I work near a bunch of military type facilities. Some mornings, I see incredibly fit men and women jogging past me, their breath steaming out of their mouths in white clouds as I drive past them, sucking down an Egg McMuffin and jumbo Diet Coke.
This morning, they were all in camo and it reminded me of the time that I was in charge of 69 strong Marines.
Let me ‘splain.
Once upon a time, I was a weekend retreat coordinator at a kid’s YMCA camp. You see, in order to be more fiscally fit, the camp also held adult retreats (no, not the Wakka Chicka Wakka Chicka keys in a fishbowl kind of retreats, get your mind out of the gutter! Sheesh!) and I was Weetabix, your cruise director. In real terms, I taught leadership classes, team-building exercises (low ropes courses where everyone helps each other), coordinated the group meals, building fires in the sauna, and basically made sure no one bled to death on my watch. It entailed me spending my weekends in the north woods, busting my tail feathers for $120. It wasn’t a bad gig and it was a nice second job when we were trying to save money to buy our house or for me to go to England.
One Friday afternoon, as the camp director was leaving, he mentioned, ‘Oh, a couple of Marines are coming up here to build a new road for us in the woods and stuff’ put them in Cabins 1 and 2. They won’t need much, but keep an eye on the younger girls in camp, ok?’ This wasn’t too long after Tailhook and scary stories of the military gone crazy. ‘There’s gonna be like 20 or something.’
No big deal. I went about my night, welcoming the retreaters, giving orientations and tours, getting people situated in their cabins, etc.
The next morning, I was delivering morning announcements to a hall of 120 people when suddenly the cook appeared, looking extremely apprehensive, with two very large Marines behind her. They waited patiently until I finished, and then the cook urgently beckoned to me.
‘Ma’am, we’re under your command for the weekend.’
‘Oh, ok, cool.’ I said. ‘Would you like a look around?’
‘Yes Ma’am.’ He said. ‘The rest of our crew is out back.’
I wandered out the back door and there I was greeted by dozens of camouflaged Marines, all standing in pinpoint precise rows, looking at me. I was wearing a sweatshirt smudged with charcoal and had my messy hair pulled back into a ponytail, my pink Chuck Taylor’s loose and untied. In comparison, their boots were all polished black, their muscles firm, their knives glinted in the sunlight. Um’ knives?
‘Whoa.’ I said.
‘Soldiers, this is Weetabix, our chief command during this maneuver.’
I led them through a tour of the camp, explaining where things were, having their sergeant or whatever translate that into Marine-ese. ‘There’s the bathroom.’ ‘Men, that is the HEAD.’ ‘I’ll need to ask that you remove the knives when on camp property, I’m afraid.’ ‘Men, we are to operate in civilian mode, weapons stowed or concealed.’ ‘That’s where the cheerleaders are staying.’ ‘Men, that area is on a need to know basis only!’
Throughout the day, whenever I would pass a uniformed man (or one of the three lady Marines’ I hadn’t noticed them originally, they were pretty butch), they would eye me with ultimate respect. Sometimes they would ask me if I had any special orders for them.
It was the ultimate control trip: buxom babe in charge of 69 muscular fit Marine lads.
As I slept in my private cabin that night, I could hear them in the woods, doing maneuvers or what have you. Imagine if you will the sounds of frogs, crickets, and an owl hooting here or there, then suddenly out of the blackness, a chorus of male voices ‘SIR YES SIR!’
The next day, I made two big burly men kiss a moose and the entire platoon sang ‘How much is that doggie in the window?’ while I had three men pretend they were puppies, completely with waggedy tails.
It’s true what they say: power corrupts.
(sigh) It was fun while it lasted.
Last night, Esteban asked, ‘How did it go at the dentist?’
‘Oh, it was ok. Good drugs.’
He sighed in mock disgust, ‘Once a stoner, always a stoner.’
I sneered at him, but truthfully, he’s probably right. I’m itching to get drunk on Cosmos right now and I’m blaming it on the happy gas.
Dear Mandy Moore or Smith or Jones or Who Ever You Are:
Repeat after me: I am not Britney Spears. I am not Britney Spears. I have even less talent than Britney Spears on a good day. If it were not for my incredible ability to give recording CEO’s oral gratification, I would be slinging chalupas at Taco Bell.
Good girl. And don’t ever preempt Angel again.
Yours truly,
Weetabix.
Dear PoorYorick,
I hope you’re feeling better after your surgical stuff.
Lots of good thoughts your way,
Weetabix
Dear Chinese Restaurant,
That piece of hard crunching stuff in my chicken and broccoli L13 lunch special? Please tell me it was something benign’ like insects or something. If you put glass in my food, I’m gonna be ticked.
I’m serious. I have friends in the Marines. Don’t mess with my stir fry! Plus, if you screwed up my new filling, Dr. John’s going to want a word with you as well.
Yours truly,
Weetabix
