The fix is a simple matter of taking what someone says at face value, then holding them accountable for what was said. Case in point is my three strike rule. As an example:

Me: Is something wrong? You’re normally more excited about the newest episode of True Blood.
Her: Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine. (huffs and scowls)
Me: Are you sure?
Her: Yes. I don’t want to talk about it. (folds arms across chest in defiance)
Me: You realize this is the third time I’m asking you if everything is okay, and if you say yes, you can’t yell at me later for not asking? (maintain one arm’s distance for reactionary purposes)
Her: Whatever.
Me: Who wants pizza!

You see, I do take what people say at face value. It usually doesn’t work out too well, but I don’t lose sleep having to guess what the hell hidden message it is they’re trying to convey. Regardless of my personal, tried and not-entirely-true methods of communication, I feel there are still a few items I should clear up.

Your natural hair color is your best hair color

Please, for the love of all things holy, stop messing with your natural hair color. Genetically it’s your best color, and adding highlights and stripes or dots or a Nike swoosh isn’t going to change your life. That “perfect” color you saw on [insert favorite actress here] in the movie [insert overrated movie here] won’t look the same on you. You’ll spend more money on it that you can justify, and entirely more money on it just for maintenance. When you realize it’s costing you too much, you’ll stop paying for the upkeep and it’ll grow out. Then you’ll look like a mange-ridden hedge hog clawed up your leg and died on your head, possibly after being run over by a car. 9 times out of 5 the color won’t be even close to matching your eyebrows and you’ll look like caterpillars are crawling across your forehead. Then, one sad lonely day in a fit of emotion, you’ll howl in the mirror at the train wreck that used to be your lovely locks. And blame your hairdresser.

We want to be useful

Usefulness isn’t about chores or favors or assignments. Making your man unclog a drain or take out the trash isn’t making him useful, it’s enslaving him (for the record, you can fix the drain yourself) The usefulness in your man lies within his talents, not his capabilities. (Stay with me on this one.) If he’s a hunter, ask him to kill you a wolverine and make you some jerky. He gladly will. If he’s a sports nut, ask him to take you to a game and explain it. I can promise you he won’t shut up. If he’s a dashing, thirty-something, man-beast with mad computer hacking skillz *ahem*, ask him to update your software. That is a feeling of usefulness, not yelling “Grab tampons!” at the 7-11 when he’s filling gas.

Treat us like dogs

It’s true. Men are dogs. And, just like your dog, we ask only three things: affection, food, and please don’t yell at or kick us. These are the holy trilogy of making your man happy (it’s not Cosmo, so put that rag down and focus up here). Have you ever noticed that your dog will love you no matter what you look like or what kind of day you’ve had? And do you know why? Because you never scream at your dog for leaving the toilet seat up. You come home, disheveled, upset, feeling bloated, and you immediately greet your dog with open arms, let him lick your face, and give him chow. He’ll lay patiently in your lap while you eat a pint of Chunky Monkey and cry over The Notebook, but you’ll never kick him off. Try that with your man, and I can guarantee he’ll be more prone to remember the toilet seat next time.

We want a lady as much as you want a gentleman

I can understand you don’t want to be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. I understand you want equal pay for equal work. But what I can’t understand is you want the equality and the tradition. You want his jacket on a cold day, the ballroom dancing, the squiring about town, you know, all that Daniel Steele romance novel bullshit. But has it ever occurred to you that men might want to wash the dishes while you take out the trash? Or that they’d take the kids to the park while you tear skin off your knuckles replacing brake pads in the minivan? I didn’t think so, because society has conditioned us to think otherwise. Anyone can define a gentleman. They’ve got an image of what he looks like, how he speaks and carries himself. But when I think of “a lady,” all I can conjure up is some southern belle being courted on her parent’s porch. Messed up, I know. A lady doesn’t have to drink tea with her pinky raised. She doesn’t have to wear dresses every day or attend church on Sundays. She kind, polite, forthright, and compassionate. She stands on her own two feet, is value-added to the relationship, and views herself as a partner, not princess. A lady speaks her mind, tactfully and passionately, and doesn’t let others pull her down. A lady takes her equality seriously, and her actions show it.

Don’t use children as leverage

Children in a relationship is an extremely personal matter to me, as I’ve experienced it both as a child and as a [assumed] father. I can think of very few reasons where children in a custody battle couldn’t be shared 50/50. Baby’s daddy is a heroine addict? Check. Pimp? Check. Mobster? Debatable (they have great family structures, you know). Barring these situations and those similar, I believe any fight beyond 50% custody is for purely selfish reasons. Purely selfish. Justify it however you see fit, but 50/50 custody with a father who “doesn’t give a shit about his kids” will work itself out very quickly. I know women who aren’t too found of their ex’es, yet they still allow them to get time with their children (refer to the various qualities of “a lady” above). They understand the importance, the influence, the balance. Regardless of the hate in your heart for your former mate, remember it is not your child only, and putting that child in the middle will breed resentment for decades.

