Friday, May 27, 2005

Hot. And. Bored.

It's already up into the 115ยบ + range, and walking anywhere just leaves you smoked and soaked. We had to move to another location in preparation for scooting out of here at some point (hopefully soon), and I now have a roommate: Molly, a West Point basketball star, a sweet-natured (although becoming less so as the crap piles up around her) Connecticut blue-blood. She works from about 8am until after midnight, the same schedule I had for months when we first got here, and I don't see how she does it day after day. Especially now that I'm chillin' in the Company HQ thoroughly enjoying the 12-hour day. After the 15-18 hour days, this feels like nothing. So poor Molly comes stumbling in at all hours, she tries as hard as she can to be quiet, and I've already adapted to the point where I stir briefly and go back to sleep. Initially, I'd lie awake for hours after her arrival...not angry, mind you, it isn't her fault, and I already sympathize mightily with her horrid schedule.

It's so hot, the animals don't leave the shade. It's face-melting hot. And folks have already gotten so bored, they're making bets on silly shit like how long will it take Ant A to reach the pavement versus Ant B. Mark and TK made a bet, the spoils of which are coffee brewed fresh and delivered to the winner's door at 6 am sharp. The bet? Who could throw a rock through the palm tree outside our hooches. Seriously. TK was a pitcher at West Point, and very cocky anyway. Mark has played basketball all his life and is no slouch. They even went into "double or nothings." Mark still won. So TK has to get up early, come all the way down to the headquarters (we live about a MILE away now), brew the coffee, and deliver it to Mark's door--Mark still lives down here. So directly ensued the much talking of shit throughout the day, every day. It keeps things lively.

And since we moved so far away and I have to walk for miles each day in this unspeakable heat, my appetite is gone--I can only eat ice cream for lunch, what a shame. And so I've lost a few pounds. Nice. And while it's only about ten pounds total, it feels like a LOT. Clothes are looser, my face is thinner, I feel better running. I'll gain it all back when I get home and inhale all the foods I've missed--I can't stop thinking about real EGGS, soft-boiled eggs with buttery wheat toast and real bacon...oh MAN...

Saturday, May 21, 2005

Counting down

These last few weeks drag on endlessly. Home is all anyone can think about, and there is the obligatory discussion of extending us by several weeks. They should take our ammo away if that happens.

My future is still so uncertain--I'm back to thinking I should stay in another couple of years, but I know what would happen. I would finish school, come back to northern New York, and get right back on the plane--probably with this same brigade. And repeat this year all over again. Sure, I'd be a Captain, and the chances of landing in an organization this screwed up are pretty slim...but it's out there.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

Oh, We Got Jokes

My friend, Loring, replied to an email I'd sent last week--the "Hey, I'm coming home soon" message, and I noticed a string of type just under my name on my original email, much like a signature. It said:

"***my name***
124 Lick my ass PL
Suck it harbor, NY"

Whaaattt??? The last address I'd input to the account had been "124 LaGuardia Pl, Sackets Harbor, NY." So some assclown hacked into my account, changed the address, and checked the "attach v card" block. So every email I've sent out has sported this sophomoric little line of crap.

I admit. It is pretty damn funny. I showed it to my Platoon Sergeant this morning and we laughed for about fifteen minutes. So then I opened my Sent Items to assess the damage:

* A mass email to everyone I know, including Grandmother Luci and Great Aunt Eugenia
* Responses to invitations to apply for professional positions with Lockheed Martin and certain 3-letter agencies
* Two messages to a former Commander, now a Major

I immediately sent out another mass email, sans nastiness, letting everyone in on the joke. I bet my friends and family thought I'd gone off the deep end..."Umm, I think it's time for Kristen to come back from Iraq now, there are clear signs of aggression and uncharacteristic unprofessionalism..."

Ohh, we got jokes. It's worth it to have a good belly-laugh like that, it's been awhile.

Friday, May 06, 2005

Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders

Here you have to have another person in the vehicle to drive around post, called a "TC," and I think it stands for Troop Commander or Tactical Commander, whatever. Not important. So last night, Specialist Scafe leaned over to Sergeant First Class Harritt, my enlisted counterpart, and asked if he would ride with him to Division Headquarters. SFC Harritt replied that he couldn't, he had too much work to do.

After a moment, SFC Harritt leaned back and said, "You went about that all wrong, Scafe, you should have said, 'The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders are at Division, do you want to go?"

The song on PFC Z's headphones ended just then, and he heard the second part of the statement. He yanked the headphones off and hollered, "The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders are at Division??? I wanna go!!"

Scafe played it. "Grab your stuff and let's go."

Z: "Can we stop at my hooch and get a camera?" Sure we can.

They go to Division, Z chirping the whole way about meeting the Cheerleaders. He's like a kid at Christmas. They pull up to Division, and Z asked, "Where are they?"

"I don't know, why don't you go ask those guys?"

Z walked up to a group of soldiers, "Excuse me, where are the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders?"

They exchanged glances. "Uh, Dallas?"

Then Z got it. And was greatly disappointed. When he came back down to the office, he had to endure a healthy round of good-natured ribbing--we all like Z. He shook his head among all the howls of laughter, and said, "You know, I don't even care about the teasing, I'm just disappointed that I don't get to meet the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders."