Feeling useful

I guess I spend a lot of time here lately thinking about what it means to be useful . I left my job back in Virginia and moved here last December and I won't start school until mid March, so until then, I have multiple projects here around the house to keep me busy. These projects are my small way of feeling as though I contribute something to our life here at home. Lila has a day job and works, a lot. Allow me to expand on that... she works her ass off... like 6-7 days a week; and her job isn't at the mall selling over-salted pretzels either- she works for the gov managing an ass load of money (along with 8-10 other jobs that aren't even hers, but she does anyway) that apparently no one contemplates what the fuck to do with along with the other aforementioned bullshit jobs that get thrown on her. Being 4 months pregnant and dealing with all of this surely can't be the least stressful job a woman could ask for, but she does it and does it incredibly well. For dealing with all of this on a day-to-day basis, I am proud of her; along with all of the other bullshit she puts up with- namely mine after she comes home. Jesus, how can anyone I know come home to me and deal with all of the weird shit I can put someone through and still love me? Wow, true love must really exist!

My days start off at 0600. I get up, make the coffee, stir about, let the dogs out while Lila soaks up the last few minutes of freedom in bed. She's up and off by 0730, which typically leaves me to my devices for the day. For the last 2 weeks, I have been out in the back of the house working to get it cleared up. There were a lot of fallen trees and a ton of brush about that needed clearing and I took about the task. Hell, I even spent $450 on a weed eater (see 1st blog post) to help get the job done. Day after day I go out and begin to work the land as it were, cutting trees from every implement from a small machete, to a bow saw up to a 28" pro chainsaw. Whacking at briars and scrub brush as thorns tear into my arms and face. I don't mind the blood and the pain is more of an annoyance than anything. I've gotten a lot done over the past two weeks and I am proud to see my progress, as I can now look out back and see the creek bed that was hidden so deeply behind all of the debris and heavy brush. But, even with all that I have accomplished, I still can't feel as though I have done anything near as worthy as what Lila does for us every day. She's four months pregnant. Drives 45-60 minutes to work, each way every day. Deals with an amount of stress and bullshit that would have made me flip my shit, kick everyone in the ass and quit in under 15 minutes, daily. Comes home to me and all my retarded insanity, tired and in need of a mental and physical recharge while I've done what exactly? Yeah, what the fuck have I done during her 11 hour day? Hmmm, let's see:

 When she leaves around 0730, I am on my computer checking email, SAC and generally fucking off until 1000. I take the dogs out, make a few phone calls to get quotes for fencing, etc. "Lunch" falls between 1100 and 1200 and I am in the yard full-tilt no later than 1300. Now, to be honest, when I hit the yard, there is absolutely no fucking about- I work with all the integrity that a U.S. Marine should. I kick my own ass on a daily basis out there. I loathe the gym and there is, in my opinion, no substitute for a good workout doing hard manual labor. So, as the past two weeks have rolled by and I stopped today to admire my work; I asked myself- "What am I really doing around here to contribute? How am I being useful?". Before the back yard project began to take place, I made it a point to have a nice home cooked dinner ready for Lila when she got home from work; but, since taking on this new task, I have faltered in that quite a bit. She hasn't complained about it at all (nor would she), bit to me it is a small., yet important part of taking care of things while she is away being the family bread winner. All of which brings me back to, "What the fuck I am doing at home while she is slaving away at work that makes me feel worth a fuck?".

Right. What is it, exactly, that I am doing? We've talked about it and she insists that the work I am doing while she is gone makes her feel good, as she enjoys the yard now more and so on. But, I think a lot of you guys know what I am getting at here- where is my worth in this? There is no dollar value on what I am doing per se. I sit in a robe and surf the net for 2-3 hours a day while she works, what the fuck is that? I guess there is a lot to be said for someone feeling as though they have never given there worth, yet to what measure does one hold themselves accountable?

At this point, I simply have to feel content with the fact that where I am right now, is where I am. I start school in a month to become a squirrel chaser and tree hugger- perhaps working outdoors is some kind of fucked up pre-cursory test that no one ever told me about. Hell, I dunno... it sure does beat doing laundry and washing dishes all day. Shit. I wondered why I got a funny look this afternoon while she was doing that...

Stupidity found within, a drunk Marine tale

The Range

As best I can recall, it was 1993 and I was still new to drinking anything at the time- at 20 years old, I came into the Marines pretty n00b to anything. I had a real lame life in H.S. and so on. Moving on, I am at a buddy from my platoon's house, Steven Juarez- the craziest Hispanic mother fucker I'd ever met. A former gang banger, the whole nine. With us was another crazy fucker- Jason Metcalf. A hysterical psychotic who was fearful of nothing. It's a Sunday night and what else is new- I'm drinking a 12 pack of Budweiser (Jesus, I used to drink that shit?). We're just hanging out at Juarez's, drinking beer, talking shit and the like. I had all but polished off the beer, when he calls me into the kitchen and asks if I'd ever heard of Firewater. Now, my roommate at the time was a Blackfoot Indian and I knew that he still referred to hard alcohol as such- but not this. This was Firewater, hot cinnamon schnapps.

This is where things get bad. Really, really bad...

I say no. It smells god awful, I am not at all interested. Well, being the only white guy there and having them both dig on me, I bowed to peer pressure and decided, "I'll show these fuckers" and grabbed a glass from the cupboard. A nice tall 16oz glass that I proceeded to fill almost all the way up. As they are both chiding me and I am standing there in the kitchen, my thought process begins, as I start to amp myself up internally to do the unthinkable. So, as I will later use as a tactic in other various acts of unthinkable stupidity, I stood there with a blank look on my face, waiting for them to think they saw me back down... and as sure as they said "Aww fuckin'-A Edwards, you fuckin' puto", I kicked the glass back, opened my throat and shoved home all the glasses sickening contents. BAM! "Yeah, take that mother fuckers!!!" My night had just started to end.

After the wowing of both my fellow platoon members, we decide to hit the pool and do laps and so on. We were in an amphibious raid company, so we lived for the water. We're doing underwater "pays to be a winner" sprints, where, the 3 of us go underwater from end-to-end, the winner stays out while you race the other guy. Then, that winner stays out and you race yourself. This can be brutal with an entire platoon let me add. So, after only about a half hour, I am fucking dead tired and certainly pretty fucked up. Amazing how all that holding your breath and physical exertion can get the alcohol really moving huh? That's just fuckin' silly. Metcalf has to help me out of the pool and I stumble back to the apartment- the world shifting on it's axis before me as I struggle to maintain. Nope. It's not happening. I get into the house, walk into the living room and in glorious fashion, pull the most awesome header anyone has ever seen (according to them). Face first, I see it happening and I just don't have the skills to stop it.

Next thing I know I am in the back of Juarez's truck on base. They carry me up to my barracks room and toss me into my rack. I am semi conscious of the fact that they are doing this and realize that they undress me, pull a sheet over me and leave. WTF? I'm naked? I pass out.

"Edwards. EDWARDS!!!!!" Holy shit, what the fuck time is it? "Jesus Edwards what the fuck, over? You gotta go to the rifle range you fucking moron" cries my roommate Elgin. Jesus, he's right. I slump out of the rack onto the floor and struggle my way to my wall locker for my uniform and my gear. Fuck me I can barely read the numbers to open my lock. I claw for my uniform as I still sit there in the floor fucked up as hell. Oh yes, I am still so very much wasted. I put on my combat boots, toss on my green t-shirt and from out of nowhere my roommate starts yelling again "Edwards what the fuck are you doing man, put on your god damn cammie bottoms!!!" As I look down to see, I am naked as fuck from the waist down and wearing my boots. Lovely. I begin to laugh hysterically. Elgin keeps going on and he can't help but finally laugh at how insanely retarded I am at this point. I get myself together, grab my shooting gear and bail out of the room, yelling at the top of my lungs "I'm fucked up and I'm headed to the range!!!" Yeah, I'm a bright one.

So, I make it to the armory where the gate guard is this incredibly hot young black WM (Woman Marine), where unbelievable to me even at the time, I pause to flirt. Jesus I am so fucked up. I haul ass to my armory window, grab my M-16A2 service rifle and head to the rally point for the buses to the range. I get there and I am of course, late. Marines are never late, because, well... you just aren't. I'm a PFC and a Corporal calls me over and immediately grabs me by the throat and says "Jesus what the fuck Edwards, are you fucking drunk??!!!" I explain and he informs me that Gunnery Sgt. Thomas is on this range detail and I had better do WHATEVER it took to sober up because if he finds out- well, I'm dead. I skarf down an MRE and stay way away from anyone to hide my stench. We finally get to the range and I catch up with Juarez and Metcalf. They explain the header to me and explain that, once they got me to the barracks, I was soaked with sweat. Great. Alcohol poisoning. They stripped me down to help cool me off. I tell them the story and how my events unfolded that morning. All we could do was laugh. I don’t know if it was the sheer stupidity, the insanity- eh, who the fuck knows. Looking back, that has got to be one of my dumbest moments ever. I did shoot rifle expert that week though ;)

More from the Corps

Cactus Jack
 

Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center; Twentynine Palms, CA (aka 29 stumps); Live fire range CAX (Combined Arms Exercise) April 1993

Africa hot? Fuck me Jesus this is Africa hot's HOT! Welcome to 29 stumps boys and girls, the Marine Corps desert playground for everything from live fire grenade ranges to full-on multi-unit live fire & maneuver exercises with mortars, arty, close-air support- you name it! More people get shot out at 29 Palms than at any training facility in the United States (or so we were told), so this really gets us boots excited (umm, not really). I had been in the Fleet for all of about 3 weeks at this point and already I was carted off to the middle of bum-fuck-nowhere for at least 30-45 days for this pre-deployment workup known as CAX. It all sounded cool- live fire and maneuver, mortars, call for fire missions, close in air support... the works. Here's a snippet of how 1 day of training at the stumps went WAY wrong.

0700 and I was already cursing God, the sun, sand and anything that would pay my panting breath heed as I humped my M-249 SAW (5.56mm Squad Automatic Weapon) and all my combat gear the 3 miles to the live fire range we'd be training at that day. I love the Marine Corps! We get there and strip off our packs and slam the paltry tasting slush called water out of our canteens as we got yet another briefing on the dangers of live fire ranges (We spent the entire first day getting the once over already). After this, we separated into our squads and went over a plan of assault for the range, how to engage targets, fire team rushes and so on. We were going to assault the range in a classic on-line fashion as such:

1st fire team 2d fire team 3d fire team

Pretty basic and effective for the kind of range we were on. The terrain for the range was pretty intense: rolling berms, cacti, palm fronds, rocks and sand everywhere. The distance we had to cover was about 500 yards and we'd work to get there, believe me.

As you are taught in basic combat skills, you never want to just barrel ass towards the objective- this gives the enemy a clear shot at your ass and well, it's kind of hard to get some if your ass tangles with some 7.62mm coming from the other direction. So, to offset becoming a ToO (Target of Opportunity) we use a “tactic” which is simply called "I'm up, he see's me, I'm down". During a fire team rush, you haul ass for about 5 yards and drop like a sack of god damned potatoes. if this sounds pretty simple, it is; but then factor in that I am carrying a 15lb machinegun, 40 additional pounds of battle gear, grenades, extra ammo, water, spare barrel and so on. When you hit the deck at full speed, it fucking hurts. In the case of this story, it REALLY fucking hurts.

We began our fire team rushes, with the squad leader in the center giving direction and the individual fire team leaders repeating the commands. We'd rush for 5-6 yards, drop and lay down fire on the objectives/targets.

Side note: After running your ass off, in the heat, with all that gear, slamming the deck and then blowing off 30-40 rounds out of a machine gun... the blood pulsating through your ears, coupled with about 12 other weapons going off around you, makes hearing anything, next to shit.

So as we are going through, to my left I hear a blood curdling scream the likes of which I have never heard, followed by multiple and resounding "Cease fire" commands. I looked over to see Lance Corporal Ogden stand up, his face flush red and streaming with tears, drop his M-16A2 service rifle and clamor and tremble right where he stood. "Jesus Christ, had he been shot???" I thought. Our squad leader Corporal Gilliam screamed aloud "Ogden what in the holy fuck are you doing dropping that weapon- fucking follow it!!!" Now what the squad leader refers to hear by saying "follow it" means that any Marine that drops his weapon, he follows it to the deck and begins a vigorous session of pushups until the Marine has atoned for his sin. Ogden began to scream and writhe in apparent pain, the squad leaders' rants obviously not hitting their mark. "What the fuck was going on???!!!"

Corporal Gilliam ran over to Ogden, as it was becoming clear that he had somehow been injured, possibly gunshot. The corpsman ran to his aid as well as we all sat in bewilderment. Jesus. We'd merely been here 2 days and already a casualty. Needless to say, we were all concerned. We watched the scene unfold and Ogden was carted away by Corporal Gilliam and the corpsman to the awaiting Humvee the corpsman used as an ambulance. In typical Marine Corps infantry style, the training continued, as we were told Ogden was fine, he wasn't shot and to carry on. We all finished the range and enroute back to the range ready area, the scuttlebutt was alive with what had happened. Well, the truth of the matter is this:

Ogden was making his rushes with his squad, 2d squad, which rushed up the middle. During one of his rushes, on the "I'm down" phase of rushing, he happened to drop down onto one of 29 Palms indigenous life forms, a cactus, right on his crotch. Apparently the corpsmen on scene spent several hours removing hundreds- yes, that's right, HUNDREDS of spines from his penis and testicles. The word was that the amount of blood expelled was horrific. We were all totally floored, but hey- fuck it, we’re Marines. So, what did we do? On our way back to the camp where we were "living" the Humvee carrying Ogden in the back began to slowly pass through our column formation as one of the Marines began to call the following cadence: "Whoa whoa Cactus Jack, landed on a cactus in his sack" Man that's fucking low, yeah? Our first casualty and we make fun of the poor helpless bastard. In the end, he went to the mainside hospital where he told us they removed somewhere on the scale of a thousand spines and several were never removed, as they were too deeply embedded in the skin and would eventually grow out.

From the Corps

The next few posts here will be all about being a Jarhead. Leatherneck. Teufelhunden. Devil Dog... Here are some stories about my life as a U.S. Marine, or at least the way I remember it. These were written about 3 years ago, so some of you may have already seen them. In that case, just fucking read them again.

Welcome to 2/5, who wants to be on brain detail?

Camp San Mateo, 2d Battalion, 5^th Marine Regiment, 1^st Marine Division; Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton, CA: April 1992 

After a long and dreary move to Camp Pendleton, CA aboard various planes and buses, delays spread throughout; on our transit from Camp LeJeune, NC was by no small measure, a fun-filled experience. We had departed Camp LeJeune along about the 1^st of April, whereupon I was due my first promotion to the rank of Private First Class, or PFC. “Fuck; now it’ll be another month and I’ll be strapped with the fucking stigma of not just a boot, but a fucking lame ass boot Private… mother fucker.” We finally arrived at San Diego airport on April 2d and through some modern miracle, ebbed our way up to MCB, Camp Pen. As the bus careened through the front gate, I recall I thought “What the fuck is with all the mountains? Where are the kick ass beaches? Hot blondes and endless supply of Porsches?” It started to sink in; this was to be no pleasure tour.

Our first stop was the “receiving barracks”, better known as the gateway to hell. Here you were given your orders and assignments to the various FMF (Fleet Marine Force) units you’d go to. “2/5?!” The corporal yelled “You poor bastard, some boot just blew his head off up there today. Good luck…” I thought to myself “Fuckin’ Jesus, I’ve barely been here 30 minutes and mother fuckers are putting .223’s through their Brain Housing Groups to get the fuck out???!!! Yeah boy, Infantry… you asked for it dumb ass".

Myself and 3 other fellow Marines that I had been with since boot camp, all had the prestigious honor of getting assigned to 2/5: the Marine Corps most highly decorated battalion. We were going to be stationed with a unit where some of the finest Marines ever served. A unit proud of its’ battle history: Belleau Wood, Guadalcanal, Pelilu, Okinawa, Inchon, Chosin Reservoir, Hue, Somalia and Iraq. There was no doubt now, if there had been before- we were about to be in the shit. 

San Mateo, Camp Pen’s northern most infantry camp. Home of the Fighting 5^th Marine Regiment, composed of the 1^st Combat Engineer Battalion, 1^st Battalion, 9^th Marines (formerly the now disbanded 4^th Marines) and the 1^st, 2d and 3d Battalions that comprised the 5^th Marine Regiment. A sultry dust bowl, devoid of almost all life except for the blood thirsty Marines training at various areas all throughout the camp. Perched just below an infamous ridge line and hill, referred to as 1^st Sergeant’s hill, Camp San Mateo was the bastard child of MCB Camp Pen. We filed off the bus and made our way to the headquarters building for assignment to one of 4 companies’ at the battalion level: H&S, for logistics, supply, etc; Echo Company, the battalion’s helicopter assault element; Fox Company, whose specialty was amphibious raids and finally Golf Company, who was an AMTRAK (Amphibious armored personnel carrier) assault element. Upon arriving, we had all heard that Fox Company was run by a demanding 1^st Sergeant and was the battalions “Tip of the spear”, the baddest of the bad within the battalion and of course, the most difficult unit. I wanted that unit… or did I? 

I chose Fox Co., as it became to be known to me. Upon my doing so, I was to meet with the 1^st Sergeant, a man named Keith Gros who hailed from the bayou’s of Louisiana. A chiseled man, weathered and harsh, I stood before him as he asked with his Cajun drawl “Pvt. Edwards, you do understand that this company, unlike Echo and Golf, is a volunteer company do you not?” I thought to myself “Volunteer? Why the fuck is it volunteer??!!” As he continued on “Because you see, we train in the water almost 24/7 and the potential for dying is much greater as you might drown in a surf zone or over turn in a Zodiac and get hit by the engines. We don’t want any pussies in our company that can’t hang, is that understood?!” I’m shaking now, my mind rampant as fuck “Holy fuckin’ Jesus, what the fuck have I signed up for???” I am almost certain the sweat pouring off of me is obvious, my brow cringed and composure slipping. “Yes 1^st Sergeant, I want to be with the best. I want to serve with Fox Co.”, “Very well” he replied and sent me to find the door and remove myself from his presence. When I exited the room, the other 4 Marines saw how visibly shaken I was and I began to explain that, while afraid, this is why I chose to be a Marine, why I had to push my own very limits. I was in. I was a Fox Co. Marine. 

I found myself assigned to 2d platoon. According to those I had spoken with, 2d platoon had the stigma of always being the company’s finest; sending the most Marines to Super Squad- an elite competition of Marine infantryman; putting in the most hours training when other platoons were on liberty. In short, I was in the most decorated battalion of the Marine Corps; in the hardest company in the battalion and to be sure, the fuckin’ hard case elitists’ platoon in the company. Yep, I asked for it to be hard alright. I was issued a room, in which, while suited for 2 Marines, was occupied by 3 already, as I was to be the fourth. Can we all say “How’s your cot mother fucker?” and “Welcome to the fleet, boot”? Joy. We all settled in and the Corporal who was our liaison instructed us that the rest of the platoon was already secured for liberty and to be in formation on the parade deck at 0530 for PT the following morning; the battalion commander wanted to go on a “light motivation run”. Sweet. They’re breaking us in easy. We were told before that, when getting to CA we’d be allowed 10 days to “acclimatize” to our new surroundings. Umm, bull fucking shit!

The following morning we were in formation as the battalion commander gave us a motivational speech about how pleased he was with the units’ progress for the upcoming evaluations we were preparing for and he wanted us to go out for a “moto run” to help build spirit. This was my introduction to the end of life as I knew it. Pain cannot sum up the arduous efforts taken to gain breath as we began our ascent up the first portion of the ridge line. Surely my heart would give out before we reached the top, then a corpsman could cart me away to the aid station and ply me with IV’s for the remainder of the day until I came out of my self-induced coma. The acid continued to pour through my veins as we pressed harder and harder to reach the never ending summit. All the while the platoon sergeants chanting out cadence that seemed to flow from their lungs with ease. “Jesus, who the fuck are these people???!!!” The run continued on with Marines dropping out near the summit and the screams of Sergeants and Corporals could be heard as they threatened each drop with a fate worse than death if they didn’t catch up, reach down and grab a hold. I was too terrified to stop. I caught out of the corner of my eye, another senior Marine dragging a run drop and kicking his ass up the hill, all the while foaming out obscenities- his face a crimson red I had never seen before. “Fuck me, there’s no way I’m stopping!” The run finishes with us launching into a crevasse and sprinting across the fields back to the parade deck. My lungs are spent. My legs, lifeless and pale from the lack of blood. My body wants to convulse and turn itself inside out. I make it to the end. 