Don’t panic. I’m here with the fix. It’s called the Couple’s Financial Worksheet (CFW), and it’ll solve all your problems. It’ll look at your incomes, break down your bills, and spread the financial burden proportionally between you both. And, believe it or not, it’ll allow for vacations, dinners out, movies, and even your very own spending money to buy more fishing lures or Mary Kay or whatever the hell else you want without your mate bitching about it. Keep reading.

I conceived the CFW some years ago. My live-in relationship at the time was souring. Prior to moving in together, we had agreed I pay rent and she pay food and utilities. When it finally occurred to me I was footing 100% of the bills, I knew we needed a solution. 50/50 wouldn’t work – she made considerably less money that I did, but her share of the bills, based proportionally on the differences in our incomes, seemed fair to me. Hell, I would have been happy had she just held up her end of the bargain, but alas it wasn’t so. I confronted with my newly hatched plan.

“But I bring the honey and you bring the money,” she said with a sweet smile and touched my shoulder lightly, batting her eyelashes.

“It’s not enough fucking honey!” I was nobody’s cash cow, and that was that.

As the years progressed I saw a lot of my fellow Marines in relationship finance distress as well. The stories were practically the same, only the names would change. Living paycheck to paycheck, paying all the bills despite her extra income, getting crappy gifts she’d use his money for, not being able to spend his own money without a fight, seeing her shopping weekend after weekend. Apparently, there were a lot more “honey/money” ideas out there than I thought. The madness had to stop.

This brings us to present day and the spreadsheet I’m distributing freely to the world.

First off, the Couple’s Financial Worksheet isn’t a budget. Your personal budget is your business. If you can’t figure that out first, you’re screwed regardless. What the CFW does is simply list the bills you may incur as two people in a relationship (i.e. rent and utilities or a family phone plan or dual gym membership perhaps), then assigns you a dollar amount of those bills based on your percentage of the net household income. Brilliant, right? I’ll break it down even farther.

Go to File ~ Download as ~ Excel to save yourself a copy.

1. Input his and hers net monthly incomes in cells D2 and E2 respectively (that’s take-home after taxes, but you can’t subtract retirement expenses, investments, child support, etc, because that’s your damn business).
2. List your “couple’s” bills, to include joint plans, in column B. If various recreational activities are predictable, such as movies, dinners, etc., you can list them too (estimates are acceptable).
3. Look at cells D4 and E4 for what you owe per month.

It’s that simple! The CFW calculates your percentage of the net household income and applies that percentage to the sum of the monthly bills to determine what you owe. Additionally, I’ve included a “Goal Cost” area in cell F5. That is the place where you input A) the cost of your Hawaii trip, the couple’s spa day, a family wedding gift, etc., or B) a “plus up” amount that you want to pad the monthly expenses with. In case A, you can adjust how many months you would like to save for your couple’s goal. The beauty is any goal can be affordable with enough months to save. It’s up to you! In case B, your months to save would be “1” as you want to contribute that much more per month. Depending on your goal cost and months to save input, a new monthly due amount will be reflected in cells D8 and E8 – which are still divided proportionally based on your percentage of the net household income.

But Jayme, you may ask. Now that I know no one (especially me) is getting screwed out of my hard earned dollar, where does it go? Good question. Wait for it…

A joint bank account!

Where your money goes is key. Your paychecks should continue being deposited into his and her own, personal accounts. Then, you each pay the joint account monthly with your share of the bills (that’s why it’s important to have a plus-up amount in Goal Cost to account for fluctuations in things like utilities, home repairs, etc.). You can set up automatic bill pay from your bank to the joint account using electronic funds transfer, bill pay, hell – even walking in and writing a check (although that is least preferred and archaic as a bastard). After the joint account is paid, what’s left in your own account is your own money. Do with it what you will. You’ll never have to worry him blowing money on a stripper or her getting breast implants over a weekend in Vegas (which, by the way, could be considered a couple’s expense – and hence factored into the spreadsheet as a Goal Cost – if agreed upon). This also means she can buy you a shitty tool set with her own money, and that means so much more!

If you think I’m done with the benefits of the Couple’s Financial Worksheet, you’re mistaken.

