins on earth here. We went by what I assume was a lingerie shop and the mannequin in the window was an extreme example of a fully stacked specimen of the female gender. The Marines in the van wanted to bust the glass and take her with us. (BTW, NEVER Google Image Search “sexy mannequin” looking for a blog picture to post. Just… never do it.)

The organizer who was driving made a joke along the way that we “were here” when we passed a cheap motel. The joke was on her because we didn’t expect royal treatment and would have been happy at a roach motel near the beach. We’re Marines.

What she eventually pulled into was the Double-Tree Inn Resort. Yes, folks, it was where the “woop-de-doo” people stay, as our host calls them.

When she found out that the C-130 didn’t serve food or drinks (the stewardesses apparently had the day off), she insisted we go straight to the 27th floor and get some pizza and Gatorade. I had to be the asshole who enforced the no-alcohol policy and I’m sure many of the Marines were sorry I was along for the ride.

We got up to the suite and there were many people already there, most of which had some kind of injury. The Achilles people sponsored people from all over the country and from many military hospitals to come so the camaraderie was thick. There was even an Australian bloke who held the world-record for hand-crank marathons. Even YouTube likes him.

We ate pizza, drank water and Gatorade, and shared in the good vibes and appreciation showered on us and the others present. It was a great time and I was humbled to be among them.

Eventaully, I went down to the lobby to get my room set up. I was rooming with two other Marines so when I checked in, I asked that we get a rollaway bed since there was only supposed to be two beds. In such a situation, I, the Officer, would be in the roll-away and the Marines would get the beds. They before me, always.

But the desk clerk tells me there are no more rollaways. This is when I turn my back to her and dial Genna, one of the organizers. She said she would be right down so I grabbed my stuff and headed for the room, hoping Genna could get this straightened out.

When I got to the room, one of the other Marines had already checked in and when my key didn’t work (par, course), he opened the door with a smile.

The first thing I noticed was a rollaway that couldn’t have got there AFTER I had asked for one thus, it would have had to already been there.

I said, “Oh good, my rollaway is already here.”

This confused the Marine…

“Sir, we have our room..” which he Vanna Whited to me. It was a regular size room with two double beds…

“…and it comes with the CO’s Special…”

He led me through the enormous living room area separate from his bedroom and into an equally huge room with a king size bed, walk-in closet, and a cavernous bathroom with a shower and a spa tub.

I was shocked.

“Well, I guess we don’t need the rollaway” is all I could muster. I was stunned.

This was a monstrous suite and this room was nothing short of a wing. Along with the second room and living room, it had a kitchen and a dining room.

I called Genna and told her not to bother with the rollaway and that in fact we now had an extra.

Once again, rock star treatment. And once again, I was not ever going to get used to this and hope never to do.

We have a three hour time change to deal with and don’t have to be anywhere until 0900 tomorrow which is 0600 but there is a Starbucks right across the street so life is good.

The one detail of the rock-star room that made me feel really dumb is the boday (is that how you even spell it?) There was a toilet AND one of these things and while I was not dumb enough to think it was a high-speed, poorly designed water fountain nor a really busted-up shitter, I really didn’t know how to use it.

My GUESS was that you squat, crap, and let the water, well, pardon my vocab but, wipe your ass. But if this is true, I don’t know why you would want to squat when you can SIT on the toilet. And, I don’t know why you would want a weak jet of water shot up your ass (or just into the crack and let it flow? I don’t know..) because other than a sensation I won’t be clamoring for, I figure your ass would still have, er, … “residual” AND be all wet so you would have to get it dry somehow. So now you would be signing on for wads of wet toilet paper falling to pieces all over and in your ass in addition the whatever super-spray couldn’t take care of for you. Yeah, that’s a great feeling/look/visual.

Then I considered maybe I had it all wrong but then upon further logical deduction, I couldn’t find an alternative method. This simply had to be the way, as useless as it may be.

The three of us stood there, turned the water on, and I kind of left my body and witnessed three Marines staring at the stupid thing with looks of utter confusion. Like three dogs hearing a high-pitched tone with our heads cocked at similar angles.

I laughed my disembodied ass off.

Free Advice for Today: “Every day look for some small way to improve the way you do your job.”