Dance Sign Up Sheet Form: Fill & Download for Free

It was the 7th grade. My teacher would only allow people to go to the bathroom based on a sign up sheet that she kept at her desk. Like most boys, I didn't plan on the urgency of my need to pee until I felt the pressure of Hoover Dam on my bladder.I went to her desk to sign up for a hall pass; there where 5 kids in front of me. FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!! (I didn't say that out loud, but I thought it!) It'll be okay, I thought. I just have to practice taking my mind off of the urgency of my bladder and allow distraction to take my mind off of peeing. For 15 minutes, it worked pretty well.However, minute 16 came, and my bladder rang the alarm like a faulty fire alarm. It was equal parts unbearable and unavoidable! The pain and pressure was so great that I could barely walk or form complete sentences.I return to my teacher's desk:Me: Mrs. (I forgot now), can I PULLLEASE go to the restroom? It's an emergency!!!!Mrs. What's her face: You can go as soon as (random kid with hall pass) returns. If it was that important, you should have signed up earlier in the day.Me: FUCK!!!!!!!!!!! (I didn't say it, this time, either) but that little bastard had been gone for 15 minutes now.As a side note, the reason teachers had hall passes was to cut down on this type of behavior, because kids would use their individual bathroom breaks the way inmates used recreational time; it might be the only few minutes they get of freedom that day. They had to mitigate any real shenanigans by only allowing students to go to the restroom one at a time, so I can appreciate the administrative foresight in this strategy.Meanwhile, I'm about to bust like a can of biscuits, and I have NEVER felt this kind of pain/pressure before. It's so bad, that I couldn't even return to my seat. I made a U-turn to the teacher's desk doing the "Pee Dance" so she'd know this is not a drill.On my final attempt, she just lets me go. "Finally!!!!!" I thought, and was tap dancing my way down the hall. The distance from the classroom to the hall was no more than 50 meters, but I didn't make it more than 20 before the dam just burst. Urine exploded down my pants and I couldn't run, walk, or move.I felt an interesting mix of emotions, yet, in chronological sequence. It felt like the orgasmic ecstasy of finally getting release in waves, followed by an overwhelming sense of shock and horror at when and how this happened.My pants had a thick, dark, damp trail from my zipper all the way to my ankle. I tried to triage my pants by hurrying to the bathroom and using a combination of paper towels and the air dryer to conceal the evidence. No luck.I looked at my watch and realized that I was also taking more than 15 minutes myself, but there was no way in hell I was going to walk back into that class with a interstate lane of piss running down my leg.So I bolted past the class and straight into the principal's office, called my mom and told her I was sick and that I needed to call my mom to pick me up. When I got my mom on the phone, I told her what had happened, and she was in the car before she hung up the phone.Mom picked me up and got me home within 35 minutes. Because class was still in session, I thought I was in the clear, until my mom got a call from my teacher apologizing profusely for not allowing me to get to the restroom sooner. She and the rest of my classmates realized what happened when they walked out of class and saw this 50 meter long piss trail and no sign of me.It took a long time before I lived that down.

My best accomplishments, the ones I’m most proud of achieving, came in the form of a challenge. Someone told me I couldn’t, or wouldn’t be able, to do it.Growing up in a large family, I knew money was always tight. If I needed new sneakers, I knew I would eventually get them, but only if one of my other siblings didn’t need a pair more than I did at the moment.I looked forward to turning sixteen and getting my driver’s license and my first job, so I could make my own spending money. My sixteenth birthday would be in August.One morning, in July, like most summer days, my family piled into our station wagon and headed to a local swimming hole, a popular lake just outside of town. It had a sandy beach, lifeguards, slides, and two long piers out to the low and high diving boards. There was also a dance pavilion, picnic area, and a walking path all the way around the lake.My youngest brother and sister took their Red Cross swimming lessons every day, while the rest of us dived and swam, or just worked on our tans.When we arrived and were walking through the building to the lake, I saw a sign taped to the wall:“Do You Want to be a Lifeguard?The Red Cross Lifeguard CourseSign Up is Today.”(I’m a good, strong swimmer and I love children. I could do that!)I pointed to the sign and told my parents I wanted to sign up for the course. The course was Monday through Friday for four weeks. The hours would work, because we would already be there for the swimming lessons.I went up to the window and asked the woman where I should sign up for the course. She disappeared and a former high school football player I recognized appeared in the window.David told me I couldn’t sign up for the course — I was a girl. This was a physically challenging course and I just wouldn’t be able to do it. He was looking for boys to sign up, preferably boys who were also trying out for the football team.Dejected, I thanked him and went outside to share what I found out with my parents.After hearing what I had to say, my father asked, “Do you really want to be a lifeguard?”“Yes!”