Each of you will have full access to the joint account – checks, debit card (no credit card on that account, you greedy bastards), transaction history. By each carrying a joint account debit card, any dinners out, household items on a store run, or unexpected couple’s expenses can be purchased on the fly. You’ve already paid your share!

Of course trust is involved, as either of you could still make personal purchases on the joint account, but that’s a minor risk. Let’s also say, worst case scenario, you’ve been saving for that Hawaii trip for six months and have a couple thousand dollars in the joint account. Suddenly, without warning, your mate runs off with the pool boy/secretary and takes it all! Oh no! Call me an optimist, but I’d rather be out two grand on an account I can stop payment to than have my entire personal account cleaned out that my employer will keep paying.

This is a mathematically perfect method in managing finances in a relationship. If you propose this plan to your significant other and they shoot it down, they are gold-digging, money-grubbing fucks. There’s really no light way to put it.

Please direct all questions in the comments.

For Sergeants

• If you’re single, go MSG. Just shut your filthy piehole and go MSG. Case closed
• If you’re married, go recruiting. DI duty is not a “break” from the fleet and deployments. DI duty is three month pumps for three years. Six days a week. Overnight duty every three days, and when you’re not on duty you’ll be pulling, on average, 12-18 hour days. You’re wife will resent you. Your kids will forget who you are.
• Come to think of it, if you’ve got less than two enlistments, stay the fuck home and don’t even look at a recruit. Your visions of recruiting training are of campaign covers and parade deck drill into the setting sun. Sure, you can run circles all day because you were told. But you work harder and not smarter. You’ll grow to resent Marines senior to you in rank and junior to you on the drill field for moving up the billets faster, but the fact of the matter is you probably just figured out you shouldn’t be hanging out with your turd boot camp buddies who just picked up Corporal. When you want to be a Staff Sergeant in order to be a Gunny, then sign the papers and come on out.
• If you can’t learn anything from a junior drill instructor who happens to be a senior Marine, teach him how to be a better drill instructor (because you’re a shit hot recruit killer, right?), then shut your damn mouth in the SDI house and learn how to be a better Marine from him. You can’t possibly expect him to know everything about the drill field, just like I can’t expect you to know shit about filling out an MRO worksheet. Learning goes up and down the rank structure.
• If you pick up Staff Sergeant on the drill field, understand that, when you return to the fleet, you’ll be just another happy asshole who has been out of his MOS for three years and no one give s a flying monkey shit that you were a drill instructor. In fact, they’ll resent you for it because you A) Don’t know what you’re doing as a SNCO, B) Haven’t properly lead Marines in your current billet, C) Haven’t matured in relation to your MOS, D) Still have a Sergeant mentality saturated with drill instructor procedural bullshit and can’t get over the fact that you’ll have to learn from junior Marines (my, how the tables have turned). I could go on, but you get my drift.

For Staff Sergeants

• Staff Sergeant is a rank that separates you from the Sergeants and teaches you to become a Gunny. That’s all. It’s a transitional rank, one where humility is learned from dealing with the snot-nosed Sergeant you were six months ago and the crusty, lifer Gunny you dream to be. You don’t know everything. You are not King to a Sergeant. You are his mentor. You are not a Gunny’s equal, so don’t address him as such. Accept it. When the Gunny opens his mouth about the Marine Corps, yours better clamp shut faster than a hillbillie’s sister during a circumcision. Open your ears and listen, because that old sonofabitch probably has something to pass that’s fairly important.
• Stop hating. Stop hating on the Sergeant’s for being too much like teenagers, on the Gunnys for being too slow, on the class behind you for being too nick, on the class ahead of you for rotating before you, on the other platoons/companies/battalions/depots because of blah blah blah. Remember that you’re learning to be older, wiser, more insightful, and being a Staff Sergeant who is constantly regressing to the emotional outbursts of a young Sergeant is not cool. You are learning to control and focus your mouth diarrhea so everyone enjoys an earful. Be calm. Be convincing. Be smart about the shit you say.
• You can still learn from the Sergeants around you. You’re not that good.