While recovering, the battalion commander voices his displeasure at all of the weakness he saw with the run drops and gave praise to those “Who could hack it” with him. Upon the release of the formation, each company was granted the discretion of securing for liberty whenever they saw fit. We had a lot more paperwork to do and that allowed myself and the 3 other Marines to shower and head back to headquarters, while the rest of the company headed to the armory for weapons cleaning. The shower only seemed to last a minute, the cries of the other 4 Marines I roomed with, the 4^th being a “brown bagger” or married Marine who lived off base, yet needed a room during the day; driving me out by complaining that I was draining out all of the hot water. I finished up, got into my fatigues and headed up to the H&S building. I went about going from shop to shop to “sign in” and while I thought I was skating out of the bullshit weapons cleaning, the rest of the company was secured for weekend liberty at noon, while my dumb ass still had various duties to perform. Near the end of the day, we were called into one of the admin offices by a Corporal who said he had a duty for some of us: brain detail. The Marine who had off’d himself days earlier apparently left quite the masterpiece on the walls and ceiling of his barracks room and guess who was going to clean it up. “Fuck me, could this get any worse??” So we stood there for what seemed an eternity (a common thing I’d come to be quite familiar with, or better coined as “Hurry up and wait”), awaiting the orders and instructions on what to do, the images of a young Marine with his head blown off and brains/blood scattered about the confines of the small room made me twitch- when the Corporal finally told us it had already been seen to and to go away, we were secured for the weekend and to be back at 0700 Monday morning. “Welcome to the fleet, boot.” No fucking shit.

Back to basics

It feels good writing again. Getting behind the keyboard to do something other than game away into the wee hours of the morning or stare at the screen and wait for the latest gear deal on Steep and Cheap (hey man, that site kicks ass- thanks Nick!). I like to think of myself as a pretty good writer. I started back in grade school, as many of us did, making up stories and writing book reports. When I was ~13 or so, I began to write poetry; an area I seemed to have a good handle on, as it allowed me to express my feelings in a format that made sense to me at the time. I've kept up with the poetry for the better part of my adult years, sans a year or two when I wasn't as focused as I wish I was. I've noticed though, that as I get older, my writing style and purpose has changed somewhat. If you look at the poetry I write (see the blog for that here), they all have a certain tone that seems to stay consistent, no matter what the subject. Sure, there is the occasional abstract piece here and there, but overall- it's the same. Kind of like Will Ferrell: different movie title, same character. So, with that, I have decided to take a different approach and get back to basics as it were. Write what feels natural. I have strayed from posting my poetry on the blog, as I now write it for Lila and give them to her directly. It's not that I mind sharing the poems, but for them to be just for her seems much more fitting I suppose.

I've written a few stories before now, mostly about my experiences in the Marine Corps. I enjoyed writing them, as it allowed me to go back in my mind and relive those moments. I'll be sure and post those on here later on (I also plan on expanding them and writing a few more). I've always wanted to write a book. No idea what I'd ever write about, but it just sounds cool doesn't it? I've tried to do so in the past, only to get as far as the first 3 pages and go "Fuck. Now what?". Enter the blogosphere. You can write anything you want, all day and night and hell, someone might even read it and enjoy it. You might say that I did that with the poetry, but that wasn't really for anyone else per se- they never were. Up until a few months ago poetry was, in my opinion, a personal endeavor, aimed at the poet themselves to realize things or feelings that they feel they may have for someone/thing, etc. I openly admit that I never really enjoyed any other poets. It wasn't until Lila and I began to discuss her favorites (Percy Bysshe Shelley and Oscar Wilde), that I allowed myself to stop being so self-absorbed in my own work to look into what else might be out there and seek out what it had to offer me. I wish I had done this years ago.

The basic idea of writing, putting ones thoughts and ideas to paper (or a computer screen), has always captivated me. I struggled with the concept of my own writing because I felt, at the time, it wasn't good enough for anything and that simply wouldn't do. Now I am writing just for the shear pleasure of the act itself. Getting myself out there. If people read it and enjoy it, that's great. If not, that works too (and you can go fuck yourself by the way :p). For far too long has my mind sat idle while a conscious stream of words worthy of writing down have flown by.

In closing, there is no offer of exceptional works that have lied dormant in my mind for years. For those of you who are following this and the email arrives, I dare not say that any of you will race to the link with exhilaration at what words formed into sentence might await you. What you will find here is me, in my purest form. Pouring out that which is in my head at the time (or in the shower half an hour ago). I guarantee I will ramble at times. Some of the stories here will bring a laugh or two. There are sure to be tragedies. In the end, this is my point of view. This is how I am getting back to basics.