“So, are you going to let what he said stop you from trying?”I had to think about that for a minute …It did make me angry to be told I couldn’t do something, just because I was a girl. After all, my parents had raised me to never give up. “Girls can do anything boys can do, except stand up to potty.”I marched back inside and up to the window. I asked to see David. Then I asked him, “Where on the sign up sheet does it say girls are not allowed?”I was the only girl in a class of fifteen to take the Red Cross Lifeguard Course that summer. It was the hardest thing I had ever done up to that point in my life.David was the instructor and I knew what he demanded of me was far more difficult than what he had the boys do during the course. He seemed hell-bent on making me quit, which made me even more determined.When he threw a concrete cinder block into the deep end for a boy to retrieve, he threw mine out farther, deeper. When we had to swim laps on our backs between the piers, I had to swim with my arms in the air, using only my legs.(I can do this, I can do this, I can do this, I can do this, I can do this …)The day of the final test came. The class size had dwindled from fifteen to nine, over the past four weeks.David stood in front of us and said he would be out in the water, thrashing like a drowning man. One by one, we would be called to ‘rescue’ him. This would be a Pass or Fail final test.We were to run down the pier closest to him and jump in, keeping our heads above water, as we were taught, so our eyes never left the victim. Then using the skills we were taught, bring him to the steps at the pier.I reminded myself of what he had taught us, “Be aware, a thrashing victim will be terrified. He thinks he’s drowning and will use any means of saving himself, even climbing up your body, if he has to! Do whatever it takes to save him.”I had made it this far, I thought. I can do this, too.I waited for my turn. I watched, as four boys tried and passed. I listened while four boys tried and failed. Oh my God. I was the last one. Why had he made me wait and be last?“Catherine!”I jumped up and ran down the pier. Directly across from him, I jumped in, swimming hard the last three feet to him. Like he said he would, he was thrashing wildly.I scissor-kicked hard to put myself behind him, reached out and grabbed him securely by throwing my arm across his chest, my wrist under his armpit, and held on tight, pulling him toward me, which forced his body to a floating position and I began the hardest swim strokes I had ever done toward the ladder on the pier.Suddenly, he did an about face and broke my hold. Then he pushed me under the water, still thrashing and yelling, “Help! Help!”Wait! He didn’t do that with the others in the class! His words came back to me, “Do whatever it takes to save someone.”Again I maneuvered around behind him and used the same rescue hold. He was fighting me, and this time I dug my fingernails deep into the skin just behind his armpit and continued to swim, pulling him along, working as hard as I could.I could feel the muscles in my arms and legs burning, but I was not going to give up. (I can do this, I can do this, I can do this, I can do this, I can do this …)Finally I reached the pier and pushed him over to the steps. He sputtered and yelled at me, “You used your fingernails! You cheated!”Exhausted and angry, I yelled back, “You TOLD us to do whatever it takes to save someone. I DID!”Then he smiled.“Pass.”

First order of business: DD214When you get your DD214, read that sucker closely. Every box. Every line. It is short. Have whoever hands it to you walk you through the codes. Then double check those codes on your phone before leaving their presence. That is the one and only meaningful proof and measure of your service to 90% of civilians. Do not screw it up.Now that single copy of your DD214 they handed you? It's loniness should scare the shit out of you. If you lose it you must apply to Never Neverland for a copy. That is actually what we call it because you will never, never get one. Some people's records have been utterly destroyed there by accident in the past. I don't know how you unscrew that.So take your lonely copy of your DD214 down to the nearest Kinkos. Treat it like someone handed you a glass vial of nerve gas until then; Don't drop it, don't take any side trips until it is resolved, and for the love of God don't lose it. When you arrive at Kinkos, cough up whatever money they demand and make 1000 copies. Large orders like that are a lot cheaper per copy anyway. Now have 3 of those copies laminated. Immediately, right there in the Kinkos, mail 1 laminated and 10ish unlaminated copies to 2 different relatives in 2 different states. They have mail pickup.Get a BIG handful of notarized copies too. In bulk.Ask around… there may be a notary service somewhere on post cheaper than off. Otherwise just Google it. This idea courtesy of George Thomas (Ted) McNabb.Now, over the next week, make your way to 2 county records offices. They are near the courthouses, or often attached. Pay a small fee to have your DD214 filed there permanently. If you somehow lose all of yours you can now always get a copy from them. Why 2? Sometimes they flood or burn down.You will need a fresh copy of your DD214 for every job, school, professional licence, free meal at Golden Corral, and public benefit you apply for until you die. I assume St. Peter demands one at the Pearly Gates too.OK. So that single sheet of paper is resolved.If you have weeks left, go down to your education office. Be ready to feel like you are cheating. Ask for the tests (at one point they were CLEP) that let you test out of college classes. 3 semester units each. Each such test will save you half a year of 3 hours in class and 3 hours of homework per week. Take every damned one of them, unless the class sounds like fun. (The VA won't pay you to “retake” any fun ones.) Get yourself to 90 semester units total. 