So, our duty section in particular is a mite short on sleep over this whole living flag business. Extra practice has been scheduled for Saturday, which means getting up fiendishly early, but we're the ones who won't get to go back to sleep after practice is done.

There are two directions that this can go. There's cranky-tired, and there's punchy-tired. And punchy-tired is a hoot.

During muster, someone started heel-toe rocking, when they were supposed to be standing at attention. Scattered spreading throughout the section, Keller looks up from his clipboard when the giggling gets out of hand to see that two-thirds of the duty section are heel-toe rocking, loosely in sync. Shakes his head, grins, goes back to his clipboard. He's just happy we're not trying to murder him for this schedule*.

During evening sweepers, Julia and I are at opposite ends of the p-way. Singing Lion King. I'm Zazu.

I also have the spray-deodorizer. This is unfortunate. We're all to the point where we're not just punchy, we're almost high from lack of sleep. So, frolicking commences.

Two of the girls started dueling with dust brushes (this might sound normal, but it really isn't). They halted briefly when I passed. I looked at one, the other, and then 'blessed' both brushes with the spray deodorizer. "Carry on!" They did.

I won't get into the hilarity of the supply room. Supply room is their own duty section - they don't follow our schedule, they don't report to our section leaders, and they go by different rules. Also, they got to sleep this afternoon. So, you have people who are fairly recharged making sure that people who are acting high get the cleaning chemicals they need.

And Sunday morning, we got to clean up the quarterdeck. Part of which is carpeted. I trot up to the third deck, supply room.

"Hey, can I get a vacuum?"
"No! They're mine!! ALL MINE!!"
Already signing one out, "Right, well, you've clearly got some deep-seated psychological issues here, so, in order to help you overcome those, we're just going to go ahead and take all of them." There are seven vacuum cleaners standing patiently by the door.
She giggles. "I like you. You can stay."
I grin, grab the one I signed out, and head down.

I'm not entirely sure about the origins of this vacuum cleaner. Three of us spent three minutes trying to figure out how to turn the thing on. At last, my partner announced theatrically, "It is a demon vacuum! Banish it from this land!"
And me, instead of either, "Aye-aye, shipmate!" or even, "Roger that!"...I came out with, "Okey-dokey!" and trotted the thing back upstairs.

No, there are no elevators in the Franklin. Nobody lives in here except Sailors, and nobody makes it through Boot Camp in a wheelchair. What on earth would we need elevators for?

Informed the girl in the supply room of the diagnosis on this one, she raised her eyebrows, and I selected a more conventional model. "Let me know if you need an exorcism on it later - I'm good at that sort of thing!"
"You're a priest?"
"No, I'm insufferably cheerful! Demons hate that!"
She laughed again.

I did finally get to take a nap around 0800 this morning. Then I had church. :)


*We know it's not his fault.