For Gunnys

• Nothing is worth your career. Not a recruit, not a Marine, no one. You don’t have to know shit about being a drill instructor to know right from wrong, so don’t let anyone compromise your years of dedication.
• Be cool. There are assholes everywhere, wearing every rank, thinking their shit doesn’t stink because they put on funny green hats when they go to work. Chances are your blood pressure is high enough as it is. Relax, figure out why you suck then fix it.
• Be humble, and by that I don’t mean take shit from some boot bitch who happens to have 1 or 6 cycles on you. It means learn learn learn from everyone everywhere. Talk to your SDI, your Heavy, other nicks and 3rd hats to see what they’re doing to be better, then try that.
• Just because you’re a Gunny doesn’t mean you know a damn thing about being an effective green belt. Eventually your billet will catch up with your rank and experience as a Marine, and you’ll be Gunny awesomeness once again. Until then, scream as loud as you can (without passing out, because that just looks bad), and run as fast as you can without breaking your hip. You have a few years to retire. Don’t kill yourself on the drill field.
• While your figuring out how to be a drill instructor, make sure every second is teaching those young Marines everything you know about the Corps. They’re alone and unafraid out there, and believe it or not you are a symbol of stability and maturity among the madness.
• Remember that drill instructors are Marines too. By addressing fellow drill instructors by their rank and name – without the title “drill instructor” – it actually helps snap them out of hypnosis long enough for whatever it is you need to say to sink in. Believe me, it works.
• Be the Gunny that drill instructors can count on and Marines can go to. Yes, there’s a difference. Too much of one and you’ll suck at the other. If you can’t find the balance, the switch, if you will, save your drill instructor mentality for when you wear your funny green hat. The real “Gunny mentality” is rare out there. Keep it real and/or bring it back. Just don’t forget where you came from.

For all

• Don’t lose your minds or you identity. Eventually, you’ll go back to the fleet and you won’t have recruits to (insert menial task here) for you.
• The drill field is not the top 10% of the Marine Corps. Don’t expect to be surrounded by the cream of the crop, not even at the end. Even the “top 10%” has the bottom 20%. In fact, any unit will have 1/3 of their Marines who are stellar, 1/3 who are average, and 1/3 who just plain suck. The drill field complies with vigor.
• You’ll see Marines getting kicked off the drill field for some ridiculous shit. You’ll also see Marines finishing their three year tour who never should have made it past their first cycle. Bad shit happens to good Marines and good shit happens to bad Marines. Think about it too much and your head will explode.
• Don’t expect DI school to teach you how to be a drill instructor. Weird, right? Expect to become intimately familiar with the rules, regulations, drill movements, and uniform care, then anticipate hitting the streets and sucking. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.

Was this as good for you as it was for me? That’s therapy, assholes.

Good luck out there.

I’m sure you have questions, so I’m here to confuse you more.

Here’s what I have now.

And here is what I want. I don’t think it’s too much to ask.

Why in the hell would I put in PC in my car?

Consolidation. If you’re reading this, you’re probably the kind of fruity bitch with a GPS stuck to the windshield, an XM radio receiver glued to the dash, an iPod dangling from the input jack, and a Bluetooth speaker clipped to the visor. A car PC can put all that crap in one place.

I was that guy. For navigation, I used a six year old Garmin eTrex Vista Cx handheld wedged in front of my speedometer. I had standard AM/FM radio, which is total crap. When I bought my truck I dropped $150 for an iPod integration unit that allowed me to attach my iPod to my XM satellite harness and control it through my deck. For almost the same price, I paid a pimply Best Buy douche bag “install” it for me. And I sported a Motorola H350 Bluetooth ear piece when I need to place or receive calls while I’m on the road.

My last car, a certified, pre-owned 2002 BMW 325Ci coupe, had a premium sound system but not much else. I bought a service manual off eBay and tore my center console apart to install an auxiliary jack for a generic mp3 player. That was 2005. I didn’t know I had a problem with tech consolidation back then.

Versatility. I’m not talking about dating a gymnast. The thing about a car PC is its like a regular old computer… in your car. No shit, right? But think of all the things you can do with your PC. Now, granted, you probably won’t be typing a report while doing 75mph on the interstate to Vegas, but you get my point. Everything you do on your home computer is possible with a car PC.

Some months back I looked into buying your typical mass-marketed job, but sketchy reviews on its interface and nav system halted my progress. The price, with install and backup camera, was damn near $2000 and that didn’t sit too well with me either. Additionally, in-dash media systems won’t allow you to watch movies or change GPS routes while the vehicle is in motion (without hacking the hardware – techniques generally reserved for the geekiest of car stereophiles). I gave up on commercial systems soon after.

In the last month or so I’ve been seriously researching car PCs as viable, inexpensive alternatives to suit my mobile needs. I’ve scoured the internet, researched my project, and ordered the parts. Below is the list. If you’re not certifiably retarded, a simple site or Google search will get you to the item in question.

You’re welcome.