3 of your 4 college years. No one will accept more so it is pointless to take them.These tests are free.I have almost never heard of anyone failing one. Even if you do not know the subject matter. Even if (no joke, we tried) you are falling down, risking an Article 15-level drunk. French Literature 1615–1688? Oi! Certified Massage Technician Ethics? This story has a happy ending.Have you ever bought a used car? One that didn't come at an even cheaper price because the owner was a close family member? Do you remember how picky you were about every-damned-thing? Once you give them the money, all those problems are yours right?Pretend your body is that car. When you do your exit physical be picky as hell. If it ever ached, itched, ticked, or stank you need to get it in writing. Everything. Those tiny issues will be big issues someday. Trust me. Half of them will get worse.Were you ever sad? For one day? Just once because your uncle died? Write it down. Make sure the doctor records it permanently. I shit you not. 3 words. “I was sad.” Easy. Something this simple can leave the door open should you turn out to have PTSD, or endocrine issues, or half a dozen other life altering things you totally don't expect now. It is a 10 second conversation that can literally save your life.The VA will only own the issues written on your medical records. That physical is your last chance ever to get those issues recorded. Do not let that doctor leave the room liking you. Make them late for lunch. Record everything.Seal your uniforms up nice and pretty. A vacuum bag is a good choice. You may come to treasure them over the decades even if you feel like you want to ditch them at a GoodWill now. If that doesn't convince you, remember this; You're still in the Army after you leave. You have technically committed yourself to a few years of IRR status. We recalled people after 9/11 and had to (personally on our off-time) scrounge uniforms for people to report in wearing. Don't be that guy.Give the Green-to-Grey class a whirl. It did nothing for me, but you are getting paid no matter what you do. It seemed like it might have value for someone.You have been eating 2500–3500 calories per day if you have not been actively controlling your diet. You may not believe it, but you are an athlete even if you had a desk job.The day after you are discharged all of that changes unless you get in the habit of training for marathons or are employed as a personal trainer. Your body no longer needs about 1/3 of what you have been feeding it.This is made worse by the fact that your metabolism slows as you age. You are not 18 any more. Again, you probably will not be an athlete either.Swing by AAFES and buy a digital scale. It's cheaper there. Keep an eye on your weight. Fat weighs less than muscle, so even if you stay the same weight keep an eye on that waistline or you may find yourself looking 11 months pregnant.A good rule of thumb: If you have to buy a new belt because you outgrew the old one, you're headed for troubleYou can't keep eating like a soldier if you don't keep training like one.When you go to bed the first night after discharge, you have a choice to make. It seems trivial. It is not.Do you set your alarm for your old wakeup time?This will set the tone for the years that follow.Are you going to be a lazy shitbag civilian? Cool. Leave the alarm off. No one is gonna yell at you.Are you going to end up like the main character of Gran Torino? “Get the hell off my lawn!” Set that clock for O-dark-thirty.I recommend O-dark-fourtyfive.There is depth to this. Meditate on it, Padawan.Pick a Veteran’s Service Organization. Today. While it is fresh in your mind. Maybe one that best describes you. Maybe you put all their logos on the wall, blindfold yourself, and throw a dart to decide. There are no wrong answers except The Wounded Warrior Project. Screw those guys.You may think there are people employed by the government to make sure Veterans don’t fall through the cracks. Medical care? Disability payments? Education plans? Record revisions? Burial? You’d be wrong. There are no such government employees. You need a VSO and, often, a personal service representative to call whenever life throws you a curve ball.Sign up before you are discharged. Cough up for a lifetime membership with your last paycheck. You’ll never stop being a veteran, so you’ll always want to be a member. If you get a lifetime membership (which is cheaper), hopefully you will get to forget about them.They will never forget about you.The American LegionThe Veterans of Foreign WarsDisabled American VeteransNon Commissioned Officers AssociationDo not get roped into any job on commission. Right now your resume says “Salary.” If you backslide onto commission even once you will lose that distinction in the eyes of HR managers.Get down to the VA hospital and sign up. Day 2 of being a civilian. No exceptions.I see you starting to protest. Zip it! Ah ah! No arguing on this one. I give no damns here about your politics. Or how great you know your life is going to be. Or how healthy you are. Or how wealthy your job will make you.Get your tail down there within 72 hours. It is your next place of duty. You don't want to be signing up for benefits while bleeding in the Emergency Room lobby.If you sign up, it will always be there for you. Your life will have a backstop. It can only get so bad so long as you have that.Weed > Opiates. That is all.Remember how I was rushing you through college earlier? Now we're gonna do the opposite.Go sign up for college. Even junior college. One class a semseter is fine if it isn't where you want to be. Silly shit like ballroom dance is perfect. It will transition you back to the civilian world by helping you meet actual civilians who are not your high-school buddies.Oh yeah. That reminds me. If you didn't keep up with your high school buddies, don't seek them out. It is depressing. Your life went somewhere. Many of theirs did not. I found that 2 were dead. The worst part was that one of them took me years to find; He died, and none of his friends from high school who lived in the same town even knew he was dead.That chapter of your life has been over for a long time. Don't reopen it if you value your mental health.I'm sure I will have more later, so to be continued…