Day 46: Two Girls and a Veteran

The plan for Wednesday, November 11th , was for me to join my public library. I walked to my neighborhood branch, but when I got there, I found a sign on the door: "The library is closed today for Veterans Day."

Not only was I disappointed that today's plan for me to get a library card was no longer possible, I was embarrassed that I absolutely no idea it was Veterans Day. No idea. November 11th has always been just San Francisco Elizabeth's birthday for me.

I walked back to my house trying to figure out how I was going to rectify both problems. How can I commemorate Veterans Day for the first time ever?

When I got home I logged on to Facebook, and no surprise, people had used their status updates as a vehicle to honor all of the nation's veterans. I followed suit, leaving messages and texting the veterans I knew, thanking them for their service to our country.

This all felt cheap and not good enough. Like sending an email forward instead of a personal email to tell someone that you love them. I consulted my friend Matt aka "Mo" at work. He is a veteran and I thought he might have an idea of how to celebrate veterans on their (his) day. "Can I take you out for a beer or something," I asked, "Is anyone having any Veterans Day drink specials?" He seemed apprehensive, which is not like him. He's a huge supporter of the blog and usually up for anything.

Most of the organized Veterans Day activities were not an option. It was already close to noon, so all of the parades were over. I searched the local newspaper and came up with nothing. Do people, besides those at banks, the post office and the library, not celebrate Veterans Day?

I was even more determined to not let the sun go down before finding some way to mark this holiday. Day 46's thing I've never done before was to spend Veterans Day with a veteran.

Mo had agreed to help me achieve this task. I made him promise that he would let me pay and that we would do whatever he wanted. So joined by our friend Katy, we went for drinks at the Nook in midtown Atlanta. Before we went, Mo headed home and brought us a photo album from his time in the Army. So while sharing drinks, we listened and looked to Mo tell us about his time in the Army.

Mo enlisted in the military when he was 17. He actually needed his dad's permission to join because he was too young to do it on his own. He left for basic training in July before ending up at Fort Leonardwood in Missouri. He was only supposed to be there for a couple of months, but ended up staying for six while waiting to get a security clearance. While waiting to move to his next base, Mo learned how to be a carpenter and a plumber. He wanted to get trained to be an electrician, but because not enough people had signed up for the class, he was denied twice. That means, I guess, that more people wanted to learn how to fix a toilet than make things spark? Fascinating.

Mo moved on to Fort Gordon, Georgia before going to Camp Carroll, Korea, where he was stationed for one year. I do not know much about my own dad's time in the military (other than the fact that nothing difficult my brother or I ever faced would ever be as tough as the time he served), but I do know that he was also stationed in Korea. So, as Mo was telling his story, I made a mental note to ask him about it the next time we were together (perhaps on our next date that I pay for).

At Camp Carroll, he explained that in addition to their daily on-the job duties, everyone in his squad's formation had an "outside" job duty. When the workday was over, everyone knew what to do. One person got hamburgers, one person brought music, one person brought beer. Everything, even the non-military stuff is organized. They were a team.

I could relate to a lot of Mo's stories, as they reminded me of my early college days--meeting and befriending people from all over the country, drinking for the first time and the antics that ensue as a result, for example (a six-pack of Schlitz tall boys cost a mere $1.80 in Korea, which aided them in their efforts, but still, a lot was the same). There were many, however, that I couldn't begin to relate to.

Perhaps the most poignant part of our conversation came when Mo told us about the military's Roll Call. Roll call is a tradition practiced after a soldier dies. While in formation, the squad leader calls the deceased person's name three times as a reminder of their absence. No response is made. Just silence. There had been a memorial for the victims of the Fort Hood shooting the day before and Mo said he had to get up from his desk and walk away when he heard their version of the Roll Call begin. I got chills.

We never discussed it, but I started to sense that the reason Mo may have seemed apprehensive to my wanting to use Veterans Day as a way to knock out another day on the blog is because this day for him is one that he remembers every year. Not because it's necessarily a festive one like July 4th, because as the case for so many veterans, sometimes their military service is not one that ends on their own terms. This day for him, and for all those who have served in the United States Armed Forces, is not about drink specials or a day off from work. It represents the sacrifices they have made or will make for our country.

This experience, this blog, for me, is about trying new things and doing things I've never done before. This November 11th opened my eyes to a whole other side of someone I thought I knew pretty well.

Mo is the wacky Florida Gator fan who has dressed up like Santa Claus for work and organizes putt-putt outings and betting pools. But as I learned over Coronas this Veterans Day night, the life he has already led and the stories he can tell stretch far beyond football tailgates and trips to Las Vegas.

Sorry, Elizabeth, November 11th isn't just about you anymore. Thanks to Mo, it will now be about him, my dad and all of the veterans I know and don't know. Thank you for your service, thank you for sacrifices.

Day 45: Adult-Sized Decisions

Coming back from vacation and reentering real life is never fun.

Coming back to work to reminders that it's "Time to elect your health care coverage for 2010" made it far worse.

There's nothing like those emails to remind you that you're not in Yosemite anymore.

Day 45's thing I've never done before wasn't really something that I wanted to do or chose to do, it was something that I had to get done before the end of the week: read my health insurance manual and make a responsible decision about my plan.

I have elected my health insurance before, when I first got a job. But I did so haphazardly, not really understanding what was covered and what wasn't. Going to the doctor is sort of like a game show. After the examination, I'd step up to the counter having no idea how much I'm going to owe them and then....the big reveal. "Congratulations, Stephanie, your co-pay is only $25!!!!"