Parts list

MCS – Innovations in Mini-ITX
Case – black box mini
PSU – M1-ATX 80W
Mobo/CPU – Intel D510MO w/ 1.66GHz Atom D510 13w TDP processor
Touch screen – 7″ Lilliput EBY701 w/ rear camera auto switching
Steering wheel interface – Joycon EX
Rear view camera – 28mm Rear View CCD with Night Vision LEDs

Newegg.com
Memory – 4GB (2 x 2GB) Crucial PC2 6400 800mHz
Hard drive – Western Digital AV-GP WD5000AVDS 500GB 32MB Cache

On hand
Wi-Fi – Intel® PRO/Wireless 3945ABG PCIe Mini Card network adapter

eBay
USB hub – Iogear 5-Port High-Speed USB 2.0 Combo Hub/Card Reader
Bluetooth – micro dongle
GPS – USB SiRF III receiver
Mic – 2.5mm Funkwerk EGOMIC-EGO
Adapter – 3.5mm male to 2.5mm female
Wiring harness for Nissan premium sound system – 70-7550 Metra

Optional
Operating System – Windows (XP or 7 recommended, not Vista in any form)
Front end – Centrafuse Auto w/ N America nav

Cost

This parts list is running me about $740 (minus OS and front end, plus assorted cables and brackets I’m sure to have to buy to complete the project). As I’ve stated before, comparable brand-name video/nav units run about $1500 without installation. A fraction of this same configuration on MCS – Innovations in Mini-ITX is $820. I won’t do the math for you, but DIY is a definite money saver.

Stay tuned for assembly and installation pics!

There are three applications I consider totally essential to reliable computing whenever I fix someone’s computer. I don’t get paid to recommend these, nor do I get paid at all, really, so you can take my word as gospel. If you’re one of the tech-types screaming from Internet Land about your personal choices in web browsing, security, and office productivity, feel free to put them in the comments.

Internet browsing

Google Chrome is a web browser that replaces Internet Explorer. Its faster, cleaner, and more secure. It will import your years of bookmarks. It won’t allow programs to install some bullshit toolbar, which is a good thing. There are plenty of extensions available for Google Chrome, and one in particular emulates Internet Explorer in the event you aboslutely can’t view a webpage without it.

Antivirus/spyware/malware

Microsoft Security Essentials replaces your antivirus, spyware, and malware programs. If you just bought a new computer, it will typically come with any number of paid subscription based antivirus services such as, but definitely not limited to, Norton or McAfee. Uninstall the programs you have now, then download and install MSE. Contrary to popular belief, a lack of antivirus/spyware/malware programs doesn’t mean you’ll be getting infected worse than a weekend in Tijuana. It just means you need to tiptoe around the web until you download and install your viable alternative.

Office suite

OpenOffice replaces Microsoft Office, and is everything you need to view and/or edit your existing Microsoft Word (text document), Excel (spreadsheet), or PowerPoint (slideshow presentation) documents. By default, OpenOffice will save files in OpenDocument, or ODF, format, but my series of screenshots below will assist in helping you set your defaults to Microsoft Office compatible files.

1. Start menu, Programs, OpenOffice 3.x, OpenOffice.org
2. Tools, Options
3. Expand Load/Save, go to General, and select various Document Types, such as Text, Spreadsheet, and Presentation.
4. Select the corresponding file format for each, looking for Microsoft xxx 97/2000/XP.

“No, it’s called a viola! They’re totally different!” the girl would whine. Her anger over his ignorance always pulled a chuckle from his throat.

The recital was rolling into its final notes. He maneuvered back through the crowd and up the sidelines to surprise her when a familiar profile appeared in the front row, face partially obscured by an enormously boxy point-and-shoot disposable camera. The hair was grayer, the face more round, but the angle of her nose and chin were unmistakable.

He instinctively took a few steps backward, using an overweight woman in a gaudy seasonal sweater as cover. The laughing reindeer in the heavy yarn sneered at him as his stomach rolled once, twice, and he suppressed his gag reflex. It had been almost three years since he had last seen the woman, and his physical reaction was always the same.

The recital ended amid a roar of applause and parents clambered to praise their children. The girl rushed to the woman, she hadn’t seen him yet, and hugged her. He stood frozen in place, wanting to move, needing to move, somewhere, anywhere, but his legs refused to obey. He was a helpless rabbit awaiting slaughter.

The girl saw him over the woman’s shoulder, broke away, and charged headlong into him. He struggled briefly to stay standing and pulled her close, his eyes never leaving the woman as she slowly turned and rose to her feet. A smile as fake as the fat lady’s reindeer spread across her face like a sword slash.

“Somehow I just knew you were going to be in town! I thought to myself, I should’ve put a note on the door to let you know I’d be here.” The woman was so just damn good at making everyone believe her sincerity, her kindness and caring. She was a premier con.

The girl was trying to sputter three years of her life to him, as bubbly and excited as any child the morning of their birthday, but her words drowned in the blood pumping in his ears. His focus was elsewhere.