I got a bad ass weed-eater and it only cost me $450

I'm you're average consumer I suppose. I do my research online before I buy most anything and I pretty frugal, which means I can talk myself out of buying just about anything. It's all about the cost-use-benefit justification process I run through my head before I buy anything. When I bought the weed-eater yesterday, the process never even started. This is unusual. Allow me to give you some background on my saving and spending habits over the years.

For as far back as I can remember, I was horrible at saving money. I spent everything I had and then some, always wanting for more and never realizing why I didn't have anything to show for it either (I never bought items of substance back then). I hated the thought of saving money to buy stuff (see worthless shit) and when I joined the Marine Corps and they threw credit at me, heh... I was fucked from the get-go. Store credit for CD players, approval for a lease on a 1995 GMC Sonoma, an AAFES card and various other credit cards. End result of all this glorified credit and bad money management? A $400 CD player (includes interest due to the fact I made the minimum payments for 2 years) I no longer have, a truck that I had to turn-in (and still make payments on) because I drank the payments away, a federal debt because I never paid off my AAFES card while I was active and a slew of charge-offs and creditors for the next 10 years. I basically got out of the Marines with $30K in debt and had barely anything to show for it. Smooth move dumb ass.

Fast-forward to the present. I am now 100% debt free, something I am proud of, even though it took me almost 10 years to get here. I now have a savings account, with money in it! I have items and things of value that I bought, with cash and still have in my possession. I truly agonize over spending money now. I will walk into a store and rationalize whether or not to buy a pair of $40 boots for working out in the yard, only then to decide that an old pair of jungle boots will do the trick. I have gotten quite good at being frugal, but my fiancee says my style is AFU (hey, they're my rules, so suck it lady :p) So, what's the deal with the weed-eater?

I have been working out behind the house for 2 weeks, clearing out the back yard wooded area from flood and wind damage. It's a lot of work, but I am enjoying the process- cutting back weeds, vines and thorn bushes with my machete; using my soon to be father-in-law's chainsaw to cut standing and fallen trees.. I'm kickin' some ass back there! When Rod, my fiancees' dad, and I were talking about my taking on this task, he commented that I should come up to the house and borrow his weed-eater, as he had a metal blade on it and it would make life easier for clearing brush. Well, when I started the project, I cost-use-benefit justified myself into using my machete, as the cost of fuel in the Blazer round-trip was just too much. Seriously, am I ever going to explain about this over-priced weed-eater?

So there is this really cool looking STIHL dealership just outside of town and ever since I moved here I have always wanted to find a reason to go in there. On my way home yesterday, I finally stopped in. I've always wanted a chainsaw of my own- not a hand me down or someone elses that I could borrow (thanks Rod, your 28" Pro Husqvarna is indeed a bad ass saw and I appreciate you letting me use it). This year is the first year I have ever received a tax return (see the part about the federal debt above) since getting out of the Marines in 2000. I got a nice return and figured I might buy my first real power tool with a part of the money. I walked in and met a nice older gentleman and explained I was looking for my first chainsaw. He showed me a nice 20" model for $400 and in going over its features, etc is when I noticed it- a STIHL FS110 Professional series trimmer. I did need a weed-eater to help me out back and I was still using Rod's Husky saw, so my need for a new one wasn't imperative; but the trimmer? Yeah. With a metal blade to tear through brush and small trees? Hell yeah! Hey wait, there's a price tag on that thing... $380???!! Damn! OK, break out cost-use-benefit justification process. Process? What process? In the span of about 90 seconds I had a professional series trimmer that guys who clean yards for a living buy, a metal blade, synthetic oil, a gas can and a STIHL hat bought and paid for. Yeah, I'm frugal alright.

I was proud. Damn proud. I had my very first "man tool" (I still have all of my mechanics hand and air tools, but those don't really count, do they?). I didn't blow $450 on computer games or ammo I wasn't going to shoot off for the next 9-12 months; I had a tool I could put to work immediately upon getting back home! In wrapping up the sale, the sales guy informed me that if I had any issues or questions to come back to the store and they'd take care of me. I even got a 10 minute instruction course on the trimmer (and learned a lot actually). In the end, I was proud of my purchase- I had bought it from a local store and got more from my visit than I had expected and came home with a tool that should last a long time. I've got my money's worth that's for sure. Hell, ask Lila; I've already cleared a swath over nearly a 1/4 acre out back and as soon as the electrons from this write-up cool, I am headed out back to deliver some more punishment :)