Evident by the ongoing health care debate, being an uninformed citizen is no longer good enough, so I decided this time around, I was going to make an intelligent decision about it.

So I settled in on Tuesday night to read, in its entirety, the manual sent out my company's benefits department about health insurance.

The manual is full of insurance jargon that gave me a headache. HMOs, PPOs, FSAs. The booklet actually had a glossary to help explain all the terminology found within the pages. It's just too much. I wondered if those fighting for and against these different health care reform packages really know all of this stuff, or if they also have dictionaries that they refer to when the debate heats up.

According to the super duper research some outside company did, I've been to the doctor a total of five times over the last five years, meaning I could probably save some cash and select a minimal plan.

But then the hypochondriac in me started anticipating "what if" scenarios in my head. Maybe I'll forego the vision insurance and just pay for contacts out of pocket, I considered. But what if I develop a lazy eye and need surgery? In one evening, I anticipated needing physical therapy for two broken legs, an organ transplant and developing a rare skin disease that left me unable to work and virtually unrecognizable to everyone I know.

I consulted coworkers for advice, but health insurance isn't like picking out a sweater. It's definitely a personal thing. A lot of the people that I was talking to have families and wouldn't likely be needing the same kind of care as me.

Finally, after reading the manual and attending a class that walked me step by step through all the options (a class virtually useless to me because my boss and I spent most of it brainstorming ideas for the blog), I was ready to make my informed, well thought out health care selections. How so very adult of me.

Well, not exactly. I tried to go at it completely without my parents' input, but before I hit confirm on all of my selections, I simply couldn't help myself and I emailed my mom for her opinion.

"What do you think about Flexible Spending Accounts? Do you and dad have one of those?"

She emailed me back a few minutes later, "I'm not sure. I don't think I know what that is."

Neither do I, Mom. Neither do I. But I signed up for one in 2010!

Day 44: Date Night with Dad

The day after I returned from Boston, my dad happened to be in Atlanta for business. We had discussed, prior to his arrival, the possibility of us going to dinner when he was in town. My work schedule is a little out of the ordinary, though, and I work most days until 9pm, past my dad's dinner time.

"That's too late for me for me to eat," he said when I told him what time I get off work, "But maybe I'll come by and see you at work."

Too late? To see his daughter who lives out of town and who just returned from her 10-day vacation with some random dude? Really?

Meanwhile, my mom was back in South Carolina ready to gnaw her own arm off to hear about the trip. She would've met me at 2am in a dark alley in the worst neighborhood in Atlanta if it meant she would get to share a meal and hear this story from her undercommunicative daughter.

My dad was indifferent.

After what I can only assume was a stern discussion with my mother, my dad eventually came around and agreed to go out with me at 9pm. It's a good thing he did because I decided to make Day 44's thing I've never done before buy my dad dinner.

I know what you're thinking and you're right. Twenty-nine-years old and you've never bought your dad a meal? I scanned my adult life to try and remember a time when I may have done it and couldn't think of a thing. In fact, starting when I was in college, whenever my parents come visit me, not only have I never bought them dinner, I'd presuasively suggest we go to the nicest restuarants because I know that they would pay for it.

Shameful.

But this night, seeing as how he extended his dinner time and bed time for me, I would pick up the tab for our meal.

We ate at Figo, a Italian restaurant where you pay when you order and then the wait staff serves you at your table (not quite five course fine dining when it's on my dime). When we heard the total, my dad and I both reached for our wallets at the same time.

I looked him in the eye, smiled and said, "I got this, dad."

He looked surprised as he backed away from the counter and he laughed. I thought he might be weirded out a little bit, seeing as how it's been him my entire life reaching for his wallet when the bill comes, but he wasn't at all. My dad took to having dinner bought for him quite nicely. Especially, I think, because it was his spoiled daughter that was buying it.

I had just returned from Boston and was ready to talk about my trip, all of it, to anyone that would listen. So from the moment I picked him up from his hotel, I dove right in, begining wth how I decided to go on the trip, and then through each leg of our journey. He was probably thinking pretty early on that he deserved a lot more than dinner to suffer through this.

About mid-meal I had reached the part of the story when the fight with Mountain Man occurred. At that moment, and not before, I became increasingly aware that I was talking to my dad, so I had to approach this carefully. I wanted him to understand what happened, but the less detail, the better. I gave him more or less the blog version of what went down, and watched as a sympathetic look come over him.

His face was earnest and compassionate, like he could picture the scene and he could see his little girl upset in San Francisco with this dud(e) from the northeast.

And then I realized that this look wasn't for me. This look was for Mountain Man.

My dad wasn't thinking, "My poor, sweet daughter. How could anyone hurt her feelings so badly?" He was thinking, "Oh that poor guy."

Don't get me wrong, my dad is my biggest fan. He is very supportive of all of my shenanigans, even when he doesn't understand them, and sometimes I'll call him when I'm having a bad day just because he always laughs at all of my jokes. He remains the coolest guy I know. But when it comes to tears, emotional, freak out stuff, he prefers to keep his distance.

So with that look in his eyes it was as if he was saying to Mountain Man, "I know, dude. I've been there. It sucks. Glad you made it the whole week."

Yes, my trip story and all it's drama was probably a better story for my mom. But my dad hung in there and was a great listener. And he got a free meal out of it, so we were both winners.

He even called me the next day to thank me for dinner and to tell me he was headed back to South Carolina. And just like that, it seemed my dad was once again, the man in my life.

I guess it could be worse. I just hope he doesn't think I'm always paying.