“I don’t even know where you live,” he said dryly, and clenched his jaw.

“Oh stop!” She said playfully and slapped him on the arm. “Let’s get a picture!” She turned to the girl. “Take my camera and get a picture of us.” The girl eagerly agreed and fumbled the camera into her tiny hands, turning it over and over, methodically identifying each button, dial, and lever and commenting on the function of each. The woman slipped swiftly to his side – he didn’t know she could move that fast – and pulled him into her shoulder. He shuffled a couple rigid steps, his paralysis broken, and tensed when their bodies touched.

His eyes darted around the gymnasium, searching for something, anything, to distract the woman long enough to expel him from her steely grasp. This was not the place he wanted to be. Even Iraq, with its bullets flying, bombs exploding, and heat sweltering, was more inviting than this. He tried to relax but couldn’t.

“How long are you here?” she spat through her practiced, photographic pose. “You should come by and I’ll make you dinner.” Her breath blistered his skin. Her nails carved furrows across his arm. His body heaved in stabbing pain. He was in the arms of a demon.

“I already said I don’t know where you live. And you never cooked when we were kids, so why would you do it now?” His voice echoed in the spiraling black hole surrounding them. Outside the hole, time had stopped. The girl was caught in an inquisitive stare, finger poking at a button she had yet to identify, as if in a photo of her own.

“Oh hush! I’ll make chocolate chips cookies!” The woman beside him was unfamiliar. There were no hugs or wiped tears or words of support. She would leave he and his sister, 11 and 12 years old at the time, an eternity ago, to cook the meals for their 2 year old brother. They cleaned the house and shopped for groceries with the book of food stamps left on the kitchen table next to the dirty ashtray, because sometimes the woman would leave for days on end. An evening meal, a happy, family meal around the dining room table, was imaginary. The woman expressed only anger, hate, and disinterest. Her escape was whatever prescription bottle was closest to her nightstand, tuning out the world and her youngest, ungrateful children.

He wasn’t fooled.

Despite its seemingly antiquated technology, my computing needs haven’t exceeded its capabilities. My most recent hardware upgrade to Wireless-N, coincidentally timed with a software upgrade to Windows 7, left me with intermittent wireless connectivity to the point of ridiculous frustration. Luckily, I was able to eliminate my upgrades as the culprits after being connected error-free to a neighboring router without issue.

My Linksys WRT600N dual band wireless-N gigabit router with storage link was the only thing left to test. The router wasn’t cheap; I was concerned I’d have to replace it until I found the following information:

If you’re using an 802.11N router, there might be issues with WPA-TKIP security. [Apparently] the final version of 802.11N dropped support for WPA-TKIP. [Switch to] WPA2-AES.

This worked flawlessly for me and I’ve had uninterrupted wireless connectivity since I made the change.

Implementing the change was hassle free, if you know your way around your own wireless network. If some cable company d-bag set it up, or, God forbid, Best Buy’s Geek Squad, you’re SOL.

I must remind you, loyal jaymekohler.com fans, that my site is in no way endorsed by the United States Marines Corps nor are my opinions necessarily that of the United States Marine Corps. I could add any number of legal mumbo-jumbo paragraphs, but you get my drift.

Let the record show that today's Marine Corps recruits are treated with the utmost respect and courtesy. In fact, they are not yelled at, ordered around, stressed, or in any way removed from their individual comfort zones. Rest assured, America, that your precious 18 year old sons are living the good life. I fabricated the entire post and nothing is even remotely true or accurate because I exaggerate and lie to gain attention.

Let me also say that these same methods were used to train the boys/men who raised the flag on Iwo Jima, stormed the beaches of Inchon, and rushed the wheat fields of Belleau Wood. We don't speak German or Japanese because we trained recruits with sensitivity and care.

Perception is for those too stupid to get the facts.
- Unknown

But before I get really pissed off and belligerent, here it is…

This [solely opinionated] guide on surviving Marine Corps recruit training serves as a cheat sheet of sorts, bulging with tips and tricks proven to impress, astound, and appease drill instructors depot-wide and rocket you to positions of leadership and privilege like no other. It targets those in the civilian sector ballsy enough to step on [the] yellow footprints. Lastly, this guide is by no means exhaustive. It contains enough of what you need to know to turn a thirteen week [misperceived phrase] cycle into hedonist bliss.

1. The words “I” and “we” and “they” are no longer in your vocabulary. It’s now “this recruit” and “these recruits” and “those recruits.” Third person speech and third person only. Everyone else will be referred to by full title and rank. For example, I am drill instructor Gunnery Sergeant Kohler. Not “you.” “You” sounds like “ewe” and that’s a female sheep. You won’t make that mistake twice.
2. You will be at the position of attention whenever you speak to a drill instructor. The position of attention is the basic military position. This indicates that you are alert and ready for instructions. Bring your left heel against the right. Turn you feet out equally to form an angle of 45 degrees. Keep you heels on the same line and touching. Your legs will be straight but not stiff at the knees. Keep your hips and shoulders level and your chest lifted. Your arms will hang naturally, thumbs along the trouser seams, palms facing inward toward your legs, and fingers joined in their natural curl. Keep your head and body erect. Look straight ahead. Keep your mouth closed and your chin pulled in slightly. Stand still and do not talk.
3. And I do mean stand still. Don’t eyeball the area. Don’t wiggle your fingers. Don’t play with your uniform. Don’t scratch your face. Don’t brush the sand flea off you ear. Don’t move.
4. Your bed is now called a rack. The bathroom is now the head. The floor is now the deck. The wall is now the bulkhead. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are now morning chow, noon chow, and evening chow. Ask the drill instructor just once if “I can use the bathroom before dinner” and see what happens.
5. “Aye sir” “Yes sir” and “No sir” will be your only responses unless more is demanded.

What’s that? You didn’t say anything. Say aye sir!

6. When a drill instructor says something, you say something. And you will say it with volume and intensity. When in doubt, scream “aye sir!” as loud as you can.
7. Everything you say and do will be loud and intense. When you scream, there will be spit flying out of your mouth and veins bulging out of your neck. If you want to give the drill instructor a kiss, simply talk soft and sweet and he’ll hook you up.
8. You will render the proper greeting of the day whenever you’re near a drill instructor. A proper greeting is “Good morning- afternoon- evening- sir!” As a general rule of thumb, if you can see him, you should scream. I don’t care if he’s low crawling across the parade deck in his underwear. Just do it.

Stop [darn] moving around! Now scream aye sir!

9. Run everywhere you go. Move with a sense of purpose, like the mission you’re about to accomplish is the most important thing in your life. I don’t care if you’re restocking [bad word for poop] paper. That [bad word for poop] paper will get 100% of your attention and energy and will be the most squared away [bad word for poop] paper in the company.
10. Volunteer for everything. When the drill instructor says he needs recruits, your [bad word for butt] will be flying through the air screaming “This recruit sir!” at the top of your lungs.
    Volunteering will get you in good with the drill instructors, so when a real [bad word for crappy] job comes along they probably won’t pick you. But then again, they probably will, just because they know you can get the job done without screwing it up.

When I say something you say something! Open your disgusting mouth!

11. You will not offer excuses for anything. If you break your leg halfway through the obstacle course, don’t point at the wound and whine when the drill instructor calls you a [bad word for cat] and screams at you to finish. Just spring to your feet, ignore the blinding pain and jagged edges of ruined flesh, and pray the Corpsman stops things before a bone fragment punctures your femoral artery and you bleed out like a Christmas dinner hog.

So we’ve got a volume problem, huh? We don’t wanna scream? Open your fat face!

12. Regardless of your position in formation, the squad bay, or on the PT field, you are being watched by the drill instructor. There is nothing you can get away with that hasn’t already been tried by thousands of recruits before you. If you’re on the opposite side of formation and decide to dig in your filthy face, you—

    I said stop [darn] moving! I just finished saying you’re always being watched and you wanna scratch? Well, you ain’t done! Keep scratching! Make it feel good!

    You’re going to be caught. You’re not sneaky, and the drill instructor will slay you at his earliest convenience if you try some dumb bullshit.

13. Accept the following as fact and recruit training will be that much easier:
    • Your girlfriend is cheating on you. Probably with your “best friend” who you told to “look after her” while you were gone.
    • No one actually cares you’re in boot camp [Everyone cares and they love you and miss you]. While you sweat, strain, train, and tremble through weeks of rigorous recruit [heck], they’re shopping, going to movies, getting [birds and bees stuff], and drinking beer whenever the [heck] they want. Because they can.
    • You will experience the entire spectrum of human emotion, often in as short a time as a two hour combat endurance course, for example. These emotions include, but are not limited to [assorted emotions] while sand encrusted snot strings cling stubbornly to your cheeks as you scream for water, ice cold delicious water, and reach out desperately for the nearest drill instructor who is gulping greedily from his Camelbak drinking tube, to please please help me for the love of God I can’t drag him any further [text omitted due to perceived disturbing mental images].
    • You will never be good enough to be in my beloved Corps. But that doesn’t mean stop trying, [an animal with a curly tail and prone to sunburns (also where pork comes from)].
14. Don’t take anything personal. When the drill instructor calls you [assorted names] who has no business in Marine Corps recruit training, shrug it off (emotionally, of course), strive to be better and carry on smartly. Take no offense when the drill instructor kindly enquires about your family [text omitted due to perceived disturbing mental images]. But if you find the steely gaze of a drill instructor upon you, with his cold, calculating eyes, always watching, always judging, sizing you up for the next slaughter, take heed. You see, he truly, deeply, and completely hates you [he doesn't actually truly hate you, it just read well] with every fiber of his being because you’ve taken him far, far away from the Marines he loves, the Marines he’s trained and fought alongside. You’ve replaced them, instead, with your eighteen years of attitude, immaturity, disrespect, lawlessness, jackassery, and undisciplined wa—

And you’re still [bad word] moving around, you disgusting [not really disgusting], brainless [not really brainless] [bad word for female dog]

But he didn’t work 9 to 5. He hasn’t traveled the world. We didn’t toss the baseball around before dinner every night. He didn’t teach me how to shave. He didn’t buy me my first car or drop me off at college. We didn’t fish together, hunt together, camp together, or do most things that fathers and sons typically do. But despite all the things my Dad and I didn’t do, he has been the most influential person of my life.

Age 8:

• Dad put me on my first tractor, steering through the family potato field with him bouncing along behind, trying desperately to guide the one-horse plow that was chained to the bumper.
• Dad put me on my first riding lawn mower. Minutes later I slipped off the brake pedal, ran over my own foot, and cut completely through my work boot, shaving a small sliver of skin from the big toe of my right foot. He never panicked, but calmly told me to go in the house and change boots. (Then mom found out and hit the roof.)

Age 10:

• Dad put me on my fist three-wheeler. I was giving my sister a ride and promptly ran straight through the garden and over the tomatoes. He calmly told me I was done riding for the day and to get off the three-wheeler. (Then mom found out and hit the roof.)

Age 11:

• Folks get divorced. Dad drives mom and the three youngest kids to Washington State. I never hear him complain or argue or get upset. Mom is just plain mean through the entire evolution.

Age 14:

• Dad shows up on our doorstep in Washington, takes my sister and I back to North Dakota for the summer. I miss Boy Scout Camp. I am extremely butt-hurt, to the point of tears, but oddly harbor no hard feelings.
• Back on the three-wheeler again, I ride off the road and dislocate both hips. I thrash on the ground for a bit and pop them back into place. Dad knows nothing of this, but simply asks me what took so long to get home when I come limping back. I lie.

Age 16:

• Dad shows up on our doorstep in Washington, this time to move be back to North Dakota after I spend some time behind bars. He says two words to me, “I’m disappointed’” and drops the subject of my criminal past.
• He lets me drive in Montana despite the poor weather, and I damn near wreck the 1988 Oldsmobile Delta 98 when I swerve to miss a tumbleweed. “Well, as least we know the roads aren’t icy,” is all he says and I keep driving. (Mom would have hit the roof had she found out.)
• Dad hands me the keys to the pickup, points me to a stubble field (a harvested wheat field), and says “Practice.”
• That winter I get in a snowboard accident in the rocky hills near our farm. The muscles surrounding my right elbow are torn from the bone. With no insurance, Dad takes me to the doctor and I get x-rays and a sling. I can’t straighten my arm for four months.

Age 17:

• I dislocate my right hip in a football game. Dad takes me to the chiropractor who says I should never play football again. One week later I suit up and Dad supports the decision.

Age 18:

• Dad’s 18th birthday/graduation present to me is a No Fear t-shirt that reads “If you’re not living on the edge, then you’re taking up too much space.” Dad says it’s because I always say “Come on Dad, you gotta live on the edge!”
• That fall, I announce I’m going to college. I can see the hurt in his eyes not because I’m going, but because I’m leaving.

Age 21…

• I announce my plans to join the Marine Corps. Dad is supportive as always, but not in a cheesy, obligatory way.
• I call Dad from a rooftop satellite phone in Fallujah, Iraq. Midway through the conversation, bombs explode and I have to go. Dad tells me to let him know how things turn out.

As I sit here and list all the ways Dad as affected my life, I realize he was as untraditional a dad as dad’s can be. Yet somehow I learned that humility, a hard day’s work, and perseverance are foundations of an honest life. I have his eyes, his hands, and his love for tinkering, his sense of humor, but thankfully not his tan.

Happy 70th Birthday Dad!

Feel free to make your own FAIL comments to this photo. A few Lilly and I were considering were:

Flood prevention FAIL
Split level home FAIL
Penthouse suite FAIL

Use your imagination!

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